#deanxreader

You moved past them toward the pickup counter, eyes on the little cardboard sleeve around your iced coffee like it held state secrets instead of your name spelled wrong in black marker. Y/N had become something entirely different, which felt fitting. Half your life existed under a fake name anyway.

Behind you, the first girl lowered her voice.

“I’m telling you, it was Dean Di Laurentis.”

You reached for your drink and pretended your fingers did not pause around the plastic cup.

“No way,” her friend said. “Dean wouldn’t sneak out the back of a football party.”

“That’s exactly why it was him. He’d want people to think he wouldn’t.”

“He’d make a speech before leaving.”

“He probably did.”

You bit the inside of your cheek before a smile could get you arrested by your own conscience.

The episode had gone up at midnight, like it always did on Thursdays, when most of campus was either procrastinating, drinking, making questionable decisions, or all three in a sequence they would later try to blame on stress. By eight that morning, Briar Wire had been clipped, quoted, and misquoted across group chats, team texts, and whatever terrifying corner of student life existed inside private Snapchat stories.

You had not named Dean.

You never named names unless something was already public enough that pretending not to know would be insulting. The whole point of Briar Wire was not to ruin people. It was to take the ridiculous little disasters students willingly sent in and turn them into something funny enough to make everyone feel briefly less alone in their terrible choices.

A hockey player crashing a football party he had not been invited to, allegedly arguing with a wide receiver over a girl neither of them was dating, then allegedly leaving through a side door when someone’s ex showed up and started asking questions?

That was not life-ruining.

That was campus folklore.

And technically, all you had said was, I’m not naming names, but if the designer jacket fits, maybe stop wearing it to parties you weren’t invited to.

People had filled in the rest.

Briar loved filling in the rest.

By the time you stepped outside, the September air had already warmed enough to take the bite out of the morning. Students crossed the quad in clusters, carrying coffees, backpacks, protein shakes, and the haunted expressions of people who had scheduled Friday classes because they once believed in personal growth.

A guy in a Briar football hoodie held his phone out to his friend as they passed.

“She said designer jacket. That’s Dean.”

His friend snorted. “Half the hockey team dresses like they’re trying to marry into old money.”

“Yeah, but Dean already has old money.”

“Exactly. He doesn’t have to try.”

You looked straight ahead and took a long sip of coffee to hide your face.

The nice thing about being a student producer for Briar Athletics Media was that people saw the camera before they saw you. You were the girl with the lens, the media badge, the laptop covered in stickers from radio stations and campus events.

You were around enough to be familiar, but not enough to be suspicious. Athletes talked over you. Coaches forgot you were in corners. Girlfriends, ex-girlfriends, roommates, and team managers all seemed to assume that if you were adjusting audio levels, you had stopped having ears.

It was incredible what people said in front of someone holding equipment.

It was also incredible what they submitted anonymously at two in the morning after half a bottle of cheap vodka and one badly timed breakup.

You cut across the quad toward the student union, weaving through the usual Friday crowd. Someone had chalked Briar Wire knows in purple outside the library entrance. Beneath it, someone else had written Dean did it in green.

A third person, in smaller letters, had added, Dean does everything.

You had to give them that one.

Inside the student union, the noise hit you all at once. Chairs scraping, blenders whining from the smoothie counter, someone laughing too loudly near the vending machines, someone else cursing at a printer that had apparently chosen violence.

Mara was already at your usual table, one boot looped around the leg of the chair beside her to keep anyone else from taking it. Her laptop sat open in front of her, untouched, while her iced latte made a slow ring of condensation on the table. She was watching the room more than she was watching her screen, which told you everything you needed to know before she said a word.

The student union had that particular Friday morning buzz to it, loud enough to feel harmless until you started catching pieces of sentences. Dean’s name floated from the smoothie counter. Someone near the vending machines was replaying a clip too loudly from their phone. A girl in a Briar sweatshirt said, “No, but the designer jacket thing had to be him,” and three people around her immediately started arguing like they had been there themselves.

Mara looked up when you reached the table. Her gaze moved over your face, then to your coffee, then past your shoulder toward the girls still dissecting the episode near the counter.

She did not say the name of the podcast.

She did not have to.

You sat down in the chair she had saved for you and slipped your camera bag beneath the table, keeping your face arranged into something neutral. It was harder than it should have been. There was a strange feeling that came with hearing people repeat your own words back to each other, like walking through campus with a match hidden in your pocket while everyone searched for the source of smoke.

Mara nudged your drink closer when you forgot to reach for it.

“Big morning,” she said quietly.

You took the coffee mostly to have something to do with your hands. Across the room, someone laughed at a line you had recorded alone in your dorm at one in the morning, and your stomach pulled tight in a way that was not exactly fear, but lived close enough to it.

Mara’s expression softened just enough for you to notice. “No one knows anything,” she said, her voice low under the noise of the union. “They’re just bored and loud.”

That was probably supposed to help. In its own Mara way, it did. She was the only person at Briar who knew why your pulse had picked up, the only person who understood that this was not just campus drama to you. It was a secret with a microphone, a fake email inbox, and a growing number of strangers trying to give it a face.

Across the union, Camden appeared with his iced matcha in one hand and his phone in the other, already wearing the expression he got whenever a mystery had taken over his morning.

He wore a cream sweater even though the weather had not earned sweaters yet. His curls were loose around his forehead, his gold rings flashing as he typed something with his thumb. Camden got dressed for class the way other people got dressed for dinner reservations, which would have been annoying if he did not also lend you lip balm, chargers, and emotional support with no questions asked.

Mara saw him coming and sighed into her latte.

“He knows something,” she said.

You glanced over. “Does he?”

“No,” she said. “But he thinks he does.”

Camden slid into the chair across from you both and set his phone on the table, screen-up. There was a notes app open with a messy list of names, majors, arrows, and several question marks. You caught communications, athletics, and girl from North Hall? before he angled it away.

“I think I know who runs Briar Wire,” he announced.

Your hand tightened around your coffee.

Mara did not look at you. That was how you knew she was trying very hard not to.

Camden tapped the screen. “Not completely. I have categories.”

“Of course you do,” Mara said.

“I’m being realistic. The host knows too much about athletics to be random. She knew about the football party before half the people there decided what story they were going with. She knows hockey, but she knows football too. That means she either works near athletes, dates athletes, lives with someone who dates athletes, or has one of those terrifying friend groups where everyone knows everything before it happens.”

You opened your laptop mostly to give yourself something to look at. “Maybe people submit things.”

“They submit details,” Camden said. “She knows what to do with them.”

That landed closer than you wanted it to.

Your screen reflected your face for half a second before the login page loaded. You looked normal enough. A little tired, maybe, but not guilty. Not like someone who had spent the morning walking through campus while strangers repeated her own jokes back to her.

“Maybe she’s just good at guessing,” you said.

Camden gave you a look. “That is what people say when they like someone they don’t know how to defend.”

Mara reached for her drink. “Or when they’re trying to eat breakfast without becoming part of your investigation.”

“I’m not investigating,” Camden said, then looked down at his phone. “Not officially.”

You almost smiled, but Camden was still scrolling, still looking at names and majors like the answer might be sitting there if he arranged the evidence neatly enough. He was enjoying it. That was the thing. Not because he wanted to hurt anyone. Camden loved a secret the way some people loved crossword puzzles. He liked the chase. The possibility of being right.

But you were starting to understand that being the answer to the puzzle felt different from solving one.

Mara understood it too.

“You ever think maybe she stays anonymous because people act like this?” she asked.

Camden’s thumb stilled. “Like what?”

“Like she’s not a person,” Mara said. “Like she’s a game.”

He looked up fully then.

For a second, the noise of the student union filled the space between all three of you. Someone laughed near the vending machines. A blender shrieked behind the smoothie counter. A group of guys in football hoodies pushed through the doors, still arguing about whether the hockey player from the episode had climbed out a window or simply “left with strategy.”

Camden’s face shifted, just slightly.

“I don’t want her ruined,” he said. “I just want to know.”

“That’s how people get ruined,” Mara said.

You kept your eyes on the laptop screen, even though it had dimmed from lack of use. The reflection staring back at you looked composed enough to pass. Maybe that was the worst part. You had gotten good at looking normal while other people held your secret in their hands and turned it over like something they had found on the sidewalk.

Camden closed the notes app.

“I wouldn’t tell people,” he said after a moment. “If I figured it out.”

Mara looked at him over the rim of her cup, not challenging exactly, but not letting him off easy either.

“I wouldn’t,” he said again, quieter. “I like knowing things. I don’t need everyone else to know that I know.”

That was such a Camden answer, half sweet and half absurd, that it loosened something in your chest.

“Besides,” he added, picking up his matcha, “if everyone found out who she was, the whole thing would get weird. People would start performing for her on purpose. The podcast would be dead by midterms.”

“There it is,” Mara said, dry but fond. “A moral stance, almost.”

Camden pointed his straw at her. “Growth is rarely tidy.”

Your laptop chimed before Mara could answer.

A new email slid into view at the top of your inbox.

Elaine Porter: Athletics meeting moved up. Arena by 10. Bring camera. Hockey feature.

You read it once.

Then again, because your brain seemed to believe the words might become less threatening if you stared at them long enough.

Mara noticed your face before you could smooth it out.

“Elaine?” she asked.

You nodded and angled the laptop enough for her to see the subject line.

“Hockey feature,” Mara read.

Camden’s attention sharpened immediately. “What hockey feature?”

You shut your laptop.

He blinked. “Rude.”

“Confidential.”

“Y/N, I saw four words.”

“And those are all you’re getting,” you said, sliding the laptop into your bag before he could lean any closer.

He glanced toward the student union windows, where a few hockey players were passing outside in Briar sweatshirts. Even through the glass, you could hear one of them laugh.

“If the feature is about Dean,” Camden said, less teasing now, “you have to tell me.”

“I don’t.”

“So it is about Dean.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You got quiet in a very Dean-specific way.”

Mara’s foot brushed yours beneath the table, light enough for Camden not to notice. When you looked at her, she gave you that quiet, steady look she got whenever the podcast stopped being funny for half a second.

“Text me after,” she said.

You nodded.

Camden, who had the terrible gift of sensing when people were leaving and choosing that exact moment to become impossible, added, “And if Dean brings up the party, I want the wording.”

“I’m not collecting statements for you.”

“You literally collect statements for a living.”

“I collect approved quotes for Briar Athletics.”

“Then approve one for me!”

Mara said his name, low enough that you almost missed it.

Camden settled back, but the interest stayed on his face. “Fine. I’m only saying that if he did use a side door, that matters.”

Your fingers tightened around your camera bag strap.

“What?”

“Back door implies panic,” Camden said. “Side door implies planning.”

You stared at him.

Mara stared too, but for an entirely different reason.

Across campus, you had already heard three versions of the story. None of them had mentioned a side door. That detail had been in the original submission, the part you had changed on air because saying too much would have made it easier to track.

You forced your voice flat. “You sound like you’ve given this a lot of thought.”

Camden only shrugged, unbothered. “All I’m saying is, the wording matters.”

You gave him one last look, then adjusted your camera bag on your shoulder. “I have to go.”

“Text me if he confirms anything,” he called after you.

“He won’t.”

Camden smiled down at his drink. “People always confirm something!”

By the time you pushed through the doors and stepped back into the September sun, your phone buzzed again with another email from Elaine.

Also, please tell me you saw the Briar Wire episode before everyone starts asking you about it.

You stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, read it twice, and breathed out through your nose.

Then you typed back:

I heard enough. On my way.

The arena was colder than the rest of campus, even from the outside. It always felt like the building had its own weather system. The closer you got, the more the ordinary sounds of Briar thinned out behind you: bikes clicking over pavement, students talking in clusters, someone blasting music from a dorm window with no concern for taste or volume.

Inside, the air changed. Cleaner. Sharper. Threaded with the permanent scent of ice and equipment that no amount of industrial cleaner could fully erase.

Briar Athletics Media lived in the back hallway between the rink offices and the storage room where old tripods went to die. It was not glamorous, but it was yours in the way campus jobs became yours after enough late nights. You knew which outlet sparked if you plugged in the ring light too fast. You knew which desk drawer had extra batteries and which one only had granola bar wrappers from last semester. You knew the printer jammed when it sensed weakness.

Elaine was waiting near the media room doorway, phone in one hand, clipboard in the other, her hair twisted up in a clip that looked like it had been added during a crisis. She was in her early thirties, which made her ancient by campus standards and young by the standards of everyone she answered to. She had the calm, focused exhaustion of a person who knew exactly how many fires could be put out before lunch and had already exceeded the number.

“There you are,” she said.

“I’m four minutes early.”

“Emotionally, you’re late.”

“That sounds like a personal issue.”

“It became a department issue at eight sixteen this morning.” She held up her phone.

On the screen was a paused clip from Briar Wire, someone’s repost of the line about the designer jacket. The caption underneath read:

DEAN DI LAURENTIS YOU HAVE 24 HOURS TO RESPOND.

Your stomach tightened.

Elaine studied your face. “You listen to this thing?”

“Everyone listens.”

“That is the answer people give when they do not want to answer.”

“It’s still true.”

She sighed like she had been waiting all morning for someone to disappoint her in a new way. “The administration is pretending not to know about it, which means they know. Hockey is pretending not to care, which means they care. Football is pretending they did not let hockey players into their party, which means they absolutely did.”

“Sounds like everyone has a full schedule.”

“And we are going to redirect the attention.”

You did not like the way she said redirect. It sounded like a word adults used right before handing you work they already knew would ruin your week.

Elaine passed you the clipboard.

At the top was a printed outline with Beyond the Rink typed in bold.

Below that:

Episode One: Dean Di Laurentis.

You looked up slowly. “No.”

Elaine did not blink. “Yes.”

“No, thank you.”

“That would work better if this were optional.”

“I have concerns.”

“I have several. We’ll trade later.”

You looked back down at the page. Interview questions. B-roll list. Practice footage. Casual campus shots. A short personal segment. A line about leadership, which made you wonder if Elaine had ever met Dean Di Laurentis for more than thirty seconds.

“Why him?”

“Because Dean gets views,” Elaine said. “Because he is comfortable on camera. Because he doesn’t freeze when someone points a lens at him. Because if I let Coach choose, we’ll get seven minutes about discipline, forechecking, and protein intake.”

“That sounds peaceful.”

“That sounds god-awful.”

You could not argue there.

Elaine tucked the clipboard back against her chest. “You’re good with athletes who know they’re being watched. You don’t buy into the performance, but you don’t punish them for it either.”

That was almost funny, considering Dean’s performance had already spent the morning following you across campus in sound bites and chalk messages.

“I need ten minutes of interview footage today,” Elaine said. “Some practice B-roll. Maybe a hallway walk-and-talk if he behaves.”

“That’s a large maybe.”

“Start with the interview.”

Before you could respond, laughter came from the hall that led to the locker rooms. Not loud enough to be obnoxious, but familiar in the way some sounds became familiar by repetition. You had heard Dean laugh in the background of too many clips, too many post-game hallways, too many celebrations where he was not even the focus and still somehow ended up in frame.

He appeared a second later with two teammates, coffee in hand, Briar Hockey sweatshirt sleeves pushed to his forearms. His hair was still damp, like he had showered after morning skate and run his hands through it once before deciding that was good enough for the day. One of his teammates was grinning at something he had just said. The other looked like he had already heard the joke twice and still found it funny, which was probably Dean’s real talent.

He was mid-conversation when he walked in, his voice carrying into the media hallway like he had not considered the possibility of privacy.

“I’m not saying the story is wrong,” Dean said. “I’m saying it lacks context.”

His teammate laughed. “You want context now?”

“I’ve always valued context.”

“You told Ryan to stop texting like a man with a head injury.”

“That was a medical concern.”

The other guy shook his head, still laughing. “It was a group chat.”

“Then I was spreading awareness.”

Elaine looked at you.

You looked back at her.

Absolutely not, you thought.

Dean noticed you then. His eyes flicked to your camera bag, then to the clipboard in Elaine’s hand, then back to your face. Recognition sparked, not personal exactly, but professional. He had seen you around the rink before. Most athletes had. They knew you the way people knew exit signs, necessary when needed and otherwise part of the background.

Today, unfortunately, you were not going to be background.

Elaine stepped forward. “Dean. Perfect timing.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying for years.”

“We’re starting the new player feature series today. Y/N will be producing your segment.”

Dean’s attention returned to you with more interest.

“Y/N,” he said, like he was testing the name once before deciding what to do with it.

You held out one hand because professionalism, even in the face of a man currently being discussed in half the campus group chats, was still technically your job.

“Hi.”

He shook your hand. His palm was warm from the coffee cup, his grip easy, not the exaggerated kind guys used when they thought firmness could double as personality.

“Hi,” he said. “Are you here to repair my image?”

“I’m here to film it.”

His smile came fast, the kind that probably worked on professors, donors, and anyone with a functioning nervous system. It was annoying to discover you were not immune so much as determined.

Elaine checked something off on her clipboard. “We need a short intro interview today. No party questions.”

Dean turned to her. “I feel like I deserve a chance to defend myself.”

“You’re not on trial.”

“That is how trials start.”

Elaine pointed toward the small interview room. “Ten minutes. Keep it clean.”

One of Dean’s teammates made a sound under his breath, not quite a laugh. “Not what Ryan said about the party.”

Dean glanced back at him. “Ryan called a side entrance a back door. His credibility is gone.”

Your fingers paused on the strap of your camera bag.

A side entrance.

Camden would have levitated out of his chair.

Elaine only pinched the bridge of her nose. “Room three. Now.”

The two teammates disappeared toward the rink, still laughing. Dean stayed where he was, attention shifting back to you.

“So,” he said, “how much creative control do I get?”

“None.”

“I can respect that.”

Elaine had already turned away, finished with both of you. “Y/N, send me the raw clips when you’re done.”

You nodded and led the way down the hall before Dean could decide to respect anything else.

Room three was barely a room. It was more of a storage closet. There were two folding chairs, a tripod, a small Briar Athletics banner on the wall, and one window that looked directly into another hallway.

You set up the camera while Dean wandered in behind you and looked around.

“This is intimate,” he said.

“It’s a repurposed closet.”

You snapped the camera onto the tripod and adjusted the height. Dean sat in the chair you pointed to, then shifted once under the fluorescent light, trying to get comfortable on a seat that had been purchased by someone who hated spines.

“You’re not going to ask about the party,” he said.

“No.”

“Not even off the record?”

You looked at him over the camera. “Do you know what that means?”

“I understand it deeply.”

You adjusted the focus to keep your mouth from giving you away. “This is for Athletics, not Briar Wire.”

The second the words left your mouth, you wished you could pull them back.

Dean’s eyes sharpened.

Not enough to look suspicious. Enough to notice.

“So you do listen,” he said.

You kept your fingers on the camera. “Everyone listens.”

“That’s what people keep telling me.”

“Maybe because it’s true.”

Dean looked toward the lens, then back at you. “Funny, considering the podcast has never actually named me.”

“And yet you seem pretty sure it was about you.”

His mouth curved, but it did not quite turn into a smile. “That’s the strange part, isn’t it?”

The camera beeped softly when you hit record.

“State your name, year, and position.”

Dean sat up with enough exaggerated obedience that you already knew the first take would be unusable.

“Dean Di Laurentis. Junior. Forward. Victim of implied journalism.”

You let the silence sit.

He looked at you.

You looked back.

Finally, he exhaled. “Fine.”

You reset the clip.

He gave the answer properly the second time, which somehow annoyed you more than if he had made it difficult. Dean was not stupid. That was the problem with people like him. Everyone treated them like they were all charm and no structure, and sometimes they let people think that because it was easier. Then they turned around and did exactly what was needed the moment it mattered.

You moved through the basic questions. Favorite part of playing at Briar. Best memory with the team. What game-day routine he refused to give up. He gave you enough polished answers for the official cut, then enough ridiculous ones that you knew Elaine would make you delete them and you would probably save them anyway.

Halfway through, you asked, “What do you think people get wrong about you?”

Dean looked toward the camera, then away from it.

The pause was small, but you caught it. You always caught pauses. Audio taught you that people lied most clearly in the space before they spoke.

“That I don’t notice,” he said.

You waited.

His mouth tipped like he almost regretted giving you a real answer.

“People think I don’t notice what they assume about me,” he continued. “I do.”

There was no joke at the end of it.

For a second, the room felt too still.

You glanced down at the question list in your lap, though you had stopped needing it three questions ago. “Does that bother you?”

