#sctjac

“Does he know where they’re keeping her?”

“They’re holding her at his house. He’s afraid if he shows up there, they’ll force him into doing what they want and kill them both.”

Russell nodded, teeth worrying at his lower lip. “He’s probably not wrong. Can you send us the address?” Colter was out of the shower now, listening with a concerned frown as he stood there, towel around his waist.

“I will. Can you help?”

Colter looked at his brother, then nodded. “Yeah. Send us whatever info you’ve got. We’re on our way.”

Your eyes opened reluctantly, drifting closed again a few times before you managed to keep them open. Your head was pounding, your body ached, and – you were cold. Awareness slowly seeped in, and you managed to hold your head up, taking in your surroundings. Your pulse began to race as you realized you had no idea where you were.

You tried to move, but your arms were bound behind you, around the pole that you were propped against. It felt like a zip tie, and it dug painfully into your wrists as you tested it. The light was dim, but you could see that you were in a large, mostly empty room with a concrete floor. It was chilly against your legs, and you realized you were wearing the camisole and shorts that you had gone to bed in. No wonder you were cold.

The thought of shouting for help crossed your mind, but you quickly discarded it. The foggy memory of rough hands dragging you from your bed and covering your face with a rag told you the response wouldn’t be a friendly one. You could faintly hear male voices upstairs, and the sound of a TV. You bit your lips together, fighting panic and the tears that threatened. You needed to try to stay calm, be observant, and do what you had to do to make it through whatever was happening.

As your eyes adjusted to the darkness, you made out the shape of a bike against the far wall. Back in the corner was an old foosball table, a baseball bat leaning against it. It seemed familiar – and your eyes widened as you realized where you were – in your brother’s basement. You rested your head back against the pole and closed your eyes, a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. So Grant was in trouble, and you were obviously bait – or leverage.

You sat there for what seemed like forever, no indication of the hour, no windows to give a hint of what time of day it was. You had tried to work your hands free, but your wrists were rubbed raw and you had finally given up. No one had even bothered to come down and offer you water, or to take you to the bathroom. You had an awful feeling that they weren’t planning on keeping you alive.

A loud knock from the floor above startled you from the doze you had slipped into, and a loud, cheerful voice joined the other male voices you had heard previously. “Hey, is Grant around? Thought he might wanna join me and my brother to watch the game and have a few beers. Hi, I’m Russell, I was Grant’s roomie in college. I could tell you some stories.”

Your head hit the pole behind you with a dull thud, disappointment sinking the hope that it had been a rescuer knocking at the front door. A tear slipped down your cheek as you closed your eyes. Maybe Grant was already hurt, or dead. Maybe…

Your eyes flew open wide with panic as a large hand covered your mouth, and you began to struggle, terrified. “Shhhhh!” A whisper next to your ear made you freeze, your body trembling with fear. “I’m not gonna hurt you, okay? My name’s Colter. I’m here to help you. But you have to stay quiet. If they hear us…” You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest as his hand moved slowly away. “I’m gonna cut you loose.”

You felt the tension loosen on the zip tie around your wrists, and Colter moved around in front of you. “Do you think you can walk?” You nodded again, reaching for his hand as he pulled you to your feet, letting you stand for a moment to get your bearings. “We’re going up the back stairs and out the door. You get in the back seat of the pickup and lie down so no one can see you.” He gave your hand a squeeze. “Jesus, you’re freezing.” He stopped, taking off his jacket and helping you slip your arms into the sleeves. It was huge on you, but the warmth felt like heaven.

“Thank you,” you whispered hoarsely.

“Okay, here we go. Whatever happens, you go straight to that truck and get inside, right?” You nodded in reply, and he took hold of your hand again, leading you through the room with the help of a tiny flashlight. You recognized the short flight of steps up to the back door, and you followed him out, the grass cool on your bare feet as the two of you made your way to a large black truck. He opened the back door and helped you inside, and you laid down on the seat as he had directed, nervously waiting for what would come next. After all, as much as you appreciated the rescue, you didn’t know this man any better than the ones who had abducted you in the first place.

He climbed into the driver’s seat, sending a couple blasts of the horn into the otherwise still night, making you jump. “Russell, come on – we’re gonna miss kickoff!” he shouted out his window, then lowered his voice to speak to you again. “My brother is inside, he was our distraction. We’re friends of Reenie’s, she sent us to help you.” The mention of Reenie’s name sent a wave of relief through you, and you began to breathe a little easier.

A couple of minutes later, another man climbed into the pickup, turning his head to glance into the back seat as he closed his door. Colter spoke your name quietly. “This is my brother, Russell. We’re gonna take you to the motel, your brother’s there waiting for us.”

“Yes – okay – thank you,” you managed to say as the truck started up, and you headed down the road.

After a few minutes, Russell turned around to peer into the back seat. “You can sit up now if you want. We’re clear.” You raised yourself up slowly, wrapping the borrowed jacket tighter around you with a shiver. Russell looked at his brother, his voice a little impatient. “Turn up the heat, man – she’s freezing back there.” Then he turned his attention your way again, reaching across the back of his seat to hand you a bottle of water. “Here.” He flashed you a quick smile when you thanked him, and he watched as you drank, your eyes closing in relief as the cool liquid soothed your parched throat. “Better?”

You nodded, putting the lid back on the bottle. “Thank you. Thank you both.”

“Are you injured? Did they hurt you?” He asked softly, and you shook your head. His eyes never left you as he spoke, and you couldn’t help but notice how attractive he was, even in the dim light – dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard, beautiful eyes. “I know you’re scared, but I promise you’re gonna be okay. The police will meet us at the motel, and they said they’d contact your husband, let him know where you’ll be.”

His brows drew together at the expression on your face, the expression you were too tired and traumatized to disguise. “Everything okay?”

You took a shaky breath. “Yeah. Yes, I’m fine. It’s just – he’s going to be so angry.”

Russell studied your expression, taking a beat before he responded. “I’m sure he is, but you’re safe and I’m sure that’s the most important thing to him, right?”

You let your gaze slide away from his, staring out the window as you gave a vague nod in answer. Russell shot a perceptive glance over to his brother, silent communication between the two of them.

You had just dozed off in the back seat of the pickup when it pulled up in front of the motel. You yawned, letting Russell help you out of the truck. “Where are we?” you asked, still disoriented as he escorted you to the door with a gentle hand on your back, pulling keys from his pocket.

“My motel room. Your brother is inside.” He let you into the room, fairly large with a worn hide-a-bed couch on one wall, a king-size bed and the usual tiny table with two chairs next to a counter with a coffee maker and mini fridge.

As soon as you stepped inside, Grant jumped up from the couch and grabbed you in a hug. “Are you okay?” Grant was shaking as he held you, his voice breaking as he spoke. “This was because of me, I’m so sorry. They were trying to force me to hack into some company’s financials, I… I never thought they’d involve you. I’m so...” Russell draped a blanket around your shoulders as you moved back from your brother’s embrace, wiping tears from your cheeks as you interrupted.

“Not your fault, Grant.” You sat down next to your brother, pulling your legs up underneath you and pulling the blanket tighter around you as he put an arm around your shoulders. Russell left the two of you to talk quietly, heading over to make a pot of coffee.

A couple of hours later, you headed back to the couch after being questioned by the local police. You let your head drop back, your eyes squeezed shut as you wished for the ordeal to be over. Reliving everything for the police was bad enough, and Vince, your husband, hadn’t even gotten there yet. You were dreading that, already knowing what his mood would be when he arrived.

“You doing okay?” Russell’s voice made you open your eyes and sit up straight, inhaling and expelling a deep breath. He was hunkered down in front of you, his eyes watching you closely.

“Hanging in there. Just wish this was all over.”

He gave you a kind smile. “Yeah, I get that, you’ve had a rough day. Your husband should be here shortly, and once the cops talk to him, he can take you home.” Russell watched as you tried to control your expression. “Listen – none of my business, but I noticed you haven’t been too excited at the thought of your husband showing up. If you need help – just say the word. We can get you somewhere safe.”

You looked into his eyes, yours welling with tears that you managed to keep from spilling over. “Thank you, but I’m fine. Just really tired, and not looking forward to his temper when he hears about all this. I didn’t mean to make you think…”

Russell shook his head. “No problem, I get it. But if you ever do need help – call Reenie and let her know. She knows how to find me.” He put a warm hand over yours in your lap and gave it a squeeze, then rose to his feet and walked away. And the next moment, the hurricane that was your husband blew through the door.

“You!” Vince pointed an accusing finger at Grant, who was sitting at the table with an officer. “This is all your fault!” He stormed directly over towards his brother-in-law, who rose to his feet.

The police officer stood up as well, stepping forward with a hand out. “Sir! I’m gonna have to ask you to calm down and stop where you are.”

Vince glared at him defiantly. “This piece of shit got himself in a bind, and got my wife kidnapped. Lucky she wasn’t injured! Or killed! You stay the hell away from us from now on. Stay away from her, you understand me?” He turned on his heel and came towards where you now stood near the sofa, shoving a bag at you. “Here, get some clothes on. I’m taking you home.”

You took the bag and headed into the bathroom to change, your gaze never leaving the floor. Russell took a couple of long strides forward, his eyes narrowed in anger. “Hey – Vince, is it? You might want to take it easy on her. She’s been through hell in the last 24 hours.”

Vince turned to look at him, his jaw raised as he stared back at Russell with contempt. “And just who the fuck are you?”

“My brother and I are the ones who found her and got her away from her kidnappers,” Russell said quietly, crossing his arms across his chest.

Vince sighed. “Oh. I see. So how much?”

“How much? We weren’t working for you. Grant hired us to find his sister.”

Vince let out a derisive snort. “Yeah, like he has any money. What’s the bill, I’ll pay it.”

Russell sighed. “No thanks – we’re good.”

Your husband took a step closer, an insolent expression on his face. “Well, then, Mr. Weekend Merc, maybe you shouldn’t try to tell me how to take care of my wife.”

Russell’s eyes went cold, a humorless smirk curving his lips that would have sent a chill up the spine of any man with half a brain. Colter moved forward, putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder. After a second, Russell gave a barely perceptible nod, sucking his teeth as he turned and walked back towards the coffee pot. Colter looked impassively at Vince, then turned away and joined Russell.

A moment later, you walked back into the room, dressed and with Colter’s jacket folded over your arm. Vince grabbed your arm, growling, “Come on, let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Just a minute,” you said softly, pulling away.

“Time to go home,” he argued, and you looked at him, snapping a reply.

“Give me one minute!” He glared after you as you walked towards the Shaws, handing Colter his jacket. “Thank you.” Colter nodded with a smile, and you turned your attention to Russell. His expression softened as he looked back at you. “Thank you both.”

Russell looked steadily into your eyes. “Remember what I told you.” You bit at your lip with a nod, finally pulling your gaze from his as you turned to join your fuming husband at the door. He practically shoved you out, the door closing hard behind you.

Russell turned to look at Colter, his jaw working. “That guy is twelve kinds of wrong.”

