#godmadeaterribleerror

Then Dean looks at you, smiling himself, and the world slows to a beautiful stop. Just you and Dean, the glow of the chandelier light, and the way it bends around him. Makes him look more hero than man again. Makes him look like a spirit from a grove, wandering out of the shadows to carry you into the river. 

Your smile widens. Dean’s reflects it, and maybe he’s just a siren sent to enchant you beyond reason. It’s working. And if you’re drowning right now, he’s already filled your lungs with his scent, his touch, his affection. The whole universe, in this split second, is just the chime of glass and Dean.

But the world speeds up again. He says your name, holding out a hand, and time rushes back into place. 

They’re all looking at you. Staring. The ground is slipping out from under your feet, and you feel over and underdressed at the same time, and- 

“Baby,” Dean prompts softly, and you blink up at him with wide eyes. You don’t know when he got back to your side, but if he leaves it again, you’re going to stab him. “Say hi.”

You look back to his family, and throw on your best smile. “Hi.” 

Mary’s face breaks into a smile, wide and warm, and before you know what’s happening you’re being swept up off the goddamn ground. 

“Oh, it’s wonderful to meet you.” She says. “Dean’s told me so much, and- You’re even more gorgeous than he made you sound, which is really a high bar-“

“Mom.” Dean hisses, and Sam snorts. You barely even hear. You’re too busy staring at Mary. 

She’s touching your arms and face like a blind woman trying to memorize something you can’t see. She’s examine you almost like a slab of meat, and all you can do is stand there and wait for her to conclude. Her voice had a quaintly to it that’s so similar to Dean’s you almost laughed. It’s musical, but in the way of a battle cry. Has a rhythm, but more like war drum. 

And looking into her eyes, you can see why people say she and Dean are similar. There’s a stubborn fire that you know too well. A little less playfulness, but not none. You know Dean said she had a hard life, before she met John. You wonder if she has nightmares too. 

“Hey, woah-“ Dean pulls you back as Mary tries to turn your head. “That’s enough. Don’t scare her off.”

“Yeah, I think that’s your job, Dad.” Sam drawls, and the beautiful blonde woman next to him elbows his gut. “Ow, Jess-“

“Don’t argue with your future wife, Samuel.” John grunts. His voice is deeper like Dean’s. But apart from that, there’s nothing the same. “Don’t make that mistake this early.”

“Yeah, Samuel.” Jess smirks, and Sam bows his head like a scolded dog. 

This whole family might just have the most dangerous puppy eyes you’ve ever seen. You know Mary has them, when she convinces John to switch seats so she can be next to you and Dean. You’re not sure John would be capable of them—he’s got more of a glint like a hound dog, that you’ve only ever seen on Dean when he’s angry—but Sam’s seem to be perfected to the point that he mumbles an apology to Jess, and immediately gets a smile and sweet touch of his face. 

And suddenly, this feels so wrong. You’re a liar. You’re an intrusive, foreign liar, weaving into their ranks and masquerading, because they all seem to love each other—even John, mostly silent but still smiling at Mary every few moments—and you’re just some girl-

“So.” Mary blinks at you, and you might not be breathing anymore. “Dean says you’ve been dating for how long? Six months?”

“Um- I- I- Yeah.” You take a ragged gasp for air, and your hand grabs at the tablecloth. Trying to find something that will keep you together, something to either hold you down to get you through this or pull you away into space- 

Dean catches your hand. Holds it tight. You look over, and he offers you a tiny smile. You swallow, then smile back. 

He nods—mostly to himself—then turns back to the table.

“Don’t interrogate her, Mom. She spent the whole day dealing with me on the plane, she’s exhausted.”

“The plane?!” Sam’s mouth falls open. “I- I thought you were joking about Dean, Jesus, you actually flew?”

“It’s just walking then sitting, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is awful lofty for someone who looked like he was going to piss himself all day. “It ain’t nothing to be dramatic about.”

Sam looks to you. “Did he piss himself again?”

“Sam-“

“No.” You say loyally. “He was fine. Only tried to run away from me twice.”

Sam laughs, and Dean reaches over you to hit his chest. 

Pauses when he leans back to brush his fingers over your cheek. Tuck some hair behind your ear. You swallow, and smile up at him again. Your lashes flutter, your hand moving of its own accord to adjust the cuff of his sleeve.

You didn’t know you were capable, of getting this shy and nervous just from someone looking at you. Didn’t know, until you met Dean. 

But he makes you do crazy things. Things like pretending to be his girlfriend, and wanting to kiss him in front of his family. Like your mouth parting in a public place, your body leaning forward as your legs shift. 

Dean sees it this time. His eyes dart down and flash with shock, but his grip on your chin only tightens. It’s all fake. You must just be going insane-

Sam coughs loudly, and you and Dean break apart. Whatever that little show was, it seems enough to quell his family. Mary smiles at you, Sam grumbles something about trying to eat, and John stares at you in a way you’re really trying not to think about too hard. Something prickles over your skin, and you have a horrible feeling that he can see right through you. 

But he doesn’t say anything. Dean starts to talk with his Mom and Jess about wedding decorations and choices, and he has a lot more opinions than you thought he would. You listen with a hopelessly dreamy smile that Dean seems too absorbed in his wedding talk to see, and almost jump out of your skin when Sam says your name.

“Sorry.” He smiles at you gently. “Just wanted to ask- Dean says you’re a teacher?”

“I, um-“ You take a slightly shaking breath, then nod. “Yeah. I am. But it’s only Kindergarten-“

“Only Kindergarten.” Dean snorts, and you blink at him. “She’s being humble. They adore her. Last spring they did this secret appreciation thing, where they all drew her and wrote her card. Pictures weren’t shit. I put one on our fridge.”

The table falls silent, and Dean takes a large bite of his spaghetti, completely oblivious to the bomb he’d just dropped. 

Sam knew you lived together. You’re pretty sure Sam knows about the whole charade, because he’d met you a while ago over the phone as Dean’s roommate and friend. But Dean told you that his mom just thought you were friends. That he’d been avoiding the roommate thing, just because she’d assume you were dating if you lived together.

In your cover story, you don’t live together. 

But he just said the truth. And like the handsome fucking dumbass that he is, he’s just eating his spaghetti. 

“Our fridge?” Mary echoes. “Do you… Live together?”

You almost laugh at the expression on Dean’s face as he chokes on the spaghetti. “We, uh- I- Mom, we’ve been-“

“We moved in together like a month ago.” You take a small amount of mercy on him, grabbing your napkin and reaching up to dab at the sauce on his face. You use it as an excuse to give him a death glare. Let me handle this.

He nods, expression still panicked, and you turn back to Mary with a soft grin.

“He was going to tell you later, but I guess he got excited. It’s just still new enough, we wanted to be sure.”

Mary nods slowly, looking suspiciously between you and Dean, and you sit a little taller. She’s a lot more intimidating than John. You won’t cave. Not when you’ve already come this far. 

“I was wondering, how did you guys meet?” Jess asks causally, poking at her own plate. “Sam hasn’t actually told me.”

You peer at her, because you’re pretty sure that’s a lie. Dean says Sam tells her everything, and that it’s really freakin’ annoying. But she’s smiling at you so innocently, and… You think she’s giving you a way out. 

Dean beats you to taking it. He clears his throat and sits up taller, like he’s ready and proud to tell the story you’d agreed on. You were at a bar. He walked over, and tried to hit on you, you turned him down. 

“But you were already soooo in love with me,” he’d said while you brainstormed, his words slurred from drinking. “And you were obsessed with me, and you kept tryin’ to make me notice you again until you gave up, and just knocked on my door. Confessed your love in the rain-“

“I can’t knock on your door and be in the rain at the same time, De.”

“Well, then you were wet from the rain.” He’d winked. “Then I told you I’d been secretly in love with you the whole damn time, and I made you wet in other places-“

You’d thrown a pillow at his face, half because of the stupid joke, and half because he was citing straight from your dream world. Where he’d done that exact thing, in at least fifty different variations.

“Why didn’t you just chase me, if you started by hitting on me.” You’d sprawled on the floor, Dean sitting over you, and poked holed. The story needed to be perfect. 

He’d shrugged. “’Cause maybe I’m a good guy, sweetheart. And I took your no to mean no.”

“Ah. The lowest bar.”

He’d rolled his eyes, and you’d smiled sweetly.

For a second, you’d just stared at each other. When he’d spoken again, his voice had lost its edge. 

“What if I was just in love with you. We became real friends after you kicked my ass at pool, and you’d been seein’ other people, so I backed off, then I showed up in the rain and did the confession.”

“I’m bad at pool.” You’d whispered. He’s smiled.

“Then we just won’t let you play, sweetheart.”

You’d nodded. It was all you could think to do. It had been a good story. You’d workshopped it when you were sober, and now it was almost flawless. 

That’s the story you were supposed to tell Dean’s family. 

It’s not the story Dean says. 

“I was running around in a parking lot,” he drawls, reaching his arm around the back of your chair. “Looking for someone, not paying attention to where the hell I was going. Ran right into her, then ran into the fuckin’ door. I hadn’t stopped to apologize, but she helped me anyway. Then she slipped, I helped her. She was grabbing my arms and all mouthy, but the prettiest damn thing I’d ever seen, and I was still late but I couldn’t move my damn feet.” He smiles down at you. “Realized I’d found what I was looking for. Just ended up takin’ me a few years to ask to have it.”

You stare at him, your heartbeat in your ears. It’s real. Too real. It’s a better lie than you came up with, but you don’t know why he would possibly choose that over your agreed upon backstory. Why he would remember it in such great detail, when it was so long ago. 

You remember it. Of course you remember it. You love him, and you’d spent countless nights imagining what if. What if you hadn’t been there for the roommate interview, and he’d asked you for coffee. What if you’d been braver and taken the moment, told him you didn’t care about the complications, and asked him out. What if Dean had decided the moment was worth holding onto, and tossed aside safety and the. chance of a roommate to bring you to dinner. What if you ended up moving in anyway a while down the line because one of you had stood up and decided that it was worth the risk.