He looked at you then.

The easy answer would have been no. A shrug. A joke. Something about being too attractive to suffer. You could almost see him considering it.

Then he said, “Depends who’s doing the assuming.”

That was too good for the athletics page.

That was also too honest for a Friday morning with a camera between you.

You looked at the tiny red recording light and felt, briefly and strangely, like it was looking back.

Dean cleared his throat, and the moment shifted before either of you had to do anything with it.

“Was that tragic enough for the feature?”

“Elaine might cry.”

“Good. I’ve been trying to expand my range.”

You stopped the recording before you smiled. “We’re done.”

“That’s it?”

“For the interview.”

“I had more to give.”

“I’m sure you did.”

He stood, then lingered while you packed the camera. You could feel him still in the room, not crowding you, just present in a way that made the space feel smaller than it had before.

At the door, he paused.

“For the record,” he said, “I didn’t sneak out.”

You zipped the camera bag. “I didn’t ask.”

“I left through a side entrance. Walked, actually.”

You looked up at him.

He looked oddly satisfied, as if this settled everything.

“A side entrance,” you repeated.

“Different thing.”

“It sounds like the same exact thing.”

Dean’s smile widened despite himself. “That is exactly how reputations get ruined.”

It should have been nothing. A throwaway line in a room with bad lighting and a camera between you. But Dean was looking at you like he had found something more interesting than the interview, and for one stupid second, you forgot what you were supposed to be doing.

You picked up your bag before the silence could turn into anything else. “I have to get these clips to Elaine.”

“Right.” He stepped aside. “Wouldn’t want to keep the official story waiting.”

By late afternoon, the campus had only gotten worse.

Briar Wire was everywhere. Someone had taped a printed screenshot of the episode quote to the bulletin board outside the communications building. A hockey player you recognized from sophomore year passed you on the quad while arguing into his phone that Dean had definitely been at the football party but absolutely would not have climbed through a window, because Dean did not “do undignified exits.” At the dining hall, Camden had apparently posted a poll in the group chat asking whether Briar Wire’s host was more likely to be a communications major, an athlete’s ex, or someone hiding in plain sight.

Mara texted you a screenshot with no comment.

Then, thirty seconds later:

Mara: I did not vote.

You replied:

You: That feels worse than voting.

Mara: I’m preserving the integrity of the investigation.

You: You’re enjoying this.

Mara: A little.

You stared at your phone in the athletics media room while Dean’s interview files uploaded painfully slowly to the shared drive. His face was frozen on your screen in the middle of an answer, one hand lifted, mouth half-open, looking less like Briar’s favorite rumor and more like a guy who had accidentally said something real and immediately tried to outrun it.

People think I don’t notice what they assume about me.

You hated that you had kept thinking about it, and hated even more that you understood.

People assumed things about you too. Not loudly, not cruelly most of the time. They assumed you were quiet because you were shy. Responsible because you liked rules. Good with cameras because you preferred hiding behind them. They assumed that if you did not fight to be the center of the room, you had no interest in the room at all.

Briar Wire had been the first thing you built that did not ask permission to take up space.

And now everyone wanted to know who built it.

By the time you got back to your dorm, the sun had dropped low enough to turn the windows gold. Your roommate was gone for the weekend, which meant the room was yours. No small talk. No questions. No one asking why you were setting up your microphone at your desk or why your closet had a shoebox full of index cards labeled by episode number.

You changed into a sweatshirt, clipped your hair away from your face, and opened your laptop.

The Briar Wire inbox was a mess.

Some messages were insightful. A freshman had submitted a story about a fake ID getting confiscated by someone’s own older brother, which had potential. Someone else wanted advice about hooking up with their lab partner and then discovering they had been assigned a semester-long project together, which was less a submission and more a cry for help.

There were twelve messages about Dean.

Four claimed to have proof he was the football party hockey player. Two claimed he was innocent. Three were not remotely helpful but extremely passionate. One simply read:

I don’t care if he did it. Can he call in?

You snorted and took a screenshot for Mara.

Her reply came instantly.

Mara: Do not manifest that.

You were still smiling when the call window opened.

Unknown Caller.

Your smile faded.

Briar Wire did not take many live calls. You had a number people could use for voice submissions, but most came in as recordings. Live calls were harder to manage. Too unpredictable. Too easy for someone to say a name you would have to cut or reveal something you did not want in your ears in real time.

The window pulsed on your screen.

Unknown Caller.

You should have ignored it, which was probably why you put on your headphones instead.

The room seemed to quiet around you as you opened the recording software. The little red button appeared in the corner, waiting. Your heartbeat was too present, too close to the surface.

You accepted the call.

“Briar Wire,” you said, letting your podcast voice settle into place. Lower than your normal voice. Warmer. More controlled. “You’re on.”

There was a brief silence.

Then a male voice said, with far too much confidence for someone pretending to be anonymous, “Hi. Long-time listener, first-time caller. My name is Dennis.”

You closed your eyes.

Dean Di Laurentis.

Of course.

Of course he had chosen Dennis.

You muted yourself and pressed your fingers over your mouth, not because you were laughing, exactly, but because your body had chosen a reaction and none of the options were safe.

On the other end, Dean cleared his throat.

“I’m calling on behalf of a friend,” he said.

You unmuted yourself.

“A friend.”

“He values privacy.”

“Says the man calling a campus podcast.”

“I’m not the friend. I’m Dennis.”

“Right.”

“I feel like you don’t believe me.”

“Dennis, I believe in a lot of things. This is not one of them.”

His laugh came through the headphones before he could stop it. Brief. Unpolished. Not for an audience.

It caught you off guard more than it should have.

“My friend feels misrepresented,” he said once he recovered.

“Does your friend often attend parties he claims he was invited to through men named Matt?”

Silence.

You felt it the second it happened. Not a dead silence. A listening one.

“How do you know about Matt?”

You stared at the waveform jumping across the screen.

“Lucky guess,” you said.

“There are a lot of Matts on the football team.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“That’s not the same as knowing one invited me.”

You sat very still.

“Did I say you?”

Another silence.

Then Dean laughed again, lower this time, like he had been caught and did not entirely mind.

“Dennis,” he corrected.

“Yes,” you said. “Dennis.”

“Dennis’s friend was invited.”

“And yet Dennis’s friend left through a side entrance.”

He went quiet again.

This time, you smiled before you could stop yourself.

“How do you know about the side entrance?” he asked.

You glanced at the red recording dot, the tiny signal that this was all being saved somewhere. Every pause. Every slip. Every little edge in his voice when he realized you knew more than you should have.

“Maybe I have sources.”

“Do your sources have names?”

“Maybe.”

“Would one of them be Matt?”

You leaned back in your chair. “You called me, Dennis.”

“To seek justice.”

You should have ended the call then. You had enough for the next episode already. More than enough. Dean Di Laurentis pretending to be someone named Dennis while arguing about the architecture of his exit would carry the entire campus through at least Tuesday.

But the line stayed open.

So did you.

“My friend wants a correction,” he said.

“For what?”

“The record should reflect that he did not sneak out. He left.”

“Through a side entrance.”

“With dignity.”

You looked at the red recording dot blinking on your screen and let the silence do the work for you.

Dean laughed under his breath. “You’re kind of mean, Wire Girl.”

Wire Girl.

It was ridiculous. Barely even a nickname. Still, your fingers paused against the desk like it had reached across the line and touched something it shouldn’t have.

“You called me,” you said.

“To defend an innocent man.”

“To defend yourself.”

A pause.

Then, amused, “I never said it was me.”

“No,” you said. “You just made it very easy to guess.”

For a moment, the call went quiet. Outside your door, someone laughed down the hall, normal life carrying on a few feet away while Dean Di Laurentis sat somewhere on campus pretending to be a stranger.

Then he said, “Who are you?”

Your hand stilled.

There it was. The question everyone at Briar had been asking all morning.

“That would ruin the show,” you said.

“Not for me.”

“Especially for you.”

You heard his smile before he spoke again. “I can keep secrets.”

“Goodnight, Dennis.”

Then you ended the call.

For a moment, you just sat there, headphones on, staring at the recording file as it saved automatically to your laptop.

Then your phone buzzed.

Mara: I felt a disturbance.

You looked at the file name.

UNKNOWN CALLER 7:42 PM

Your fingers moved over the screen.

You: Dean called in.

The dots appeared immediately.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Then:

Mara: Tell me you did not answer.

You looked at the microphone. At the red light. At the saved audio file that now contained Dean Di Laurentis pretending to be a man named Dennis and asking who you were like he had a right to know.

You typed back:

You: I answered.

Mara’s reply came so fast it looked angry.

Mara: Tell me you at least recorded it.

You glanced at the file again.

Despite the nerves still moving through you, despite the rules, despite the fact that Dean had gotten closer to the truth in one phone call than anyone else had managed in eight episodes, you smiled.

THE PITCH

The sun had started its descent behind the Hollywood hills, turning the glass-walled office into a fishbowl of fading goold and too much silence. Outside, the world was Los Angeles perfect, with bougainvillea climbing fences, palm trees whispering like waves, lazy, constant, impossible to ignore. Inside, the room smelled like eucalyptus and tension, Dean Winchester standing like he was about to bolt.

He didn't sit. Never did in these kinds of meetings. His body wasn't made for soft chair and softer conversations. He leaned against the corner window, arms crossed, cap shadowing his face. His shirt clung to the line of his shoulder, damp from the late July heat. One boot tapped the hardwood floor slowly. Not out of impatience, but annoyance. These days, Dean Winchester was always annoyed. His jaw was set so tight it could've cracked his molars.

Across the room, Castiel Novak was halfway through a lukewarm espresso, and already at the end of his patience. "I need you to stop glowering," he said flatly, glancing at him over the rim of the tiny cup. "You look like you just found out Santa isn't real and he slept with your ex-wife."

Dean didn't smile. Cass sighed and stood, rolling up the sleeves of his button-down with a flair that was too practiced to be careless. He paced in front of his desk, tapping his fingers against his phone like it was a metronome. "You know, I don't do this for just anyone," he said. "I don't beg. I suggest. I redirect. I subtly manipulate with grace and well-timed press leaks.”

Dean arched an eyebrow. “You’re doing all three right now.”

Cass ignored that. “But with you? I’m begging. Because this thing, this disaster spiral you’re riding down like a flaming motorcycle stunt, ends one of two ways. With a public breakdown. Or with me saving your ass.”

Dean looked away, lips pursed. The texts had been harmless, not even flirty, not really. Just late-night nostalgia with a woman he used to love. A woman who’d moved on. A woman who was married now. And it didn’t matter what he knew. The internet had already decided he was the villain. “I don’t need saving,” he muttered.

“Tell that to your haters.” Cass crossed his arms. “You’re not in your thirties anymore. You don’t get to be the brooding heartthrob with a ‘rough patch.’ Now, you’re the guy who never moved on. Who couldn’t let go. Who made a move on someone else’s wife.”

Dean scowled. “That’s not what happened.”

“I know that,” Cass said gently. “But this town doesn’t care about facts. It cares about image. And right now? Yours is bleeding out.”

Dean exhaled through his nose. The room felt too warm. Or maybe that was just shame settling into his chest like secondhand smoke.

Cass stepped closer, lowering his voice. Softer now. Friendlier. Like the guy Dean used to get drunk with after long shoots in Vancouver. Before everything got complicated. “There’s a way out of this. A clean one. But you have to agree.”

Dean didn’t answer.

Cass tapped his fingers against the desk once. Then added, casually. “She’s already in.” Dean looked up.

Cass smiled, just a little. “Knew that’d get your attention.”

Dean’s stomach twisted. “You’re serious?”

“She doesn’t need to do this,” Cass said. “She wants to. Or, okay, she wants the headlines. She wants the narrative reset. And you’re part of that.”

Dean ran a hand over his jaw. “So what, we parade around town pretending to be a couple? That’s your master plan?”

Cass turned to the window, facing the city like he could bend it to his will. “You walk through Venice Beach holding an iced coffee. She smiles up at you like she’s never heard of bad press. You laugh, maybe for the first time in public this year. Boom. Next thing you know, the internet’s in love with you two. Everyone forgets the texts. You’re trending for the right reasons again.”

Dean stared at the wall. He hated this. The performative bullshit. The way it always came back to playing a role, even when the cameras weren’t rolling.

And then the door opened. He didn’t see her at first, just heard the creak of sandals, the whisper of fabric, the soft metallic jingle of stacked bracelets. Then she stepped into view.

Dean straightened before he meant to.

She looked... like summer distilled. Loose waves in her hair, golden from the sun. A plain white tank top that clung just enough, a slouchy brown leather bag over her shoulder. The soft dip of her collarbone catching the light. Her skirt was deep red, rich and full, cinched at the waist, swaying gently with each step like it had somewhere better to be. She looked like she belonged barefoot in a villa, or stepping out of a vintage convertible with a peach in one hand and a secret in the other. Not here. Not in a PR negotiation.

She gave him a once-over. Not rushed. Not shy. Just amused. "Hi boys," she said, a small smile crossing her lips. “Did he agree yet?” she asked Cass. “Or is he still brooding like a tortured novelist?”

Dean stared. Then blinked. “You serious with that outfit?”

“Why?” she smiled. “Worried I’m gonna outshine your baseball cap?”

“I’m worried I’m gonna look like your damn babysitter.”

“Oh please,” she said, tossing her bag onto the chair and lowering herself into it like a cat. “You wish you looked this relaxed.”

Dean opened his mouth, ready to bite back, but Castiel beat him to it, his voice always sounded like he was halfway through a sermon. Publicist to the stars, fire extinguisher to the famous. And today, babysitter to two people who wanted to kill each other. Or fuck. It was a fine line, really. “Children,” Cass said, raising a hand like he was casting a spell to ward off drama. “Dean, your brooding is giving very ‘divorced lumberjack with a podcast about knives.’ And you, darling,” he turned to her, eyebrow arched. “you look like a Pinterest board for women who journal about their exes in vineyards.”

She grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn't one,” Cass muttered, but without heat. “Now. Back to why we’re here.” He was already typing something into his iPad, giddy like a kid unveiling a school project made entirely of glitter and power moves.

Dean stayed where he was, arms folded tight. His body had settled into the posture he used in meetings with directors he didn’t trust: immovable, unimpressed, vaguely threatening. On the other side of the room, her elbows were resting lightly on the armrests, red skirt spilling around her like rose petals left behind after a party. Her back straight, chin lifted. Not a trace of apology anywhere on her, not in her posture, not in her outfit, definitely not in the way she glanced at Dean like he was an inconvenient errand.

“So,” Cass began, without even pretending to build tension, “I’ve walked Dean through the strategy. The public’s already halfway convinced you two are falling in love, we’re just going to let them believe it. You’ll be photographed together. Twice a week, minimum. Venice Beach, Silver Lake, maybe a hotel lobby with dramatic lighting...”

She interrupted without looking up. “Can we skip the farmer’s market aesthetic? I’m not carrying kale for this man.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You think I want to be seen buying kale?”

She grinned, and it was lethal. “You look like you haven’t eaten a vegetable since 2004.”

“Okay,” Cass said, raising both hands. “This is the chemistry I’m talking about.”

Dean looked at her, jaw tight. “You’re really on board with this?”

“I am.” She adjusted her bracelets. “Why wouldn’t I be? I get a golden-boy redemption arc without having to cry on national television, and you get to look like someone can stand you for more than ten minutes.”

Dean let out a sharp exhale, not quite a laugh. “You’re good.”

“I’m great,” she said brightly. “Also, I get to wear cute outfits and fake-date a man who broods for a living. It’s basically my charity work for the year.”

He shifted his weight, arms still crossed. “You sure you’re ready for the ‘controversially young girlfriend’ headlines?”

"I've been called worse for less," she snorted. "All I have to do is try not to look bored while you pretend not to stare at me. Feels like a win.” Her tongue was sharp, but Dean's life was made of sharper things.

“I won’t be staring.”

“You already are.”

Dean blinked. Once. Slowly. “You’re not that special.”

She shrugged, all lazy confidence. “You don’t have to think I am. Just act like it.”

Cass, standing between them, was trying not to smile. Failing. “This,” he said, gesturing vaguely between their bodies like he was conducting an orchestra of rage and unresolved sexual tension, “is exactly why people love you two. The chemistry is rabid. Online audiences are feral for it. You touch her elbow and they start planning wedding menus.”

Dean let out a sharp exhale. “I’m too old for this.”

She smiled sweetly. “You’re not that old. Just... older than Twitter thinks is okay.” Dean’s jaw ticked.

Cass cut in again. “Look, you’ll each get your own version of the narrative. Dean, rugged actor turns romantic again, regains public sympathy after ‘heartbreak’ and ‘humble misstep.’ You, a former scandal starlet chooses stability, matures publicly, audience re-learns how to root for her.”

She turned to Dean, head tilted. “I like how I get character development and you get a redemption arc. Very on brand.” One hand flicked a piece of hair out of her eyes. "So. What’s the play? Share an oat milk latte under a tree? Pap shots of us laughing while I pretend Dean’s funny?”

Dean gave her a look. “I am funny.”

“You’re funny in a way that makes people cry in bathrooms.”

“She’s not wrong,” Cas added, flipping his iPad toward them. “You’re trending lower than crypto, Dean. And you,” he pointed at her, “are still ‘the girl from that tape’ to half the industry. But you two together? You’re golden. Magnetic. Preposterously hot.”

“I am not magnetic,” Dean muttered.

“Tell that to the internet,” Cass replied. “They’ve built a religion around your thumb grazing her jaw in that trailer. We fake a relationship, ride the chemistry, clean up your public images, and then have a tasteful, tearless breakup by awards season.”

“I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this,” Dean said.

Castiel winked at him. “This fake relationship controls the narrative. You get sympathy. She gets rebranded. You both get more than survival. You get power again.”

“You know I’m in,” she said, breezily. “But I get Instagram caption veto power, no interviews about ‘his healing journey,’ and he’s not allowed to wear flannel in public.”

Dean scoffed. “What the hell’s wrong with flannel?”

“You want to look emotionally available, not like you coach Little League and won’t shut up about your divorce.”

Dean turned to Cass. “I hate her.”

"You'll live."

THE FIRST DATE

The sun hit Venice like it was trying to cook it. It reflected off storefronts, glared down from between the slats of tangled palm trees, and turned the sidewalks into mirrors. The ocean wind couldn't decide if it wanted to cool or stir shit up, so it did both, shoving hair into people's faces, flipping napkins off café tables, tugging the hem of Dean's shirt as if it had something to say. He could smell the sunscreen, fried food, weed, salt hair. He hated it already.

There were too many people. Too many sunglasses disguising not-so-subtle glances. Too many phones held at chest level, recording just in case. And the worst part was, Dean couldn't tell which cameras were real and which ones just wanted content. He knew Cass had tipped off paparazzi the day before, but he did not really take into account how many people would actually recognize the two of them. He had no doubt Novak knew and planned accordingly.

One thing was certain, even after thirty years in the industry, Dean didn’t belong here. He stood near the railing overlooking the beach, wearing boots that were already too warm, jeans that stuck to his legs, and a black t-shirt that soaked up sunlight like punishment. Sunglasses on. Arms crossed. Mood foul. It didn't help that she had told Cass, who had told him not to wear his baseball cap. It apparently made him look too much of a redneck for her liking. So, he was stuck trying to not let his hair completely go over his eyes, having gotten longer this past year.

And then she appeared like a hallucination. She was walking toward him in a ridiculous outfit (was it really ridiculous?), head held high, legs long, her butter-yellow skirt barely reaching mid-thigh, swaying with every step. The halter-style top hugged her like it was custom-cut. A matching bag hung off her wrist like it weighed nothing. Gold earrings caught the sun. A soft white headband framed her face like a crown. She didn’t just stand out. She detonated.

Dean let his gaze caress her figure. “Oh, for fuck’s sake." She smiled.

“Missed me?”

“You look like an off-duty Bond girl.”

“Good.” She stopped next to him, posing for nobody and everybody. “That’s the vibe.”

Dean didn’t answer. Just stared at her like she was an optical illusion he was too tired to decode.

Everything about her was blinding. The pale yellow of her outfit glowed against her skin, catching every drop of sun like it had been stitched out of light. She looked like she belonged in a vintage convertible in the south of France, not beside his sunburnt misery on a too-crowded boardwalk.

“How the hell are you not melting in that?” he asked, gesturing vaguely to all of her.