Colter nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. But there’s nothing we can do unless she wants help, Russell. And you always tell me, when the job’s done, walk away.”

“Yeah. I know.” Russell grabbed the coffee and filled his cup. He could still see the look in her eyes – the attempt at courage failing to completely mask her apprehension. She was afraid, trying to pretend that everything was fine. And in spite of his usual self-imposed rules, he was going to have a hard time walking away from this one.

Russell sat next to his campfire, enjoying the warmth of the sun, a bottle of his home-brew in his hand. He stared into the fire, his inner voice reading him the riot act for still sticking around. It had been three weeks, and you hadn’t reached out to Reenie for help. Colter had given him a hard time as well, and he knew he had it coming, but he couldn’t seem to get you out of his mind. There was still the nagging feeling in his gut that you were in trouble, and that his particular set of skills might come in handy.

And then there were the dreams. The first time, he dreamed he was back in the motel room the night they’d rescued you. Only this time he was comforting you, sitting with his arms around you, and you were crying softly on his shoulder. After that, there had been another, starting the same way. Only this time it changed – his lips on yours, his hands roaming, your skin soft and warm under his touch. He woke up breathing hard, his heart pounding, his cock hard and throbbing, and he had jacked off imagining sinking deep inside you and making you come, hearing you cry out his name.

His phone rang, Reenie’s name flashing across the screen, and he shook his head to clear it before answering. She barely gave him time to say hello before she blurted out, “Russell – she just called. She overheard – never mind. She ran, she’s in trouble, you need to pick her up. South of you, mile marker 132 on Highway 39, she’s hiding in the trees. Go pick her up, I’ll meet you back at your campsite with some clothes and things.”

“On my way,” he responded, ending the call and stuffing the phone into his pocket. He tossed water over the fire, ditching his beer in the trash can on the way to the car, sending gravel spitting from the tires as he took off.

There had been nothing but trees for a couple of miles when he reached the spot Reenie had indicated, and he pulled over, stepping out of the car, eyes scanning the area. He called your name softly, watching. “It’s Russell Shaw. Reenie sent me.”

You peered carefully from behind a tree, then ran towards the car, looking over your shoulder as you reached it. “Get in,” Russell said, “we’ll talk later.” You nodded, climbing inside, and he looked around carefully for signs that you’d been followed before getting behind the wheel. He looked over at you, his brows drawn together in concern. “You okay? You’re not hurt?”

You glanced his way, clasping your hands nervously in your lap. “I’m okay.” He nodded, turning to make sure the way was clear and making a wide turn to head back to his campsite.

Russell pulled to a stop and got out of the car without a word, heading straight to his tent to break it down and pack up his belongings. By the time Reenie pulled in, he was loading everything into his trunk, still without saying a word, and you were wondering if you’d done the right thing calling for his help.

Reenie pulled a large suitcase out of the back seat of her BMW, pulling it behind her to Russell’s car. “Brought you some clothes and essentials to get you by. Russell, you keep her safe.”

Russell closed his trunk, coming around to take the suitcase and shove it into his back seat. “You know I will.” He climbed back behind the wheel and gave Reenie a nod. “I’ll be in touch.” You hugged her, whispering your thanks, and got in the passenger side, trying to stay calm in spite of not knowing what was coming next. Russell waited for Reenie to head down the drive, then followed behind, turning in the opposite direction on the highway. “Okay,” he said, glancing over your direction, “tell me what happened.”

Several miles and two small towns later, Russell reached for a remote and pulled into a small garage attached to a modest-looking ranch-style house, the door smoothly lowering behind you to hide you from the world.

You had told him about the phone call you had overheard, Vince on the phone with someone, you didn’t know who. “Yeah, the kidnapping should have worked, but I guess Grant’s more stubborn than I gave him credit for. Stop worrying, I found somebody else. We’ll have that money by the end of next week. No, she has no idea I was behind it, don’t worry about her. She believes what I tell her, and she does what she’s told. I already took care of those two fuck-ups, they won’t be talking to anybody.”

Russell had listened intently to everything you said, nodding quietly once in a while as you told your story. You had overheard that conversation and you knew you had to get away. You had sneaked back upstairs, put on your shoes and a jacket, grabbed the burner phone Reenie had given you for emergencies, and gone down the back staircase and out the back door. It was a couple of miles through the woods to get to the highway, and you ran until you were out of breath, then slowed to a hurried walk, determined to escape the man you thought you knew.

“He’s not the man I married, I know that. But I never thought he was…”

“An abusive murdering asshole?” You had shot Russell a sideways glance, and he had cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s true.” Tears stung your eyes as you looked down at your hands. “I feel like such an idiot. Reenie has been trying to convince me for months that I needed to leave him, but I just...”

“None of this is your fault. You know that, right?”

You hadn’t answered him, just stared out the window for the rest of the ride. Russell was quiet after that, his focus on the job ahead. And this was a job, he reminded himself – he needed to keep his head on straight. The last thing she needed right now was to get involved with someone like him, so whatever feelings were invading his subconscious, he needed to ignore them.

Russell led the way into the house, dropping your borrowed suitcase near the couch and doing a quick walk-through before coming back to the room. You looked at him, confused, and he let out a rather sheepish little chuckle. “Sorry, it’s a habit to make sure the house is clear. Which it is. So, get settled in – I’m heading out to get some supplies, but I’ll be right back.”

You nodded, and he headed back to the garage. You stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do. Your whole life had been turned upside down in the space of a few hours, and you had no idea what was coming next.

You finally took a deep breath and ventured into the next room. You explored the small house – a bedroom, bathroom, cute little kitchen with a breakfast nook, living room with a huge sofa, recliner on one end and chaise lounge on the other. There was a medium-sized flat-screen TV, a few DVDs on a shelf below.

You took the suitcase Reenie had brought into the bedroom and opened it – she had been very generous. It was bulging with clothes and lingerie, along with some toiletries, a few mystery/thriller novels, a deck of cards – everything you would need to get you by until you could get your own things. Whenever that would be. You felt a clutch of panic at the thought of your unknown future, closing your eyes to fight it back. You were safe for the moment, that’s all that mattered.

A little later, your phone pinged with a message from Russell that he was back with the groceries. You met him at the kitchen door, relieving him of one of the bags in his arms. He thanked you with a smile, and the two of you unpacked and put away the food he had purchased. “This is – a lot. I mean, how long do you think we’ll be here?”

He glanced your way, then went back to putting milk and eggs in the fridge. “Hard to say for sure. It depends on how long it takes the cops to finish getting the evidence they need to put Vince away.”

You stopped what you were doing and braced your hands on the counter, your eyes filling with tears as the weight of everything that was happening suddenly hit you like a blow to the chest. Russell closed the fridge and put a hand on your shoulder, speaking softly. “Hey.”

You looked up into his eyes, a tear overflowing and trailing down your cheek. “I can’t pay you. I – I don’t have anything. Everything belongs to him. I don’t know how I’ll pay for you for all of this,” you said, sweeping your hand, thinking of the house, the groceries, Russell’s time.

He gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Didn’t ask to be paid. I told you if you needed help to call. I’m just here to help.” He was really looking at you now, not the barely glancing, distant contact you’d had with him since he picked you up. The kind look in his eyes made you suddenly feel not so alone. “So are we good?”

You took a breath and blew it out slowly, finally nodding. “Yeah. We’re good. Thank you, Russell.”

His lips curved in a soft smile. “Good. So, I’m starved, and I got us one of those giant frozen pizzas with cheese in the crust – sound okay?” You nodded with a slightly watery smile and went back to unpacking the groceries as he turned on the oven.

You spent the rest of the evening mostly in companionable silence, eating pizza in front of the TV with a How I Met Your Mother marathon serving as background noise. Russell thumbed through the old magazines you had found in a drawer of the TV stand, and you started in on one of the books Reenie had included in the collection of treasures she had sent.

When you were yawning and reading the same paragraph over and over again, you finally gave in and headed for bed. You said a quiet goodnight and walked to the bedroom, closing the door behind you. You didn’t think you’d be able to sleep, but you dozed off almost as soon as your head hit the pillow.

You woke suddenly, a feeling of dread in the pit of your stomach. The room was pitch black, so you grabbed your phone, the screen lighting up the space, your heart lurching in your chest as you spotted a figure standing near the foot of the bed. You lit the flashlight on your phone and aimed it that direction, then screamed in terror. Vince was standing there, a sneer on his face, a gun in his hand.

“Hey, hey!!” The light went on and a hand grabbed your shoulder, shaking you. Russell’s voice was calling your name as you scooted yourself up as close to the headboard as you could, your feet scrambling to try and push you farther, your eyes wide with fear. “You’re okay, it was a nightmare.” You stared at him, shaking, whimpering and pointing.

“He was right there! He was going to kill me!”

“I promise you, there’s nobody here but you and me. You were having a nightmare. You’re safe, I promise you.” He reached out take hold of your hand. “There’s no way in hell he will ever get close to you. I won’t let him, trust me. You trust me, right?”

You nodded, trying to calm yourself, still trembling and your heart still trying to escape your chest. Russell sat there with you until your quaking subsided, and you looked up at him as he ducked his head to peer into your eyes. “You okay?”

You nodded again with a sigh of exhausted relief. “I’m sorry. It was so real.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

You looked at him again, feeling embarrassed as you spoke again. “I feel like a child, but I don’t think I can sleep in here. I don’t want to be alone.”

Russell smiled as he looked down at you. “I get it. Why don’t we grab your pillow and you can sleep on the sofa. I’m sleeping in the recliner, so I’ll be right there in case you get spooked. Sound okay?”

He helped you gather what you needed, and soon your bed was all set up on the couch. You settled yourself on your pillow, wrapping yourself in the blankets and yawning as your body finally calmed itself. “I usually leave the TV on with the sound real low, will that bother you?” he asked as he took his seat in the recliner again.

“No, it might actually help me sleep,” you said. “Thank you, Russell.”

“Any time.”

The next morning you woke to the smell of fresh coffee brewing and bacon frying. Apparently Russell was an early riser. You got up from the couch and gathered your bedding, heading for the bedroom to get dressed. A pair of leggings and a big sweater seemed cozy, and after hitting the bathroom and combing through your hair, you made a beeline for the kitchen and the coffee pot.

“Mornin’,” Russell greeted you as you filled a mug with the steaming brew, holding it to your nose appreciatively.

“Good morning. Thank you for making coffee. And breakfast, I guess – do you want some help?”

He shot a smile over his shoulder. “Got it covered here, but you could make some toast, if you want. Scrambled or fried?”

The two of you sat in the breakfast nook to eat, Russell scrolling on his phone and you back to your paperback mystery. When you were finished, you chased him out of the kitchen, refusing to let him help with the dishes. “You cooked, I’ll clean up.”

“I’m used to doing both, ya know,” he protested, but finally gave in and left you to it. You heard his phone ring as you finished up, and you were drying your hands as he walked back into the room.

“That was – uh – the FBI.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. “The FBI?”