There’s some small chance that it was only you who felt something, in that moment. When you’d grabbed him and snapped, and he’d taken a chance on you out of desperation. 

But what if he did feel it too. And it faded when you moved in, but he’d felt it. 

What if it hadn’t faded. 

Why does he remember. 

Not real. You have to remember it’s not real, but Dean’s still smiling at you. His arm is draped around, his fingers lingering on your upper arm in such a sweet, casual gesture of possession that isn’t real, but sure fucking feels it- 

“And you’re a teacher.” John cuts through your thoughts, and you rip your gaze away from Dean to find him examining you again. 

You flush, but force your voice to stay even and strong. “Yes, sir.”

“Hm.” John narrows his eyes, and Dean’s grip tightens on your shoulder.

“Dad, c’mon-“

“I’m not sayin’ anything.” John grunts. “Just thinkin’. Teaching doesn’t pay much, does it.”

“No, but- I’m lucky. And I get- Donations.” Your fingers are pulling at your cloth napkin. “Sometimes families give me things for holidays, and- Once a girl made me a stuffed bear-“

“A six year old made you a stuffed bear.” John says, obviously unimpressed, and you swallow. 

“She was five. Her mom helped, and- It came with chocolates.”

“So you’re plannin’ to live off stuffed bears and chocolates for the rest of your damn life?”

“Dad.” Dean snaps, and you don’t know when he grabbed your hand, but you’re squeezing it tight. 

This isn’t real. You’re not Dean’s actual girlfriend, you don’t need to impress his parents, but- You do. It’s an itch over your skin that refused to be scratched, you need to impress John and Mary, they need to buy what you’re selling, they need to like you enough that you’re not just driving yourself insane dreaming of a life with Dean, that you’re watering your own secret little garden and can tell yourself that maybe if it was different, you might actually have something.

But John doesn’t look impressed. He just looks bored. 

“You work hard, son. I’m trying to make sure she’s got a bigger plan than just donations and low pay you’re gonna have to support-“

“You helped support Mom when we were kids.” Dean holds John’s glare, and Sam coughs. You focus your energy on the food in front of you. It’s an odd, washed-out shade of black, but that might just be your vision clouding. 

“Dean,” Mary says gently. “I was raising children, and- Your father is just trying to be careful-“

“Careful of what, that someone’s gonna steal my million dollar salaries.”

Sam snorts at that, Jess elbows him again, and John just shrugs.

“You get paid well for the shit you do. Relationships need to be balanced, look at Sam and Jess, lawyer and doctor-“

“Pre-med.” Jess mumbled, and Sam gave her a tight smile before glaring at John.

“Dad, don’t use us for this.”

John rolls his eyes. “Fine. But my point is, Dean, it can’t be one-sided. I won’t let you fall into something where you’re doin’ all the work, people are always gonna have cars that need fixin’-“

“People are always going to have kids that need teaching.” Dean raises his chin, and you blink at him. “And yeah, I get paid well, but until she showed up I’d been balling up all my laundry and didn’t know who Robert Moses was, so I think we’re doing fine.”

The table falls silent, and you keep staring at your plate. Your head feels a little light. You’re not his real girlfriend. He didn’t need to defend you. Your eyes are watering and your mouth is dry, but they’re never going to see you again after this weekend, so it really doesn’t matter- 

“It’s a noble profession.” Mary murmurs, her hand landing over John’s. “I still remember the boy’s kindergarten teachers. They were good women. One of them just had her fourth child and got something published in one of those big magazines, and- You remember Miss Garrity, Sam?”

Sam nods, his mouth full of ravioli, and Mary smiles. 

“Her eldest just had their first. And I heard she was honored with an award last summer.” Her smile turns to you. “There’s a good life, in teaching. Right, John?”

John grunts. You don’t think he’s going to argue, but he doesn’t seem thrilled by any of this. 

Mary nods in approval. “And it’s good how much you’re making, Dean. Just like me and Dad, when she needs to take time off for your children, you’ll be able to keep everything stable-“

“Who wants dessert?!” Sam shouts, loud enough to make you jump, and Dean presses your still intertwined hands down into your lap. Just managing to keep you from jolting the table. 

You’re pretty sure Sam just saved your ass. The way he exchanges a look with Dean’s red face—the way Dean’s palm is sweating in yours—makes you almost certain that he did. From a conversation with Dean’s mom about a future you’ve dreamed of, and are never going to actually have. From Dean hearing you give real answers to questions Mary wouldn’t know are fake. From the conversation after, where he’d carefully half-joke that you had the answers real well loaded, and you’d have to just laugh like you hadn’t spent so long refining them to fit your dreams. 

Instead, you just silently eat your chocolate mousse and listen to Sam and Dean talk about their different kindergarten experiences. Dean remembers having a crush on his teacher, and he squeezes your leg as he says it, and your whole body floods with heat. 

It’s still a small torture. The idea of a little Dean bouncing around on a playground, wearing an oversized firefighter hat or hugging a stuffed animal. It’s a little cruel, how fast your brain can twist that into what Mary was implying. A little combination of you and Dean, with his smile and your eyes, all his energy and sweetness, hugging your legs and sitting in Dean’s lap while he reads with a bunch of silly voices, and you feel kind of sick-

“You tired?” Dean mutters in your ear, and you turn to find him examining you. There’s a deep furrow in his brow. 

He’s rubbing your leg now. Slowly up and down, soothing and igniting all at once. 

Not real. So unfairly not real.

You nod, and he sighs. Leans forward to kiss your brow gently, and your eyes flutter. He’s just putting on a show. Just putting on a show. 

He excuses you both, you hang off his arm as he leads you upstairs and back to your room. Neither of you speak, but Dean doesn’t let go of your hand. You risk leaning forward and pressing your head against his back. It’s firm. Safe and warm. You never to be anywhere else again. 

You think Mary hugged you good night. You might’ve shaken John’s hand. You really can’t remember at all. 

It’s been a really long day.

You shower again, letting the hot water drain your frantic thoughts and nerves down the drain. You stare at the fogged-up mirror until it clears, and dress slowly. This was a really bad idea. When you agreed to this, you really should’ve thought more about how in love with Dean you are, and how that was going to color the whole stupid thing.

You’re not going to back out. You can’t, when you promised him. But you still feel sick. And this might break a tiny part of you that you’ve tried so hard to keep safe. You don’t have a name for it. You just know it’s made of maintaining a facade, a friendship, a reliable dance that you’re not in love with Dean, and even when you are it’s okay that he doesn’t love you back. 

You have to remember that he doesn’t love you back. 

But he’s still up, when you step out of the bathroom. Sitting on the edge of the mattress in his pajamas, frowning at his phone but looking up at you with the softest smile. Not real.

“I’m sorry. About Dad.” He says as you shuffle across the room. “He means well, I swear, but- He did the same thing to Jess, when Sammy finally brought her around. I’m gonna talk to him in the morning-“

“Dean.” You give him a small smile, crawling onto the bed. “It’s fine.”

He twists around, mouth in a tight line. “No, he shouldn’t have said that shit to you-“

“I know.”

“Right, so I’m gonna talk to him-“

“You really don’t have to. I know- You’ve told me how he is.” You scoot a little closer, covering Dean’s hand with your own. “You really don’t need to fight with him. Not for me.”

Dean’s jaw flexes. His eyes dart down to your hand over his, then back up to meet yours. He lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m gonna.”

“Dean-“

“No. He doesn’t talk to you like that.” He looks back to his phone, then tosses it into the bags. “You did awesome, though. Mom loved you.” He shoots you a small grin. “Told you she would.”

You laugh softly, and his words echo in your head. She’ll love you. She’s like me. 

“They all loved you.” Dean mutters, his thumb wrapping around to the back of your hand. Dragging small circles, a habit he seems to be building fast. “You fit in.”

That makes you laugh for real. “I wanted to throw up.”

“Yeah, I saw you makin’ the face.”

“And you didn’t do anything about it?”

“Hey, I pulled you out of there.” He grins, flipping your hands so yours is under his. “A thank you would be welcome, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not thanking you for saving me from the viper pit you shoved me into.”

“But it was such a heroic rescue, I’d call it my best-“

“I wouldn’t.”

“You’re a critic.” He smirks. “And you still love me, so I’m callin’ it a fair save.” 

You flush, and whack his hand away. Too close to the truth again. Too intimate. “Shut up.”

Dean’s eyes sparkle. “Aw, you callin’ it off with me? When you just met my family? That’s low, baby-“

“Dean.” You give him a flat, tired look. You don’t want to joke about this. It hurts too much. “Your mom was seconds away from asking me about babies and marriage.”

He shrugs. “And? I’m guessing Dad’s gonna ask that too, when I talk to him.” He frowns at the air. “Make it real fuckin’ clear, that I’m serious. He doesn’t say that kinda shit to you.”

You sigh. “I said you don’t have to do that-“

“And I said I’m gonna.” 

“Dean, it’s not- It’s just me.” You give him a desperate look. “You don’t have to. Not for me.”

He stares at you. His hand tightens in yours, his mouth twitching, and he shakes his head.

“Is it so hard,” Dean drawls, twisting fully around. Moving forward, as he speaks. “For you to believe that I actually just wanna defend your honor?”

“I- I don’t-“ You stare at him, crawling back as he approaches. He can’t get too close right now, when you’re so exhausted your mouth might not listen to your brain. You’re going to say something true. “I don’t have honor-“

“Yeah, you do.”

Your back hits the headboard. “Dean, you know I don’t-“

“Nah. I don’t know anything.” He’s over you. Over your legs, his arms braced around your body, his face only inches away. 

You breathe out shakily, and he licks his lips. 

“I know you.” He mutters. “Know you real well, sweetheart. And you’re worth defending.”

His voice is so low it seems to vibrate through you, and your thighs clench. 

He sees it. His eyes dart down and darken, his shoulders heaving as he takes a heavy breath. Dean looks back to you, something glinting in his eyes that only stokes your own fire.  Your hand shoots up to press against his chest, but you don’t shove. Dean grabs your wrist, tracing one of those small circles, before moving to touch your face. 