She turned slightly so the breeze caught her skirt and her hair, perfectly timed, like a perfume commercial in slow motion. “It’s called fashion, Winchester. Try it sometime.”

Dean scowled. “We’re on a beach. You look like you’re going to the Met Gala.”

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.” She smiled sweetly. “But what does? Oh right, just your IMDb credits and the collective thirst of sad women on Twitter.”

Dean bit back a sigh. He could already feel the edges of a migraine forming, right behind his eyes. He blamed the sun. And her voice. Mostly her voice.

They started walking down the boardwalk, her sandals clicking softly on the concrete, his boots thudding like punctuation marks behind her. She walked a half step ahead, as if daring him to keep up, every inch of her curated to look effortless. He hated how good she was at this. Palm trees lined the path, rustling overhead with that slow, lazy rhythm that always sounded like waves crashing in the distance. A tourist couple paused to look. Then someone else. And someone else. Phones came out like reflex, again.

Dean didn’t flinch, but he could feel his shoulders coil tighter.

“You’re tense,” she murmured, glancing over her shoulder. “You look like you’re going to your execution.”

“Maybe I am.”

She laughed. “Relax. Pretend you like me. Or at least that you don’t want to push me into traffic.”

Dean’s eyes cut to her. “I don’t want to push you into traffic.”

“Progress,” she beamed. “We’re halfway to married.”

They reached the café Cass had scouted. White umbrellas, sun-faded menus, a table that just happened to be open at the perfect angle for a long lens. Dean scanned the crowd instinctively, and yeah, there they were. Two paps, three phones recording, a woman pretending to feed her dog while pointing her camera right at them.

They sat. She crossed her legs delicately, smoothing the edge of her skirt so it revealed just enough thigh to make Dean curse under his breath. “You’re doing that thing,” she said, not looking at him, reaching for a napkin “Where you look like you just got told your favorite character died.”

“I hate this,” he muttered.

“No, no. That’s too honest.” She tapped her brow, wiping off some sweat, smiling politely at nothing. “The vibe we’re going for is more brooding-but-soft, you know? Like a widowed sea captain slowly learning to love again.”

Dean glared at her. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re pouting.”

“I’m not...” He caught himself. Sat back. Frowned deeper.

She leaned in slightly, eyes glittering, just shy from laughing out loud. “Look, you don’t have to like me. I don’t like you either.”

“Great.”

“But,” she said, her voice dipping into something low and smooth, “you do have to pretend you want to bend me over this table. At least for the next twenty minutes.” Dean choked on absolutely nothing. Her smile turned wicked while she thanked the waiter for bringing her a latte. “Cass' words, not mine. Though I didn’t disagree.” Dean didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His mouth was too dry. She tilted her head. “What’s wrong, old man? Cat got your tongue?”

“No,” he muttered. “Just trying to find the will to live.”

“Aww,” she cooed. “Well, until you do, maybe lean in. Touch my hand. Smile like I’m the best thing that’s happened to you since high-def.”

Dean glanced toward the street. A camera clicked. Then another.

She reached across the table and brushed her fingers against his wrist, featherlight, cool from the glass she was holding. He was an actor, for fuck's sake, he could do this. He was born to do this.

He let out a slow breath, low and steady, and when he opened them again, something in his face had changed. The irritation was still there, sure. But now it simmered underneath something smoother. Something practiced. Controlled. A tension he knew how to sell, and how to weaponize. His green eyes stared into her soul.

He leaned in. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough to close the space between them, elbows on the table, forearms bracketing her untouched latte.

Her hand was still on his wrist.

His voice dropped an octave. Smooth. Steady. “You know what I’m thinking about?” he said, his mouth tugging into something between a smirk and a sneer. She blinked. Just once. Her fingers curled slightly, but didn’t pull away.

“What?” she asked, trying to sound amused. And almost succeeding.

Dean tilted his head slightly, eyes locked on hers. “How easy it’d be to sell this. All I’d have to do is touch your knee under the table. Let my eyes fall a little too low. Say your name like I mean it.”

Her posture stayed perfect, but her throat bobbed once. “Go on,” she said lightly, lips twitching. “You’re on a roll.”

“Oh, I haven’t even started,” he murmured. “Because then you’d laugh. The cameras would catch it. That little moment where you look at me like I’ve just said something filthy you’d never admit you liked.”

She sucked in a breath. Soft. Almost soundless.

He smiled, not kindly. “And people'd love it. Because it’d be the first time someone didn’t treat you like a headline. Not like that shitty director you used to date. What was his name? Gordon, or something like that. I’d be the man who wants you, for real. Right here. Right now.”

Her eyes narrowed, but her hand stayed exactly where it was. Dean leaned in a half inch closer, voice quieter now. For her. Just her. “But we both know better,” he said. “I don’t want you. And you don’t want me.” She blinked again, and this time the smile didn’t return right away. He sat back.

The space between them snapped taut, air heavy and warm with what had just passed through it. She reached for her drink, too fast. Dean watched her carefully, not smug, not quite, but with a flicker of satisfaction at the flush that crept into her cheeks.

“You’re good at this,” she said, after a beat. Her voice was light, but less steady than before. “Acting. Forgot this is why people want us together in the first place. Almost believed you.”

He reached for his own coffee, casual. “That’s why they pay me more than you.”

She scoffed. “Barely.”

He smirked. “Still counts.”

A shutter clicked again. The sound barely registered. The entire world had blurred down to the look in her eyes, a mixture of irritation, curiosity, and something else she didn’t want to admit.

She straightened. Smoothed her skirt like it hadn’t risen halfway up her thigh. Tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and cleared her throat. “Wait until week three when I’m ‘accidentally’ wearing your shirt,” she said breezily, as if she hadn’t just gone breathless three minutes ago. "This performance of yours will be long forgotten by then."

She was already sipping her drink like she hadn’t just short-circuited half his neurons. He looked up at the sky. Prayed for a solar flare to end this performance and possibly the earth.

She looked over at him with a playful glance. “You’re gonna hate this.”

He turned his head just slightly. “I already do.”

When the photos hit thirty minutes later, him leaning toward her, her hand on his arm, their eyes locked like the tension between them was too much to hide, the comments said exactly what Cas wanted to hear:

They’re so in love it hurts. The age gap?? The chemistry??? I’m unwell. If this is fake, why am I crying?

THE FIRST PICTURE

The hallway to the upscale restaurant batroom looked like something out of a dream, or a fever. Walls of gleaming dark wood, soft gold lighting from sculptural fixtures, and black mirrored tile that made every movement ripple like water. The kind of place that tried hard to make you feel expensive. Everything gleamed. Everything whispered money. Dean wasn't really sure how he ended ip there, holding a woman over his shoulder like a bad of contraband.

Actually, he knew exactly how. Her. She'd been smirking from the moment they walked out the dining room. The second she saw the velvet-lined mirror panel at the end of the corridor, her eyes had flicked over to him, an idea harboring in her mind. And now Dean was paying for it, in heat, in proximity, in the way his heart hadn't quite gone back to normal.

"You’re stiff," she said from behind his ear, voice slightly breathless. "Loosen up. You’re carrying a woman, not a sack of flour."

"You threw yourself at me."

"I climbed gracefully."

“You launched yourself like a cannonball.”

“Same thing,” she said sweetly, adjusting her arm around his shoulder. He could feel the edge of her bracelet press against the back of his neck, cool metal, soft skin, chaos incarnate. Her dress had been a problem since the moment she stepped out of the car.

It was black. Not just black, but the kind of black that absorbed every spotlight and gave it back as something sinful. Satin, probably, or some other expensive material he couldn’t name but felt with every shift of her body against his. It clung in places that made conversation difficult. Thin straps, barely-there neckline, the kind of thing that had probably been taped into place with magic and a prayer. When she walked, it moved like smoke, hugging the backs of her thighs, catching the light in glints that weren’t fair. There was a slit up the side, he hadn’t dared look directly at it, but it flashed like a threat every time she climbed stairs or turned too quickly. She had worn heels that night, sharp, scrappy. With them on, she stood eye to eye with him. Maybe half an inch taller, depending on posture. And of course she had posture. She carried herself like she was starring in her own perfume ad, all lifted chin and killer elegance, like she knew she’d just crossed the threshold of being unforgettable.

He hated that dress. Hated how it demanded attention. Hated how it looked like she’d worn it specifically to ruin his evening. Worst of all, he hated how good she knew she looked in it, like the whole city was her runway and he was just the unwilling cameraman.

And now she was wrapped around him like a red carpet come to life.

He had tried to resist this, to put his foot down. He was not a damn teenager, these things were not for him anymore.

"I'm not doing this," he had said.

She had given him a slow look. “You think I can’t make you?”

Dean had crossed his arms in defiance. “I’m not one of your little Instagram husbands.”

“No,” she had said, voice dropping slightly. “You’re worse. You’re a grump with a god-tier jawline who makes women online forget how to breathe. If we’re gonna sell this, we need to lean in.”

He had opened his mouth to argue, but she was already moving.

She was everywhere, perfume in his nose, skin against his shoulder, laughter pressed against his spine.

“This is not happening,” he growled.

“It is,” she whispered against his neck, and somehow that was worse.

The mirror in front of them caught the whole thing: her body curved over his shoulder, head hanging upside-down, lips parted in a breathless grin. His jaw was clenched. His grip was firm. The tension in his arms was unmistakable, like he could hold her forever or drop her just to make a point.

Dean looked at the reflection. At them. And something in his chest shifted, sharp, reluctant, a little unsteady. She looked like chaos. He looked like control. Together, they looked like trouble.

Dean’s grip tightened around the backs of her thighs, careful but firm. Her dress draped over his shoulder in a way that definitely wouldn’t pass Instagram guidelines if she shifted the wrong way. Her legs swung slightly against his chest, bare skin brushing cotton. She smelled like heat and lipstick and something floral that didn’t belong in this hallway.

"You're going to throw my back out," he muttered.

"You’re strong enough," she replied lightly, though her breath hitched. “God, this is going to break the internet.” It sounded like foreplay.

And Dean hated how much it worked.

She caught his eye in the reflection and winked. “You gonna take the damn picture, or just stand there looking tragic?”

Dean grunted and pulled his phone out one-handed, angling it toward the mirror. He took the first picture.

The room around them gleamed, dim but golden, like everything had been filtered through luxury and late-night sin. Her hair caught the light in soft waves as she tilted her head back, a flash of teeth in her smile as she pointed toward the mirror again. She was relentless. “Good for a first try. Now, look like you sort of like me.”

Dean stared at the reflection. Her legs wrapped around him, heels kicked up like a goddamn movie poster. His plain white tee pulling across his chest. His hands holding her steady. Every muscle in his body was tense, but the worst part was... it didn’t look like that.

In the mirror, it looked effortless. Hot, even.

He sighed. Another click.

“Again,” she said.

“I’m not your tripod.”

“No,” she said with a sly smile. “You’re my man candy. For now.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but he took another. This one, her legs shifted, slightly, and his palm slid higher to adjust. Her skin was warm. His ears burned.

Click.

She adjusted reached over the angle, ever the perfectionist, hair falling over her shoulder, lips parted in a mock gasp like she wasn’t the one orchestrating the whole thing. “Okay, now look a little less ‘hostage’ and a little more ‘can’t believe I get to do this'. Maybe smile?"

“I really can’t.”

“Dean.”

He gave the camera a smirk. Lazy. Slight. The kind that made fans lose their minds when it showed up mid-interview.

She blinked. “Holy shit. Do that again.”

“Absolutely not.”

He lowered the phone. Glared at it like the photo had personally insulted him.

“Let me down,” she whispered after a beat, and though it was teasing, there was something else in her voice too, something breathless. Quiet. Almost real.

He bent slightly, letting her legs slide down his chest as she lowered herself. Her fingers stayed on his shoulders a second longer than necessary. When her feet hit the polished black tile, the air between them snapped taut, hot and close and thrumming.

They didn’t move.

He could feel her watching him.

Could feel the tension ricocheting off the mirrored walls like static.

She looked down at the screen. Her expression changed, just for a moment, from playful to something more reverent.

“This one,” she murmured.

He looked over her shoulder. In the photo, his arm wrapped securely around her thighs, her smile devilish, his mouth tilted just slightly, not quite a smile, but softer than a scowl. Like he’d stopped fighting it, even if just for the shutter.

It looked real. Too real.

She started typing a caption. Something snarky, probably. Something to make the comments froth. But her fingers paused. Hovered. Like maybe she didn’t know what to say.

“Post it,” Dean said roughly.

She glanced up. “You sure?”

He nodded once. She hit share.

Then she looked at him, and for the first time that night, the banter was gone. Just for a breath.

“You’re dangerous when you let yourself be charming,” she said.

He looked down at her. “And you’re dangerous, period.”

Her smile returned, slow and sharp. “Good thing we’re pretending.”

THE FIRST REAL TALK

The car smelled like leather, perfume, and pressure.

Dean sat back against the seat, legs spread, hands resting on his thighs like he didn’t trust them to stay still. He shifted in his seat, tugging slightly at the collar of his open-button shirt. The fabric felt too stiff against his neck, the jacket tailored within an inch of breathing. He could hear the low purr of the tires over pavement. The quiet exhale of the AC. The soft sound of her thumb scrolling on her screen. The city slid past in flashes of gold and brake lights, headlights catching on the curve of her shoulder as she scrolled on her phone like they weren’t about to be photographed within an inch of their lives.

She looked... unfair. That was the only word that came to mind.

Her dress was some delicate, strappy thing in slate blue, soft and shimmery, elegant but a little too bare for his sanity. One leg crossed over the other, just enough thigh showing to be a statement. Hair pinned back with strategic precision, earrings like glints of trouble when she turned her head. Her heels rested on the floor mat next to his boots. She'd taken them off five minutes into the drive, sighed dramatically, and leaned her head back like she'd been through war.

He hadn’t said much since. Neither had she.

They’d been silent for most of the ride, save for the occasional honk or the quiet jazz bleeding from the driver’s speakers, some Spotify playlist probably titled red carpet chill. Dean watched her screen light up her face in the dark. Her dress shimmered every time the car passed under another sign, silver-blue, like moonlight in fabric. When she moved, it rippled. When she laughed, which she hadn’t done yet tonight, he imagined it would glow. She smelled expensive, soft perfume layered with something warm and human. A little sunscreen. A little sweat. Real things. 

Dean couldn’t decide if the silence was awkward or earned.

“You ready for this?” he asked finally, voice rough from disuse.

She didn’t look up. Just tilted her head toward him, lashes flicking upward. “You asking if I’m emotionally prepared for that many people with veneers, or if I’m about to fake-laugh through forty red carpet interviews about my ‘process’ even if this isn't my movie?”

He gave a low snort. “You rehearsed that one?”

“I live that one.”

A beat passed.

“Are you?” she asked.

Dean let his head fall back against the seat.

Outside, some guy in a hoodie was selling fake roses to couples at the stoplight. The kind of moment that usually made Dean roll his eyes. Tonight, it just made him tired.

“They’re gonna ask about it,” he said. “The Lisa thing.”

She glanced at him, more alert now. “You want to run through the story?”

Dean gave a quiet snort. “No point. Whatever I say, they’ll believe what they want. The narrative’s already written.”

She waited. Didn’t interrupt. Which surprised him.

He shifted slightly, cracking his knuckles. “It wasn’t flirting,” he said. “Not really. Not the way they’re making it look. I messaged her first, we were both drunk, and yeah, it got... fuzzy. But there wasn’t anything sexual. No crossing lines. I think we both just missed what it felt like, having someone who knew the old versions of us.”

The window beside him showed his reflection, half-dissolved in the streetlights. He looked like someone explaining away a ghost. “She’s married now. To someone I introduced her to, to someone she cheated on me with. They’ve got a daughter. I didn’t mean for it to get messy. But I didn’t shut it down soon enough either.”

Silence. And then her voice, low. “Do you still love her?”

Dean blinked. The question wasn’t cruel, or curious. No one had just asked that. Not Castiel, not his brother Sam. “No,” he said, too fast. Then again, quieter. “No.” And it was true. There was a time where Lisa's black hair and full smile had been the highlight of his life, sure, but after he found out about her affairs throughout their years together, he couldn't bear to look in her eyes and see the truth he chose to ignore for so long.

She cleared her throat. "You're a good man, Dean. I need you to know that," her hand slowly went to his bicep, he looked at it. "You didn't do anything wrong."

He let out a breath. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’m forty-one, divorced, and moody. People don’t root for that. They see a man texting his ex and call it pathetic.”

She titled her head toward him. "I see a man who gave a shit when it would've been easier not to, if you ask me." Her voice was soft, but certain. She wasn't offering comfort, not really, she was telling the truth. "You're not pathetic, Winchester," she added, quieter. "Maybe deeply allergic to look like you're happy, but very far from pathetic."

Dean huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it didn’t hurt a little. “That’s generous.”

“I’m not known for my generosity,” she said, settling back into her seat. “But even I can admit when a grumpy divorcé in a suit deserves a little grace.”

“You ever regret something that didn’t feel like a mistake until someone else watched it happen?” he asked.

She smiled. Not the PR smile. Not the one that got her out of interviews or into luxury partnerships. Just the ghost of one. Dry. Bitter. True. “Don't you know? I built a career on it.”

Dean looked at her, really looked, and for once, she didn’t deflect. Didn’t pose. Just breathed.

“I was nineteen,” she said, voice steady. “New producer. Big audition. I thought I was lucky, that someone powerful wanted me. He was older. Smarter. Knew what to say to make it all feel... earned.” Dean didn’t speak. Her gaze dropped to her lap. “It wasn’t just the tape. It was the headlines. The phone calls. The way everyone looked at me like I’d handed it out myself. Like I’d wanted it. I lost two jobs. Almost three. You know what saved me?” He shook his head once. She looked up. “I laughed about it. Turned it into a brand. Became the girl from the tape, but who also wasn't shy about it. You know how exhausting it is to pretend something didn’t break you?”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Yeah.”

A long, low silence settled between them. Not awkward. Not anymore. Just real. “I never watched it,” she said suddenly. “The tape. Never saw it. Didn't even know it existed in the first place.”

Dean looked over at her. She met his gaze. “Good, don't” he said, voice rough. "That tape doesn't matter. It never did."

She let out a little laugh. "Yeah, tell that to my dad."

"Fuck, I bet that was awkward," his hand crossed over his face.

She smiled, again, barely there. “Don’t cry for me, brooding sea captain. I’m still here.”

“I’m not crying,” he muttered.

“You’re thinking about it.”

“No. I’m thinking about how to not punch someone in a tux if they bring it up on the carpet.”

She smirked. “Now that’s the romance I signed up for.”

The car rolled to a stop. The door clicked as the lock disengaged.

Outside, the lights were brighter. The shouting louder. A wall of flashbulbs and PR handlers and scripted charm waited just beyond the door. She slipped her heels back on without flinching. Adjusted the strap on her dress. Lifted her chin. Dean watched her become someone else, not fake, exactly. Just armored.

Then she turned to him and did something unexpected. She reached over and fixed his collar. Lightly. Fingers brushing his jaw. Brief. Human. “You look good,” she said.

He studied her. “So do you.”

They stared for a breath too long. Then the door opened, and they stepped out, into the lie they were learning how to live together.

THE FIRST INTERVIEW

The sidewalk shimmered under the weight of L.A. heat, and the press line looked like an overcaffeinated runway, flashes, boom mics, plastic smiles. A cluster of reporters stood behind a velvet rope, fanning themselves with folded call sheets and half-empty coffee cups. Neon-orange cones kept back the crowd, and a black Escalade had just rolled up like something important was about to happen. Which, of course, it was.

Dean Winchester stepped out first. Grumpy. Broad-shouldered. A walking PSA for men who hadn't had a full night’s sleep since 2012. No entourage. No warning. Just that familiar shuffle of boots replaced with clean sneakers and quiet dread. His black crew-neck tee hugged his chest like it had been made for him, the sleeves barely containing the curve of muscle. Crisp white pants, immaculately unbothered, like he gave a damn but not too much. Aviators obscured his eyes. Jaw clenched just enough to let everyone know he wasn’t thrilled to be here. Classic watch glinting at his wrist. He looked like someone who was about to refuse to give a quote, and somehow still go viral.

Then she stepped out. And the temperature shifted.