“Yeah. Apparently they’ve been investigating Vince for a while now for shady investment practices. They want to send an agent to talk to you, about the phone call you overheard and anything else you might have seen or heard that might help their case. Are you okay with that?”

You bit at your lip, but nodded in agreement. “I guess so – I don’t know that I’ll be much help, but if it helps put him away…”

“Colter’s in the area, said he’d bring her here this afternoon. I don’t want you out in public if we can avoid it, not until he’s locked up.” You glanced at him nervously, and he put a calming hand on your shoulder. “I’m not trying to scare you – I just want you safe.”

“I know. Thanks.”

When the doorbell rang that afternoon, you watched nervously as Russell motioned you to stand back, then grabbed his gun from the end table and went to answer it. He peered through the peephole, then lowered his weapon and unlocked the door, opening it and stepping back to allow Colter and a woman in a dark pantsuit to enter. Colter spoke up to introduce you and Russell to the woman, who held out a hand to shake both of yours in turn.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” she said, aiming her comment at you.

Russell stepped forward. “Can I get a minute before you do your thing?” The agent nodded, following him into the next room. Even though he kept his voice low, you could hear him, insisting that she keep in mind that you were innocent and that you not be treated like a criminal just because you were married to one.

You glanced over at Colter, blushing a little. “He’s been very protective,” you said softly, and Colter smiled.

“Yeah – that’s no surprise. He’s been doing it since we were kids. He stood between our dad and me – or dad and our little sister, Dory – so many times. Dad had – well, he had some mental issues. Russ took the brunt of a lot of his crap.”

Russell came through the door just then, giving you a quick smile and nodding towards the kitchen. “She’s ready for you. If you need me…”

You gave him a grateful smile in return. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.” He moved to the side to let you walk by, watching until you took your seat across from the agent.

“How’s she doing?” Colter asked quietly as his brother turned to face him.

“She’s scared.” Russell gnawed at his lip a little, glancing over at Colter as he took a breath and exhaled with a short nod. “But she’ll be all right.”

A couple of hours later the interview was over, and you said your goodbyes to Colter and the agent shortly after. You dropped down on the sofa with a sigh of relief, and Russell sat down nearby.

“So – how’d it go?”

“She asked about the phone call I overheard, wanted word for word as well as I could remember. Then she asked about people I’d seen at Vince’s parties, anything I might have heard in passing about specific things that maybe didn’t mean anything to me but might help their case.” You took a deep breath. “She said when they arrest him, they’ll seize all of his assets. But she said they found one account that was started in my name before we were married that he hadn’t touched, and she said that will come to me. I remember right before we got married, I pulled my 401K from my job at the bank and had him invest it for me – he must have forgotten all about it. It’s been sitting there for the last 10 years, slowly growing. So maybe I’ll be able to repay you for all of this after all.”

He sighed sharply. “I told you, I didn’t ask to be paid. You’ll need that money to start over.” He lowered his head and looked at you from under raised brows. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m not hurtin’ for cash. So I don’t wanna hear another word about you paying me, okay?”

“Russell, I just…”

“I mean it. Vince gets put away and you get a clean start. That’s payment enough for me.” You looked up into those captivating green eyes, his expression dead serious.

“Okay, okay, subject dropped,” you answered, and he allowed himself to smile.

“Good. Goddamn, you’re stubborn.”

You laughed softly, rising to your feet. “You have no idea. Okay, I’m going to go take a shower – if that’s allowed?” you teased, laughing again as he blew out a disdainful breath.

“Smartass.”

The rest of that night was spent much as the first, eating in front of the TV, and Russell borrowed one of Reenie’s mystery thrillers to keep himself occupied. If he was being honest, he just wanted a distraction to keep his eyes from constantly wandering over to you as you read, occasionally trapping your lower lip between your teeth as you got engrossed in a passage. He started to read, but found his eyes drawn back again to the wisps of hair curling against the gentle slope of your neck. Luckily you were an avid reader and didn’t notice his staring, but he mentally shook himself. This was a job, he was there to protect you, and that was all. He forced his eyes to the pages in front of him, determined to keep focused there, even though he would occasionally make sarcastic comments about how unrealistic it was.

Yawning, you finally laid your book aside and laid down, saying a soft “Good night” to Russell as you settled in. You slept well that night, the sound of the TV in the background and the knowledge that Russell was close giving you the peace of mind you needed to rest.

The next day you were going a little stir-crazy, feeling cooped-up and bored. You aimlessly wandered around the house, looking through closets and cupboards, letting out a happy cheer when you found an abandoned crossword puzzle book in a drawer in the kitchen. You settled on the couch, your legs crossed underneath you, glad to have found a distraction. “Who played Angel Eyes in The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly?” you asked, a thoughtful frown on your face as you chewed at your pen.

“Lee Van Cleef,” he answered. “How do you not know that?”

“You’re the old movie buff. I only know the big ones – Casablanca, stuff like that.”

“So you don’t like westerns.”

You looked at him, an offended expression on your face. “I like westerns! I love John Wayne.” You filled in the answer and read another clue. “Clint Eastwood western?”

Russell let out a mock impatient sigh. “Obviously you need help.” He moved to plop down beside you, looking down at the page. “Where does it go? Ok, got it – A Fistful of Dollars.”

The two of you worked your way through the apparently western-themed puzzle together, Russell teasing you about your lack of knowledge on the subject and laughing when you excitedly shouted the answer to an actual clue involving John Wayne. You finished putting the last answer in place and grinned up at him, your smile slowly fading as you looked into his eyes. The air suddenly seemed charged around you, your gaze traveling down to his lips as his tongue swept over them. Before you had time to think, he pushed up from the sofa and stood. His abrupt movement away from you broke the spell, and you swallowed hard, your heart pounding.

“I’m gonna go grab us some take-out. Chicken sound good?” He asked, not looking back as he headed for the door. You agreed, taking a relieved breath as he closed the door behind him, leaving you alone.

You took a shaky breath as you put a hand to your face, your fingers cool against your flushed cheek. “What the hell was that?” you asked yourself out loud. Whatever it felt like, it couldn’t be, that was for sure, you told yourself sternly. Tossing the book on the end table, you determinedly marched to the kitchen to mix up some brownies. Chocolate. You just needed some chocolate.

After lunch, Russell spent most of the afternoon out in the garage, saying he needed to do some work on the car, and you were honestly a little relieved. The last thing you wanted was to embarrass yourself with the man who was protecting you. It was probably just a reaction to him saving you, a rescue crush. And it didn’t help that he was so aggressively good-looking. He was tall and lean, broad-shouldered, handsome as hell. That dark beard made his smile seem that much brighter, enough that it made it hard to breathe normally. And those mesmerizing green eyes – looking into them was just downright dangerous.

You spent the afternoon channel-surfing, did another puzzle and read your book for a while. Russell was in and out, keeping himself busy with something, you didn’t know what, but you were sure he was avoiding you. Towards evening you headed for the kitchen, thoughts of searching for what to make for dinner on your mind. The blinds on the patio door were open, and you could see Russell adding wood to the fire pit, the flames already started. You watched him for a moment, completely unaware of the fond smile on your face. He looked up as you stood there, motioning for you to come out and join him.

You went to the closet and grabbed your jacket. Surely there was enough space outside that it would be safe to be around him, you thought to yourself, then slipped out the patio door, sliding it closed behind you. “Missing the great outdoors?” you asked and he grinned.

“I do love a good campfire and some fresh air.” He reached into the cooler sitting beside him. “And a cold beer – want one?”

“Ooh, yes, please.” You breathed in, then searched for where the delicious aroma tickling your nose was coming from. “What smells so good?”

“Oh, I threw a couple of steaks on the grill, and some potatoes. Hope that sounds okay.”

“Sounds great – smells wonderful.”

His shoulders shook with a silent little laugh. “Reminds me of that time my brother and I tried to cook over the campfire when we were kids. Almost burned the damn forest down.” He launched into the story, and before you knew it, you were both talking and laughing, relaxed with each other again. Russell was a great storyteller, and the time passed pleasantly as you ate together.

When you finished eating, you set your plate beside you on the bench with a satisfied sigh. “That was delicious. Maybe you should be a chef when you retire from working security – or whatever it is that you do when you’re not being my guardian.”

He huffed out a laugh. “A chef - that was never on my list of things I wanted to do when I grew up. More like astronaut, firefighter, rock star, pitcher… the usual. Now – I’m still searching. I thought about opening a craft brewery, sell my beer and have barbecue, so I guess that’s close. But now? I don’t know. After working with Colter, I’m kind of thinking of going more that direction. Helping people. Who knows?” He took a swig from his beer and looked at you. “So what do you want to do when you get back to your life?”

A log cracked in the fire, and you watched thoughtfully as a spray of sparks floated upwards into the darkening sky. “I used to dream about opening a book store and gift shop, with a coffee counter in the front. A couple of tables, and a few little reading nooks tucked in here and there. That would be nice.” You glanced back at him, then looked off into the distance. “But what I really want – I just want to be able to go for a long walk without my paranoid husband sending security guys after me. I want to be able to eat a meal without someone criticizing me because I might gain weight. I want to be able to wear what I want when I want, and not hear a lecture about how I’m ‘representing’ him. I want to dance because I like the music, not because I’m bait for lecherous old men who might be potential clients.” You stopped your tirade, letting out a deep breath. “Sorry. I guess that’s been bottled up inside me for a while.”

Russell’s eyes were warm and supportive as he responded. “No need to apologize.”

You nodded, unable to continue looking at him, a little embarrassed. Russell watched you for a moment, then pulled his phone from his pocket. A fast country beat filled the air, and he set the phone down on the bench beside him, standing up and reaching out a hand. “Okay, let’s go – you wanna dance? Let’s dance.”

You looked up at him, unable to keep the shy smile from your face as you saw the grin on his. “You dance?”

He scoffed with a little laugh. “Do I dance? Get up here.”

You never would have guessed it, but the man could dance. Before long he was swinging you around the patio, twirling you out and back, both of you smiling and laughing together. You danced your way through that song and the next, but then the music shifted to a slow ballad, and you both came to a stop, looking hesitantly at each other. Russell’s eyebrow lifted, his expression asking without words, and you gave a little shrug. He smirked, shrugging in reply, and pulled you closer, taking your hand in his and holding it close to his chest as his other hand rested warm on your lower back. You draped your arm over his shoulder, your hand resting at the back of his neck as you swayed together to the music.

The song began to fade away, and you realized you were resting your head on his shoulder, your fingers fidgeting with the soft hair that fell over his collar, and your face grew warm with a blush as you both stopped moving. You took a step back, grateful that it was evening and he hopefully wouldn’t notice the color in your cheeks. “I – um – guess I should take these dishes inside,” you mumbled. You stepped away from him, gathering the dishes and turning to walk towards the patio door.