Brushing his thumb along your cheekbone. Fingers playing with a loose strand of hair, then dropping down to hold your chin. Keeping your gaze trapped on his, as he traces your lower lip. Your mouth falls open, and his throat bobs.

He stares at you, the tip of his thumb resting right between your lips. His breath is ragged and warm on your face, his gaze searing into you, the light bending around him. But it’s not another dream. His chest is flexing under your hand, and this is so impossibly real.

Dean mutters your name, and your legs fall open. Offering him more space, offering him whatever he wants, just so long as he keeps looking at you like that- 

There’s a knock on the door. Sam’s voice calls from the other side, and the spell breaks. 

Dean scowls, and drags himself away like it takes real effort. He stares at you with that impossible face, then shakes his head.

“You can have the bed.” He grunts. “Gonna sleep on the floor.” 

“Dean-“

“’S fine.” He gives you a small grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m trying to be a gentleman, sweetheart. Let me have this.”

You stare at him, then nod slowly. Dean’s mouth twitches, and for a second it looks like he’s going to move back. 

Then Sam knocks again. And Dean stands with a heavy sigh.

Leaving you on the bed, eyes already drooping with exhaustion, head still spinning. You don’t know what the fuck just happened. Your voice can’t seem to remember how to ask. 

And you pass out. Not even under the covers, sleep drags you under. 

You wake up tucked in. Dean’s snoring on the floor. 

No real proof that last night happened at all. Only your memory, and the absolute certainty that it was real. 

Whatever it was, it was far, far too real. 

✦Chapter Eleven✦

✦End note: the illusion... it's falling... ✦

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✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

If you had a comeback, it’s squeezed from your head by Dean’s grip. He was teasing. Your logical brain knows that. It’s just like how you tell him he reminds you of the little boy at work who hugs a toy car at nap time.

Although you always say that like it’s a joke, when it’s really not. You look at the boy and imagine a tiny Dean, maybe with hair and skin a little more like yours, sitting on your knee and showing you all his different cars. You think about a world where you get to kiss his forehead good night, then Dean kisses you good night.

The most dangerous part of your job is that it makes you ovulate all the time. All those stupid cute kids that you don’t even really want right now, feeding your fantasies about having a life with your roommate.

Agreeing to Dean’s dumb plan was the worst possible choice you could’ve made. You’re not going to be able to handle it. You’re already not handling it, and all it is so far is Dean’s hand in yours, and how casually he keeps calling you his girlfriend. Like that word isn’t the start and end of your whole life.

You can’t tell him to stop. He’d wave you off and say he was practicing, and when you insisted that he not, he’d ask why.

And you don’t have a good answer to that. So you let him chat with the fisherman standing next to you at the belt, rambling about how he and his girlfriend are here for his brothers wedding. You don’t let yourself dwell on how he pushes you in front of him, like he’s trying to show you off. Or how he keeps praising you for basically breathing near him.

He doesn’t need his stupid practice. He’s already too good at this.

You put your food down when you go to rent a car. You don’t have another choice.

“My wife likes Chevys.” Dean says, peering at the options the attendant is showing him, and you gag on the bottled smoothie he bought you.

You do not.

And- And-

“Why did you call me your wife.” You hiss, and Dean shrugs.

“I dunno. Sounds better than girlfriend, right?”

He grins at you, and you’re going to smack him.

This isn’t fun for you. It’s not a game. It’s cruel, and you can’t even tell him why.

You don’t answer. Dean’s shoulders square, and a tiny frown flashes over his face.

“It bother you?” He mutters, as you’re walking to the car. “When I- Said that?”

You haven’t spoken in ten minutes. His voice is so soft it aches like a bruise on fruit.

“No.” You mutter, and you’re a liar, but what the fuck are you supposed to say.

Yes. So much. Don’t call me your wife unless you mean it. Don’t touch me unless you mean it. Why can’t you just mean it.

Dean murmurs your name, and you shake your head.

“It’s fine, Dean.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Shucks.”

“Sweetheart-“

“I’m just trying to get in the headspace of girlfriend, okay?” You give him a tight smile. “Wife messes up my acting.”

Dean examines you for a second. His fingers curve, where he’s holding your hip.

You keep smiling. It hurts like your face is being peeled off.

“Your acting.” He mutters. “Right.”

Some very evil part of your brain dreams up that he sounded upset about that. Another one sneers that he bought it so easily because he can’t even imagine a world where you’d be anything but acting here.

Acting is going to be the easy part.

Not letting your foul little heart sink its claws into his acting as evidence. That’s what’s going to leave a scar after.  

It’s another two hours, to get up to the ranch Sam and Jess are renting for the wedding. The moment Dean gets behind the wheel he relaxes, grinning widely and leaning back in the seat. You smile out the window, and hide your flush when his hand finds your thigh.

“It’ll be late when we get there.” He says. His thumb is drawing circles into your skin.

It’s not real.

“We’ll have time to change, but-“ He sighs. “We’re gonna have to fuckin’ run to dinner. My Dad will shoot us if we’re late.”

You huff a small laugh, just for Dean’s sake. You don’t think he’s joking. 

And as happy as it made you to see his relief when you landed safely, as high as it felt to hold his hand while you walked to baggage, and how good it felt to have him keep an arm around you while you grabbed the rental car, it makes you feel sick to watch him slowly curl into himself, the closer and closer you get to the ranch. 

To seeing his family. 

To seeing his dad. 

Anything you know about John Winchester is what Dean’s told you. None of it has made you his biggest fan. Not the military shit, not the strictness or casual stories he’s thrown out about John threatening to kick him out, and only Mary being able to talk him out of it. 

But you know Dean admires his Dad. Know how important family is to him in general.

“There’s a lotta us. Sammy didn’t invite them all, ‘cause- You know.” He whistles, and you smile.

“Crazy.”

“Exactly. Grandma and Grandpa, they got pulled outta Florida. Sam couldn’t get away with leaving them out. But the rest of them? Freakin’ weirdos.”

You hum, focused more on trying to remember what you know about Dean’s family.

He’s told you that you didn’t need to know everyone. You insisted that he at least quiz you.

He’d made you flashcards. You’d spent most of the plane ride after he knocked out memorizing them.

“Samuel and Deanna.” You rattle off. “They like Fox News and unsolved network. You’re named after Deanna. Sam’s named after Samuel. They were… Farmers.”

“Of a sort.” Dean mutters under his breath. “More like freakin’ cult members. But- Yeah.” He shoots you a grin. “Good job.”

You flush, smiling back. “Hit me with another.”

“C’mon, you really don’t have to memorize them-“

“Another.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but starts quizzing you. You ace it. He smiles like he’s proud of you, squeezing your thigh.

“You’re gonna win an Oscar, sweetheart.”

You stick your tongue out at him, and he flicks your nose with a carefree laugh.

He looks carefree. Even with the tardiness and looming storm of his father. You did that.

And you’re important to Dean, too. Even if he doesn’t love you, you know you’re important to Dean. Important enough for him to touch and ask you for such intimate favors. 

Probably not close enough to trump his dad. 

So you don’t say anything, as you watch him get restless. Don’t mention that his leg is bouncing, or how he keeps looking over his shoulder when you pull into the parking lot. Dean grabs your arm and drags you inside, looking at his watch every few seconds with a paler and paler face. You’d gotten stuck in traffic, which wasn’t his fault at all, but you don’t think it’s smart to say that either. 

“Dean.” You say gently when you get to the room. He’s still holding your hand. “I have to go get changed.”

“Uh- Yeah.” He blinks at you, eyes dragging over your body. You press your thighs together, heat blooming from the attention. By a small miracle, he doesn’t seem to notice at all. 

“My hand.” You prompt him gently, and for a second he looks like he really doesn’t understand what you’re saying. “Dean, I can’t change if you’re-“

“Shit. Right.” He lets you go, stumbling back like you burned him. “Sorry. Just- Can you be fast-“

“Five minutes. Promise.”

And you don’t know how you keep that promise—doing your hair, basic makeup, making yourself presentable and nice because it might be fake but it still matters—but you do. You come out to find Dean sitting on the edge of the bed, cleaned up pretty well himself, leg bouncing as he stares at his phone. 

Bed.

Single bed. 

Fuck. 

Dean looks up, and his throat bobs. “Awesome. You ready?”

You nod, and hold out a hand. It’s a small gesture that’s too quickly becoming an instinct. 

Even worse is how fast Dean takes your hand. Like he’s not really thinking about it either. 

He doesn’t seem to the be thinking about any of this. It’s coming like air to him, how he’s walking you down to the hotel restaurant, standing taller and taller with every step. He keeps you close, so close there’s no way to read it but romantic. When you arrive, he scans over the room with an alert expression, keeping you a little behind him. You see the moment he finds his family. 

He smiles, squares his shoulders, and lets out a heavy breath. You see a blonde woman with his eyes and smile stand up from a table on the far side of the room, and—when you dare to lean a little further over Dean’s shoulder—a man grabbing her arm. A man who looks so similar to Dean—hair a little darker, face a little more worn but still remarkably similar—but doesn’t have his smile at all. You’re not sure this man knows how to smile. It feels like it would be wrong on his face.

“Showtime.” Dean mutters, squeezing your hand, and before you can damn this all and run—not real, but too real, and there’s a ringing starting in your ears—he kisses the top of your head and drags you forward, and there's no going back.

✦Chapter Ten✦

✦End note: next chapter super long lmao. we get to meet the family! ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

“What if we drive really fast. And run all the red lights.”

He snorts. “Stop tryin’ to tempt me.”

“I’m not tempting you, I’m saving you-“

“No.” He grips the wheel with white knuckles, jaw set in determination. “No, I- I can do this. Just a plane.”

“Just a plane.” You echo, fighting your smile. “Goes up, then down.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I would never.”

He shoots you a glare, and you smile back.

“You can do this.” You offer, softer than before.

Dean just grunts, and turns the car back on.

It’s about five miles, before you’re pulling over again. Not eating was the right call. When you get to the airport, you’re going to slip him some crushed up Xanax. You’ll buy him a cookie, sprinkle it on the top, and tell him it’s sugar.