Her navy pinstripe jumpsuit hugged and draped in all the right places, sharp lapels, a cinched waist with a silver chain slung low, the neckline a deep, dramatic V that made headlines on its own. She wore pointed heels and walked like the sidewalk was hers. Silver-rimmed sunglasses, thick chain necklace, and earrings big enough to reflect the sunset. The reporters surged like sharks catching blood.

A male reporter adjusted her mic. “You look amazing,” he gushed.

"I try," she said brightly, adjusting her sunglasses.

Dean muttered under his breath, “She’s modest, too.”

She smiled wide and fanned him with one hand. “Ignore him, he’s just upset I’m taller than him today.”

“She’s not,” Dean said flatly.

“I am.”

“You’re wearing stilts.”

“They’re Tom Ford.”

Dean didn’t blink, “I don't think it matters.” She was enjoying this, he knew that. His discomfort, the attention, the way the reporters were already leaning closer, not to her, but toward the gravity of them. Together.

The reporter laughed nervously, sensing he might need to play moderator. “So! The film. ‘Without Warning.’ Action, romance, international espionage. How’d you two prepare for the roles?”

Dean pushed his glasses up. "It's a project I've had my eyes on for a while, and Charlie, the director, she's amazing," He smiled without showing teeth. "Had fun watching me getting punched in the ribs by three different stuntmen."

She jumped in, chipper. "I learned a fake Italian accent and drive stick in five-inch heels."

Dean glanced sideways. "You never used the accent."

"I was ready, Winchester. That's what matters," she quoted his words from before, a small grin on her perfect face.

"And you stalled the car," Dean added, gaining a few laughs from reporters. Huh, that's new.

She rolled her eyes. "On purpose. It was character work."

Another journalist, next to the one who had asked the first question, giggled. "I have to ask, the entire Internet deserves to know..." she paused, a michievious glint in her eyes. And there it was, the question Cass had briefed them on before hand. The question they had spent an hour and a half preparing in his office. They were told to answer a simple yes to the question of the year, but it seemed too dry and out of character for her. Surprisingly, she had agreed to Cass' version of mystery. "Was it love at first sight, or did you grow on each other?"

Dean blinked slowly, deadpan. "Like mold?"

She bit back a laugh beside him. “You’ll have to forgive him,” she said to the host, all warmth and faux-concern. “He’s only been media trained in sarcasm and long sighs.”

“I’m very talented,” Dean added. Dry as a desert.

The interviewer smiled too big, sensing blood in the water. “So... not love at first sight?”

Dean turned slightly toward her. “All about timing. You tell it,” he said, gesturing, giving her the possibility to go off script.

She thanked him with a squeeze on his bicep. “Well, we met on set. I thought he was terrifying and allergic to small talk. He thought I was loud, sparkly, and definitely the reason he had a headache.”

“You were the reason I had a headache,” Dean muttered.

She ignored that. “But then,” she continued brightly, “He scowled at me so much I mistook it for affection. And now we’re here.”

The interviewer laughed. “Seriously though, the chemistry is unreal. Like... people are invested. Especially after that photo on Instagram...”

Dean let out a breath. “Yeah. That one.”

“Any truth to the rumors?” another reported leaned forward, faux-casual. “Is it method acting? Or something more... ongoing?”

There was a pause. One of those electric, camera-eats-it silences. She adjusted her sunglasses and said with a coy little tilt of her head: “We’re very good at what we do.”

Dean looked over at her, eyebrow raised. “That supposed to be mysterious?”

“A little mystery sells tickets.”

He looked at the interviewer, deadpan again. “We're friends.”

She shrugged. “Not technically.”

Dean let out a low grunt of disbelief, and more journalists leaned in, thrilled. “Wait, what does that mean?”

She smiled at Dean like she was daring him. “Means we hang out. Laugh. Spend quality time together."

“Sounds like dating,” the same reported from before teased.

“I don’t cry in public, so clearly not,” she quipped.

Dean finally cracked a smile, small, crooked. Real. “She’s allergic to vulnerability.”

She grinned, tossing it back. “And he’s allergic to joy.” A fan yelled her name. She turned just slightly and waved. The chain around her waist shimmered like sunlight on water.

The laughter hadn’t even fully died down before a different journalist stepped forward, this one with a sharper look and a mic already lifted like a blade. Her smile was practiced, her blazer wrinkle-free. She wasn’t here for flirt-banter. “You mentioned timing earlier,” she said, glancing at Dean over her tortoiseshell glasses. “There’s been a lot of discourse about yours, Dean. Specifically the messages to Lisa Braeden and how quickly this new... friendship entered the spotlight. Just two weeks after, if I recall. Some critics have called it ‘convenient.’” A beat. “What would you say to those people?”

Dean’s jaw flexed. His sunglasses did nothing to hide the way he inhaled, once, deep, and nearly spoke. He had practiced an answer, a simple no comment. Maybe that would have raised some eyebrows, but it would have saved him from publicly addressing his private life. One of the things he dreaded the most about the spotlight.

She beat him to it. And this time, her smile was nowhere in sight. “I’m going to stop you right there,” she said, turning toward the reporter fully. Her voice was calm. Unflinching. “If the question you’re asking is whether Dean is using our relationship to distract from some kind of scandal, then the answer is no.” The air felt heavier. “And to those people who like to speculate, I’d say they’re forgetting he’s human.”

The journalist blinked.

She didn’t stop. “He didn’t do anything wrong. He reached out to someone he used to care about. That’s not a scandal, it’s a Tuesday. And if people are more interested in spinning headlines than showing grace, that’s not on him. That’s on you.” Dean looked over at her, actually looked. Something unreadable passed between them. Something heavier than cameras and banter. She wasn't done. "We started hanging out because we had a connection. Because we spent time together and realized it wasn’t just on screen.” She looked at Dean then, direct, with a soft kind of heat. “And if our... time together has made things a little easier in the middle of all this noise? Then good. He deserves that.” She was a professional at it. But somehow, behind the little white lie, Dean knew she wasn't pretending, not fully, not like he had expected her to.

There was a pause. One of those beautiful, press-silencing pauses where even the cameras hesitated. Dean cleared his throat. "I don’t regret reaching out to someone I cared about,” he gained confidence. “And I sure as hell don’t regret being here with her.” He gestured, a small tilt of his head in her direction, subtle, but enough. “You can call it convenient or whatever you want. I know what it is.”

She didn't turn to him, but her lips parted slightly, just enough to catch her breath. The question had surprised both of them, Cass hadn't said anything about it. Sure, Dean thought this would happen, he had avoided it for too long now, but, still, he hadn't expected her to step in like that. Not with fire, not with conviction.

She’d defended him like she meant it.

She smiled again to the sea of reporters, her shoulder still tense beneath the practiced curve of her charm. "Thank you for being out here!" she called out brightly, one last burst of sunshine for the flashing cameras. She waved, blew a kiss toward the fans behind the barricades, perfectly framed for the final shot, and then pivoted on her heel.

Dean followed, a beat behind, jaw still tight, mind still chewing on the thing they weren’t supposed to say out loud. He too waved at the crowd behind them, earning a few squeaks and scream from his fans. But then, just as they cleared the velvet rope, just as the shouting dimmed into background noise and the hotel lights loomed ahead like lifeboats, she reached for his hand.

No warning. No theater. Just her fingers slipping between his, warm and certain and real. He squeezed it. Thank you.

THE FAMILY DINNER

The restaurant was one of those candlelit, whisper-toned places tucked into the Hollywood Hills, where reservations took two weeks and the maître d’ greeted you by name if your IMDb profile had enough views. It was too nice for Dean's taste, hell, he had to dress up for it. Still, Jess had made the reservation, and Sam had insisted. Something about "You owe me for that one time in Tahoe." Dean didn’t ask. The table was private, near a fake fireplace with a low crackle and a polished bronze mirror hanging above, throwing back all that soft, amber light.

Private was a generous word. Once Cass had got wind that Dean was going to have a family dinner, he had pushed for her to be there too. The perfect opportunity, he had called it. So, they were sat in a back corner, low velvet banquette, candles flickering in small glass cups. The lighting was warm enough to be forgiving and golden enough for a few spontaneous photos. Which, of course, was the point. There were three strategically spaced “pap opportunities” on the walk in. He was sure Cass had sent them a map.

Dean looked like he’d been poured into his black suit, the cut sharp across his shoulders, the tie just loose enough to feel like defiance. His white dress shirt was crisp, sleeves pushed up his forearms the way he always did once the food arrived, watch glinting just under the cuff. He sat back with a practiced ease that bordered on boredom, one hand cradling a glass of something red and overpriced. His other arm was draped low around her waist, not quite possessive, more like gravity had decided for him.

Across the table, Jess grinned over the rim of her wine glass. “You know, for a fake couple, you two sit awfully close.”

His jaw ticked. “This place doesn’t believe in chairs that aren’t bolted together.”

“You could scoot over,” Sam said mildly, buttering a roll. “Unless you’re enjoying the view.”

She didn’t even blink. “He really is.”

She looked like trouble in gold. Her dress shimmered under every flicker of candlelight, clinging in a way that was half slink, half statement. The neckline dipped dangerously low, catching the eye like a whisper you weren’t supposed to hear. Thin straps curved over bare shoulders, and the silk pooled around her hips like melted sunlight. She wore oversized earrings that glinted every time she turned her head, and her long hair was sleek behind one shoulder, the other left bare and glowing. Her smile was radiant and a little unbothered, she belonged in every room he hated.

Sam was nursing a scotch and trying not to smirk, his own blazer undone and his hair pushed back like the lawyer he'd been born to be. "This is wildly entertaining," he looked at the woman beside his brother. "I see why Cass pitched this."

“Cass pitched it because we’re a publicist’s dream,” she said, tone light, but laced with something razor-sharp beneath the charm, all reserved for him. “Dean broods, I sparkle. We’ve got the whole Beauty and the Existential Crisis package.”

Sam barked a laugh. Jess nearly choked on her drink.

Dean, to his credit, didn’t even blink. He just muttered, “This was a mistake,” and drank some wine, everything to get out of that conversation.

Sam sipped his drink and looked at Dean. “I like her,” he said mildly.

Dean didn’t look up. “Yeah, that’s your problem.”

“You always hated when I liked your girlfriends,” Sam went on, just to needle.

“She’s not my...” Dean started, then stopped. There was no good way out of that sentence, and paparazzi were looking, better not test his luck. His date raised a brow, lips twitching into a private smile.

Jess, never one to miss an opening, leaned in with a grin. “Dean, sweetheart,” she said, feigning shock, “are you finally learning the art of shutting up?”

He sighed, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling like it owed him an apology. “I’m learning survival.”

She tilted her head toward Jess, as if sharing a delicious secret. “This is him being charming, by the way. Don’t be fooled by the grimace. That’s just how his face rests.”

Jess giggled into her wine. “Oh, I know. I married one with the same setting.”

Sam raised a hand. “Hey, my face has never grimaced like his.”

Dean shot his brother a look. “You’re literally a public defence attorney.”

“And yet somehow I’m less terrifying at dinner,” Sam replied, then gestured to her. “Meanwhile, you brought someone who has half the room reconsidering their marriage vows.”

She beamed. “Thank you.”

Dean groaned. “Can we eat now?”

Jess was already holding up her phone. “Not until I get a picture. The lighting’s great, and you two are actually within a foot of each other without one of you fake-coughing a slur.”

“No,” Dean said immediately, voice flat.

“Yes,” she said, ignoring him completely. “Lean in.”

She didn’t wait for permission, just shifted effortlessly, silk whispering across silk as she turned on the velvet banquette and rested her back on his chest, settling into him like it was second nature. The dress shimmered in the candlelight, all golden sheen and defiance, dipping low enough at the back to leave a trail of skin beneath his hand. Her arm curled around his shoulder, warm and confident, her manicured fingers brushing the base of his neck with casual intimacy. She smelled like vanilla and something sharper underneath, the kind of perfume that lingered in a car long after she was gone.

Dean froze, jaw locked, wine glass hovering mid-air like even it couldn’t believe this was happening. His free hand automatically found her hip again, fingers flexing once, betraying the reflex before he could stop it. His suit jacket pulled tight across his chest. The table had never felt smaller. Or hotter.

“Jess,” he ground out, barely moving his mouth. “I’m going to kill you.”

Jess just grinned, framing the shot. “You'll have to deal with your brother on stand.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” she said sweetly, adjusting her earrings as if she weren’t almost perched on the lap of Hollywood’s most reluctant heartthrob. “We’re giving the people what they want.”

Sam sipped his drink and didn’t even try to hide the smile curling his lips. “Oh yeah,” he said dryly. “This’ll definitely boost the opening weekend numbers.”

She tilted her head toward Dean, just enough for the curve of her cheek to brush his temple. “Smile, darling,” she murmured, all teeth and triumph.

Dean didn’t smile. But he did lean in, eyes on the camera, his arm tightening ever so slightly around her waist. When the shutter clicked, the photo looked effortless. Natural. Intimate in a way that made it feel like the whole world had been watching something they shouldn’t. Click.

Sam whistled. “You two fake it so well, I think I’m catching feelings.”

"Dean, dare I say you look... affectionate?" Jess teased, squinting at the screen with a pleased grin. After fiften years being in a relationship with his brother, she was getting awfully comfortable with him. Dean really loved her. Not that he would say it out loud.

Dean let out a quiet, disbelieving snort. “That’s just my face when I’m being held hostage.”

Her smile sharpened. “He looks like that because he’s grumpy, not emotionally unavailable. It’s a fine line, but I’ve trained him.” Dean looked at her, disbelief written all over his face, his hand still resting on her waist like a promise. "Oh, don't give me that look. You know you're enjoying yourself, Winchester."

He muttered half-insult under his breath, something about "training" being for dogs (and he was not a dog!), detangling himself from her. He used the kind of exaggerated care that only made it more obvious he didn't want to move. His hand lingered for a second too long at her waist before sliding away, like his muscles hadn't caught up with his mood yet. Sam caught it. Of course he did. And he fucking winked at him, the bitch.

Jess winked too, they really spent all their time together, and went back to her risotto, clearly satisfied with the shot she had taken. She leaned in as the brothers veered into a surprisingly passionate argument about their father’s old storage unit in Kansas, something about a vintage rifle, a sealed box labeled “DON’T OPEN,” and a cursed-looking doll wrapped in flannel. “You know they’re both going to drive out there next weekend and pretend it’s not just an excuse to avoid talking about how they miss each other,” Jess murmured, her voice low and full of practiced fondness.

Her companion smirked, sipping her wine. “Dean’s already packed for it in his head.”

“Mmhm.” Jess didn’t look up. “And he’ll claim it’s because he doesn’t trust Sam not to break anything, but really he just doesn’t want to be alone.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully, watching Dean gesture with his fork like it was a weapon. “He hates silence.”

Jess paused. “He used to. Now he’s gotten good at pretending it doesn’t bother him. You’re the first person I’ve seen throw off that balance after his divorce.”

She blinked. “Is that good?”

Jess gave her a look, dry and knowing. “It’s not bad. You get under his skin.”

"He is a good friend," she narrowed her eyes. "But don't tell him that, I'm not even sure he knows we're friends."

Jess set her fork down. "Oh, believe me. He knows. He's a good actor, don't get me wrong, but Dean doesn't fake well."

"I beg to disagree... on the good actor part"

The blonde woman let out a laugh. "He doesn't know how to fake like he's doing right now. He can put on a smile, go through the press junket motions, but this?” She nudged gently with her elbow. “The way he listens when you talk. The way he doesn’t snap at you the same way he does with everyone else. That’s not fake.”

She glanced away. “We’re just good at this.”

“Yeah, but you’re better than good at pretending. And he’s never been that good at lying.”

There was a moment of stillness between them, not heavy, but deliberate. The kind of silence Jess was an expert at creating. safe, not awkward. She gave people room to step into truth if they wanted.

So she did. Just a little. “I didn’t think he’d even like me.”

Jess smiled. “That’s because you think too much about who you used to be and not enough about who you are now.”

She didn’t answer. Just looked over at Dean again, who was now gesturing wildly about how cursed the storage unit probably was, Sam trying and failing to rein him in.

“They’re really talking about driving twelve hours to open a haunted box?” she asked, a small smile on her face harboring just by looking at him. Yeah, she liked being his friend.

Jess didn’t even blink. “Welcome to the family.”

And for the first time, this didn’t feel like play pretend.

THE PARTY

The rooftop was the kind of place meant to distract you. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Sculptural ice. People in suits that cost as much as mortgages, holding flutes of champagne and pretending they weren’t constantly scanning for someone more important. It was all curated elegance, low lighting, soft jazz, the quiet hum of too much money. And at the center of it all, Without Warning’s cast and crew were celebrating like they hadn’t just clawed their way through PR hell for the last two months.

Dean lingered near the edge of it, back to the New York skyline, glass in hand, tie loosened just enough to say I showed up, don’t push it. The jacket clung across his shoulders; he hadn’t taken it off. It was black. Classic. Like him. He hated this kind of thing, the schmoozing, the performance, the bright-toothed executives who called you “buddy” after leaking your salary to the trades.

She, instead, was thriving. She played her part effortlessy, smiling at the cameras when needed, clinging glass with the most obnoxious upcoming actors, and promoting the movie before its release. He had to admit she fit into this life almost too well.

She wore red that night, danger red. Secret in silk.

High neck, no sleeves, the bodice hugging every inch like it had been painted on. The fabric shimmered with a constellation of tiny sequins, catching light with every shift of her hips. Her hair was slicked back in a low bun, elegant and severe, like she knew she was going to war and planned to win with one look. Dean had nearly choked on his drink when she first appeared next to him.

She found him near the edge, right where she figured he’d be, back turned to the crowd, face half-lit by city lights, like he was auditioning for the role of brooding rooftop gargoyle. The drink in his hand had barely been touched. His tie was loose, but everything else about him was pulled tight: his shoulders, his jaw, that vein in his neck that only appeared when he was ten seconds from telling someone to fuck off.

She stopped beside him, letting the hem of her dress brush his shoes like a challenge. “You know you’re supposed to at least fake enjoying yourself,” she said, swirling the last of her champagne. “It’s a party, not a sentencing.”

Dean gave her a look, slow and unimpressed. “You sure? Because it feels like community service.”

She grinned, tilting her head just enough for a drop of earring to catch the skyline glow. “Maybe if you smiled more, people would stop asking if I’m your caretaker.”

Dean exhaled through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Maybe if you dressed less like a warning label, I wouldn’t have to scowl so much. Scare people.”

“Oh, honey,” she said, feigning sweetness, “I dress like this so you scowl. It's the only time you show emotion.”

He glanced down at her then, really looked, the sequins, the curve of her shoulder, the kind of self-assurance you didn’t learn, you bled for. She was a goddamn inferno wrapped in couture.

“Pretty cocky,” he muttered, sipping his drink, “you're gonna make me think your outfit’s about me.”

“You’re the one choking on your whiskey every time I walk past.”

Dean didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted back out to the skyline, the light glancing off the glass of his tumbler. Then he said, dry as ever, “It is not my fault you cause a scene just by standing still."

She blinked. It wasn’t quite a compliment. But it wasn’t not one “You’re flirting,” she said, suspicious. “You never flirt.”

“I’m not flirting,” Dean said flatly.

“You just accused me of being distracting.”

“That wasn’t flirting. That was an observation.”

“You're confusing.”

Dean shrugged, barely lifting one shoulder. “It’s a good dress.”

She blinked again. Slower this time. “Okay, who the hell are you and what did you do with Dean Winchester?”

He finally looked at her, sideways. That quiet, unreadable smirk he reserved for the moments when he let something slip on purpose. “You wore that thing to be seen,” he said. “I’m just seeing it.”

That one landed. Her stomach twisted, low and sharp. “Careful,” she murmured, voice dipping. “If you keep talking like that, I might think you actually like me.”

He took another sip of his drink, eyes on hers. “Worse things have happened.”

She stared at him for a second too long. Then raised her glass and bumped it lightly against his. “To worse things,” she said.

Their glasses clicked, soft, almost private in the swell of rooftop noise, and for a brief moment, the world around them blurred. She looked over the rim of her glass, and Dean couldn’t tell if she was daring him or warning him. Maybe both.

He was about to say something else, nothing good, probably, when he noticed her expression shift. Not dramatically. Just the barest hardening at the edges. Her spine straightened. Her smile didn’t drop, but it hollowed out just enough to feel practiced.

"I thought Cass said this wouldn't happen, that this was safe." Dean followed her gaze. The man was already halfway toward them.