“Yeah, I gotta take care of this fire, I’ll be inside in a minute,” he answered, his voice sounding just as strained as yours was. Maybe he was just as affected as you were? You chased that thought away with denial as you stepped inside, turning to close the door behind you. He had been polite and kind to you from the beginning, but never more than that. You watched him for a moment as he stuffed his phone into his pocket, then grabbed the bucket of water he had set nearby to put the fire out, his back facing towards you the whole time, and you finally turned away.

You headed for the living room, then turned back, going to the fridge for a bottle of water, your mind reeling with conflicting thoughts. You were attracted to him, you had been from the first moment he looked into your eyes and asked if you needed help. But that was just the trauma, right? You had gone through hell and he was being kind to you, that’s all it was.

You were completely in your own head as you finally closed the door to the fridge and turned, rushing towards the living room, focused on your own thoughts. As you neared the doorway, you ran into a solid wall of man, the bottle of water in your hands flying to the floor and rolling away.

Russell grabbed your arms to steady you as you both spoke at the same time. “Shit, I’m sorry!” and “Are you okay?” and you wished you could just disappear from view.

He was close – so close. He smelled like wood smoke and cinnamon gum, beer and something masculine and warm that was just him and had your skin tingling. He looked down at you, his tongue darting out over his lips, his eyes steadily searching yours. He raised his hand, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw gently before he slipped them into your hair, and he leaned in slowly, giving you plenty of time to push him away – but you had no desire to do that. His well-trimmed beard brushed against your cheek, softer than you expected, but you didn’t have time to think about that because when his lips connected with yours, your brain ceased to function. You could focus on nothing but your heart pounding, your nerves buzzing, you could barely breathe. There was a throbbing between your thighs that made your knees weak, made you want him to throw you down and take you right there on the floor.

It all happened in a matter of seconds, and when he stopped suddenly, his hands dropping to his sides, your head was spinning at the sudden lack of his touch. His breathing was labored, his arms flexed as though they were fighting him to reach for you. He stared at the floor, taking a few breaths before he spoke, his voice husky and quiet. “This is – I shouldn’t have done that. It’s a bad idea.” He tilted his head, a rueful little smirk flitting over his lips. “Actually great idea for me. Very bad idea for you.”

You stared back at him, still stunned and silent. He stepped away, going to retrieve your bottle of water and bringing it back to you. You took it from him with a whispered “Thank you,” and he gave a short, quick nod before turning to walk away.

You heard the bathroom door close, and finally started breathing again. So he was feeling it, too. He had slammed the brakes pretty hard, but he had said it was a bad idea for you. Unanswered questions filled your head – was he really just holding back because he thought you’d get hurt? Or was there something in his past he was worried about you finding out? He seemed like a good man, but you had a feeling there was a history there that he couldn’t easily share. In spite of how you were feeling, you needed to try to get past it and get back to normal, or as normal as things could be for you at the moment. You glanced into the living room, making sure he was still out of sight, and headed quickly for the bedroom, closing the door. You’d just get ready for bed, try to put it out of your mind, and move on. It wasn’t going to be easy, since you could still feel his lips on yours, his fingers twining through your hair.

You changed into a t-shirt and shorts to sleep in, and after a few minutes battling with yourself, you finally grabbed your pillow and blanket and headed out to the couch. Russell was already settled in the recliner, searching for the classic movie channel he liked to leave on at night. You wrapped your blanket around you, snuggling down in your pillow. “Ready for lights out?” Russell asked softly, and you mumbled a “Yeah” in reply. He turned off the lamp next to him and left you both in the flickering light of the TV.

You laid there, staring at the glowing images on the screen, pretending to be trying to go to sleep. You were wide awake, unable to stop thinking about that kiss, craving more. It was infuriating, really, that Russell had just walked away like it was nothing and you were left wanting something he was apparently not willing to give, whatever his reasons.

You fought the urge to toss and turn, acutely aware of how close he was, probably watching whatever it was that was on the screen. But your imagination was merciless, showing you the possibilities, teasing you with images and thoughts of erotic touches, of his lips on your skin, of his calloused hands in places that ached for him.

He cleared his throat, shifting restlessly in his seat, and your resolve to act as if everything was fine crumbled. You threw back the blanket, your heart pounding as you crawled down the length of the sofa and straddled Russell’s lap. His eyes went wide, your fingers on his lips cutting off his startled “What…?”

You stared down at him, slowly removing your hand and resting it on his chest, your voice hushed as you spoke. “I don’t care if it’s a bad idea.” You could feel his heart rate rising beneath your hand, his eyes fluttering shut just before yours did as you leaned down into him, your lips landing on his in a soft kiss.

His hands drifted up to rest on your back, his cock steadily swelling underneath you. You moaned softly, grinding down into him, and he drew back, panting for air as he looked up at you. You kept your eyes on his, sliding back off his lap as he raised the recliner upright, and you took hold of his hand to lead him with you back to the couch. You spread the blanket out as Russell came up behind you, his hands moving to your hips as you straightened back up. “Told myself I wasn’t gonna do this,” he said softly as you leaned back into his chest. “You’re making me a liar.”

You couldn’t help smiling a little before you turned to face him. “You need to know – I don’t have any expectations. I know, when this is all over, that you’re going to leave, move on to your next job, and I’ll be going back and try to start my life over again. But I’m not asking…” For some reason your eyes began to sting with tears, and you blinked hard to chase them away. “I’m not asking for anything more than you want to give.”

Russell stared down at you for a second before his arms wrapped around you, the last shreds of his resistance evaporating as he pulled you close. His lips landed soft but decisive on yours, his tongue teasing at your lips, and you opened to him, a whimper in your throat as you slipped your arms around his neck.

After a moment or two, he parted from you one more time, one hand rising to drag a thumb across his mouth as he cleared his throat. “I – uh – don’t have a condom.”

You reached for his hand. “It’s okay. We’re good.”

“You sure? Because if you’d rather not...” The tip of his tongue peeked out, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment. “I’d be more than happy to take care of you some other way.” His thumb brushed over the top of your hand, his words invoking images in your mind that sent a flash of heat through your body.

You finally found your voice, although it was a little breathless and stammering. “I promise we’re good – but… Well, that sounds – umm – amazing, too.” His lips curved in a one-sided smirk as he stared into your eyes. He reached for the hem of your shirt, pulling it up over your head, then did the same with his before he pulled you back into his arms and kissed you again. You buried your fingers in his hair as you leaned into him, breasts crushed to his chest, your pulse racing.

He moved you backwards until your legs ran into the couch, then slid his hands down your sides to your hips, pushing your shorts down until they fell to the floor. You stepped out of them and let him lower you down to the sofa, stretching out with your head on your pillow. He put a knee down between your legs, sliding his palm up the outside of your thigh and guiding it up to his hip as he lowered himself down over you.

He kissed you, deep and hungry, rutting his still-clothed erection gently against your thigh, and the combination was driving you insane in the best possible way. He propped himself up on one elbow, his other hand beginning to roam, and he moaned in appreciation as he brushed a palm over your breast. He gave each one a little attention as he moved his lips across your jaw to your pulse point, then steadily moved down your body, his destination clear.

Your stomach muscles quivered as his lips traveled over your soft skin. Your entire body tensed, frozen in anticipation of what was about to happen. He splayed his fingers over your hips, his thumbs pulling gently at your mound to give him easier access to your swollen clit. He leaned in close to place soft, lingering kisses over your pussy before exploring you thoroughly with his tongue, finally dipping it inside you and then dragging it up and over your clit.

He teased you that way until you were rearing your head back into your pillow, one hand behind your head gripping the arm of the couch and the other clutching at his hair. Then he pulled your clit between his lips, his tongue brushing over it as he worked two fingers inside you, curling them to rub against your walls. When you gasped, he hummed his approval, stroking over that sweet spot he’d been searching for, your grip on his hair tightening as he gave your clit a hard suck.

He raised his eyes to look at you, your eyes half closed in bliss, your other hand now tugging and twisting at your nipples. “Jesus,” he swore, watching you for a moment longer before he nuzzled his face against you and sucked hard, pulsing his tongue with the movement of his fingers. Your back arched as you let out a cry, your cunt clutching at his fingers as you came undone, your hips bucking into his thrusts as you rode out your climax.

You watched him through half-lidded eyes as he slowly pulled his fingers free, making you shiver. He sucked them clean, then grabbed a corner of the blanket and scrubbed it over his face before moving up to nibble at your lips. “Told you I’d take care of you,” he teased, and he grinned as you blinked slowly and gave him a faint smile.

“Mmmm-hmmmm,” you agreed between his soft kisses.

“This doesn’t have to go any further if you don’t want it to,” he said quietly, and you opened your eyes to stare up at him.

“Don’t tell me you’re quitting on me.” The corner of his mouth quirked a little, those green eyes shining down at you even in the dim light.

“Only if you want me to,” he answered, pausing as he waited for your response.

“I don’t,” you said, pulling him down with a hand on the back of his neck to kiss him, a nip to his bottom lip making him grunt a little. “So stop teasing already.”

His chest vibrated against you as he chuckled, then raised up to his knees, shoving his clothes down to free himself. He slipped one arm beneath your knee, lifting it to open you up further for him as he settled back between your thighs. He took his time, pushing inside you slow and steady, giving you time, watching your face closely. Your breath was frozen in your lungs as you adjusted to his generous size, finally able to exhale when your bodies were flush and he stopped moving, bending to nuzzle his face into your neck. “Mmmm, you feel amazing,” he rumbled, his lips roaming over the soft skin there.

“God, so do you,” you managed before he began to move, melting your words into a moan. The slick drag of him inside you lit every nerve on fire, and you clutched your arms around his middle, digging your fingers into his back. He took his time, in and out slowly, barely inching out at first and building up until he was pulling almost all the way out before gliding smoothly back in to the limit. When you finally relaxed, adjusted to him, he began to ramp up his speed and drove into you faster, harder, until your nails were digging into his back and you wrapped your leg tight around him.

He shifted his hold on your other knee, tilting you back a little farther, your sweet spot now a bullseye with every stroke. He let out a low groan as your cunt began to clench around him, letting go completely and fucking into you hard, wanton sounds forced from you with every thrust. He let out a soft growl, a sound that sent you careening over the edge, your back arching up beneath him as you came with an unearthly howl of his name.

He joined you with a loud groan, cursing under his breath as he fucked you through your orgasm and his, finally collapsing on top of your quivering body. You breathed helpless little whimpers into his shoulder, your arms going limp as he slipped his arm out from under your knee and hugged your thigh to his side. It was some time before either of you moved, spent and contented to stay right where you were.

You had actually started dozing off when Russell moved, and you shivered as he slipped free from you and stood up. He tossed his sweats over his shoulder, shuffling his way to the bathroom, and you let out a sleepy sigh and sat up, reaching down to the floor for a shirt. It happened to be his, but you didn’t mind. When he came back, you stood up to head to the bathroom, but he put his arms around you and kissed you softly, pausing your trip for a few welcome minutes.

You cleaned up and went back out into the living room, smiling as you saw him spreading a clean blanket on the couch. You grabbed your shorts from the floor and slipped them on as you waited, and he turned to look at you with a faint smile as he finished. “Want me to go back to the recliner?” he asked quietly, and you shook your head.