“Where’s the line.” He mutters suspiciously, as you make your way through security. “Movies always got a line at this part. Why the hell isn’t there anyone here. They know something?” He grabs your wrist. “Look up planes in Kansas bad-“

“I’m not looking that up.”

“Why.” He whines. “Maybe there’s- There’s a plot, and everyone’s in on it, and the planes gonna go down-“

“Why would the plane go down.” You say lazily, holding out a hand. “ID, Dean.”

He fumbles with his wallet, still babbling. “I don’t know, engines gonna fail-“

“They wouldn’t plan a failed engine.”

“Then there gonna- Gonna fly us into something-“

“They already did that. It’s why we’re going through security.”

“They could do it again-“

“Shoes.” You order, smiling at the TSA agent a you reach the front of the line. “Deep breath.”

Dean obeys both order, eyeing the agent wearily as he checks your IDs. He waves you though with barely a word. Dean looks back with narrowed eyes.

“He didn’t ask up questions. He shoulda asked us questions, we could be crazy psychos-“

“He doesn’t need to ask questions.” You say, pulling of your shoes. “He looked us up. Belt.”

Dean pulls off his belt, hands shaking. “My uncle Bobby would say that’s Big Brother, y’know.”

“Your uncle Bobby would be right, in a way. Watch.”

His hands won’t stop shaking. “Maybe they’re makin’ sure we’re good victims for a False Flag-“

“Dean.” You say sternly, and he shuts his mouth.

You grab his hands, and squeeze them gently. His throat bobs.

“We are going to be fine.” 

Dean presses his lips in a tight line. You take a step forward, lowering your voice.

“There’s no false flag. And if there was, they wouldn’t choose a random flight from Kansas to California that’s mostly going over cows and mountains.”

“Could be a plot against cows.”

Dean mumbles, and you give him an unimpressed look. He sighs.

“Fine. Fine. I’m good. All good.”

He pulls away, and stomps to the metal detector.

You smile.

His hands stopped shaking.

“I hate this.” He mutters an hour later. After the shaking came the pacing. You’re a little worried he’s going to give himself an aneurysm. “I really fuckin’ hate this, I- We should go back. Baby’s still in the lot, if we leave now we’ll make it-“

“Dean.” You catch his hand, giving him a firm look. “We already paid.”

“Fuck- What if we call a bomb threat, they might give us a refund-“

“Or we’ll get arrested. For domestic terrorism.” You squeeze his hand gently. Offer him a soft smile. “Just sit down. We’re not even on the plane yet, you’ll have plenty of time to freak out later.”

Dean works his jaw. Looks longingly down the terminal, then back to you. Sighs, and sits with a grunt. 

You smile, rubbing his back as he glares at the floor. To any outsider, it probably looks like you are dating. 

It should. You’ve been practicing.

“I’m not freakin’ out.” He grumbles, and you smile affectionately.

“Okay.”

He scowls. “I’m not.”

“I said okay.”

You hold his glower with a smile. He stares at you—and you could swear his eyes flick to your lips, but you might just be going insane—and slumps down into the seat. 

“I hate this.”

“I know, De.” You move your hand to his hair, running your finger through it gently. Just like you did in the bathroom.

Like he’s been letting yourself do, since you agreed to the fake dating thing. He’s called it training. You touch each other more, you call him De and he calls you baby. You sit closer—although it may just be as close as before, only now you’re allowed to dive right into it instead of inching towards him on the couch—and share food. You’d nailed down a backstory. Negotiated all the small details of your fake relationship, that’s a little too close to the truth for comfort. 

But still not real. 

In moments like this, when you’re touching him causally and he’s leaning into it, where you’re in the noise of the airport but it still feels like only you and Dean in the world, you have to remember that it’s fake. 

“You’re gonna be okay.” You offer, and he snorts. 

“We’re gonna die.”

“No, we’re not. It’s only a five-hour flight, the worst thing that will happen is they won’t offer any meals.”

He laughs, but it’s hollow. He’s pacing and playing grumpy, but he’s afraid. You know he’s afraid. He’d never stood as close to you, as when you were going through security. You’d never seen him so nervous as when you were driving to the airport. You don’t think he even slept last night. 

You’re worried about him. Worried he had one of those nightmares he won’t talk about, worried he’s going to fall over, worried he might actually run. You hook your arm through his, when they start calling boarding. Anchor yourself against him, when you’re the last two people left at the gate, and you have to get on the plane. 

It would be cute how jumpy he was, if you weren’t this worried. You’d tease him if he didn’t stumble down the walkway and freeze when he saw the plane door. 

You know you had to fly. Baby needed extra work after a bad storm that messed with her tires, and Dean had been so swamped at work he hadn’t gotten the chance. He’d been ready to just push her, until you did the math and realized that—even with the earliest you could leave—you’d only get there on Sam’s wedding day and get home after both your time off periods had finished. If he wanted this to work, he was going to have to fly. 

“Why couldn’t they just get married in Kansas.” He whines, and you smile. Buckle him in like he’s a toddler, because he’s shaking too much to do it himself.

“They don’t live in Kansas. And it’s like- Freezing there right now.”

“So? Winter weddings, those can work. Could’ve done, like- Snow photos- Fuck-“

He shoots up, when the plane starts moving. You sigh, and tug him back down by the collar of his shirt.

“We’re just going to the runway. It’s fine. We’re fine.” You pause, then take his hand. 

Really, fully, take his hand. Fingers woven together, palms pressed flat. He pulls on you slightly, tugging your hand with his up over his heart. You give him a soft smile, and he just blinks at you frantically.

“It’s okay.” You keep your voice gentle, and his throat bobs. “You’re okay.”

He doesn’t look convinced. His breathing stays shallow. But at the very least, he stops trying to convince you to get off the plane. 

You settle in, watching him with a little too much open affection on your face. The sweet old lady in the aisle seat leans over, and asks if your boyfriend needs medical attention. You laugh, and tell her he’s okay. 

If Dean hears it in your voice—how much you adore him—he doesn’t say anything. You’re pretty sure he’s too focused on his panic to hear anything at all. 

He hums Metallica, through the whole take off. Grips your hand so tight you stop feeling your fingers, but you don’t complain. It seems to help. You make it to the air, and he’s still conscious. 

He does make the mistake of looking out the window. You watch the blood drain from his face, and quickly grab it between your hands.

“We’re gonna switch seats.” You say firmly, and he blinks. Nods, clinging to your wrist like it’s the only thing tethering him from a complete panic attack. 

You shuffle around, and somehow manage to switch without Dean ever letting go of your body. You hit a bit of turbulence, and he looks like he wants to punch something. Stares around the plane with glazed over, almost rabid eyes. Looks at you so desperately, it almost breaks your heart. 

Your body moves before your brain can think better. You grab Dean’s head again, and drag it down against your chest. 

He pauses. You hold your breath, ready for him to push you away and tell that you took it too far.

Instead, his arms shoot around your torso. His face turns to press into your breasts, and he melts into your hold. 

You swallow. You really hope he can’t hear your heart. How it’s about to beat out of you and into him. Where it knows it belonged. 

“Can you...” Dean speaks into you, the sound rolling through your ribs. “Just- Talk? Please? ‘Bout anything, but-  Please.”

“Yeah. I- Yeah.” You take a deep breath, and your fingers start to comb through his hair. He shudders, holds you tighter. 

And you talk. About anything. About the book you’d been reading, about some random drama at work, about how you’ve been studying his family in preparation to meet them. Studying the flashcards he made you and employing… other methods. 

“I stalked your mom on Facebook.” You say sheepishly, face heating. “I followed her bread blog, too. And- I looked up how to knit, I know she’s into that. I can make a hat now. It’s a shit hat, but I can do it. She follows a birdwatching account, too, so I learned some birds. And- That soup kitchen she volunteers with. That’s cool.” You swallow. You sound insane. “She seems really nice.”

“She is nice.” Dean mumbles. It the first thing he’s said in two hours. “She’s gonna love you.”

“I hope so.”

“She will.” He snuggles further into your body. His fingers have been digging into your hips, and they might leave bruises.

You don’t mind.

“She’ll love you.” Dean repeats, his words soft. “Everyone says she’s a lot like me.”

For a second, you just nod, still petting his head. Then you hear what he actually said, and your heart does an Olympic level flip.

“What?” You squeak, looking down with wide eyes. He doesn’t respond. “Dean, what does that-“

A snore rumbles from his chest. The lack of sleep from last night caught up with him. He’s out cold.

You sigh. Resume your petting, even if it’s really more for you now. 

The old lady leans over, giving a kind small and keeping her voice down.

“You two are a lovely couple.” She whispers. “And I must say, it’s wonderful to see a man who adores his lady as much as this one adores you.”

And you smile in return, even as tears burn behind your eyes. 

“Thanks. He’s-“ You sigh, and smile down at Dean. 

Dead to the world, and so painfully perfect. 

“He’s the best.”

✦Chapter Nine✦

✦End note: i love when they're super normal about each other. yeah you're both so convicning good job ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

Benny is a lovely man. You understand why he’s Dean’s friend. They’re both ooze the same kind of confidence. The same strange combination of laziness and sheer dedication to everything in the world.

“Look at you.” Benny drawls when he shakes your hand. “Dean downplayed your beauty, my lady.”

You smile. It’s just nice to think Dean would talk about you at all. “He downplayed yours as well.”

Benny laughs, and Dean clears his throat behind you.

“Alright, that’s enough hand shaking. You’re gonna pull each other’s freakin’ arms off or something.”

He pulls you back, and Benny’s eyes gleam.

“I was just gettin’ to know her, Dean, no need to start barking.”

“I do not bark-“

“Yes, you do.” You giggle. “You pant, too. And wag your tail when I give you head pats.”

Benny smirks. “He’s such a good boy, isn’t he.”

You hum an agreement, still smiling, and Dean narrows his eyes.

“Glad you two get along.” He grumbles. “C’mon, giggles. Sit down.”

You let him pull you across the bar—another place you could’ve said no—and Benny follows with an amused smirk.