Polished. Crisp. Probably born in a country club. His smile was the kind that wanted to be mistaken for charm but rang too cold, too smooth. His suit was navy silk, his shirt open just enough to say he had something to prove, and his eyes didn’t leave her face for a second. Dean didn’t know who he was. But he knew that look.

“Well,” the man said, with a voice like expensive bourbon and something oily underneath. “I was told the cast was glowing tonight, but no one mentioned how radiant you looked.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. But Dean could feel the shift in her body beside him, like a current tightening. Subtle. Tense. “Dick,” she said, her voice smooth as ever, but just a shade cooler than before. “They still let you into these things?”

Dean blinked. Dick?

The guy just smiled wider. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to cause trouble. Though I did have to come see it for myself. The new image.” His eyes flicked to Dean for half a second. “The shiny new... co-star.”

“Dean Winchester,” she said before Dick could say anything else. “You’d know him if you watched movies not made for creeps.”

Dick let out a short laugh. “Ah. Yes. The brooding one. You’ve got a type, don’t you?” Dean’s brow ticked, but he stayed silent. Still measuring. Watching. Trying to figure out what exactly was happening here.

She stepped half a breath forward. “We’re not doing this, Dick. Back off and go drink your shitty bourbon.”

“Oh, relax,” he drawled. “I’m just saying hello. You don’t have to get defensive.” Then, a little lower, a little closer. “It’s cute,” he just for her. “How hard you try to convince them you’ve moved on. But people don’t forget. Not really. I know I don’t.” He bit his lower lip and smiled wildly. Almost like a... crocodile. "And how can they forget? I could've posted the entire thing, given them more to look at, changed your life for good. I still have it somewhere, I think. If you ever need it for a role, you can count on me."

Her face didn’t change. Not really. But Dean saw it. The tightness in her jaw. The flicker of something like nausea. The flicker of something like fear. She didn’t blink, didn’t move, but she’d gone still in that quiet, coiled way people do when something inside them buckles.

Dean took one step forward. "Walk away," he said. Flat. Measured.

Dick barely spared him a glance. "This doesn't not concern you."

"It does now."

The air around them shifted. Dick’s eyes flicked over Dean’s frame, calculating. “Relax, friend. I’m just having a conversation with an old... colleague.”

Dean tilted his head slightly. “I thought she told you to back off, didn't she?”

“She doesn’t have to. I’ve known her longer than you’ve been relevant.”

Dean stepped closer. His voice was low, dangerous, steady as a trigger pull. “You don’t know her. You know who you could push around when she was nineteen and desperate and you had the power. But that’s not who she is anymore. And I’m not someone who lets shit like that slide.”

Dick huffed a laugh, a little too forced. “This your guard dog phase?”

“No,” Dean said. “This is the part where I explain what’ll happen if you ever breathe near her again.” Now Dick was watching him. Really watching. Dean kept going. “You like reputation, right? That lingering buzz? The legacy thing?” He leaned in slightly, voice colder. “Try me, and yours ends here. No scandal. No exposé. Just silence. Just doors that stop opening. Calls that go unanswered. Nobody remembers you. That’s what I’m good at, friend.”

Dick raised his eyebrows, mock-wounded, but behind his facade, Dean saw it. The panic. “Oh? Is this where the gruff hero punches the villain in the jaw for dramatic effect?”

“You’ve had your hello,” he said, calm, his voice flat and dangerously quiet. “Now fuck off.”

Dick lingered a second too long, then smiled again, all teeth and rot. “Well. Enjoy the afterglow.” He walked away into the noise and light and glitter like nothing had happened.

But she was still frozen.

Her jaw was tight, shoulders rigid. She hadn’t breathed. Not really. Not fully. Her chest rose once, sharp and shallow, then again, her hands trembling now, one hovering over her stomach like she could hold something in. Her face was still composed, but her body betrayed her. Like she couldn’t quite climb back inside herself.

Dean stepped closer. “Hey,” he said, not a whisper, not a command, something gentler than both. His voice, stripped of sarcasm, of press performance, was a balm. “You’re okay. I got you. You hear me?”

She nodded, but she couldn’t speak. Her eyes stayed fixed on some invisible point just past him, like if she blinked she’d unravel.

He reached out slowly and touched her hand, the one gripping her glass too tightly. Her fingers twitched, but didn’t let go. “You’re okay,” he said. “He’s gone.”

She swallowed. Just once. And blinked, too slowly for his liking. She wasn't there with him anymore, not yet. Dean moved in another step, crowding her gently, carefully, like getting too close to a live wire. The glass in her hand trembled against her rings, and he could see her knuckles gone white from pressure.

“He,” he said again, quieter now, “can't do anything.”

Her lips parted, no sound. Just a breath that didn’t go anywhere. Her lashes fluttered, but she still wasn’t blinking right. Her whole body was locked like it had been flash-frozen, and the part that killed him was how used to it she clearly was. Like this was a state she knew too well, like she’d learned to survive this kind of silence by living in it.

Dean reached up. Slowly. Fingers brushing along her jaw, just enough pressure to make contact. Not enough to startle. Just enough to call her back. His palm curved around her cheek, thumb ghosting along the line of her cheekbone. Her skin was ice-cold.

He leaned in slightly, tilting his head, trying to meet her eyes, really meet them. “Look at me,” he said, low and soft.

Her gaze slid to his face, barely. It wasn’t enough. Not when she still wasn’t breathing right.

So he did the only thing that felt real. The only thing that didn’t feel like a performance. He kissed her. Not for anyone else. Not for cameras or stories or Cass’s PR daydreams. He kissed her because she needed to feel something that wasn’t him. And because he needed her to come back.

His hand stayed on her cheek, holding her like she might drift off if he didn’t. The other landed at her waist, grounding her. He didn’t press too hard, didn’t demand anything. Just leaned in, lips warm and sure, slow and steady, breathing her in like a promise.

And she kissed him back.

At first it was barely movement, the slack pull of someone unraveling, then it was more. A sudden inhale, like surfacing after drowning, her fingers fisting the lapel of his jacket like she wa grabbing on. Her lips moved with his, not rushed, not frantic, just real. Open. Raw. Full of something that felt almost too big to fit between them.

When he pulled back, just an inch, he kept his forehead against hers. His hand never left her face. Her eyes opened, slowly, finally. And there she was. With him. “Well,” she said, voice low and a little wrecked, “if that was your idea of CPR, I think I’m going to need a second opinion.”

Dean huffed something that might’ve been a laugh, half relief, half disbelief.

She tilted her head, that old, dangerous smile finally tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You always kiss like that, Winchester?”

He looked at her, eyes darker now. “Only when it counts.”

Her smile lingered, quieter now. Grateful. Still sharp, but with an edge that curved inward. She touched his chest once, briefly. Thank you. “Good,” she murmured. “Because I think I might need that again.”

THE CAR RIDE

The SUV's leather seats creaked softly under his movements, the city sliding past the tinted windows in streaks of gold and neon. Traffic hummed outside like white noise. Dean sat back on the passenger side, elbow resting on the edge of the window, one knee drawn up slightly. His tie was loose again, shirt collar unbuttoned. His jacket had been tossed somewhere between the rooftop and the curb. He didn’t ask for it back.

She sat beside him, legs crossed, arms folded over her lap. Her red dress shimmered faintly in the low light. Her heels were off, tucked beside her like a white flag. She’d pulled her hair loose from the severe bun at the nape of her neck, and now it fell in lazy waves around her shoulders, like she was letting herself breathe again for the first time all night. He looked at her once, briefly. Then turned back toward the window.

She was the one who broke the silence. “You kissed me.”

Dean didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile either. “You needed grounding.”

A beat. Then she glanced sideways at him, chin tilted slightly. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

He gave a low, amused exhale. “Would you prefer ‘emotionally strategic mouth rescue’?”

She snorted, soft and sudden. “You’re the worst.”

His mouth curved, not quite into a grin, but it was close. “You say that a lot.”

“Because it’s true.”

He glanced at her again. This time, he didn’t look away. “You okay?” The question was simple. But it hit in a way she hadn’t expected.

She hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Yeah. I think so.” Her voice dipped. “Thanks to you.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just studied her, quiet and unreadable. Then: “You shouldn’t have had to see him.”

“I didn’t expect it.” Her nails tapped lightly on the edge of her clutch, fingers restless. “I thought I was... past all that.”

“You are,” Dean said. Steady. Firm. “He’s just a reminder. Doesn’t mean he still gets to own the moment.”

She looked at him, really looked. “You got that from one of your therapy podcasts, didn’t you?”

He deadpanned, “No, that one was from Sam.”

She smiled, warm and a little weary. “I liked your version better.”

They sat with it for a while, letting the road take them. Downtown lights blurred by. She leaned back into the seat, shoulder brushing his, head tilting slightly in his direction, not quite on his shoulder, but close. Close enough to matter.

“Hey,” she said after a long pause, voice quiet, almost teasing. “So if that kiss was just ‘grounding,’ does that mean I don’t get another one?”

Dean looked at her then, turning fully, one arm resting along the back of the seat. His voice was low. “You want another one?”

She pretended to think. “For research purposes, sure.”

The car turned down a quieter street, buildings giving way to palm trees silhouetted against the sky. The hum of the tires softened. The interior glowed dimly, lit only by the occasional sweep of headlights from the street outside. A perfect little cocoon of leather and heat and unsaid things.

Dean had one arm stretched behind her, his fingers resting against the curve of her neck. His thumb brushed the spot just below her jaw, slow, thoughtless, like muscle memory, like he had done this countless times.

She hadn’t moved away. If anything, she’d leaned into it. Her eyes stayed on him, steady. And Dean, for all his gruffness, didn’t look away. “You sure?” he asked, low, rough.

“About which part?” she whispered, breath catching a little.

He tilted his head, just slightly. “You said research.”

“I said maybe I want another kiss.”

“Maybe,” he echoed, voice all gravel and restraint.

She nodded. “For science.”

The words barely cleared her lips before he kissed her again. Slower this time. No urgency, no crowd, no noise. Just the heavy, deliberate press of his mouth against hers. His hand slid down, fingertips brushing her collarbone, then lower, tracing the seam of her dress.

She arched just enough to meet him. Her fingers gripped the lapel of his jacket, pulling, grounding, something. It was the kind of kiss that pulled oxygen out of the air. The kind that made it easy to forget they were supposed to be faking this.

She gasped when his hand moved to her waist, thumb brushing over the place her dress cinched in. He kissed her deeper, firmer now, and she responded like she’d been holding back for weeks. Maybe she had. Maybe they both had.

His teeth grazed her bottom lip, not rough, but enough to make her tremble. She tugged him closer, and he let her, shifting toward her until his body was angled against hers, all heat and intention. Her dress glittered in the low light, rising and falling with every sharp breath. He touched her like he was memorizing the way it moved.

“Dean,” she breathed, more sound than word. His name sounded different in her mouth now. Not teasing. Not coy. Just real.

He rested his forehead against hers, their breath tangling in the air between them. “We should stop.”

“Should we?”

He let out a breathless laugh. “Probably.”

Neither of them moved.

The car was still. The world around them moved on, quiet and unaware, but inside the SUV, the air had shifted.

His hand didn’t move right away. Just stayed resting against her waist, thumb brushing soft, distracted circles into the side of her dress like his body was already thinking ahead of him. She felt it, not just the heat of his palm, but the focus in it. The restraint. Like he was holding himself back by a thread.

She pulled in a shallow breath. “Dean,” she said again, quieter this time. That alone did it.

He kissed her one more time, slower, softer, and then his mouth slid to her jaw, her neck, barely grazing. His fingers moved downward, gliding over her thigh, slow and deliberate. He didn’t rush. Didn’t ask.

His touch ghosted over the hem of her dress. She opened her legs, just a little, and that was all the answer he needed.

His hand slipped beneath the fabric, warm against her bare skin. Her breath hitched, chest rising fast. When his fingers brushed over the heat between her legs, his breath caught too. No words. Just a low sound from the back of his throat, part reverence, part disbelief.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured. She nodded, lips parted, eyes fixed on his. “Is that for me?” he asked, quieter now. Rougher.

She didn’t answer with words. Just leaned in and kissed him again, teeth catching his lip, hands curling into his chest.

Dean exhaled hard and moved her panties aside, sliding his fingers through her heat, slow, deliberate, parting her carefully. He circled her with just the edge of his fingertip, teasing, savoring every shift of her breath, every twitch of her thighs.

She buried her face against his neck, breath catching on a whimper. Her hand clutched his arm, not to stop him, to ground herself.

“Easy,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. I always got you” an echo from earlier.

One finger slipped inside her, then another, slow and impossibly deep. Her back arched against the seat. He moved with precision, with care, fingers stroking, consuming her, curling just right, while his thumb circled her clit with maddening patience. The wet sounds of her arousal filled the car between their ragged breaths. She whimpered again, face flushed.

His fingers were inside her, slow and sure, but it wasn’t about the movement. It was about her. The way her body opened for him like she remembered him, every shape of him, every rhythm, every hesitation. Like she trusted him to wreck her. He felt like he was burning from the inside out. Every time she gasped, his control slipped. Every time her hips rolled into his hand, he felt something in him break apart.

Dean watched her like he couldn’t look away, like seeing her come apart under his hand was the only thing that made sense anymore.“That’s it,” he murmured. “Just like that,” he kissed her brow. "Gimme your eyes."

His words were lethal. She turned to him, a pout on her mouth, eyes glassy with need. Her nails dug into his arm as she clenched around his fingers, hips jerking slightly as the tension broke. She came quietly but sharp, breath stuttering, body curling inward around the wave. Dean didn’t stop right away, just eased her through it, slow and careful, his lips brushing her temple.

When she finally relaxed, he kissed the corner of her mouth. “You okay?” he whispered.

She nodded slowly, still trying to breathe.

He pulled his hand back, gently, and smoothed her dress down without a word. Then he laced his fingers with hers, his dick straining pulsing, hurting in his pants from how badly he wanted her.

Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

Then she smiled, slow, shaky, wrecked in the best way. “For science,” she whispered.

Dean grinned. “Best damn experiment I’ve ever run.”

THE PREMIERE

Dean was already three photos deep into what felt like a public execution by flash photography. The carpet beneath his shoes was blood-red, the lights above him surgical, and the press screamed his name like they wanted to eat him alive. He looked good, he knew that. The suit was custom, the black silk lapels catching just enough light to tell people someone had paid a disturbing amount of money to make him look effortless. But his shoulders were locked, and his jaw had been clenched so long it might never unlock.

She wasn’t beside him. Hadn’t been for three days.

Not since the kiss. Not since the car ride, not since he had seen a side of her he didn't ask for, but was now obsessed with. He hadn’t stopped thinking about the way her hands had trembled when he touched her jaw. The way her breath had caught right before she kissed him back. The way something in him had stilled, gone quiet and sharp and scared.

And yeah, they’d smiled through interviews, posted photos with cute captions, let the press speculate. But she hadn’t answered his texts. Hadn’t returned the call he hadn’t even meant to leave. Just disappeared behind curated silence and Cass’ carefully rerouted talking points. He knew it had meant something. That kiss. Maybe not everything. But something. And she’d treated it like a wardrobe malfunction, one that could be tucked away with enough lipstick and good lighting.

The reporter in front of him shouted, “Dean, over the left shoulder!” and he did it. He moved, robot-smooth, face blank. Pretend you’re grateful, he thought. Pretend you want to be here.

Then a laugh. Sharp. Familiar.

He didn’t have time to brace for impact. She came barreling toward him like a high-speed disaster in copper silk. The leg slit cut high up her thigh, the fabric clinging and then floating, her hair pulled back in a way that looked lazy but wasn’t, not with that kind of precision. She was radiant, worse, she knew it, and she flung herself at him with a grin that burned too hot to be harmless.

“Dean!” she said like she hadn’t vanished for seventy-two hours. “Miss me?”

He caught her. Of course he did. One leg around his waist, one arm around his neck, like she had every right to wrap herself around the man she’d been purposefully ignoring.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said, voice low in her ear, almost swallowed by the crowd.

“You love it.”

“I didn’t know if you were even showing up tonight.”

She leaned back enough to look at him, still grinning for the cameras. She adjusted the collar of his shirt. “Please. I wouldn’t miss watching you suffer in formalwear.”

His hands gripped her tighter than necessary. “You disappeared.”

“And yet, here I am. Let’s not make it weird in front of the paparazzi, Winchester.”

Reporters were already shouting. “Together! Dean! Look here!”

“Give us a kiss!”

Dean bit the inside of his cheek. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m adorable,” she said, adjusting her leg higher on his hip. “Now smile before your scowl melts the carpet.”

He gritted his teeth, smile nowhere in sight. “Three days, and this is what I get?”

She tilted her head. “Don’t pout. It’s bad for the brand.”

“You think this is funny?”

“I think we’re in public. So unless you want to have a very candid conversation in front of every entertainment blog in the country...”

“Smile, Dean!” a reporter barked.

Dean turned to the cameras. Held her tighter. Smiled. The kind of smile that said everything was fine. The kind of smile that made him want to punch something.

She leaned in and kissed his cheek, dramatic, posed, clearly for the cameras. “Still mad at me?” she whispered against his jaw.

“Ask me again when we’re off the carpet.”

More shouting. “Give us one on the lips!”

She turned his face slowly, her eyes catching his like a challenge.

Dean’s breath hitched. “Are you seriously....” He wasn't kidding before, she really was unbelievable. His pulse stuttered. Not just because of the press shouting his name or the heat of the spotlights cooking his jacket to his back. No, this was her. Always her.

There was too much in his chest. That lingering, sour burn from the silence she’d given him these past three days. The kiss they weren’t talking about still echoing behind his ribs like something unfinished. The way her fingers curled just behind his ear now, coaxing his face toward hers like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t still wrecked from the way she’d kissed him last time.

His jaw flexed, stubborn habit. He didn’t want to be angry, not really, but he was. Not because she’d left him hanging in that damn hotel room, heart pounding and hands shaking like some teenager. But because now here she was, back like nothing happened, smiling for the cameras like she hadn’t vanished right after he’d given her something real.

“Just let me, Dean” she said sweetly, and then she kissed him.

It was quick, professional, a blink of heat, but her hand stayed on his chest a beat too long, her nails brushing fabric like a question she wasn’t ready to ask. He didn’t know if this was another game. Another PR move. Another way she kept her distance while pulling him in. But her hand on his jaw was warm. Her voice had been soft. And the way she was looking at him now? It felt too personal to be fake. And that pissed him off even more.

Because if she was faking it,he was in trouble.

And if she wasn’t? He was in deeper.

When they pulled apart, the press lost their minds. Dean leaned in close, voice low, she removed her leg from his waist, looking forward. “You don’t get to kiss me and pretend we’re fine.”

Her smile didn’t waver. But her voice, when it came, was quieter. “You don’t get to make it feel like that and expect me not to panic.”

“You didn’t call.”

“I didn’t have anything to say.”

“You kissed me like you meant it,” he said quietly. “And then vanished.”

She blinked, but the flashbulbs distracted her. She turned her face just enough to give the press a wide, flirtatious grin. “Smile,” she hissed through her teeth. “You’re giving them tension when they paid for romance.”

Dean leaned in, jaw tight, lips close to her ear. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

“And yet you’re still holding me like this.”

Reporters shouted. “Kiss her again! One for the fans!”

Dean barely looked at them. Instead, he looked at her, really looked, and something unspoken cracked under his ribs. She was hiding. From him. From whatever was spinning out between them. “You okay?” he asked, quieter now.

She hesitated. For once, no ready smile. Just a flicker of something close to guilt. Or fear. He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, his fingers grazing skin. “Talk to me.”

She opened her mouth, but one of the reporters called again, closer now: “Just one kiss, c’mon! You two are killing us!”

Dean didn’t look away from her. His hand cupped the back of her head, fingers sliding into the loosened bun she’d twisted like an afterthought. “Smile pretty for the cameras,” he said. “Then we’re gonna talk. You and me.”

She swallowed, but nodded. The crowd leaned in. Dean kissed her this time. Gentle. Clean. But not empty.

And just before they broke apart, low enough only she could hear, he added, “You hear me, baby?”

The world stilled for a long second. “Copy that,” she whispered back.

The moment they stepped off the carpet, the roar of the press dimmed to a dull throb behind the heavy velvet ropes and gold-rimmed doors of the theater lobby. Inside, it was cooler, barely, but enough that Dean could breathe again. He loosened the top button of his shirt, his pulse still caught in the cage of his ribs.