“No. Stay with me – I mean, if you want.”

His smile broadened, and he plopped down, his back to the back of the couch. “C’mere, you.”

You laid down beside him, and he pulled the blanket from the back of the couch to cover you both before he slipped one arm underneath your neck, the other around your waist to hold you close as he curled himself around you. Warm and happy, you fell asleep in his arms, the most peaceful you’d felt in years.

You woke up the next morning, reluctant to let yourself drift into full consciousness. But the tempting aroma of brewing coffee finally prompted your eyes to open, breathing deep as the sleepy daze cleared from your brain. Russell was humming a little off-key as he worked on whatever breakfast he was concocting that morning, and you smiled to yourself.

You stretched, feeling the ache of muscles you hadn’t used in a while, but it was a good feeling. However, before you went to the kitchen to join Russell, you definitely wanted to take a shower. You threw the blanket off and headed for the bathroom. The mirror was still a little foggy, so Russell had obviously already been in there. Happily, you found a scrunchie in Reenie’s bag of toiletries, and you put your hair up before climbing into a hot shower.

You dried off, refreshed and fully awake, wrapping a towel around yourself so you could make your way to the bedroom and get dressed. You stepped out into the hallway, a cloud of vanilla and jasmine steam billowing out behind you. Russell’s voice calling your name stopped you in your tracks, and he stepped through the kitchen doorway into the living room, still talking.

“I made breakfast, sausage and stuff, if you’re…” he stopped in mid-sentence, his mouth open as he stared at you. “Hungry,” he finished, then snapped his mouth shut, his lips pursing and brows bunching in a contemplative expression before he dropped the spatula he was holding to the floor. “Yeah, it can wait.”

Before you could react, he had you pinned between the hallway wall and his body, his lips crashing down on yours in a ravenous kiss. You blinked up at him, stunned, as he raised his head, his eyes burning into yours. “I told you this was a bad idea,” he rasped, closing his eyes for a beat before he went on. “You are playing hell with my impulse control.”

You kept your eyes on his as you reached for the snap on his jeans, popping it loose before pulling his zipper down. “Losing control once in a while isn’t such a bad thing,” you said, watching his upper lip twitch as you shoved his clothing out of the way and wrapped your hand around his hard cock. He grabbed a handful of your towel and tugged hard, pulling it free where you had it tucked in between your breasts. He tossed it to the side and scooped you up, his hands under your thighs, lifting you to his waist. You gasped as his hot length was trapped between his stomach and your already leaking pussy, your arms wrapped around his neck as he rutted against you, coating himself in your juices. Then he lifted you a little, holding you with one arm while he positioned himself at your entrance.

“You ready?” he rumbled, his eyes on your face as he waited.

You nodded, clinging tight to his neck as he lowered your body, impaling you fully, a breathless, silent moment before he began to move. Then his fingers dug into your hips as he fucked into you, forcing sounds from you with every powerful thrust as your bodies slammed together. His forehead rested on your shoulder as he focused everything on driving you both over the edge, hard and fast.

He came first, and you followed close behind, resting your cheek on the top of his head as you both panted like you had run a marathon. He finally straightened up, then bent his head to kiss you, slow and deep, before lifting you up and lowering you to the floor. You still clung to him, your legs a little shaky, for a long moment, then gave him a coy smile. “Now I need another shower,” you said, and he grinned.

“Me, too – so how about we go clean up, and then we can eat. Don’t know about you, but I’m starved.”

“Sorry you went to all that work, and now it’s probably all cold.” You reached up to stroke his cheek with your fingertips, and you smiled as he leaned into your touch.

“Nope. I stuck it all in the oven to stay warm.”

“Smart man!”

“I’ve been known to have an occasional flash of brilliance. Until you come walking out dressed in nothing but a little towel, and all the blood leaves my brain,” he teased, and you laughed as he herded you into the bathroom for yet another shower.

The next couple of days were amazing. The freedom of being able to be yourself without a filter, without judgment or disapproval – it was like you had been set free from years of confinement. The common sense part of your brain knew that this was all temporary, that it would be gone in the blink of an eye when the time came, but you chose to ignore that nagging voice and live for the day.

Russell had lightened up considerably since you had first met him, too. Maybe it was good for him to have a little time away from gunfire and commando tactics. You talked, and laughed, watched movies together, cooked and ate, drank beer by the fire outside, and even danced again.

And you had sex that you knew you’d never equal with anyone else. He stopped you in the middle of cooking dinner once, plopping you up on the counter top and stripping your pants off so he could go down on one knee and make you his appetizer.

He pulled you over onto his lap during a movie, taking off your shirt and bra and leaning you back against his chest, teasing and tugging at your nipples. He whispered in your ear in that sinful voice, sweet and dirty, until you were a whining mess, begging him to fuck you.

He kissed you awake in the early morning, the two of you making out like teenagers, the sex slow and lazy and perfect.

But late that evening, his phone rang, and you felt your stomach drop. It was over.

He hung up and turned towards you, teeth denting his lower lip before he met your eyes. “They just arrested Vince. He’s being charged with murder and your kidnapping, along with all the financial shit. They found the bodies of the two that grabbed you buried in the woods north of your brother’s house. He’s never getting out.” He sighed, watching your face. “You’re free. You can finally live your own life.”

You dropped down onto the sofa, nodding, your voice barely audible. “Yeah. I guess so.”

He sat down beside you, reaching for your hand, which was trembling a little. “You okay?”

You blew out a breath, still afraid to look at him again, your emotions too close to the surface. “I will be.”

“We’re supposed to meet Reenie and that FBI agent at the house tomorrow at nine. Your brother’s coming, too. They’ll help you get your stuff together before the FBI seizes Vince’s property.”

You nodded, then sighed, raising your head to look up at him. “Okay. Back to reality.”

He pulled his hand away, putting it to his chest in mock offense. “Like I’m not real?” he scoffed, and you smiled in spite of yourself.

“Russell, you’re the realest thing that’s happened to me in the last few years, trust me.”

He grinned, standing up. “Want a beer before we crash for the night?”

“Yeah. I could use one.”

You watched him walk to the kitchen, an ache blooming in your chest. He was right. It had been a bad idea. But it was too late, and this was going to hurt like hell.

Russell came back with beer for the two of you, and you did your best to act like everything was fine as you talked and laughed half-heartedly at the sitcom on the TV. It was already late, and you wished you could just start the day over again. You took the empty bottles and carried them to the trash in the kitchen, stopping to stare out the patio door for a moment.

You felt Russell’s presence behind you before he spoke. “Should have had a fire tonight, huh? Didn’t know…”

“That we wouldn’t have another night.” You sighed, and he put a hand on your shoulder.

“Do you want me to sleep in the recliner tonight? I mean, making a clean break might…”

“Make it easier?” You looked up at him. “Or maybe we should just enjoy the one night we have left.”

His eyes were shining, soft in the dim light as he looked down at you. “Not gonna lie, I was hoping you’d say that.” His arms surrounded you, pulling you close as he bent to kiss you, your hands clenching fistfuls of his t-shirt as you leaned into him.

At least you’d have one more memory to take with you.

You woke early the next morning, reluctant to open your eyes and face the day. Russell, of course, was already awake and had coffee going, so you forced yourself to get up, grab your clothes, and take a shower. Every task was an effort of will – all you really wanted to do was roll up in your blankets and refuse to move.

You stood beneath the hot spray, eyes closed as you washed your body, remembering every moment of the night before. You had taken things slow, exploring each other as if you were sharing secrets no one else would ever know. You had memorized every tattoo, every scar on Russell’s body, reveled in the sensation of the muscles in his back rolling and straining beneath your fingertips as he fucked into you, riding the waves of pleasure he invoked with his touch. He had sent jolts of white hot fire through your veins as he marked you, sharp teeth and soothing tongue, on your breasts, the soft flesh of your lower belly, and the one he made on your inner thigh right next to your pussy had almost made you come. You hung up your towel and ran your fingers over the bruises as you stood in front of the mirror, wishing you could make them stay forever.

When you walked into the kitchen, Russell mumbled a “Mornin’” from the breakfast nook, and you answered him softly. He was quiet, scrolling on his phone, not chatty as he had been the last few days. He was distancing himself, you could tell, and it felt like the first day you had been here all over again.

You drank your coffee and stood to go and pack. “Don’t bother with the blankets or anything,” he said, “Colter and I are coming back later to clean out the house.”

“Okay. Thanks,” you answered, leaving the room, suddenly needing to be as far away from him as possible. This didn’t seem to be bothering him one bit.

By the time you got packed, it was time to hit the road. Russell took the suitcase from you and opened the door, and you started out. “Oh, wait,” you said, turning back and going to the end table next to the sofa. You opened the drawer and grabbed the crossword puzzle book. You didn’t look at him as you headed back to the door – he didn’t need to know you wanted it because working that puzzle was the first time there had been sparks between you. He probably wouldn’t understand, anyway.

You climbed into the passenger seat, he got behind the wheel, and you left the house behind, watching out your window as you passed it by. You had barely spoken to or looked at each other, and the silence in the car was oppressive. Several miles went by that way until you couldn’t keep your hurt contained any longer.

“I should have listened to you. You were right. It was a fucking bad idea.” You took a shaky breath. “It must be nice.”

“What?”

There was a bitter edge to your words as you answered him. “The way you’re able to shut off your feelings. It’s so easy for you, like flipping a fucking switch.”

Your resentment hung thick in the air, and after a few seconds, you assumed he wasn’t going to respond. Then Russell spoke softly, his voice taut. “What makes you think it’s easy?”

There was a note of hurt in his words, and you wished you could just take everything you’d said back, but it was too late. None of this was his fault. You had pushed the issue even after he had tried to take a step back, and you had no right to attack him for it. But you couldn’t find the right thing to say, so you just finished the ride to town in yet more silence.

When you pulled up in front of your former home, Reenie, your brother, and the FBI agent who had interviewed you were standing near the front steps talking. “I’ll grab your bag,” Russell said, and you said a quiet “Thank you” as you got out of the car.

Grant met you halfway, hugging you with a smile. Russell brought your bag over, and Grant took it from him. “Thanks, I’ll put this in the trunk.”

Reenie’s observant eyes shifted from Russell to you and back again, Russell’s gaze sliding away from hers to the ground near his feet. Colter was leaning on his truck, parked out on the street, and lifted a hand in greeting. “Well, I guess I should get going. Colter will bring me back to pick up my car after we finish up at the house.” He looked at you, but you barely glanced his direction. “Take care of yourself,” he said quietly, and you nodded in reply. He bit at his lip, then gave a little nod and turned to walk away.

You finally raised your eyes, watching him until he was halfway out to the street, your heart finally forcing you to call out to him. “Russell! Wait.”

He stopped, turning slowly as you rushed out to meet him. “Russell – I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things, I didn’t mean any of it.”

“Don’t worry about it. I get it.”