“Have you trained him yet?” Benny teases once your in the booth. “He is a big fan of treats and… other rewards.”

Benny wiggles his brows, and you flush furiously.

“Benny.” Dean uses his deeper, rougher voice. The one that means he’s serious about something.

He’s only used it on you once. When you walked home through the southside after a hookup at midnight, and he barked that you damn near gave him a heart attack. Ordered you to never do it again. You’ve never been afraid of him, but that had been the closest.

Less fear of him, though. More for him. It had been like he was opening up his chest and demanding you see how much you’d freaked him out by doing that.

Maybe he’s never used the voice on you, then. There’s no raw vulnerability, when he snaps at Benny.

And Benny doesn’t seem bothered by it at all. Not in the way you’d been guilty for days over scaring him.

“Sorry, brother. Just givin’ the lady some ideas-“

“She doesn’t need your ideas.”

“They’d be rather helpful-“

“No.” Dean looks at you, and you could swear his eyes soften in a second. “Tell him about work. And the purple dog.”

Your lips twitch. “It was a dinosaur.”

“Right.” He gives Benny a dramatic, obvious look. “It was a dinosaur.”

You stomp on his foot. He makes a big show of being wounded, and that was another spot where you could’ve said no to him.

But you couldn’t. You’re not sure you know how.

“Dean is very fond of you.” Benny hums when Dean goes to get drinks. “I understand why.”

“I- huh?”

“You are quite charming.”

“Uh- Thanks?” You swallow. “You too?”

Benny nods, watching you strangely. Like he’s trying to find something you’ve hidden from his sight.

“You are close. With him.”

“Uh, yeah. We live together?”

“Hm. That you do.”

You didn’t know Dean enjoyed the company of men who speak in riddles. You’re seconds from demanding just one straight word when Dean gets back with the drinks.

“You wanna split fries with me, sweetheart?” He asks, looking directly at you. Like Benny isn’t there at all.

And this would be a very good time to practice saying no. It’s something small. Inconsequential.

But you also know Dean sometimes doesn’t get a chance to eat at work. And that he won’t add something to the tab unless you’re sharing with him.

“Yes, please.” You smile, and Dean grins back.  

God. You’re horrible at this.

It’s not like you’re bad at saying no in general. You go out with Charlie a week later, and run into one of the dads from work. He’s single. Cute. Insists on buying you a drink with no expectations, and is rather charming. His son is a delight in class, and he’s humble about it.

“Sorry if this is too forwards.” He says at the end of the night, while you wait for Charlie to come around with the car. “And I was serious when I said no expectations, but- You’re beautiful. And I had a great time tonight. Would you want to go on a real date sometime?”

God. You wish you could.

But it wouldn’t be fair. Not to yourself, or to this lovely man who would just end up with his heart broken.

In another life, you dream you say yes. That he takes you out, and you’ve already forgotten about Dean by the end of the night.

But in real life, you’re already comparing them. You’ve been shivering in the cold for a few minutes now, and Dean would’ve given you his coat. In the bar you’d slipped, and Dean would’ve caught you.

The halo of the streetlights doesn’t make this man look like an angel.

It just makes him look like more of a man.

“I’m not allowed to date parents.” You say apologetically, and he laughs it off.

“Well, maybe when Finn is in first grade then.”

You smile, and don’t say a word. It’s a real rule.

You would’ve broken it for Dean.

“I need a favor.”

You look up from your cereal the next morning, the spoon already in your mouth. “Huh?”

A little milk dribbles down your chin and you scramble to wipe it, face burning with embarrassment. Dean watches with a smirk, raising his brow when your eyes meet, and your hand slips. The spoon falls into the bowl, splashing over your face. More cereal escapes your mouth, and you whine like a child, trying to wipe with your hands.

“Son of a- Jesus, woman.” Dean passes you a napkin, shit-eating grin on his face. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“I’m not trying to.” You grumble, wiping your shirt. “And no being mean, you said you needed a favor.”

“Well, I’m rethinking it now-“

“Dean.”

He just grins under your glare. Leans forward and laughs like you’re not actively planning his murder.

“You still got something.” He points to your chin, and you stick your tongue out at him as you dab it. He snorts. “You know I’m helping you, right?”

“Fuck you.”

“Not with milk on your face- Fuck-“

His hand had slipped. Landed right in your bowl, sending it flying right at his face. You burst out laughing as he’s drenched in milk and soggy cereal, a sour expression on his face that’s a little less effective than he probably wants it to be. You can see him fighting the smile. 

“Shit.” He groans, running a hand down his face then flinching when he sees the damage on his hand. “Goddammit, this shit is gonna take forever to get out-“

“It’ll be fine.” You push to your feet with a shrug. “Come on, I can wash it.”

You start down the hall, and don’t realize that Dean isn’t following until you’re at the bathroom door. You look back, and he’s just standing in the kitchen. Mouth in a tight line, milk dripping from his hair, eyes wide.

You frown. “Dean, the longer you let it sit the worse it’s going to be.”

He just stares. “Uh-“

“Come on.” 

You wave him forward, and it’s like you tugged on an invisible rope. He stumbles forward, hands dropping awkwardly to his side, and follows you with an oddly nervous expression. 

You’re not sure what’s going on with him. It’s just a bathroom. 

“Sit.” You point to the floor next to the tub. “Put your head back, and take off your shirt. I’ll wash it later.”

Dean nods, giving you that strange look before pulling his shirt slowly over his head. He drops it on the closed toilet lid and lowers himself to the floor just as you asked. You kneel at his side, turning on the shower with a sigh. You have shampoo, and a removable shower head. This really shouldn’t be that hard. 

It only hit you when you look back to him. What a massive mistake you made.

Dean’s shirtless. Close enough that, if you just stretched your fingers, you’d be able to touch his chest. His skin, smooth and soft looking. The muscles that shift as he breathes heavily. When your eyes lock onto his, you almost gulp. 

He’s staring at you under hooded eyes. His jaw is clenched, his arms stiff at his side. 

Waiting for you to touch him. Clean him up. You’re supposed to be cleaning him up. 

You take a deep breath, and force your body to move. You wipe the milk off his face while the water gets warm. Rinse his hair, then steel yourself as you rub in the shampoo. It’s so painfully close. So intimate. You feel like you’re invading on yourself. Like you’re doing something so strangely dirty, just by washing his hair. 

You’d been right, every time you dreamt about it. It is soft. 

When your fingers brush against his scalp, his whole body shudders, then relaxes. When you repeat the motion, his hands flex. 

You can’t keep looking at his body. It’s dangerous. You clear your throat, and try to think of anything else to say. 

“What’s the favor?” You mumble, and Dean grunts.

“It’s- Uh- Nothing. Never mind.”

You pause, fingers stilling in his hair. “Dean. What’s the favor.”

“I said never mind-“

“Dean Winchester.”

He sighs, long and labored. Opens his eyes just enough to examine you through his eyelashes, then closes them again. “You can’t get pissed. If you don’t wanna do it, just- Say no. And we’ll forget it. Okay?”

You bite your lower lip, but nod. “Oh- Okay.”

“So.” He coughs. “Y’know how Sammy’s gettin’ married?”

“Mhm.” You focus on his hair, even as your fingers start to shake for no reason at all. He’d called you after his trip to California to help Sam with the ring. Excitedly shown you all the photos after the proposal. You’d been thrilled for him, then sat in this very same tub for an hour, trying not to cry about how that was never going to be you and him. “You want me to water the flowers?”

He chuckles softly. “Not exactly. And those are your flowers, sweetheart.”

“You bought them.”

“‘Cause you were sad about not gettin’ a cat, and- Never mind.” He takes a deep breath. “My thing is- it’s next month. The wedding. I gotta go home for it. And, uh- I was wondering. Just- A thought. Nothin’ you gotta commit to right now, but- Thought I’d ask, even if you didn’t wanna-“

“Dean.” You snap him gently out of the rambling, and he coughs. 

“Right. Sorry. Just- Here’s the deal.” 

He takes a deep breath, and you stop massaging his hair. He looks so painfully tensed, his whole body seized up, his pretty lips in a tight pout. He’s dragged his eyes open again, and they’re fixed so nervously  on yours. He’s grabbed your knee with one hand. Like he’s worried you’re going to kick him, or run away. 

“My whole family’s gonna be there.” He mutters, searching over your face with every word. “They’ll all be on my ass, about Sammy already settling, and me- Not doin’ that.” He coughs. The red from his ears spreads over his cheeks. “And I just figured, if they thought I was gonna settle, maybe… The whole thing would be easier. For everyone.”

You stare at him, the words slowly falling into place in your head. It takes a moment. His hand squeezes on your knee, and it almost knocks them into you. Forces all the meaning into place. 

Your mouth falls open. “Are you asking me to-“

“Yeah. But- Only if you want to.” He gives you a small, boyish grin. “But I’d owe you. Big time. Like- I’d pay the whole rent for two months big time.”

You shake your head. “Dean, don’t-“

“I’m serious, I really need this-“

“I know but, that’s so much money, and-“ You sigh, brow furrowing in a tight line. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to do… that.”

He squeezes your knee again. “We’d figure it out. Together.” Another charming smile. “How about one favor. Whatever you want. No questions, no expiration. You could use it to get a cat.”

You laugh weakly, and he squeezes your knee again. He’s giving you almost puppy-like pleading eyes. You don’t know how you’re going to say no, but- 

All you want is him. A cat would be nice, but all you’ve craved, for so so long, is Dean. 

And that might be limit of his favor. A limit that might outweigh the toll it comes with. 

Pretending to be Dean’s girlfriend, for a week, with his family. Having everything you want, and making it all play. All a lie. All fake.

“Why me?” You ask softly, looking back to his hair. It’s filled with suds. You should probably start washing it soon. “I mean, there’s Charlie. Or- An actress, or Pam from work, she’s nice-“

“My mom already knows you.” Dean cuts you off with low words. “Easier sell, than some random chick she’s never heard of.” 

A lump forms in your throat. “Your mom knows me?”

“Yeah. I talk about you.”

You flush. It’s an impressive feat, the way you manage to force your voice into something teasing instead of confused and hopeful. 