People milled around in tuxedos and gowns, glasses of champagne already being passed on silver trays, the soft murmur of producers and critics and overpaid influencers humming like bees in a gilded hive, waiting for the screening to start, to be awed or disappointed.

She walked three steps ahead of him, like none of it touched her. Not the kiss. Not the past three days. Not him. Dean caught up to her in three long strides and pulled her in a corner, shelded from prying eyes. They stood near the marble wall just before the main corridor into the auditorium, a sliver of quiet tucked between chatter and flash. Her hand hovered near the small gold clutch at her side, fingers flexing like they didn’t know what to do now that they weren’t curled into his collar. “Hey,” he said, sharp, his fingers brushing her elbow.

She turned slightly, all cool poise and movie-star light. Her profile looked carved, her dress catching every gold-tinted reflection like it was part of the set. The slit swayed just enough when she stopped to remind him how close she’d been only minutes ago, wrapped around him like she had a right to be there. “Now?” she asked, breathy, practiced. “You wanna fight now?”

“I wanna talk,” he growled. “And every time I try, you disappear.”

She didn’t flinch, but she didn’t smile either. “This is not the time...”

“There hasn’t been a time,” Dean cut in. His voice was low, steady, but threaded with frustration he couldn’t hide anymore. “Not since the rooftop. Not since that kiss. You just disappeared."

"I didn't have anything to say"

He pointed a finger at her face. "Don't give me that bullshit." Her mouth opened, but he didn’t give her the chance. Not yet. “I stayed up that night,” he went on. “I was... Christ, I was ready to pretend it didn’t mean anything if that’s what you needed. I would’ve. But you didn’t even give me that. Just silence.”

“I didn’t mean to,” she said. “I just didn’t know how to come back from that night.” She scoffed. "How am I to blame for that?"

Dean’s jaw flexed again, tired of how often it did. “You kissed me.”

“You kissed me,” she corrected, eyes flaring. “Don’t rewrite that just because I ran.”

“I kissed you because I didn’t know how else to get you to breathe again.”

“And then what?” she asked. “You wanted a debrief? A full emotional rundown? I panicked, Dean. It wasn’t about you.”

He paused. Then stepped a little closer. “But it was.”

She blinked.

“I felt- feel it,” he said. “Don’t lie to me. Not about that.”

She drew in a breath, the neckline of her dress rising and falling too fast. “I needed time.”

“You don’t get to need time after doing that. After looking at me like...” He cut himself off. Jaw tight. “You don’t get to vanish and then climb me on a red carpet like it’s your goddamn stage.”

“Don’t yell at me,” she snapped, stepping closer. “Don’t act like I haven’t been spinning out too. I didn’t know what it meant, Dean. I still don’t.”

He laughed, bitter, biting. “You didn’t know? You kissed me like you wanted to undo my whole life.”

Silence. Sharp and dense and seething. She opened her mouth. Closed it. “I’m scared.”

Dean’s mouth parted, just slightly. His chest rose, shallow. “Of what?”

“Of you,” she said, soft but brutal. “Of how you look at me like you already know how this ends. Like you’ll love me too hard or hate me too fast and I can’t afford either.” His face changed. Not softened, he was too wound for that, but something in his shoulders gave. She went on. “I panicked. I didn’t mean to disappear. I just... needed to not be seen. Not by you.”

He stepped in. Close enough that her perfume, warm, spicy, something expensive and devastating, hit him full in the chest. His voice dropped low, sharp. “Too late, baby. I already see you.”

Her lips parted. She blinked like she was trying to memorize the ceiling.

Dean lifted a hand to her face, slow, deliberate, and let his thumb trace the line of her cheek. It wasn’t gentle, but it was careful. Like he was learning her expression by touch. “Next time you run, don’t come back smiling for the cameras and pretending I’m just another prop in your fairy tale.”

Her breath hitched. “Dean...”

“Baby,” he said, and it wasn’t soft. It was a warning. A plea. A promise. The word hung between them, thick with all the things they weren’t saying.

She nodded once. Tight. Uncertain. “I won’t run next time.”

“Good,” he said, mouth barely moving. “Because if you do, I won’t follow.”

The theater was velvet-dark and full of the kind of silence that only happens when a hundred people are trying not to breathe too loudly. The movie had just started, the sleek white-on-black title card of Without Warning stretching across the screen like a promise, but Dean wasn’t watching the film.

Not really. He was watching her.

Out of the corner of his eye, in the low light from the screen, she looked carved out of firelight. Copper silk pooling around her crossed legs, one ankle arched delicately in those ridiculous heels. Her profile was pure composure, lips slightly parted, lashes casting shadows. Her expression didn’t give anything away, not to the room, not to him. But he could see the tension in her shoulders, the set of her jaw. She wasn’t just watching the movie either.

They were tucked into the very back row. A calculated move, Cass’ doing, probably “discreet, elegant, no press up here” but now, it felt like too much space and too much silence. The kiss on the carpet still lingered between them like heat in a room long after the fire’s gone out. Their fight still playing in their minds.

Dean’s hands were braced on his thighs, fists curled, eyes flicking toward the screen and then right back to her. And then, like a goddamn act of war, she placed her hand on his leg. Not high. Not anything scandalous. Just her palm, flat and warm, resting on the inside of his thigh, just above the knee.

Dean didn’t move. His breath caught, not loud, but enough that his chest shifted, and the screen in front of him blurred for a second. He turned his head toward her slowly, eyebrows drawn. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t say anything. Her hand just stayed there, steady. Barely even pressing. But it was worse than anything she could’ve said.

He swallowed hard. His voice was low, close, not even a whisper. “What are you doing?”

Still, she didn’t look. “You looked like you needed grounding.”

“Is that what this is?” His tone was dark. But not cold.

Her thumb moved. Just a soft, small brush against the fabric of his suit pants. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just enough for him. “I don’t know what this is,” she murmured finally. “I just didn’t want to sit here pretending I didn’t want to touch you.”

Dean clenched his jaw. Looked straight ahead. On screen, their characters were yelling in some fake hotel room in Prague. His voice echoed from the speakers, rough, angry, different, but the real version of him sat frozen in his seat.

And all he could feel was her hand on his thigh, burning through every layer of his defenses.

Dean turned his head toward her again, slower this time. The light from the screen flickered across her face, painting her in flashes of blue, gold, shadow. She still hadn’t looked at him, but her hand hadn’t moved either. If anything, her fingers flexed slightly, like she was nervous, or bracing herself.

Her fingers tapped once, twice, lazy and slow, like she was drumming a secret rhythm only he could feel. Dean’s jaw flexed again, muscle ticking just beneath the surface. He shifted slightly in his seat, as if that would help. It didn’t.

She leaned in, breath brushing his neck. “Relax,” she whispered, voice light, teasing, a smile hiding beneath every syllable. “You’re wound so tight I can hear it from here.”

“You think this is funny?” he muttered, still not looking at her.

She hummed. “A little.”

Then her thumb traced a slow, deliberate line over the seam of his pants. Casual. Dangerous. Dean’s entire body stilled. His grip on the armrest turned white-knuckled.

“I could move my hand,” she whispered again, lips dangerously close to his ear, “but you haven’t asked me to.”

Dean’s throat worked. His eyes flicked toward her, just once, catching the glint of copper at her shoulder, the spark of mischief in her lashes. “You really wanna play this game here?”

“I didn’t start anything.” Her voice was sugar and sin. “Just helping you focus.”

“On what? Not dragging you into my lap?”

Her teeth grazed the edge of a grin. “That’s up to you.”

He didn’t speak. He shifted. Not away. Toward. His hand came down on top of hers, large and warm and too steady for how fast his pulse was hammering in his chest. He didn’t grip. Didn’t trap. Just covered it. Like an anchor. Like a promise.

Then he leaned in, mouth near her ear, voice low and thick enough to drag her under. “Baby,” he said, voice low and wrecked, “if you keep touching me like that, we’re not gonna make it to the credits.”

She didn’t say anything, but he felt her tremble.

No teasing comeback, no smug little smile. Just silence. Her hand lingered for a second longer beneath his, then slowly slipped away. Dean fully turned toward her, confusion beginning to twist his brow, until she stood. Graceful. Composed. Dangerous.

She smoothed the hem of her dress, eyes still fixed on the screen like nothing had changed, and then, without a word, stepped past him and down the aisle, disappearing through the soft gold glow of the exit sign.

Dean didn’t move. Couldn’t.

She was walking away. And it wasn’t a retreat. It was summoning.

The movie still played around him, loud, distant, fake. But she was real. That whisper of perfume trailing after her, the warmth of her hand still ghosting against his thigh, that was real. And suddenly, everything else felt cheap by comparison.

His pulse was in his throat.

She hadn’t looked back. Because she didn’t have to.

Dean stood. He didn’t think. Just pushed up from the seat like gravity had shifted in her direction. His chest was tight, jaw tense, nerves wound so tight they could’ve snapped. But beneath all that anger still simmering from the red carpet, beneath the confusion and frustration and three days of silence, was something worse.

Need.

Need, coiled low in his spine, crackling down to his fingertips.

The second the theater door shut behind him, the rest of the world dropped away. He caught the tail end of her disappearing through the private bathroom door, the shimmer of her dress like a dare written in firelight.

He hesitated, barely. Not because he doubted her. But because this, this, was the moment everything would change. Then he moved.

Pushed open the door. Closed it behind him. Locked it. And there she was. Back to the wall, arms loose at her sides now, as if even pretending to play it cool had been too much effort. The light overhead caught the edge of her cheekbone, kissed the slope of her shoulder. She wasn’t smiling. Not yet.

But she was waiting.

"You ran, again," he titled his head.

"I thought you said you wouldn't follow me this time."

Dean stepped forward, slow and deliberate, closing the distance between them one breath at a time. “I meant it.” She swallowed. “But then you touched me,” he said, voice low, thick with something between anger and reverence. “Sat there in the dark like your hand on my leg was an apology.”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

Dean stopped just inches from her. His hand lifted, not to her face. Not to kiss her. But to curl around her waist, drawing her forward. His touch was possessive. Steady. No heat behind it yet, just weight. “I should kiss you,” he said. “I want to. God, I want to so bad, baby.”

Her breath caught, and her lashes lowered just slightly, anticipation, apology, maybe both. "You should, Winchester."

“But I’m not gonna,” he said.

Her gaze snapped back to his.

Dean’s eyes were dark, hungry, but hard. “You don’t get that yet.”

Her lips parted, to argue, to question, to beg, maybe, but he was already lowering himself to his knees. Her back hit the wall behind her with a faint thud. “Dean...”

“You ran,” he said again, fingers dragging slowly, deliberately up the slit of her dress. “You left me wondering if I imagined that kiss. If it meant anything. If I was just another tool in your PR kit.”

“I wasn’t...”

“You were scared,” he cut her off, voice rough now. “I get it. But don’t think I’m gonna let you walk back in and pretend we’re fine without making you feel every goddamn second of what you did to me.”

Her hand found the edge of the counter behind her, anchoring herself. “Then why...”

He glanced up at her, gaze unwavering. “Because I want you to remember who you ran from.” Her breath hitched, sharp and quiet.

His hands slid up her thighs, fingers slow and steady, parting the soft shimmer of copper silk until she was bared to him. No rush. No teasing. Just reverence in every touch.

“Dean,” she whispered, but it wasn’t a protest. It was a confession.

He didn’t answer. Just pressed his mouth to the inside of her thigh. One slow kiss. Then another. Then a third, higher. His stubble scraped soft skin, and she flinched, not from pain, from need. “You don’t get my kiss,” he murmured, breath warm against her skin. “But you still get my devotion.”

And then he touched his mouth to her pussy, gentle, steady, deliberate, and made sure she remembered exactly what it meant to be wanted by a man who hadn’t stopped waiting, even when she left. She moaned, loud, sharp, echoing off the tile.

Dean didn’t flinch. He wanted her loud. He wanted her wrecked. He wanted the whole damn building to know she belonged to him right now, not with a headline or a label or some paparazzi-friendly kiss, but with his mouth buried between her thighs, and her legs already starting to tremble.

“Yeah,” he rasped against her skin, voice thick with heat. “That’s it, baby. Don’t hold back now.”

Her fingers tangled in his hair, desperate, trembling, not to guide, to hold on. Dean dragged his tongue through her slowly, deliberately, savoring every flick, every shift of her hips, every breathless curse she spilled when he found the spot that made her knees buckle.

“Oh my God,” she choked out, loud and wrecked, one heel slipping off her foot.

He looked up at her, smirk curling against soaked skin. “Say my name again,” he growled. “Louder.”

She moaned, his name this time, drawn out, high and messy, her head tipping back to hit the wall. Her thighs clenched around his head, but he didn’t slow down. He groaned into her, hands sliding up to grip her hips, dragging her forward to keep her exactly where he wanted her. “That’s right,” he muttered, breath hot and ragged between strokes. “You were running, and now you’re right here, falling apart on my tongue.”

Her breath stuttered.

Dean flattened his tongue and pressed deeper, curling it slow, curling it on purpose, the way he knew drove her to the edge. “You like that?” he asked, voice low, mouth slick with her. “You like me eating your pussy in a goddamn bathroom like it’s the only place I can touch you?”

She whimpered something that wasn’t a word, hips rocking down into his face. That was answer enough. He smiled against her, wicked and warm. “You’re soaked, baby. You were soaked when you touched me in the theater, weren’t you?”

A broken sound clawed from her throat, a choked, desperate moan that sounded like guilt and need collided. Her thighs shook. Dean kissed the inside of one, just briefly, then went back in, harder now, rougher, two fingers sliding inside her without warning as his mouth moved against her clit, unrelenting.

Her body bowed. Her cry echoed off the tile. Dean didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. She was clenching around his fingers now, her hand slipping off the counter, the other clawing at his shoulder, and all he could think was God, she’s mine when she falls apart like this.

“That’s it,” he whispered, voice a rasp. “Come for me. I want it. I want every sound.”

And she did. Loud. Sharp. Raw. He bit her inner thigh.

Dean rose slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on her like he’d just survived drowning. His lips were slick, his jaw tight, but his expression, his whole damn face, looked carved out of something that had waited too long to burn. She was still against the wall, breath hitching, knees barely holding. Her hand gripped the edge of the counter like she wasn’t sure what was coming next.

"Open your mouth, baby," he cradled her face, gently squeezing her cheeks. She obeyed, breath rough, eyes glassy, still trembling. Dean sneered at the eagerness and spat into her mouth. He wanted her to feel what he felt, to have a taste of the honey he just devoured. "Swallow... yeah, just like that," he leaned even closer, her eyes fluttering, hoping that his lips would finally crash against hers. “Turn around.”

She blinked. Shaky. But didn't protest.

“No questions now?” he murmured, dragging one hand down the curve of her hip, bunching her dress up again until it was around her waist. “Not gonna argue with me this time?”

She braced herself against the counter, chest rising. “Not when you sound like that.”

His laugh was quiet, dangerous. “Sound like what?”

“Like you’re gonna ruin me.”

Dean pressed his chest against her back, his breath hot on her neck. “Baby,” he rasped, one hand moving to undo his belt, the other teasing between her thighs again, over her clit, just to feel how wet she still was, “I already did.”

She let out a breathless moan, hips pushing back into him. He groaned at the contact, his cock pressed hard and hot against her. “Feel that?” he muttered. “That’s what you do to me. You disappear, you wreck me, and then you show up looking like sin wrapped in silk.”

She pushed back again. “Then do something about it.”

His hand slammed down on the counter beside hers. “You think I won’t?”

“Think you need to.”

That broke him. Dean shoved his pants down just enough, lined himself up, and pushed into her in one smooth, deep thrust. Her mouth fell open, a strangled cry escaping her.

Dean’s grip on her hips tightened, bruising, grounding, like he didn’t trust her not to disappear again. His thrusts were slow, but hard, dragging every inch of him through her like he meant to make her feel it for days. And when she moaned again, low, helpless, ruined, he nearly lost it.

“That’s it,” he growled, voice thick and ragged. “Let me hear you.”

She gasped, her fingers curling over the counter, knuckles white. “Dean... Holy shit, Jesus, fuck...”

He slammed into her harder, one hand sliding up her back, pinning her down with just the pressure of his palm between her shoulder blades. “Not Jesus, baby,” he muttered near her ear. “Just me.”

She moaned again, louder this time, and he felt it, in his chest, in his spine, in every clenched, wound-up part of him that hadn’t breathed right since she left. “You disappear for three days,” he bit out, thrusting again. “You come back looking like a fantasy, and you think I’m just gonna take it easy on you?”

“No,” she whimpered, wrecked.

“Damn right you don’t.” He reached around to grip her jaw, turning her face just enough that he could see her mouth fall open again when he drove deeper. “Say my name.”

“Dean”

“Again. Louder.”

“Dean.”

He grinned, teeth bared, sweat at his temples, control unraveling. “You like when I fuck you like this, don’t you?”

“Yes, oh shit, fuck, yes”

“When I use you. Make you loud.”

She gasped through a half-sob of pleasure, head nodding, eyes fluttering closed. “Yes, Dean, please...”

“Please what?” he growled. “You want more? Want me to ruin that perfect little voice for the afterparty?”

She gave a broken laugh, full of heat. “You want them to hear me?”

Dean’s next thrust made her cry out, sharp and sudden. “I want to hear you,” he said through gritted teeth. “I want your voice in my head when I try to sleep tonight. I want the whole damn room to know what you sound like when you give in.”

He reached around her again, hand sliding down between her legs, his fingers finding her slick, throbbing, desperate for more. “Come on, baby,” he whispered against her neck. “Be good. Fall apart for me.”

Her moans were ragged now, uneven, rising in pitch, her body struggling to keep pace with the way he moved inside her. Dean didn’t let up. His grip never wavered, and his voice stayed right at her ear, wrecking her with every word. “You feel that?” he growled. “Every time you clench around me like that- that’s yours, baby. You did that to me.” She tried to answer, but it came out as a gasp, her legs shaking. He smirked against her shoulder. “Can’t even talk now, huh?”

She shook her head, breathless.

Dean reached up and fisted her hair, not to hurt, just to make her look. Her cheek turned toward the mirror above the sink, and he tilted his head low so their eyes met in the reflection. “Then don’t talk,” he said. “Just watch.”

And she did. Watched him take her. Watched the way his jaw was clenched, the way his hand on her hip dug in like he couldn’t bear to let go. Watched the wild, desperate look in his eyes, and realized it wasn’t just lust. It was fear. It was anger. It was hers. Dean’s rhythm changed, hips slamming harder now, deeper. He leaned over her again, mouth just behind her ear. “You better come for me again,” he whispered, low and furious. “You don’t get to run from this. You don’t get to walk out of here pretending this doesn’t own you.”

Her voice cracked. “I’m trying...”

“No,” he growled. “Don’t try. Give in.”

His hand slipped between her thighs again, his fingers relentless, and she shattered, again, right there against the counter, her body wracked with the kind of moan that didn’t sound polite or pretty or posed. It sounded like surrender.

Dean didn’t stop moving. Not right away. He buried himself inside her one last time, deep and aching, claiming her with his breath stuttering as he held there, unmoving, pressed to her back like maybe he could crawl under her skin and live there forever.

She was shaking beneath him, breathless and open, her forehead against the mirror, eyes shut tight like if she didn’t see it, maybe it wouldn’t undo her.

Dean moved slowly, his breath ghosting across the back of her neck. Then, carefully, he pulled out, shifting her body in his hands. One arm came around her middle, the other rose to her jaw, gentle now, fingertips brushing her cheek like she might break if he touched her too fast. He pushed in again, fucking back his cum inside of her. She gasped. “Give me your eyes,” he murmured.

She opened her eyes, wrecked, glassy, still dazed, and he turned her face toward him, steadying her hips, keeping her close, keeping himself inside her. She gasped from the sensitivity, a whimper curling at the back of her throat, and he caught it, not with dominance this time, but with his mouth.

Dean kissed her.

He kissed her like he’d been waiting to. Like he’d meant to do it three days ago and had never stopped thinking about it since. His hand cradled her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone as his lips moved over hers, slow, deep, nothing performative.

And he was still inside her. She moaned into his mouth, soft and ruined, like the kiss was the thing that finally broke her open, not the force, not the fight, but this, the part he’d held back.

Dean didn’t rush it. He didn’t let go.