You shook your head, your eyes stinging with tears. “No, you didn’t deserve any of it. In fact, I need to thank you.” He started to shake his head, and you grabbed his hand. “No, listen. I need to thank you. Not just for the rescue. Russell, you saved me. You made me feel again after years of being numb. You made me feel like myself again. I needed someone, and you were there for me. I’ll never forget it.”

He looked into your eyes, his jaw ticking as he stared at you for a moment. Then he cradled your face in both hands, bending to kiss you, his lips clinging to yours for a long, bittersweet moment before he let you go, brushing a tear from your cheek before he dropped his hands to his sides.

“I’m gonna miss you,” you said in a wavering voice, watching his face as he held his emotions in check.

A brief, sad little smile flitted over his lips, and he dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Me too, sweetheart.” He reached out to give your hand one more squeeze before he turned and walked away.

You watched as he and Colter got into the truck, raised a hand to wave as they did the same, then drove away. You finally turned and walked back to the house, walking straight into your brother’s arms. You shed a few tears on his shoulder, then raised your head with a heavy sigh. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

A few miles down the road, Colter glanced over at his brother, who was staring silently out the window, dragging his fingers absently through his beard. “Wanna talk about it?”

Several moments passed before Russell took a deep breath, exhaling hard before he spoke, his voice subdued. “Did you ever meet somebody who makes you wish like hell you could be what they deserve?”

Colter cleared his throat as he looked steadily at the road. “Yeah.”

Colter never mentioned you when he and Russell called each other or got together. He figured he probably came closer to understanding his brother than just about anyone, and he knew Russell wouldn’t – or couldn’t – talk about it anyway.

Yeah, Colter understood Russell, as well as anyone probably did – except maybe Reenie Green. Russell stayed in touch with her, like he always had, the two of them exchanging banter and joking insults. But when the conversation slowed, when that moment of silence sat heavy between them, Reenie would speak softly. “She’s safe, Russell. She’s happy.” No details, which was good, because Russell didn’t want details. He probably couldn’t handle details. And then they’d end the conversation, like they always did, until the next time.

He still dreamed about you. He could still hear your voice, your laugh. He still woke up some nights feeling the softness of your skin on his fingertips, the scent of your hair and the taste of your lips lingering. And he still told himself your life was good, was better without his past, his baggage weighing you down.

You deserved a fresh start, a new life. He could handle being haunted by your memory. He was used to being haunted by his past.

Time cast a spell on you but you won't forget me I know I could have loved you but you would not let me

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precursory (pre-cur-sory), a, dictionaries define a precursory as something coming before something else; in regards to the placenta effect, this is often the event that triggers two individuals, often friends, into becoming non-committed partners

If you had said to Dean that the journey to point B was longer than the one back to point A, he would’ve agreed with you. There’s an excitement in the unknowing, no matter the path you take. 

It could be physical, it could be emotional, it could even be spiritual—or psychic, which it was in Dean’s case. At least, that’s how it all started. Dean, you, Jody, Missouri, and her deceased friend Dede’s quaint little store in Omaha. 

Though she shouldn’t have, “Come on,” Dean said to Missouri, once she’d thanked him, raising his hands to her and flapping them for one last hug before the three of you hit the road. 

Buckhead. It sounded more like you were hitting Texas in search of Beavis over somewhere in Georgia. But Missouri’s eyes hardened on him, and that thought went out the window, along with his pride. 

How could he even joke like that? Missouri was hurting. Dean knew how serious this was. She was family, and that made James and her granddaughter Patience his family, too, and top priority. He needed to protect them, as he’d set out to do when he left the bunker that morning.

So with the strings of Dede’s beaded curtain still casting their purple haze over his face, and the incense in the air, burning his lungs and eyes, Dean wrapped his arms ‘round Missouri, and drew her in tight until her bulky necklace dug a hole into his chest.

She squeezed him just as hard. Didn’t let him go when he pulled back to say his goodbyes. Her hands moved to his upper arms and gripped him that much harder. Those eyes of hers, more stubborn than his ever were, latched onto him in a death grip as she reached deep into his soul. 

“Dean Winchester.” The rise in the first two syllables of his name held a slight in her tone he couldn’t quite understand during the second rendition. 

He expected her to tell him to hurry. To floor it down the interstate. But those same eyes flicked over you, already out the door with Jody, waiting for him. They softened—she smiled like she’d watched over you her entire life.

It disappeared when they fell back on him again; however, “You’ve had some great losses. Don’t you lose her, too,” she said.

All Dean could do was protest. At least he tried to. Typically, Missouri knew it. 

He opened his mouth to tell her he wouldn’t, because of course, he wouldn’t. You were family, too. She shook her head and doubled down before his throat had even formed the words. 

“I mean it. She deserves a man who treats her right. Not one that leaves her out in the cold.”

He wasn’t planning on leaving you anywhere. As far as deserving a man who treated you right? Well, he wanted that for you too, he supposed. Wasn’t his business. He licked his lips and fluttered his lashes like he’d misunderstood her that time. “Lucky we’re just partners then.” You’d whip his ass if he tried to pull anything on or in you.  

Missouri frowned. “No.” She grabbed his right ear and tugged hard enough to make his head lower to her level. “You look out for her. Even when you feel she’s done you wrong, you don’t let her go.”

She patted his cheek like nothing had happened, glare turning into a warm smile when she tilted her chin. “You’re a good man, Dean Winchester. Remember that.”

And…well…that…

His grin reached the crowns of his cheeks, but he hid it by tilting his own chin downward. Arms, letting go of her, shoved his hands deep into his pockets before the moment turned any softer. “Missouri.” He practically bowed. “Always good to see you.” 

And with that, he slinked away, taking his leave towards you and Jody. Missouri’s words clinging to him like she’d poured milk in his coffee for the first time in years and he’d found the taste much sweeter than he remembered. 

It sure was new. The concept…interesting. Not that he’d thought about you like that, because he hadn’t. Not really. Well…only in the instances when his body dutifully reminded him you were indeed a woman, and had the parts that made his engine tick. 

But thanks to Missouri’s words, there were a few extra points on the journey home from Buckhead that stirred the melting pot. It came to a head when you arrived back at Dede’s shop two days later. Your every movement, word, and the aromas that surrounded you took every piece of his attention.

Jody was closing the door behind her as you slunk into the passenger seat from the back. “Thanks for the ride.” She leant on the open window, ducking her head down to see you better. 

“O’course.” Dean swiped his own to the side. He’d never leave Jody stranded back in Georgia. Not after Sam’d called her out here how he had. “You gonna stop over, or you need us to follow you outta town?” he asked, regretting it as soon as he had. Up close and next to him, whatever fruit-scented concoction you’d last used throughout the day was bleeding into his air again. 

He knew he didn’t have the patience of a saint, but if she said yes to his offer, he needed to find it, and quick, because you were confused and shooting him a narrow stare. 

Though it failed to compare to the longer exchanges of stifled grins you’d been giving him through the rearview, thankfully, Jody shook her head. “I think I’m going to drop in on Claire,” she said in that motherly way of hers. Even under their low coverage, the street lamps dusted her face with a warm glow. 

“Well, send her our love.” You patted her arm, and with one last wave, Dean pulled Baby out of the lot and onto the main drag outta Omaha. The bunker was only three hours away, give or take, and he was in a rush to get her somewhere.

His eyes flicked between you and the road a few times. He’d been a cocky son of a bitch that morning, but he’d been in his element then. Already under the sheets with you. 

“What about you? You good to keep going?” His right hand moved to the vinyl between you, waiting to see what you’d do. 

He could drive this path one handed if he had to. Eyes closed, or on you, didn’t matter. He knew that road like the scars on his hands, and right now he wanted to trace them over you.

If he thought the effects of Bevill’s blood purifying spell were catching up with him, since the motel, earlier that day in Memphis, his pipes were buckling under pressure. His balls, the bluest they’d ever been after any of his virginity losses, and nothing, nothing, felt innocent anymore when those exchanges in the rearview had also tested his jaw and the flexibility of his wrist.

While you slid that bit closer to him, brushing your thigh against his fingers, much to his disappointment, “I’m good,” you said. Though you did push his Zeppelin tape back into the deck.

“Woman after my heart,” he muttered.

“I like to please.” The same smile you’d been giving him all day flashed across your cheeks. 

Yeah…you liked to please, alright.

You both settled into a comfortable silence after that as he drove through the last of the city’s outer limits, not taking long for Baby to ease onto the highway once he got her there. Your lips were mouthing to Levee when Dean opened up her throttle. The roar of her engine suited him just fine, even though his two weeks continued rolling through the back of his mind.

It didn’t help that there was a pounding in his chest each time he felt you shift next to him that went against the grain and straight to his groin, either. He had to remind himself that it was nothing. That it wasn’t on purpose, because he was running out of ways to get his blood moving. There were only so many positions he could shift his foot on the gas— 

“You think Patience’ll stay out of it?” he asked to break his thoughts.

“Dunno.” You considered him longer than he expected you would. The way your finger and thumb ran across your mouth and puckered your lower lip had to be purposeful, ‘cause it sure backfired on his resolve. “Seems like a waste not to use her gift,” you said.

“Her dad doesn’t think so.” And Dean couldn’t believe he was siding with James on that, but he’d meant what he’d said to her. There was no joy in hunting monsters. She was better off in calculus and normal, even if Dean didn’t see that for himself anymore.

“And he didn’t pull out those gems when he was desperate?” You clicked your tongue. Dean supposed it was fitting for Missouri’s sake. 

Holding the family legacy. Helping people the way the Mosley matriarch had done. “Noticed Jody slipped her a card.”

“Yeah?”

“Seems everyone’s fishing for kids now.” He shook his head. Unlike his ‘woman after his heart’ comment, he didn’t mean for you to take it as seriously as you did. 

“You jealous?” And that’s when you chose to look at him? Because you looked at him like Missouri had done, reaching into his soul, trying to find meaning in something that wasn’t there. 

“No.” Just because Patience had people ‘round looking out for her didn’t mean he wanted to change his past. Though even he could recognise he was way too defensive with the word.

“You sure about that?” He nodded, but he wasn’t expecting the judgemental scoff that came next. “Because Jack needs our help, too y’know,” you said, and…wait…wait…

“What?” Lucifer’s spawn? Dean’s face screwed up, only for him to blink his way out of it, spluttering a reply he never thought he’d have to say to you of all people. “That kid needs to be locked in a box and dumped in the ocean.” At least until Dean could find a way to gank him.

“Sam thinks he’s innocent,” you whispered, and Dean pulled his right hand, still close to you on the bench and waiting for contact the entire time, away and up to the wheel, curling his fingers tight over the leather.

“He’s already killed three people.” 

“And one of them was his mom.” 

Your eyes fixed on him again, but Dean refused to look back at you. That just made it worse.

Even when your palm came down to his thigh and squeezed the taut muscle there like you’d done many times of late, he continued to focus on the road and the slow rhythm of Dazed and Confused’s baseline. 