“Aw, you love me-“

“Shut up.” He grunts, pinching your knee in the spot he knows makes you squeal. 

“Dean-“

“Sorry.” He grins up at you, and he doesn’t sound it. Stupid, perfect asshole. “But- Please, sweetheart. Please. One favor. Anything.”

You really shouldn’t agree. You shouldn’t. It’s going to backfire. The love that’s been gnawing at you since that day on the ice is going to finally grow sharp enough to eat you alive. 

You’re supposed to say no. Say no. Say no. Say no. Say-

But he said please.

“Okay.” You mutter, and he grins. 

You can’t find it in you, to regret agreeing.

It made Dean smile.

✦Chapter Eight✦

✦End note: they're both too down bad someones gotta do something ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

Work is a welcome distraction. It’s hard to be lovelorn and shredded from it when there’s a six year old babbling about the dinosaur he drew this morning.

Hard.

Not impossible.

You, of course, somehow manage to remain torn apart.

It doesn’t help that Dean’s everywhere in your heart, and it leaks up into your brain like an oil spill. All consuming and lined with false little rainbows. Family’s pick up their children at the end of the day, and you picture yourself on Dean’s arm, smiling as easily as the couples. A mom says my husband with a shine of pride, and you bite down the urge to call Dean the same. A dad rambles about how his wife, quite brilliantly, suggested they start using a new system to help their daughter count.

You wonder if Dean would ever speak of you, as if the sun only shined so that you might feel its warmth.

In your dreams, he does. In your head, Dean speaks of you as if the world should be blessed to have you walking upon it.

In real life, Dean’s hand grazes your lower back when he reaches over you to grab something from the cabinet, and you spend the rest of the day touching the spot to try and press the feeling into your nerves forever. It’s tingly and warm, licking up your spine and pooling in your core.

From a single fucking touch.

You think you might be close to losing your mind.

It’s one of those weeks. Between the everything of Dean and crazy parents, you’re on the brink of snapping. The only solace you get is during nap time, when you crouch at one of the drawing tables.

Then you come home. And he’s just there, in all his glory.

“Long day at work?” He teases when you kick off your shoes, and you flip him off. “The tykes overtake you? Like Chicken Run?”

You grumble, flopping next to him on the couch. “I hate that movie.”

“I know. Makes it funnier.”

Dean’s arm goes around you. Around the couch.

Which has you on it. Basically around you.

“Come on, sweetheart.” He flicks your nose, and you pretend to bite his finger. “Jesus, they got you, made you feral-“

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes, sinking into the couch with a smile. “You’re not going to get your gift.”

That makes him perk up. Like waving a bone in front of a dog. Too easy.

“Hey, woah, I didn’t know there were gifts, I can be on good behavior for gifts.”

You snort. “You know, the five-year-olds do it because they like me and respect me.”

“I like you and respect you-“

“You poked me.”

“And,” he gestures to a bowl on the coffee table. “Made you dinner.”

You blink at the food. It had been such a long day. You hadn’t even seen it.

The small gesture makes you sniffle. Dean’s face falls, and you shake your head, batting off his concern.

“It’s fine- I’m fine-“

“Sweetheart.”

“Made this for you.” You mumble, shoving the gift into his hands before running to your room.

The drawing you made at naptime. It’s a crude scribble of some ducks in a little line, a bigger one at the front. Wearing his leather jacket.

It had been a joke. It doesn’t feel like one anymore.

And Dean doesn’t mention it, when he follows you. You don’t even know what he does with it.

You know he sits next to you until you stop crying.

“You wanna talk about it?” He mutters, and when you shake your head he doesn’t push it.

Morning comes—you don’t remember falling asleep—and the room smells like him. You can feel the phantom of his touch, on the back of your neck as he soothed you.

And neither of you speak about it again.

This girl Ellie like to sit with you during lunch. You’ve spoken to her parents about it, and they don’t mind. You’ve got a deal that she has to eat with the other kids once a week—it’s good for her to make friends her age—but otherwise she’s welcome to eat at your side.

She asks a lot of questions. You usually enjoy answering them. They’re rather funny, like what kind of dinosaur are you and why aren’t there sharks on land and look at me do this spin, isn’t it cool?

Today, though Ellie’s question is not funny at all.

She says your name, licking peanut butter off her fingers. “Do you have a husband?”

You sigh. Nice reminder. “No, I don’t.”

“Hm.” Ellie peers at you, as if you could be lying. “Do you have a boyfriend.”

You shake your head, and Ellie wrinkles her nose.

“Do you have a wife?”

“No. I’m single, El.”

Ellie recoils like you told her you eat babies.

“Why?”

“Because. Adult reasons.”

Ellie seems to deem this an acceptable—if not ridiculous—answer, and moves on to asking you what your favorite kind of jelly is. Hers is grape. She’s in a big everything purple is the best phase, and later that afternoon you end up with a drawing of a purple dinosaur shoved into your hands.

“That’s cute.” Dean says when you come home. “Ellie again?”

“Yep.” You add it to your corkboard, and Dean chuckles.

“That kid adores you.”

“I’m good at my job.”

“I know you are.”

You glance over your shoulder, and find him grinning at you. It’s rather unfair.

He’s staring, too. It makes you feel all prickly in a very unproductive way. In your head, you get on your knees and crawl towards him, showing him exactly what happens when he looks at you like that. In reality, you get antsy and snap.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs. “Just- It’s nice. That you’re so good at it.”

“At the thing I get paid for.”

“At, uh- Kids.”

“At kids?”

“Yeah. I mean- You’d be- It’s-“ Dean cuts himself off, running a hand over his face. “Never mind.”

He goes to take a twenty minute shower. Not that you mean to time it.

Your body just always seems to know exactly how long he’s away from you. It’s getting to be a problem.

You might need help.

“If you ever tell him we did this.” You hiss. “I’ll fucking throttle you.”

“Oooh.” Charlie beams. “Kinky.”

You snort, kicking her leg under the table.

Dean’s out for the night. Something about some old friends being in town.

Usually, you’re invited to meet his other friends. Tonight, you were not, and you’re trying not to think about it.

That’s never something you’ve been good at doing. You count yourself rather lucky, that Charlie declared you far more interesting than Dean and Benny, and decided to stay home.

You told her she didn’t have to.

“Yes, I do.” She’d shrugged. “Otherwise Dean would come home and find you Beautiful Minding about why you weren’t invited.”

You wish she wasn’t so completely correct. You’d been alone for ten minutes between Dean leaving and Charlie coming over, and started to pace like you were being kept in a prison cell.

But why wouldn’t he invite you? Why would Dean bring you everywhere, and call you his best friend, then not want you to meet his other friends? He must think Benny wouldn’t like you, but if he thinks that, Dean might not actually like that all that much. Or he wants to hookup with someone tonight, which he’s never had a problem telling you before, but a small, foolish part of you had been convinced he’d stopped sleeping around, and convinced that meant something, and if it’s not true then nothing means anything-

“He makes you spiral.” Charlie says, tapping the paper in front of you.

You frown. “He does not make me spiral.”

Charlie says your name, dry and bored. “I just watched your eyes get all crazy, and I’d bet all my swords you were thinking about Dean.”

“I- That’s not-“ You flush. “I spiral about everything, it just happened to be about Dean this time. He’s not special.”

“Uh huh. Write it down.”

You scowl, but scratch makes me spiral into the cons column. You don’t like it there. The words looks all jagged and ugly and unfair.

You add a little asterisk. But I spiral about everything.

Charlie sighs, but doesn’t argue. “Okay, now do a pro-“

She doesn’t finish speaking before you’re scrawling sweet. Then hot. Then funny, and thoughtful, and kind-

“Kind and sweet are the same-“

“No, they’re not. Kind is when he opens the door for me and helps random old ladies carry their bags.” You chew on your lower lip, tapping the pencil against the paper. “Sweet is when he holds my hair back and says I look nice.”

Charlie pretends to gag. You ignore her.

“You have to add two more cons.”

“I don’t have any more cons-“

“You have to have cons.” Charlie mutters. “I’m going to blow my brains out if you don’t have cons.”

That’s a little dramatic. You roll your eyes, and try to think of cons. Charlie suggests anger issues, and you write it down to appease her. You’re certain if you tell her he had PTSD, and he always walks away from me when he’s getting angry so he doesn’t take it out on me, you’re going to get punched in the face.

Pro, he’s in good shape from his job. Con, he’s in good shape despite his eating habits. Pro, he eats healthy when you bully him into it. Con, he whines like a little bitch about it. Pro, it’s very cute when he pouts like a toddler over a few carrots. His lips get all puckered and his nose scrunches. He grumbles and whines, glowering when you try to play here comes the air plane, then inhales everything like a human vacuum so he doesn’t have to taste it.

Pro. He listens to you.

By the time you’re done with the pros and cons list, there’s a gleam of horror in Charlie’s eyes. You’re not to happy with it either.

“There have to be more cons.” Charlie mutters, flipping the paper over like she might find some underneath. “Shit, I came up with like half of these, you were supposed to come up with them yourself.”

“Sorry.” You mumble, and Charlie snorts.

“No, you’re not. Jesus, you’re like so in love with him- Are you sure he hasn’t been drugging you-“

“If he has, he’s not being very proactive about it.”

Charlie snorts, but shakes her head, giving you an almost desperate look. “You can’t be this in love with Dean. It’s Dean.”

“I know.” You whine. “This was supposed to help, Charlie. You said it would help.”

“I didn’t know it was this bad!”

“Of course it’s this bad, he’s amazing-“

“I’ve known him for seven years! He’s a loser, and- And a dork, and- And once I saw him almost choke on marshmallows, you can’t be this in love with a man who chokes on marshmallows!”

“Was he playing chubby bunny?”

“Yeah, but-“

“We do that together sometimes.” You mumble, smiling at your hands. “He can fit so many in his mouth.”

Charlie groans, standing up to pace around the room. And you know how pathetic this is. If it was a switch you could just flip off, you would. But love for Dean has started to line itself over all your most vital organs, and you think ripping it out would just make your whole body unravel.