When they finally parted, his forehead rested against hers. His breath was ragged, his voice quieter now, but not soft. “I don’t care if you’re scared,” he whispered. “Just don’t lie to me about this.”

She blinked, still breathless, still trying to remember what language was, her lips swollen from the kiss, her mind nothing but static and him. Her fingers curled into his shoulders for balance, not that he was letting her go anywhere. He was still inside her. Still holding her like she was his.

She was floating. He was glaring.

Her eyes flicked up, a lazy grin pulling at the corner of her mouth. “Define ‘this.’”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “You really wanna get cute right now?”

She tilted her head, breath still shaky. “It’s either that or cry, so...”

He cut her off with another kiss. Quick. Sharp. Punishing in the way it said, don’t you dare deflect. When he pulled back, her smile was softer. But she was still her. “I’m not lying,” she whispered, brushing a lock of his hair back with shaky fingers. “I told you, I just… panicked. You kissed me like a man with intentions.”

His brow lifted. “And you ran like a woman who thought I was gonna propose.”

She snorted, head tipping back with a quiet laugh. “You do have that ‘let’s settle down and get a dog’ energy sometimes.”

Dean gave her a flat look. “You’re literally still wrapped around me.”

“And yet you’re the one who keeps talking about feelings,” she shot back, but her voice didn’t have teeth anymore. Just tension easing, cracking open.

He leaned forward again, nuzzling the side of her jaw. “I meant it." She went still. “All of it,” he said. “That kiss. This. You.”

For a second, she didn’t speak. Just let her forehead touch his again. Her hand found the back of his neck. “Okay,” she said softly.

“Okay, like you believe me?” he asked.

“Okay like…” Her smile returned, smaller this time. Real. “...you’re gonna have to remind me again later. For research.”

Dean groaned into her skin. “You’re lucky I like you.”

She grinned against his cheek. “I’m adorable. You said so on Good Morning America.”

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered.

She kissed his jaw. “And you’re still inside me, so what does that make you?”

“Exhausted,” Dean grumbled, but his arms tightened around her. “And probably in trouble.”

THE AFTERMATH (bonus scene)

Dean reached for the door handle with all the focus of a man preparing for battle. His hair was a mess, his shirt still slightly untucked despite his best effort, and his face had that flushed, post-sin glow he wasn’t quite ready to explain to anyone.

“The movie’s almost done,” he muttered.

From behind him, her hands slid around his waist, fingers curling at his stomach, and he could feel her smile before she even said anything. “One more,” she whispered, lips brushing the back of his neck.

“Baby, you said that five kisses ago.”

“This one’s for luck.”

He exhaled. Let her turn him around. Let her kiss him again, slow and wicked, like she was trying to short-circuit his motor functions.

“You’re evil,” he said against her mouth.

“I’m charming.”

Dean pulled back, breathless. “We’re going to get caught.”

“Mm, no. We’re going to look very composed and extremely fashionable.” She tugged him back by the lapel. “After one more.”

Dean melted into it for a second, just a second, before groaning into her mouth and spinning back toward the door. “Okay. That was it. That was the last one.”

She leaned against his back, cheek to his shoulder. “Unless you want to...” She held his hand, pulling on it, trying to lure him back.

Dean reached for the handle, still half-distracted by the feel of her hand slipping into his, warm and casual. He opened the door... and immediately froze.

Just outside, two figures were locked in a kiss of their own, very much not staged, very much not subtle. Castiel Novak, ever the stoic publicist, had his hand braced against the wall, mouth tangled with Meg Masters, their infamously brash co-star and his long-term girlfriend.

Dean blinked. She blinked harder.

Cass and Meg broke apart like they’d been hit with a bucket of cold water. Cass took a step back, adjusting his blazer with military precision, face already smoothing into faux-calm professionalism. Meg looked entirely unrepentant, wiping at her lipstick with the back of her hand, eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Dean, hi, buddy"

He held one hand up. "Don’t… just- just shut up."

His woman laughed. "Hi Meg."

Meg grinned, utterly unfazed. “Hey, sweetheart. Sounded like you had a religious experience in there.”

Dean groaned. “Nope. Nope. We are not doing this.”

Cass cleared his throat, clearly trying to pretend he hadn’t just been caught with his tongue down Meg’s throat outside a private bathroom where one of his longest friends had had the experience of a lifetime. “We were... uh...just making sure everything was… secure.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, biting her bottom lip to suppress another laugh, then leaned into Dean’s side, smoothing a hand down the front of his jacket like she was helping. She wasn’t. She was just trying to make him squirm. “Very thorough security check, Cass.”

Dean gave her a sideways look. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, glancing between the two very guilty parties. “You think they heard the part where you called me baby, or just the part where I begged you not to stop?”

Meg looked over at Dean’s girl with a grin. “I’ve been trying to get him to talk dirty for three years, and you guys get that in fifteen minutes of wall-thumping.”

Cass, looking like he wanted to be killed on the spot, cleared his throat and adjusted his hair. “I wasn’t... That wasn’t...”

“Oh, come on,” Meg said to her, eyes gleaming, still ranting about her boyfriend. “He doesn’t talk like that. He talks like a legal deposition.”

“Maybe he can learn something from this guy," she winked. "He did a pretty solid job in there." Dean groaned out of embarassment.

Cass turned visibly pink. “We were simply....”

“Oh, we saw what you were simply doing,” she cut in.

“Most of the hallway heard what you were doing.”

She burst out laughing, leaning into Dean’s side like her knees might give out. Dean rolled is eyes, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate all of this,” he muttered.

Meg shrugged, still wiping at her lipstick. “Hey, you started it. Next time, maybe keep the spiritual awakenings to a whisper.”

It wasn’t planned. Nothing about Dean ever feels planned, really. He’s a mess of contradictions—cocky and self-assured one minute, guarded and vulnerable the next. You’ve been riding shotgun with him for weeks now, chasing down leads, salt-and-burning restless spirits, and fighting things most people wouldn’t dare to believe existed. Somewhere along the way, you became more than just hunting partners. You don’t know what to call it yet, but there’s a connection between you, an unspoken pull that you’ve both been too stubborn—or scared—to acknowledge.

Until now.

It starts with an argument. Of course it does. Dean has this way of pushing your buttons, and tonight he’s doing it with the precision of a master.

“You can’t just run in there without a plan!” you snap, your arms crossed over your chest.

“And what was your plan, huh?” he shoots back, his voice rising. “To stand around and wait until the ghost decides to play nice? That’s not how this works.”

“It’s called strategy, Dean. Maybe you should try it sometime instead of going full kamikaze every damn hunt!”

He scoffs, dragging a hand down his face in frustration. “You know what your problem is? You think too much. Sometimes you just gotta act.”

“And you think too little!” you retort, your eyes narrowing. “One of these days, your impulsiveness is going to get you killed.”

The words hang in the air, sharper than you intended, and for a moment, Dean just stares at you. His jaw tightens, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—hurt, maybe, or regret—but it’s gone before you can be sure.

“Fine,” he says, his voice quieter now. “If you’ve got it all figured out, why the hell do you even need me?”

It’s not the first time you’ve fought, but there’s something different about this one. The air between you feels charged, like the storm rolling in above. You don’t answer right away, and Dean takes a step closer, his boots crunching against the gravel.

“Why, huh?” he presses, his tone softer but no less intense. “Why do you keep sticking around if I’m such a screw-up?”

Your heart pounds against your ribs, a wild, erratic rhythm that matches the storm clouds overhead. You open your mouth to respond, but the words catch in your throat. Because it’s not that simple. Because you don’t stick around in spite of his flaws—you stick around because of them. Because Dean Winchester, for all his faults, is the kind of person who will throw himself in harm’s way without a second thought to save someone else. Because he’s loyal to a fault, fiercely protective, and has a smile that could light up the darkest corners of the world, even when he doesn’t believe it himself.

“Dean…” you start, but his name barely makes it past your lips before he moves.

It’s not hesitant or tentative—it’s sudden, like he’s been holding himself back for too long and finally snapped. His hands cup your face, rough and calloused but somehow gentle, and then his lips are on yours.

The kiss is everything you didn’t know you needed. It’s not perfect—Dean’s lips are a little chapped, and the angle is slightly awkward at first—but it’s real. There’s an urgency to it, a raw, unfiltered emotion that leaves you breathless. His hands are warm against your skin, grounding you even as the world seems to tilt on its axis.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly your hands are fisting in his jacket, pulling him closer as if the space between you is unbearable. He responds in kind, deepening the kiss with a low, almost involuntary sound that sends a shiver down your spine. It’s like the dam you’ve both been holding back has finally burst, and there’s no going back now.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard, your foreheads pressed together. The storm is closer now, the first drops of rain starting to fall, but neither of you seems to notice.

“Wow,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Dean chuckles, a low, self-deprecating sound. “Yeah, uh… sorry about that. I probably should’ve—”

“Don’t,” you interrupt, your fingers still gripping his jacket. “Don’t apologize.”

His eyes meet yours, and for once, there’s no wall, no mask, no bravado. Just Dean.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he admits, his voice soft and almost vulnerable.

You smile, your heart swelling in your chest. “Took you long enough.”

He laughs, the sound warm and genuine, and the tension between you finally seems to ease. The rain starts to pick up, but neither of you moves. For once, the hunt can wait. For once, the only thing that matters is this moment—messy, imperfect, and absolutely perfect all at once.

  “Whatever stupid comment you’re going to make, don’t,” John cuts me off. I make a face he cannot see, mocking him.

  “This is it,” he continues. “This is everything I know. Look, our whole lives we’ve been searching for this demon right? Not a trace, just…nothing. Until about a year ago. For the first time, I picked up a trail.”

  “And that’s when you took off,” Dean concludes. He hasn’t stopped pacing since we got here.

  “Yeah, that’s right. The demon must have come out of hiding, or hibernation.”

  “Alright so what’s this trail you found?” he asks.

  “It starts in Arizona, then New Jersey, California. Houses burned down to the ground,” he explains. “It's going after families, just like it went after us.”   “Families with infants?” Sam asks, leaning against a counter.   “Yeah. The night of the kid's six-month birthday.”   “I was six months old that night?”   “Exactly six months,” John echoes.   “So basically, this demon is going after these kids for some reason. The same way it came for me? So Mom's death...Jessica. It's all because of me?”   “We don't know that Sam,” Dean defends.   “Oh really? Cause I'd say we're pretty damn sure Dean,” he bites back.   “For the last time, what happened to them was not your fault,” Dean says, his voice lined with frustration.   “Right. It's not my fault but it's my problem,” he shouts.   “No, it's not your problem it's our problem!”

  “Okay. That's enough,” John commands, standing abruptly. Immediately they stop, backing down as they take breaths. 

  Sam breaks the momentary silence. “So why's he doing it? What does he want?” It’s an almost impossible question especially when one will never be good enough, it doesn’t bring people back nor make you understand. The most it can give is a direction on how to stop it if that. “The answer can range from chaos junky to wanting an army,” I answer.

  “I wish I had more answers, I do,” John adds. “I’ve always been one step behind it. Look, I’ve never gotten there in time to save…” He looks down with a frown on his face.   “Alright, so how do we find it..before it hits again?” Dean asks.   “There are signs. It took me a while to see the pattern but it's there in the days before these fires; signs crop up in an area. Cattle deaths, temperature fluctuations, electrical storms. And then I went back and checked...and…”   “These things happened in Lawrence,” Dean finished.

  John nods, “A week before your mother died. And in Palo Alto...before Jessica. And these signs, they're starting again.”   “Where?” Sam asks   “Salvation, Iowa.”

********

  The roads seem endless as we head to Iowa; land stretching for miles. John's black truck leads the way through countless hours and misty roads until he suddenly pulls off onto the shoulder. Call it a learned habit or whatever else; either way we exit the Impala with haste, meeting a distressed John outside his vehicle. “God damn it!” he curses, kicking the dirt by his tires.

  “What is it?” Dean asks.

  “Son of a bitch!” he curses again instead of answering.

  “What is it?!” he tries again.

  “I just got a call from Caleb,” he explains.

  “Is he okay?” Dean asks, worry on his face.

  “He’s fine. Jim Murphy’s dead.”

  “Who’s Jim?” I ask. I know the Winchesters have many connections, yet it still surprises me how many they do have, especially when my father had little to none. I think he only had John by the time he married Mom, and that was really only an ‘I owe you.’ Turns out no one wants to keep in touch or be friends with the guy who married a Witch. “He’s a Pastor that would look after us sometimes,” Dean explains. It comes back to me a little: Sam mentioned calling Pastor Jim for information on their father months ago, and Dean telling me memories long ago in the faint autumn sun.

  “How?” Sam asks.

  “His throat was slashed. He bled out,” John answers. “Caleb said they found traces of sulfur at Jim's place.”

  “A demon,” Dean concludes. His father nods. “The Demon?”

  “I don't know. ‘Could be he just got careless, he slipped up. Maybe the demon knows we're getting close.”

  “That doesn’t sound like something he would do though,” I chime in. “Why suddenly change the pattern even if he does think you’re getting close?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do we do?” Dean asks.   “Now we act like every second counts. There are two hospitals and a health center in this county. We split up, cover more ground. I want records. I want a list of every infant that's going to be six months old in the next week,” John orders.   “Dad that could be dozens of kids. How do we know which one's the right one?” Sam points out.   “We check ‘em all that's how. ‘You got any better ideas?”   “No sir.”  John nods, satisfied with that response. He turns to his truck and stops, his head hanging low. The last few days might be the most I’ve seen him upset. “Dad?” Dean says softly.   “Yeah. It's Jim. You know, I can't....” His face hardens, ridding his voice and face of sadness. “This ends now. I'm ending it. I don't care what it takes.”

  I tug on the bottom of my blouse, adjusting how it sits on my chest before walking through the door Dean holds open. He’d been quiet the entire way to the hospital, even when we dropped off Sam at the medical center, I worry it might be about Pastor Jim’s death or the weight of the whole yellow-eyed situation but I’m not sure.

  We walk over to the receptionist's desk, a pretty brunette sitting behind it. He doesn’t make a face or remark about her looks which is even more concerning. “Hi. Is there anything I can do for you?” she asks, shining a perfect smile. 

  “Hello,” I smile back, feeling a burning gaze on me. “I’m Agent Spears and this is my partner, Agent Taylor,” I pull out my ID from my pocket, showing proof of my lie. I look at Dean, his eyes shooting up to my face from wherever they were, his eyebrows raised and eyes a little wide. My eyebrows furrow and my nose scrunches a little with my confusion. He looks at my ID and then at the woman in front of us. “Right,” he mumbles, fumbling with the pocket of his suit jacket for his ID. He pulls it out, flipping it open quickly with a boyish smile. “We…” I look back at the woman. “We were hoping to look at some files…”

********

  Our file reading had been cut short when we received a worrying call from Sam informing us of his vision. It hadn’t taken us long to get to the motel room to regroup and talk; Sam sitting with his head in his hands at the table while his father sat on the end of one of the queen beds. Dean sits on the edge of the other bed, the sleeves of his white button-down rolled up to his elbows; we didn’t have time to change into normal clothes when we essentially rushed over here. And I stand a little awkwardly by Dean, arms crossed against my chest after hearing everything Sam has to say. 

  “A vision,” John repeats flatly.

  “Yes. I saw the demon burning a woman on the ceiling,” Sam explains through gritted teeth, messaging his temples.

  “And you think this is going to happen to this woman you met because…”

  “Because these things happen exactly the way I see them,” Sam finishes.

  “It’s almost like he already explained that,” I remark, earning a sharp glare from John. But, it’s not my fault he’s not getting with the program.

  “It started out as nightmares. Then it started happening while he was awake,” Dean elaborates, rising from the bed and crossing to the counter behind his brother to get more coffee.   Sam winces. “Yeah. It's like the closer I get to anything to do with the demon the stronger the visions get.”

  “Alright. When were you going to tell me about this?” John asks, his words directed at his eldest son. Both boys pause, looking at their father.

  “We didn’t know what it meant,” Dean answers.   “Alright, something like this starts happening to your brother, you pick up the phone and you call me,” John replies firmly.

  The coffee pot and mug slam back onto the counter, discarded as Dean strides towards his father. “Call you? Are you kidding me? Dad, I called you from Lawrence alright? Sam called you when I was dying. I mean, getting you on the phone? I got a better chance of winning the lottery.”   “You're right. Although I'm not too crazy about this new tone of yours, you're right. I'm sorry.”

  “I’m sure you can watch your own tone Johnny Boy,” I interject, an unamused smile on my face. I’ll give it to him, I never thought I’d hear him say he was wrong ever let alone multiple times in the last couple of days. But, I’m also not fond of his accusatory tone as if this was the boy's fault.   “Look guys, visions or no visions, ‘fact is, we know the demon is coming tonight,” Sam cuts in. “And this family's gonna go through the same hell we went through.”   “No, they're not. No one is, ever again,” John reaffirms. Then, the ringing of a phone cuts through the atmosphere. “Hello?” Sam answers.

  “Who is this?”

…

 “Meg,” he states. The name is like a knife being plunged into my gut. It is a reminder of the cruelty I put her through, how it was my fault she died as she did. The boys tried to convince me that it wasn’t my fault but they were wrong. Her death may not have been on purpose but it was certainly my fault. And now she’s back. That night is a reminder of what I am and all that I’m capable of. No matter how much I try to hold back and no matter how good I am I can never get rid of what is in my blood.

  “Last time I saw you you fell out of a window,” Sam answers. Again there is no blame put on anyone, it’s framed as an accident or something that happened and yet it does not feel that way to me. “...Just your feelings? That was a seven-story drop.” She should be dead and yet she isn’t. Maybe this should feel like a second chance or rid me of some guilt, but it doesn’t. Sam looks over to his Dad before he answers whatever question he was asked. “My Dad. I don't know where my Dad is.”

  He hesitates and then the phone is put into his father's hands. “This is John…I'm here”   There’s a long pause before he speaks again. “Caleb? You listen to me. He's got nothing to do with anything. You let him go.”

  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out she’s torturing this man. 

  “…I don't know what you're talking about,” He answers steadily. “…Caleb. Caleb!... I'm gonna kill you, you know that?” The boys step closer to him. “Okay…I said okay, I'll bring you the colt.”

  My eyes widen.   “It's gonna take me about a day's drive to get there…That's impossible. I can't get there in time and I can't just carry a gun on the plane.” There’s a silence and a grim look on his face before John hands back Sam’s phone. He runs a hand down his face as he paces, explaining that Meg demanded he bring the Colt to a warehouse in Lincoln alone otherwise everyone they’ve ever known, every hunter friend, every loved one will die.   “So you think Meg is a demon?” Sam questions.   “Either that, or she's possessed by one. It doesn't really matter,” John replies.

  “‘How else could she have…um… survived,” I mumble.   “What do we do?” Dean asks.   “I’m going to Lincoln,” John declares.

  “What?” Dean exclaims.   “It doesn't look like we have a choice. If I don't go, a lot of people die, our friends die.”   “Dad, the demon is coming tonight. For Monica and her family. That gun is all we got, you can't just hand it over,” Sam points out.   “Who said anything about handing it over? Look, besides us and a coupla of vampires no ones really seen the gun, no one knows what it looks like.”   “So what, you're just going to pick up a ringer at a pawn shop?” Dean asks.   “Antique store,” John clarifies.   “Cause that’s so different,” I remark. I mean, it is but in this instance, there might as well not be a difference. 

  “You're going to hand Meg a fake gun and hope she doesn't notice?” Dean interjects.   “Look, as long as it's close, she shouldn't be able to tell the difference,” he reasons.   “Yeah but for how long? What happens when she figures it out?” Dean points out, his voice firm.

  “I just...I just need to buy a few hours, that's all.”

  “I know you’re supposed to go alone but I can go with you and offer assistance from afar,” I offer.

  “No,” he says firmly. “You need to be with the boys.” I never thought I’d hear him say those words but with the way he directs them at me so sharply I know what he means. I can offer a level of protection against the yellow-eyed demon that wouldn’t be there otherwise.

  “You want us to stay here, and kill this demon by ourselves?” Sam asks, figuring out what his father meant as well.   “No Sam. I want to stop losing people we love. I want you to go to school, I want Dean to have a home. I want...I want Mary alive. It's just...I just want this to be over.”

********

  I can’t stop my leg from bouncing as we sit in the Impala, watching the house where the demon will strike next. The boys are better at hiding their nervousness, which may only be good in this instance, but I’m unsure. 