Wanted a woman; never bargained for you. The lyrics never felt truer to him than they did now. But as Plant spoke to him through the music; you continued to speak to him in real time. Something about the year being a shit show and things looking up. Dean didn’t care.

He huffed and rolled his eyes at the sentiment. He didn’t appreciate the kind words no matter how hard you tried until your hand caught his attention by moving higher up his thigh. “Least, they were.” You squeezed him again.

If that weren’t an innuendo or an advance on his interest, he was better off a virgin—there was no way anyone could misconstrue that. Your hand was heading somewhere. Your fingers curved ‘round the shape of his leg. Dipped into his nether regions. Your fingertips slid up further into that junction his jeans made when he sat down and the fabric billowed.

“Woah.” He swallowed—chuckled even, because he’d been flirting with you all day. Now it was all too real. 

And when you said his name? The way it rolled off your tongue, sank straight into his gut, where his balls somehow connected, awakened, tingling and warm. 

“You asked me if I wanted to keep going.” You said it like he didn’t understand what you were doing. Not in that fake way a lot of his previous one-night-stands used on him. No, you played it like you were in control. The same woman he’d known for years, who hustled pool and knew how to wield a blade, coming onto him, all confident and comfortable in her skin. 

“Well—I wanna keep going.” Your hand moved over him. Fingers curled down and ‘round, thankfully not as firm as he’d been with the wheel just now. 

They stroked over the thick layer covering him in much the same way he’d be touching you if he weren’t hurtling Baby down the interstate. 

His eyes snapped to yours, flicking between you and the road for as long as it was safe to do so. “You sure about this?” Because his dick was betraying him, awakening with an obvious yes, you only had to look down and see. 

His head, however? The one up top that mattered was hesitant. Like you were confusing him with all that talk of Jack and Kelly Kline. 

Jamie. The Carmelita. Technically, like you with his morning wood, he’d come onto them first, but they weren’t friends in the sense that he knew you. That he considered you family and them, flashes from the scarce headlights of the scarcer lit highway. Maybe it was a good thing Jody had been there last night and all day? 

Though what the hell was going on with his inhibitions? He’d been wanting you alone, and here you were. You pressed your body against him. Your other hand, not stroking him, came to his neck with your sweet, sweet mouth. If his blood hadn’t already rushed south yet, it was sprinting down his veins to the finish line.

He felt himself twitch. He sure as hell felt your hand twitch in response, moving to cover more of him. To put pressure on and trace the outline of his hardening length. 

“So is that your gun?” you whispered into his ear. “Cause I think you told me you’d let me see it this time.”

And that did it. That was all it took. Dean’s resolve gone, his charming, slack-jaw ways replacing it with a sudden onslaught of a southern drawl he hadn’t quite meant to use. 

“S’happy to see you, darlin’,” he said. His own hand dropped to your thigh and tucked his fingers nice and close to where he wanted to be.

“Yeah?” You nibbled under his jaw with soft, but purposeful kisses as he searched for somewhere to pull off the second he was able. You were on him the next. 

Your jacket removed, your leg thrown over his lap to straddle him. He pulled your core flush against him, moaning as your lips came down on his for the first time. Plush and full of warmth and life; clear in their intentions. You were as receptive to him as any other partner he’d had in the past. 

Sensual, sexual, it felt way too damn good for someone he was supposed to care about, and maybe that’s why it did?  

But it didn’t stop there. Nope. Far from it. You became an outlet. He used you; you used him. Like Bob Seiger once said, neither one of you cared, because you didn’t seem to have as much to lose—back then.

A/N: It’s been a while since I posted something. Hopefully, this is a nice comeback as I'm rather proud of this work. Tomorrow's chapter get's us into the non-linear side of things at a little over 10k…. Prepare for more smut, and the start of the case this story centres around! Until then ❤️

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He picked the restaurant for tonight’s date: one of those fancy ones with menus that aren’t listed online. It even has a dress code, so Dean said he would wear the suit he had when you first met. He thought he was romantic, but you know it’s the only one he has.

You found a poster in the local car dealer’s window, looking for a mechanic. After you sent a picture of it to him, he’s been calling you every evening to tell you how his application letter is coming along. The man can recite complicated spells in Latin and face literal demons, but gets nervous when he needs to write official letters. That’s the adorable Dean, the soft one that you’re getting to know more and more.

The wall clock says 7:48 pm. He was supposed to pick you up at 7:30 and now you’re getting really anxious. The last text he sent was yesterday, explaining that he and Sam had to go solve a case up north. He isn’t answering any of your calls, and neither is Sam. Maybe his phone was broken?

At 10 pm, you wash your makeup off and slink into the hotdog PJs. By 11 pm, you’re halfway through a tub of ice cream when your doorbell rings. You’re not expecting anyone else, so he better have a damn good excuse!

You stomp over to the door and rip it open, fully ready to tear him a new one – but it’s not Dean.

It’s Sam.

And he looks wrecked. Baggy eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, blood-stained shoes.

No.

You look behind him, hoping you’re wrong. Sam’s alone. There’s no one else in the corridor.

Please, no.

Sam’s lower lip trembles uncontrollably as your eyes find his again, the silent question written all over your face. Your heart falls as he shakes his head once, new tears finding their way through old paths into his stubble.

The two of you hug and sob into each other’s arms, the smell of Dean’s pyre still lingering on Sam’s jacket.

Navigation:

CHAPTER LISTING

1 - The Precursory

2 - Regression to the Mean

3 - Response Bias

4 - Reporting Bias

5 - Non-inert Treatments

Additional Notes: phew! It’s been awhile! As most stories go, the final product is very different to how it all started. The original concept I had was to turn the fake dating trope into a fake pregnancy one. Some days it did my head in, but here we are!

I signed up for the competition late last year and throughout the process there were moments I thought I wouldn’t get it done on time thanks to a very mushy brain. To all my lovely mutuals and regular readers who read this, I hope you enjoy, and apologies for being absent for so long. Hopefully, I’ll get back into my regular interactions and reading - Beth ❤️

Reader’s Choice Award: As mentioned above, this story was written for the Storyteller-Contest’s The Jensen Ackles Chronicles. It’s a fanfic writing contest being judged by a pre-selected group of judges, with prizes to be won.

non-inert treatments: non-inert treatments are another confounding factor to the placebo effect; while they could be considered a treatment for the placenta effect also (see abortion and birth), it is more often considered the point in which the non-committed couple reaches a crossroads, either furthering their relationship and becoming fully committed to each other, or going their separate ways as far as their individual relationship goes; any resulting child carried to full-term is not included as part of the couples relationship, except when broadened into a family group - a separate issue outside of the placenta effect study

Dean never intended for you to sleep in his bed that morning. By the time he woke up, it was well into the day. Was hard to tell when he couldn’t see his clock over your shoulder, but could see the lights from the hallway filtering in under the door and through the grill.

Must’ve been the way his room’s setup was different to yours. The end of his bed opposite the doorway meant the light shone into his eyes if he looked at it the right way, like he did then. If he’d had a hangover, he’d have been screwed, technically he had, depending on how you looked at it. Some might say he was. 

His arm was around your waist, and while it wasn’t awkward per se, it was surprising. As rare as him still being in his bed so late in the day. 

You always slinked off after sex. Each round with him, a literal wham-bam-thank-you ma’am kind of situation neither of you mentioned—ever. Until you wound up together in the sheets or out of them the next time, and even then, aside from the usual bedroom talk, there wasn’t much talking going on. His, ‘yeah, baby’s’ and bringing up how well you were taking him. How wet you were or when he was about to shoot his load. 

After the kitchen and the subsequent move to his bed, the last he remembered was him shooting into you and filling you up. His fingers, still pressed into you. Their tips brushed over himself as he continued to draw the sensations out of your body. He’d all but stilled, aside from his chest heaving against your back, soon finding a sliver of post nut clarity that allowed him to collapse with you still in his arms. 

Now, he was sticky. The good kind. A sheen of you and him covered his junk like a layer of sweat, having not bothered to clean either of you up. It was something you insisted on doing yourself. Except this time.

He leaned back and glanced down between you. It was gonna be another Memphis situation if you didn’t move soon. Even at the thought of it, his dick twitched at the prospect. Even his own frown towards it did little. 

You shifted, though. Hips angled more so the one under his forearm moved closer to the mattress. Legs stretched, receding beside him. Knees rubbed together. He had to shuffle back himself to avoid your ankle to his shin, which then had him stilling because you sighed in your sleep, and it was…sweet. Nice? Different? 

Definitely different. 

Reminded him of his days with Lisa and Ben. The relaxed mornings on the ones he didn’t have to run off to work for and be at the site by eight. Hell, even those workdays were easy when he considered everything hunting entailed. 

It’d been a while since he could just be. To lay there in his bed—any bed for that matter, and not have a care in the world.

Not rushed. He had no desire to get up. Nor was he hellbent on getting somewhere to even get his coffee. There was no bitter smell that morning that’d woken him as it was, and even his bladder seemed to give him a break. He had to wonder if it was just in cahoots with his sack. His body parts stuck together and all that, but, hey? What was a world without friends?

You were his friend. Family. That wouldn’t change, and as you came to, he held you firmer. Waiting for the moment you’d recognise where you were, most likely flip out on him, though he was hoping for the opposite. That the peace would last a little longer so he could pretend he had a slice of normal. Remember what he’d seen the night before in your eyes. 

He still didn’t know what that was. Just knew how it made him feel. How he’d wanted to cradle you close, much in the way he was doing now. How he wanted to do it again.

As his thumb ran over your skin, your stomach muscles below his other fingers tightened. Your breath, quiet, as opposed to the softer ones you’d released as you’d slept. 

He could feel you tensing beneath his touch, still he dared dropping his head between your shoulder blades. His hand, still on you, still holding you, but loosening the longer you did nothing more than breathe.

“Morning,” he rumbled. His voice hoarse from the scotch that’s remnants still clung to the back of his throat. 

“Hey.” You cleared your own before shifting again, body flipping to your back. It left enough distance between you he felt the draft from the outside hall in the gap below the sheet that covered you both.

Someone had pulled it over you. More than likely him, though he couldn’t recall. His mind, still focussed on the sex and your words in the kitchen. 

You’d told him you weren’t fine. “I’m not,” you’d said in particular to him telling you he was. But you’d brought up his getting injured, too. Rowena’s henchman. And though he’d favoured you with his shoulder—as he’d kissed you, he’d felt a need within himself to ask if you were okay. Even during the moment with his dick ploughing into you, he felt the need to ask again. Yet both times you’d insisted you were good.

Looking at your face now had him wondering, though. If he asked again, would you say the same thing? 

He wasn’t sure it’d get him anywhere when you’d already pulled away with just his forehead to your spine. Granted, you were still waking up, and okay, his arm was also on your stomach. You might’ve felt the stirrings of his morning wood. 

The whole setup was unusual. He couldn’t deny it. But sitting—lying there in silence wasn’t the way to go about things. He had to say something before you retreated.