You burn the pros and cons paper. If you keep it and Dean finds it, you’d have to jump off the roof in ritual suicide.

“You should start saying no to him.” Charlie mutters, watching the ash crawl through the air. “When he asks you to do stuff or whatever. Maybe that’ll help.”

Maybe it will. You hum an agreement, but hug yourself tight because you already know.

It won’t. But you admire Charlie for having enough faith, to think that this is a disease you’d allow yourself to be cured of.

✦Chapter Seven✦

✦End note: sometimes you just need fluff y'know ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

You download all the apps. You talk to people and get ghosted and land a few dates. You tell Dean you have a date—on a Wednesday, because the guy wanted Friday, but you couldn’t bring yourself to agree—and he stares at you like he’s never heard the word before. 

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Shakes his head, then makes the face. 

“Alright.”

You swallow. You don’t know what you wanted him to say. You know it was more than that. 

“Can I share my location with you?” You ask, shifting nervously on your feet. “In case he’s like- An axe murder?”

You laugh weakly. Dean doesn’t even smile. 

“Sure. Have fun.”

You nod, some part of you waiting for him to say more. He doesn’t. The most you get is a quick look after you change, his jaw flexing and body shifting. You offer him a nervous smile and ask if it’s good—trying to at least pretend that you’re not mostly wearing such a short dress for him to see—and he just nods. Looks back to his phone, his voice low and oddly strained. 

“You look amazing.” He grunts. “He’ll have to be crazy not to like it.”

It’s all you get out of him. Not enough to really inflate into something. More than enough to take over your thoughts for the rest of night, to the point that you’re staring at the man across the table and forgetting his name, because all your brain can do is dissect what Dean meant by amazing. 

He turned out to be right. The nameless man wolf whistled when he saw you. Showered you in compliments that only made you smile sheepishly, placing a hand on your lower back and cooing something suggestive you can’t even remember anymore. 

You’d feel worse about how little attention you’re paying to him, if he wasn’t only talking about himself. You’d have some level of guilt, if he didn’t try to get you into his taxi at the end of the night despite having not asked a single question about your life. Daydreaming about Dean turned out to be the most effective use of your time, with how the night went. 

But only this night. 

Because the pattern repeats. 

You go on a date. You try—a little hard every single time—and a handful of times, you even make it to a third or fourth date. You sleep with a few of them, two or three a few times. Once, you get far enough with a perfectly nice guy name Jake that you let him come back to your apartment. 

Far enough that he wants to meet Dean.

“You talk about him all the time.” Jake brings it up casually one night, and you fumble with your phone. It clatters to the floor, and Jake frowns at you like you’re crazy.

A tiny, unhelpful voice in the back of your head murmurs that Dean would never let you drop your phone. Every time something as small as a pencil slips from your hand, Dean catches it before it hits the ground. He’s caught you, when you stand on something you shouldn’t and stumble. That one time he talked you into ice skating you’d spent the whole day attached to his arm, and he’d never even let your knees hit the ice.

“You’re all wobbly.” He’d grinned at you after. “Like a baby deer or something.”

You’d stuck your tongue out at him. “I am not like a baby deer.”

“Or something.”

Dean had laughed when you’d hit his arm, side-stepped your next blow, and caught you when you stumbled forward.

He’d been all too close. Chest pressed against yours, strong hands on your waist and shoulder, lips barely a breath away. And maybe the night was just that cold, but he’d been warmer than a volcano. You’d been ready to jump. You’d been ready to say your prayers and close your eyes, to fall down into him and let his heat take you over-

Jake snaps your name, waving a hand in front of your face. You blink at him, and carve a smile onto your face.

“Sorry. You want to- To-“

“To meet Dean.” He grunts, and the smile is burning at your cheeks.

It might be a punishment. Your body eating itself to offer a reparation for your mind’s sins. If Jake sees the pain—dull and demanding behind your eyes—he doesn’t mention it.

And you wonder if he knows. If sometimes he hears how you muffle cries of Dean’s name into the pillows, chewing your lips to remind them that they can’t simply say what you want. Who you want. Soft sighs and cries of Dean are not helpful, or wanted. Your tongue should be cut off, for the way it always seems ready to snap at he’s supposed to ask you what’s wrong when you pout and curl into a ball on the couch.

You know that Jake can’t be blamed. He’s just a man.

It’s unfair, to compare him to a god.

“What’s up with you?” Dean asks that afternoon, and you have to ask him. You told Jake you would.

“Nothing.”

Oops.

Dean doesn’t look convinced. He crosses his arms over his chest, frowning down at you. “Nothing, huh.”

You try an easy smile. You’re certain you look psychotic.

“Sure doesn’t look like nothing-“

“Jake wants to meet you.”

You speak at the same time. Dean’s jaw hangs open. You snap your mouth shut.

The staring match lasts about two minutes before Dean clears his throat. You’re grateful. You had no will to speak first.

“Jake? That’s- New boytoy, right?”

“Boyfriend.” You mutter, the bitterness of the words leaking into your tone. “But- Yeah.”

“Hm.” Dean looks off to the side, huffing a low laugh. “And he’s gunning to meet me?”

“We live together.” He says I talk about you all the time. “He has to eventually.”

“Why.”

“Why?”

“Yeah. What’ve I got to do with your little- Thing.”

“You’re my roommate. And my friend.”

Dean makes a face like he’s smelt something funny. You sigh, sinking further into the couch cushions.

“You don’t have to-“

“No.” Dean grunts. “I will. But,” he points a stern finger at you. “I ain’t making him dinner.”

You smile. That’s not a deal you can complain about.

Dean only makes you dinner. You have no intention of sharing something so sacred with Jake.  

Who’s fine. Perfectly fine. Just… Not Dean.

And that’s where it all falls apart. 

Every guy that doesn’t make it past the first date, it’s because you’re too lost in thoughts of Dean. If they do get that second time, it’s because you can squint at them and see him instead. The men you sleep with have builds that are similar. The ones you sleep with twice have voices. 

And with Jake, you only really see it when he and Dean are standing in the same room. When he reaches out with a weary expression, and Dean takes his hand with a scowl. 

“You must be Dean.” Jake says slowly, and Dean nods.

“Must be, huh.” He shrugs, his knuckles white. “Wish I could say I knew who you were, buddy, but I got no damn clue.”

You want to sink into the floor or jump out the window, because it’s so painfully obvious. With Jake. With Michael, after Jake leaves. With Shawn, after Michael gives up. 

Then again, when Shawn—a little slower than the other two—sees it as well. 

“Is there… Something with you and Dean.”

“No.” You mutter, not convincing yourself. “We’re just close friends.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.”

Shawn says your name, and you hug your legs to your chest. You know what’s coming. You’ve even started hearing it from people who only make it to the third date, when you talk about him too much. From that one guy with a voice that was a little too close, who had to deal with you moaning the wrong name. 

“Yeah?”

Shawn is a little slow. He doesn’t get it on the nose, but he’s more than close enough. 

“You know, you might not see it, but- You and Dean… I don’t like it.”

“Why? We’re just-“

“I swear to god, don’t say friends.” Shawn snaps. “You never look at me the way you look at him! Never smile at me, never listen- You hang out with him more than me, you cancel dates because he asked you to, you just let him toss you around like you’re a toy-“

Your head snaps up, voice going cold. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

Shawn scoffs. “Come on. You have to hear yourself-“

“He’s my friend-“

“I’m sure you think that.” Shawn spits. “But I know. Dean knows. Everyone knows you’re just his bitch.”

You leave. Stand up, and march out the door. When Shawn tries to follow you, you flip him off and tell him that if he ever speaks to you again, you’re going to call the police. 

He scoffs. “Or you’re just going to sic Dean on me. That fucking asshole will probably do whatever you ask, like a fucking dog.”

You punch him, and run. You’re not sure if he’ll chase. You don’t want to find out. 

Once you’re a few blocks away, you call Dean. He told you to call him, if you ever needed a ride home. You’ve never taken him up on it, because after that morning with the girl, there had been a rotting fear of him seeing you like that again. 

But it’s dark. And you’re cold, and tired. He said he didn’t want you walking home alone. 

He picks up after two rings. Doesn’t ask questions, when you tell him where you are or when he pulls up to the curb. 

He brought a blanket and ice cream. You wrap yourself in it, and give him a weak smile as you slide into the Impala. Your eyes are heavy, your eyes red and fingers shaking, but Dean only looks you up and down, and mutters one soft question.

“You okay?”

You nod, and pull the blanket a little tighter. You are now. He’s here. 

And some small part of it feels good. Shawn was the first guy in a while that you got to break up with. 

All the others left because they realized they were just faded, poorly done copies of Dean. Right down to the flannel and voice. Right down to everything but Dean’s irreparable, impossible smile. Right down to everything but his light. 

“You want me to beat him up?” He asks while you’re stuck at a red light. 

You laugh weakly, and shake your head. “No. Thank you, though.”

“Anytime.” 

There’s a long silence, but it doesn’t ache. Doesn’t feel anything but peaceful. Anything but safe. You keep eating your ice cream. You offer Dean a bite, and he takes it with a small grin. He turns up the music just enough and looks to you for approval on the song. You offer it with a smile. 

Your head slowly drops onto his shoulder. He tenses but doesn’t move away. 

After a second, his hand finds your knee. Stays there. 

You let out a long, heavy breath. And you know. 

You’re not going to be able to move on. 

✦Chapter Six✦

✦End note: chapter four remains my "bonding" chapter lmao✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

He’d cough. Lean back, patting your leg awkwardly then mutter goodnight. Vanish into his room, and leave you stranded and alone on the couch. You’d touch your leg where he’d left his mark. Crawl back to your own room and bunch the sheets between your thighs, letting your mind drift into the world where he pulled you to your feet. Guided you into his room, and lain you down on his bed. 

And he never does that. You know he never will. 

But after the river of women that had threatened to drown you, things change. 

One night, the movie finishes, and you talk. 

And talk. And talk. And the hour passes, and Dean doesn’t leave. 

“What’s your favorite animal?”