  John was long gone by now. His truck was packed with a fake gun and an arsenal of weapons. The real gun sitting between Sam and Dean in the front seat with only four bullets. Promises of “don’t die” and “finish this fight” were shared before he left. 

  Maybe I shouldn’t be nervous or maybe that’s a stupid remark. There’s a whole powerful and methodical demon to take down and a handful of people to protect in the process. I can’t mess up and I certainly can’t falter. I won’t. This is also why, for once, I chose simple clothing, opting for an all-black outfit that would be easy to move in. This had to go right.

  And no offense to the boys but I’ve been tuning out most of their conversations. I don’t need “what ifs” I just need focus, my ears tuned to the radio playing music quietly and my eyes trained on the house, waiting for the telltale signs.

  “You doin’ okay back there, sweetheart? You’re awfully quiet.”

  My eyes immediately follow the voice; so much for tuning them out. “I’m always quiet,” I defend.

  He smirks, somehow able to even at a time like this, “That’s not true.”

  “Hey,” I frown.

  “Didn’t say it was a bad thing,” he adds. “‘You nervous?” It’s a question, yet the way he looks at me through the rearview mirror makes me feel like he already knows the answer and is just asking out of courtesy. 

  “‘Course I am,” I answer. “And I know you guys are too…Which is fine! Nervous is good…probably.”

  “Well, don’t worry that pretty head of yours, we’ll be just fine. I’ll protect you,” he declares, winking. He’s all smug in the way he says it and the way he smiles. Yet, I’m sure he’s just trying to get me to smile. And it works. I smile, scuffing and shaking my head even though I know for a fact that he wasn’t joking about protecting me. “There she is,” he drawls, eyes dipping down. My nervousness does ease, which should be stupid when all he did was talk to me. Maybe that’s pathetic and maybe I don’t care if it is. 

  “Dean...ah...I wanna thank you,” Sam says, joining in on whatever this is.   “For what?” He responds, eyes breaking from the rearview mirror to look at his brother.   “For everything. You've always had my back you know? Even when I couldn't count on anyone I could always count on you. And uh...I don't know I just wanted to let you know, just in case.”   “Whoa whoa whoa, are you kidding me?”   “What?”   “Don't say just in case something happens to you. I don't wanna hear that fucking speech man. Nobody's dying tonight. Not us, not that family, nobody. Except for that demon. That evil son of a bitch ain't getting any older than tonight, you understand me?” Any softness Dean had moments ago seemed gone now. The light not-joking-joke was serious and ever so evident. This is a serious situation and I almost feel guilty for feeling a moment of ease, especially when the real fear of death lingers over all of us. Things can go wrong here really quickly; the Demon might not die tonight. The only thing I can promise and ensure, above all else, is that my boys aren’t dying.

********

  “Dad’s not answering,” Dean announces, his phone held to his ear. 

  “Maybe Meg was late,” Sam suggests. “Maybe cell reception’s bad.” 

  Of course, he may be right, there's always the possibility; yet it feels like nothing more than an attempt to be positive, to see things optimistically. 

  “Yeah, well—”

  “Wait. Listen,” Sam cuts Dean off. He rolls the dial on the radio, the breaking static getting louder.

  “The lights are flickering,” I add, eyes trained on the house. My heart hammers in my chest at the knowledge of what lurks ahead.

  “It’s coming,” Sam concludes.

  Nothing more needs to be said and no more evidence needs to be presented for us to haul it out of the car. I beeline it to the front door, my hand on the handle and the lock undone before my body is fully near it. The boys take the lead, taking careful steps down the hallway. Then, a man lunges forward swinging a bat into a lamp. It shatters to the floor with a resounding clash.

  “Get out of my house!” He yells, positioning himself to swing again. He has poor aim, a goatee, and a green sweater over a button-down, which doesn’t make for the most intimidating combination. 

  Dean surges forward, grappling with the man and the bat while Sam pleads for him to calm down. He fights against Dean who easily takes control, swinging him against the wall with a thud, the bat pressed across his throat. “Be quiet and listen to me,” Dean orders sharply. “Be quiet and listen. We are trying to help you.”

  God, that was kind of hot—Wait. Priorities, I remind myself. “Come on, Sam,” I nod, moving to the stairs. Dean can take care of himself and we had other things to worry about.

  “Charlie? Is everything okay?” A woman's voice cuts in just as I put one foot on the bottom step.

  “Monica get the baby!” Charlie yells frantically. 

  “Don’t go in the nursery!” The Winchesters yell at the same time. 

  I rush up the stairs, taking two at a time, throwing back another, “Sam!” In an attempt to urge him along. I hear a faint threat from Charlie and some light commotion as I move down the long corridor, seeing a flash of white rush into a room at the far end. I push my legs forward, breaking into a run. I skid into the bedroom, catching only the syllables of a sentence before I throw myself in front of the dark-haired woman clad in a white nightgown. Immediately, I launch a burst of energy toward the dark figure sending it back into the wall. I don’t have the gun, all I can do is keep it busy. 

  “Get out of here!” I yell, looking back only briefly. But, suddenly I’m flung sideways, my shoulder hitting the wall hard before I fall to the floor, picture frames rattling above me. “Go!” I order, pain erupting in my shoulder and down my arm as I pick myself up.

  “But my–”

  Yellow eyes shine as it raises its hand.

  “I’ll get your baby, just go!” 

  I intercept it again, throwing another blast that doesn’t seem to do anything more than halt and irritate it. Monica leaves the room. The baby erupts into tears, the commotion certainly startling it. The Demon tries to move me again with a flick of a wrist but I brace myself, using my powers to hold me in place as I lift my own hands and attempt to move it away from the crib. But, it barely shifts. And yet it feels like I’m fighting against gravity, a heavy invisible force trying to force me back as if weights were tied to my limbs. Even so, I push more of my powers forward, harsher and faster yet it still doesn’t budge even if it feels like a house was being thrown on top of me. 

  Then, Sam bursts through the doorway, freezing as he takes in the Demon. It seems to react to him, turning to him slightly. The Colt is raised and the shot rings in the air. The baby’s wailing becomes just as piercing as the gun. The Demon disappears into smoke, the bullet landing in the wall behind it, marking the wall. 

  I nearly collapse as the invisible weight is lifted off of me, my bones feel like jello–almost as if they too were giving up on me. I slump forward slightly, pulling myself toward the crib.

  “Where the hell did it go!” Sam yells.

  I ignore him, focusing on getting the kid out first. Before my hands even touch the wooden sides I can feel what is to come, the fire licking at my hands before there's one at all. I don’t know whether it's some sort of intuition or what Missouri had shown me all those months ago, either way, I quickly and carefully scoop up the crying baby, the crib exploding into flames as I step back and shield the child from it. The windows explode, flames crawling outwards—feeding on the oxygen.

  The moment I step into the hallway strong arms encircle me. He’s behind me, urging me forward with a hand on my middle back as we race out of the house, smoke filling the place rapidly. Sam and Monica aren’t that far in front of us, I guess she only left the room before and not the house itself.

  My lungs greedily take in clean air as we make it outside. The baby is taken from my arms and into the rightful one of her mothers. Charlie puts his arm around his wife’s, eyes scanning both his girls. “Thank you,” Monica says with tear-filled eyes. 

  I’m glad everyone was safe and yet I feel almost defeated, like there was more that could’ve been done. And I’m sure that same thought is going through the boy's heads too. All that we can do is watch as the house is consumed in flames, harsh oranges and reds licking at what is meant to be a place of safety. But, there in the burning nursery, through shattered windows, is a mocking dark silhouette that can only be one being.

  “It’s still in there!” Sam yells, starting for the front door.

  Dean grabs him quickly, holding him back, “Sam. Sam, no.”

  “Dean let me go, it’s still in there,” he argues, struggling against his hold.

  “No. It’s burning to the ground, it’s suicide.”

  “I don’t care,” Sam yells.

  “I do!’

  And just like that, something changes. I can’t explain what it is exactly, but it’s heavy and it’s real. Once more, all we can do is watch as the flames rise again, the Demon disappearing. 

********

  Dean paces the motel room, his phone to his ear as it rings for the umpteenth time. “Come on Dad, answer your phone damn it,” he grumbles. Given the last year his disappearance doesn’t seem out of character but because he was on this whole mission his lack of contact is worrisome. He hangs up with a huff, “Somethings wrong.”

  “Okay,” I sigh from my chair, “We’ll find him…again.” Whatever is wrong we can fix, or at the very least handle it better than the yellow-eyed demon (hopefully.) 

  Dean nods silently, stress and frustration clear in his features. Then, his attention goes to Sam who instead of answering stares at the wall with his classic bitchface. Dean tilts his head down, trying to get his brother's attention. “‘You hear me? Somethings wrong.”

  “If you had just let me go in there, I coulda ended all this.”

  “Sam, the only thing you would have ended was your life,” Dean counters.

  “You don’t know that,” Sam answers firmly.

  “The building was going down you wouldn’t be able to see let alone breathe long enough to even get to it or do anything,” I add.

  He shakes his head, “‘Doesn’t matter.”

  Dean walks towards where Sam sits on the end of one of the beds. “So what, you’re just willing to sacrifice yourself, is that it?”

  He stands up abruptly, towering over his brother. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re damn right I am.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen, not as long as I’m around.”

  “What the hell are you talking about Dean? We’ve been searching for this demon our whole lives. It’s the only thing we’ve ever cared about.”

  “Sam, I wanna waste it. I do. Okay? But it’s not worth dying over.”

  “What?”

  “I mean it. If hunting this demon means getting yourself killed then I hope we never find the damn thing,” he doubles down.   “That thing killed Jess. That thing killed Mom,” Sam argues.   “You said it yourself once, that no matter what we do, they're gone, and they're never coming back.”

  Sam snaps. He grabs Dean by the collar of his shirt and shoves him hard against the wall. I stand quickly, ready to intervene but Dean throws me a quick look that tells me to not. 

  “Don't you say that, not you!” Sam yells, his voice breaking a little. “Not after all this don’t you say that.”   Despite the anger thrown at him Dean answers with soft, quiet words, “Sam look. The three of us...that's all we have...and it's all I have. Sometimes I feel like I'm barely holding it together man...and without you…or Y/N, or Dad…”

  “Dad,” Sam slumps, letting go and turning away. He runs a hand down his face as he walks across the room. “He should have called by now. Try him again.”   Dean presses a couple of buttons, then raises his phone to his ear. It’s quiet for two beats before his face contorts in anger. “Where is he?” He spits.

                                     ......TO BE CONTINUED......

(Next Chapter)

“Hey pretty girl, can I come in?” Sam gently knocked. He heard the lock click and made his way inside. You were sitting on the counter with your knees pressed to your chest and head down. “I already apologized for that…I thought we were past it” you whispered looking up at Sam tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

“I know baby girl, I'm sorry he is being a dick…I will go get another room if you want.” Sam sat beside you putting his arm around your shoulder. Then an idea hit you…two can play at that game. “Sammy, do you want to help me with something?” An evil smile lit up your face.

The plan was in place, you would walk out of the bathroom and act like you were just fine sleeping between the brothers but you would only talk to Sam, Dean was getting the silent treatment. As you walked out of the bathroom Dean started apologizing he really looked like he felt guilty but the plan was in place. “I'm going for a swim Sammy, call me when you get a lead.” You said stripping down to your underwear and bra before walking out of the room.

“Hey, wait…what…” Dean's thoughts died on his lips. He turned to Sam “she didn't even accept my apology…” he frowned. Sam just shrugged and got his laptop out to start looking into leads. Dean looked out the window at you swimming laps, feeling bad he decided to join you. He pulled his pants down and his shirt off before marching out to the pool.

“Hey princess…Im sorry…” he started sitting on the edge of the pool near where you were floating. “I will get you as many rooms as you want…please just talk to me.” You looked him up and down and damn if he didn't make you drool a little shirtless and pleading for your forgiveness. “Fine…get in here and hug me Winchester” you said standing up and holding your arms out.

He jumped in and wrapped you in his arms. You wrapped your legs around his waist and put your head on his shoulder. He backed up to the side of the pool and just held you. “Now that we are back on speaking terms, want to tell me why you really got so drunk last night?” His voice rumbled through his chest and you could feel it in yours as he spoke.

“I thought it would help me do something and it did not.” You spoke softly, enjoying his embrace. “Really guys?!...” Sam crossed his arms “why am I the only one working?” He pulled his bitch face. “Join us then…” you giggled, swimming away from Dean toward the steps. He saw that glint of mischief in your eyes and know what was about to happen.

“Noooo…no...hey…no..” Sam started backing away from you and your grabby wet hands. “C'mon Sammy…Don'tcha want to hug me” you pouted before darting towards him and hugging his waist. He looked down at you and smirked before jumping in the deep end with you still attached to his waist. He came up for air with you wrapped around him still.

“Hey” Sam shook his hair out of his eyes and they met yours “Hey” you smiled back. Dean cleared his throat having made his way to the deep end with you both. You floated backwards so your head was on Dean's shoulder and your feet were on Sam's “we should probably get to work huh?” You sighed looking up at the beautiful sky.

The boys both agreed and the three of you made your way back to the room. Sam got first shower since all his clothes were wet. You could feel Dean's eyes on you. “Take a picture, it will last longer,” you joked before turning to look at him. “Maybe I will…” he stood reaching for his phone on the table. You pulled the towel you had wrapped around you tighter and blushed.

Thankfully Sam exited the bathroom before Dean could close in on you. “My turn!” You and Dean exclaimed in unison. In order to avoid another argument Sam suggested rock paper scissors. You threw rock, Dean threw scissors. You had recalled Sam saying Dean always picks scissors first.

You made your way into the bathroom and turned the shower on lukewarm just the way you liked it. While you were in the shower your mind drifted to how their bodies felt against yours in the pool. You ran a hand down your body finding your core already wet. You whispered a hoarse “ffuckk” while circling your sensitive clit. You pictured their hands exploring your body and kissing you all over.

You threw your head back and sped up your motions feeling the coil in your abdomen start to feel tight. “Sam, Dean, ohh fucck” you moaned a little louder than you meant to as you came. Hopefully they didn't hear that you thought to yourself as you finished getting cleaned up. You got dressed and left the bathroom acting like nothing happened.

Dean rushed into the bathroom without a word. Sam was at his computer jaw tense leg bouncing. So they must have heard…at least they were being cool about it. You sauntered over to Sam and wrapped your arms around his shoulders from behind “hey Sammy” you practically purred in his ear breath hot against his neck.

“Hey pretty girl” , his words going straight to your core. He spun the chair around and patted his lap for you to sit. You obeyed and straddled his waist. “You have been quite the tease lately baby girl” he searched your eyes for a sign he should stop. When he found none his hands captured your waist.

You looked down at him biting your bottom lip. His hand left your waist just long enough for his thumb to pull your lip away from your teeth shaking his head no. “Getting some mixed signals here princess, is it me or Dean that you want?” He inquired, tilting his head almost innocently. “B..both” you stuttered, looking away and to the ground.

You saw Dean's feet and raked your eyes up his body. “Think you can handle that sweetheart?” he asked with a smirk. You just nodded silently, eyes flicking between them looking for any hints of how they were feeling. “Whadya think Sammy…think she can handle us both?” He asked eyes running up and down your body.

“I think we should make her choose,” Sam smirked at you. You wanted to bite your lip again but instead you pouted and started to get off Sam but his hands held you tighter against his lap. “Uh uh pretty girl you are staying right here until you decide…Who fucks you first” Sam growled in your ear.

The path beside the bunker was my favorite place to be, the way the sun dipped below the horizon casting long shadows through the trees always calmed me down. It's been a tough week, and this walk was my brief escape from everything I had to deal with.

My feet stopped abruptly when I heard a loud rustle in the bushes. Before I could react, a man stepped out in front of me, eyes cold and menacing. I tried to grab my gun, but it was too late. He rushed forward and pulled me to his chest, knife pressing roughly against my throat.

"Give me everything you got." he hissed.

Panic surged through my veins. My mind raced, but my body was frozen still. When I hesitated, the knife moved down and slashed my side. Pain flared, hot and intense. I gasped and tried to fend him off, to get a head start and run home but his grip on my arm was too strong.

He ripped my bag from my back and shoved me on the ground, another slash landing across my arm. The world blurred as he disappered into the shadows, leaving me there to bleed out.

My hand clutched my side, blood seeping through my fingers, my phone slipping from my pocket. With trembling hands, I tried to call Dean but I couldn't muster up the strength and the phone fell beside me. I reached forward, managing to type out a quick message before the world started to go dark, my eyes shutting heavily. "Help..."

Back at the bunker, Dean heard the faint ping of his phone. He glanced at the screen, his blood turning cold instantly at my message, "Help..."

He stood from his spot as his chest tightened, different scenerios playing through his mind, but he knew he needed to focus, he needed to find me. He grabbed his keys and bolted out the door, muttering to himself, "I'm coming sweetheart, hang on."

He drove frantically, scanning the pathway as he called my name but heard no response. Finally after what felt like forever, his headlights caught a figure lying on the path, bright blood all around it causing his heart to nearly stop.

Slamming on the breaks, he quickly kicked the door open and rushed towards me, dropping on his knees beside my lifeless body. "Y/N! He shouted, panic filling his chest at the sight of my blood covered body. "I'm here, it's okay, i've got you."

My eyes fluttered at the sound of his voice, slight relief washing over me but the pain was still overwhelming. "D-Dean... I.."

"Shh, don't talk sweetheart." he spoke urgently, "Your safe now, I gotcha."

His eyes widened at the sight of the wound on my side, blood seeping out into the dirt below me. Without hesitiation, he tore his jacket off and pressed it to my side to stop the bleeding, earning a hiss of pain to fall from my lips. "I'm sorry, just keep breathing, okay? Stay with me."

My breath came in quick, shallow gasps as the attack replayed in my mind, the fear and pain twisting my thoughts like torture. "I-I couldn't stop him, I wasn't quick enough" I whispered, my voice trembling.

Dean's eyes softened with a mix of concern "Hey, look at me" He spoke firm, but with a hint of comfort behind it. "You did everything you could. None of this is your fault."

He took my hand tightly, his touch warm and steady, "We're going to get you through this, just keep your eyes on me alright? Focus on my voice."

Very gently, he lifted me into his arms and carried me to the Impala, every step was incruciating, but I trusted him with my life. He drove faster than I've ever seen him drive, face twisted with concern, hand pressing on my wound as much as he could.

When we arrived, he rushed towards the couch and laid me down, apologizing underneath his breath when I groaned in pain. The first aid kit was placed beside me, Dean's shaky hands pulling out the gauze and antiseptic.

I watched with half closed lids as he cleaned and stitched my wounds with practiced skill, he's done it many times for me before but this time his touch was so gentle, his focus unwavering despite the worry etched on his face.

"It's going to be okay." He murmered, more to himself than to me. "You're okay now, your safe."

I couldn't stop the tears that rushed down, a mix of pain and gratitude overwhelming me. He glanced up, eyes wide with panic as he quickly stopped what he was doing. "Shit, I'm sorry, did I hurt you?"

I shook my head rapidly and grabbed his hand, pulling it to chest for comfort. "Thank you. For saving me, for being here."

He smiled softly, hand tightening on mine, "Don't thank me. I'll always be here for you, you know that right?"

I nodded and relaxed my head on the pillow, wiping the tears that stained my cheeks. As he finished stitching my wound, he cleaned up and bandaged me carefully, pressing a gentle kiss against my head as he stood up to pull a chair beside the couch where I lay.

He stayed by my side, hand gripping mine tightly while I stared at the ceiling, eyes filling with tears.

"I thought I was going to die out there." I looked towards him, my voice barely above a whisper.

Dean's expression softened, his hand moving to my forhead to brush the hair from my face. "I won't ever let that happen." He stated, voice thick with emotion. "I'll always come for you, Y/N, always."

I nodded, tears flowing down my cheeks as I bit my lip. "I was so scared."

He leaned forward, thumb brushing away the tears from my cheeks, "I know. But you're safe now. You're here with me."

"Dean.. can you lay with me?" I whispered.

He smiled warmly and nodded, climbing beside me on the couch before opening his arms and hugging me tightly to his chest. His heart was steady and relaxing, a reminder that I was alive and safe.

As I drifted off to sleep, Dean remained by my side, watching over me with fierce determination. In the quiet of the bunker among the shadows and stitches, our friendship turned to love, forced by trust, care and the unspoken promise that we would always find safety and comfort in each other's arms.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!