You giggle, your feet up on the coffee table and body slumped down into the cushion. “What’s my favorite animal?”

“Yeah? Why, am I not allowed to ask you a fuckin’ question?”

“No, I just wasn’t expecting that question. It’s like- We’re in elementary school, and you’re asking me like a stupid ice breaker.” You roll a little onto your side, grinning up at him in the dark. “What’s your favorite color?”

You say it teasingly. He just shrugs, and holds your gaze. 

“Blue.” He sounds dead serious. “Like a kinda- Watery silver blue.” He sinks lower into the couch. Closer to your side. “Big fan of brown, too. And red.” He whistles. “Love a good red. You?”

You stare at him for a second. “Me?”

“Yeah. What’s your favorite color?”

“Um- Rainbow?” You flush, looking down to your nails. “I was never able to decide.”

“On a favorite color?”

“Yeah. Didn’t want any of them to feel left out.”

Dean chuckles. “‘Course you didn’t.”

You frown up at him. “What does that mean-“

“Nothing.” He shrugs, nudging your shoulder lightly. “You owe me a favorite animal.”

“I owe you-“

“Yeah. We’re playing twenty questions, sweetheart. It’s my turn, and I wanna know your favorite animal.”

You stare at him, trying to weigh out if he’s joking. And he’s smiling down at you, so strangely soft, but still serious. This isn’t a bit. Not a joke, or a prank. He just… Really seems to want to know. 

“I like cats.” You whisper, testing the waters. He sighs.

“I hate cats.”

“What?” You sit up. “Why?”

He gives you an amused look. “I’m allergic.”

“So?”

“So I don’t like things that make me stop breathing.”

You roll your eyes. “Pussy.”

He snorts. “You think I’m a pussy for not wanting to die?”

“Yeah.” You stick your tongue out at him, then squeak when he pinches your thigh. “Dean!”

He’s laughing. Only laughs louder, when he tries to go in again and you kick his hand away. You try to aim for his chest, but he catches you ankle. You scream, when he runs his fingers up your foot, and his laughter turns to wheezing when you punch him square in the diaphragm. 

“Shit. I think you killed me, sweetheart.”

“You earned it.” You snap at him, and he just chuckles.

“Yeah, guess I did. Can you speak at my funeral?”

“No.”

“C’mon, it’s my dyin’ wish-“

“Make a better one.”

He laughed again, grinning up at you with such an intoxicating light in his eyes. Your bodies are closer together than you realized. Your feet still in his lap, his hand holding you ankle, his thumb rubbing small circles. 

“I can’t think of a better one.” He says, still grinning at you, and you smile back.

“Good thing you’re not dying, then.”

“Yeah,” he squeezes your ankle, and you melt a little further into every single part of this moment. His eyes on yours. His touch against your skin. The pure attention, that doesn’t seem to be fleeting or clung to at all. “You’d miss me too much.”

You snort, and pretend to kick him again, but you still flush. 

He has no idea. 

“What’s your favorite animal?” You ask, trying to earn some distance.

Dean shrugs. “Ducks.”

You giggle, and he just watches you with vague amusement.

“You like ducks?”

“Like that little waddle line shit they do. ‘S cute.”

“Awww-“

“You tell anyone, I’ll deny it.”

“I won’t tell anyone.” You mime crossing your heart, a massive grin on your face. “Except Charlie- Dean-“

He starts to tickle your foot, and you shriek. You manage to wiggle away, but he’s faster, and suddenly you’re pinned to the ground.

Below him. His body pressed all over yours, his breathing ragged and eyes blown out.

It must just be the drink and the adrenaline.

For him.

For you, there that ache between your thighs that’s only going to build.

“No ducklings.” He mutters, eyes inches over yours.

You smile. “Ducklings?”

He sighs, dropping his face into your chest. Near your tits.

The drink. The drink.

His lips graze the swell of your breasts. You don’t know how you bite down your moan.

“There the ones that go in a line.” He grumbles, and you laugh breathlessly.

“Okay. No ducklings.”

You shake on it. Dean climbs off of you, and you wish he’d come back the moment he’s gone.

That night, you stay up until dawn. The next day, you drift through work with the stupidest smile on your face. The next night—a night that Dean would usually go out to drink, even if he’s not bringing anyone home—he makes burgers and sits across from you. Clears his throat, after only a few moments of silence. 

“What’re you doin’?” He asks, and you look up with a frown.

“Reading and eating?”

He nods, tapping his finger on the table. “Reading what?”

“A… Book?”

That earns you a flat look. “What book, smartass.”

“Oh.” You flush, looking down to your kindle then back up with wide eyes. “You probably wouldn’t know it, or- Like it.”

Dean just shrugs. “Try me.”

Again. He’s not joking. 

So you try him. Slowly at first. Cautiously. Testing the waters, trying to feel out if he’s serious, or just trying to make conversation. 

You don’t really how long you’ve been talking until Dean suddenly reaches across the table and grabs your plate, placing it on top of his empty on.

“It’s gone cold.” He explains with a shrug, moving to his feet. “Just gonna heat it up, you keep talking.”

You blink at him, but slowly resume. He keeps listening. Really listening. Nodding along and asking questions and echoing back idea, like he’s trying to prove he’s absorbing what you’re saying. 

A new tradition starts. You, telling Dean in unnecessarily deep detail, exactly what you’ve been reading, every single week. It kicks off another tradition as well, because in the morning you ask him about what show he’s watching—you don’t want him to think you don’t also care what he’s up to—and instead of him just telling you, he makes you watch an episode. 

Right next to him on the couch. Just like movie night. 

And suddenly, every night but Friday, you watch TV together. Weekends you watching in the morning, but you but you still watch. 

Saturday nights are saved for you talking about book. Sundays have their own new tradition where you get drunk together, and sit on the floor. You’re not quite sure how that one started, but you know neither of you seem willing to break it. You share a bottle of wine and stare at the ceiling, or do shots of the table and giggle like teenagers. You tell him all about your parents, he tells you about his brother. You share your dreams, he tells you about his nightmares. 

You didn’t know he had nightmares.

“It’s nothing special.” He mutters, staring up at the ceiling like it’s all stars. “Just mines, my friends going AWOL, getting locked up. Been getting a new one, where-“ He cuts himself off, scowling at the air. “Never mind.”

“Dean.” You say softly. “That’s not nothing.”

“Nothing worse than my buddies get.”

“That’s- Most people don’t get any nightmares like that.”

“Well, comes with the territory.”

“The territory?”

He’s silent for a long moment, and you’re ready to let this go. Dean doesn’t tell you things until he’s ready, and you know him better than to try and pry it out of him. That just makes him close up tighter. So you wait, humming to yourself softly as he makes his choice, and-

Dean moves suddenly. Pulling something from around his neck before shoving it into your hands. You blink at him, then the cool, thin chain.

Dog tags.

“What-“

“My Mom’s family.” He mutters, and you go completely still. “They were all kinds of crazy. Doomsday preppers, conspiracy theorists. Grandpa taught me how to shoot when I was five, and Dad wasn’t much better.” He laughed, humorless and tired. “Used to talk about me needing to be man enough. And Mom- I love her, don’t get me wrong. But she loved Dad. And when I floated joining the Marine’s like he had- Christ, it was the only time the old man looked proud of me. He thought it was a good idea. Mom liked that we were getting along. Ended up serving four years before I got a discharge. Honorable.” He says quickly, as if that’s what you’d be worried about. “Had an accident. Put me in a coma for a week. They thought I was a goner, but I got lucky. Got out, too.” He chuckles. “Best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Dean…” You sit up, looking down at him with an open, gentle expression. He snorts, turning his face away.

“Don’t do that. I don’t need pity-“

“It’s not pity-“

“Looks like it from here.” He snaps, and you swallow.

You grab his fist, tight on his chest, and slowly uncurl his fingers. He stares back at you, silent and ridged. And when you twine your fingers together, he doesn’t pull away.

This isn’t something you should be doing, but it’s too late to pull away. And when he squeezes your hand, you don’t think you’d ever want to again.

“You never told me that.” You murmur, and he sighs, sitting up.

He’s silent for a moment, staring at your tangled hands. His thumb swipes over the back of yours, jaw working as before he speaks.

“Don’t tell most people. Only Sammy really knows.”

You swallow, watching him closely. There’s a golden light from the floor lamp behind him, and it’s bending around him the same way it does in a movie. When the hero stands alone on the battlefield, head high and heart strong. He’s just watching you, that same unreadable expression his face, and something a little more. Something afraid. 

Afraid isn’t something Dean should be. He gets spiders for you when they sneak into the shower. He holds your hand when you freak out about horror movies, and grabbed you off the fire escape that one time you played truth or dare, and you’d been more drunk than either of you realized. 

If you were a little less drunk, you might’ve been able to remember the panic in his eyes, and how loud his voice had gotten when he’d shouted your name. Might’ve been able to think about the look in his eyes when he finally pulled you back inside, and you’d collapsed in a fit of giggles in his arms, completely oblivious to the danger you’d been in. How he’d put you to bed, how tenderly he’d brushed the hair from your eyes.

How he’d kissed your brow goodnight, and held your hand when you’d grabbed his in your sleep. 

But you don’t. And all you can think about is how Dean isn’t somehow who should ever have to be afraid. 

You reach over the table and grab his hand. Give him a small smile, and squeeze lightly. 

“Thank you for telling me.”

“Of course.” He rasps. “I’d tell you anything, sweetheart.”

He means that, too. Means it so much, you think it hits your love for him like a missile, and makes it explode. Not in a way of destruction. 

The same way a star explodes. The way a garden explodes. Bigger. Full of color, and life. 

“You- You too,” is all you can think to say back. Dean grins, and you smile back. 

You mean it. Almost. 

There’s one thing you’re never going to tell him. Something he’s never going to need to know. 

But in that moment, holding his hand and sitting so easily in the silence, you would’ve told him. If he asked, you would’ve told him everything. But he doesn’t. 

So you just keep sitting in the dark, Dean the only light you need in the world. 

✦Chapter Five✦

✦End note: chapter four remains my "bonding" chapter lmao✦

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