So he changed his trajectory. Pulled his arm away from the pillow you were using. Pulled it back to him and drew the sheet higher over his waist. He put his other hand behind his head and fixed his eyes on the ceiling. How he treated all the women before you that weren’t Lisa or Cassie; they were the only ones he was comfortable lying with like this. 

And you? 

He was getting way too sappy for so early in the day, even if it was late for him. You stared at the ceiling, too. Head rolled back a little so your chin was higher than your nose. 

“This is—new,” he said. He’d almost gone with nice. Still thought it was, but he wasn’t about to tell you that. “Didn’t think I’d—”

“I’m pregnant.” 

What?

There was a full minute of him trying to swallow your words and wallow in them before he did something. At least, that’s what it felt like. He had to taste them on his tongue first. Let them sink into his head while he tried to control his reaction before he sat straight up. One knee bent, the other shoved towards your waist—which he had to adjust. Get the offending limb well away from your womb and the—

“Gesundheit.” His brow raised and the crowns of his cheeks raised higher. A smile, not joyful, but fucking confused, plastered on his face because you had just had sex. Hours ago, sure, but how could you…? 

His lashes fluttered again. To be that fly on the wall that could get the fuck out of dodge.

Had he heard that right?

He stared at you. While you hadn’t run off or cowered under the sheet like he might’ve expected—prior experience judged upon—you had an odd streak to your lips. “I mean, I’m late,” you huffed. “I, ah, I’d been practicing how I was gonna tell you, but my head—I dunno.” You shook said head, the same lips trembling. “I was struggling how to tell you, but it’s been almost two weeks now and I—”

“Well, two weeks ain’t the same as right now,” he chuckled. The one that was ever boyish as he came down from the initial heart attack you’d tried to give him. Though how and why that seemed to make him feel better was beyond him. “‘Cause I just came in ya a few hours ago, and that—well, I’m not a doctor, but you don’t know that soon.” 

He stared at you for a second longer. Looked over your face and the mouth that’s shape told him you were serious. He ran a hand over his own. Ever aware, you watched him even though you attempted to make it look like you weren’t. 

He lowered himself back onto the mattress. He’d have sighed as his back hit the memory foam, but he held it in, knowing every action was being scrutinised. His arm, furthest from you, still up in the air, T-Rex style all over again. 

There were a lot of similarities to Memphis.

Even though he’d just released you for your own comfort, he was sliding his hand back under you and pulling you closer to him. When that didn’t push you away, he risked his thumb stroking your skin again. “You, ah, you’re sure you’re late? I mean it—”

“I’ve been waiting for it,” you said. He heard your breaths in between. “Y’know, cramps or—something, but the last time I had my period was after that case in Tulsa, and—”

“Okay,” he said. Defeated, maybe? There wasn’t much he could do at that moment, buck naked and still perplexed. Wasn’t like he didn’t know how it could happen. Not like he’d suited up.

“Okay?” You sat up that time. His hand had to drop to the mattress to accommodate you. “What do you—”

“I mean, okay.” He stressed his voice enough that you’d drop the question. There were already enough false ‘I’m fine’s’ going around; you didn’t need another one to contend with on top of them. 

He meant this one. Sort of—freaking the fuck out. There wasn’t a lot you could do at that moment, either. Not like you had one of those tests from the drugstore on hand you could pee on, though he’d have to go and get you one to be sure. 

It was you, though. Not some Amazon. Not Lisa, who he’d noped out of. It was you. Someone he could deal with. Wasn’t like you’d taken a test and the positive was glaring back at him—yet.

His hand reached for your bare thigh, now exposed. His eyes, tracing the movements his thumb resumed for fear of looking at your rack that was also out on display for him. “All we know is you’re late. Can’t do much about it now.”

“But—”

“I’ll go get you a test myself.” Right after he had his coffee. Chuck knew he deserved it. His self control was reason alone.

Dean pulls a pack of peas out of Jody’s fridge and slaps it on his shoulder. No towel, no paper, just straight over the former gunshot wound Tiny had a hand in making worse. 

He winces. Stares at the inside of the freezer a little longer, allowing the cold air to cool his face down, even with the threat his low brow might stay that way. 

He knows there’s worry etched into the grooves around his eyes and nose. He knows the second he turns around and faces Jody and Sam, they’ll have questions for him. Sam’s been holding them since the motel in Grafton. Since Dean frantically searched through your things for answers. Even before.

What was he supposed to say to them? What did he say to you when he didn’t know how to form the words he wanted to tell himself?

Things were okay? Because they weren’t. Not really. You were okay. The baby was okay. All six millimetres of it. But Dean didn’t even know how big that was until he googled it. His kid was smaller than his smallest fingernail. What kind of father was he?

The kind that let their mom get taken by a nest of vamps, that’s who. Dean could say as much as he wanted that it wasn’t his fault, but he pushed you away. Fought against you. He’d made your life hell enough that you’d left the motel on your own to get a second test. So what kind of father was he? 

Not the kind to be around. That’s for sure.

Water running out of the tap spills into a container behind him. He didn’t even hear either of them move. He shuts the door and spins around to see Jody filling up the coffeemaker. Sammy’s staring at him from across the room, leaning on a piece of bench, arms folded, but neither says a word, and Dean straightens himself up, having not realised he was slouching. 

All his muscles scream at him as he slinks past them both to the dining table. He pulls up a chair, the one facing the window and away from them, and slinks into it. Those same muscles protest under the onslaught of bunching up under his own weight.

Legs stretching below don’t help. Only make it harder.  His bad arm, draping on his thigh, he loses his head and stares at the wood grain, waiting for someone to speak or for his thoughts to turn happier.

He should be, right? Happy that is. You’re not talking to him ‘cause you’re resting in Claire’s room. That’s better than not talking and ignoring him.

You’ve hardly said a word since the hospital. He made you see someone in Grand Forks because it was safer than Grafton after the case. Just made him more aware of the kind of life you’d be bringing your kid into.

His kid. 

His jaw grinds from side to side. Tongue scrapes the back of his teeth and lips. Jody’s the first to join him, which is surprising. She places a hand on his good shoulder as she moves to the chair to his right and diagonal.

He doesn’t look, though. His lips twitch into a shallow smile that only just clips the edges. Enough for her to see he appreciates the sentiment. 

But she says nothing. He’s okay with the silence. Until Sam’s boots shuffle over the floor, and he can only guess what’s coming. 

He doesn’t sit next to him like he often does when they’re here, though, but across from him where he can stare at him some more.

Clearing his throat, Dean still doesn’t move his face from the grains on the table before him. He shuffles his ass, though. Presses the pack of peas firmer against the ache. They should be on his heart or stomach, but he doesn’t have enough hands and Jody doesn’t have enough peas. 

“Dean?” she tries, in that mom voice of hers. S’not helping. Even when she leans forward to catch his eye, he refuses to budge.

“She’s okay, right? The doctor said they’re both fine?” But even Jody, assuming his own rhetoric with the way her tone turned it into a question, not a statement, doesn’t help Dean fix his resolve.

“It’s not the point.” He readjusts his grip. His hand attached to the bullet wound curls his fingers into a half fist.

“It is the point, Dean,” Sam says with the same know-it-all tone he used yesterday. “Doctor let her go. She didn’t lose much blood.”

“But she did lose blood.” Dean raises his voice. It’s just not enough to make a scratch on the air. “She’s got a big chunk taken out of her neck.”

“That’s no different from any other time.” Sam folds his arms and leans onto the table, trying to get closer to him. “She had worse in Tulsa.”

And that made it better? 

“No one roofied her in Tulsa.”

What if they’d turned you? What if they’d decided you were worthless like Humphries? They dumped him for not having enough of the HCG crap in his veins. 

And you? Well, turns out you had a lot of it. Growing stronger every minute, according to the good doc in Grand Forks. Turns out Dean’d fucked up again by insisting you drink that water bottle before you took the test. Fucked up by not going out and getting it for you sooner. 

Who needed sleep? Not him. In fact, if he hadn’t been such a horny son of a bitch, you might’ve told him sooner than after you’d woken up.

Dean shakes his head. His tongue swipes the dry patches on his lips and darts back inside. That’s all either of them is getting from him now. Even with Sam’s persistence. 

“I’m just saying she’s strong.” Sam shrugs. His head drops, too. “If your kids like you…then they’re strong, too.” 

“They’ll be lucky to have you both,” Jody adds. Doing the mom bit again. 

She’s good at it. Raising Alex and Claire can’t have been easy. Dean remembers her bitching about them not being hers. 

Said she had no history, but then she added Patience to the group. Made it three after losing her husband and her own kid. 

She’s cut out for this stuff. Dean’s not. He gave up on Ben and Lisa when it got too hard. Can say all he likes he came back to hunting because Sammy came back topside.

He did come back for that, but he told no one, not even Ben, that the line about not being able to sit at Lisa’s dinner table wasn’t because of his job and being respectable. No, they didn’t deserve him there because he didn’t want to be there anymore. 

Emma didn’t deserve him, either. Even if she was a monster, he still wonders if what she was saying had any truth behind it, because people can change. Nature can change. 

You’re down the hall. You and the baby he thought of as a fleeting want until it was taken away from him twice. 

He meant what he said to you in the warehouse, and now that he’s seen them with his own eyes when you were coherent enough for the doctors to do the ultrasound, he’s sure he wants to be there with you even though he doesn't deserve it. 

Doesn’t stop him wanting you.  

Decided that the second he saw you in that chair that he did. Knew he couldn’t let anything like that happen to you ever again. No hunts. No cases. He’d keep you in the bunker if he had to. He’d get out if it meant he can keep them, too. 

But just looking ‘round Jody’s dining room is an ode to the apple pie life he can’t give you. 

It takes him down a notch. Makes him realise he’d let you both go if you wanted to get away from him. Make a safe life for yourself, ‘cause while he has a roof over his head, he doesn’t have the necessities like Jody does. She also has the things that make a house a home. Like Lisa’s. Like the Humphries and the Walsh’s there’s love and life in this room alone.

It’s not Bobby’s, and it never will be, but the charm is in the warmth. She’s got colour and fabrics; not giant doilies, but a couch that’s comfortable. One that sinks in just enough. Dean has the Dean cave with glass still on the floor from the smashed TV. While his armchairs are comfy, they’re just surrounded by concrete and bleak.

The bunker ain’t a place for a kid. Ignore the fact about a home, and it’s not his place to be around a kid, even his own. No matter what anyone says, he let you get taken. Even if he didn’t do or planned on doing it, his actions led you there.

“They’re lucky to have her.” His jaw ticks. “She’s the strong one.” You sat in that chair, knowing what you knew. Sitting next to the others. Dean still refuses to liken them to you.

When he heard you say his name, Dean’s heart only raced more. Sharp, like ‌the quickening he felt in his balls when he came, the palpitations flooded his body. That adrenaline, already in his system, still set his every nerve on fire. 

If only the heat could set the small room alight, not to burn, just to see, ‘cause the smell…the smell wasn’t pleasant. And Dean recognised the must for what it was. 

Pungent, like a urinal was. Like the wet patches he found on the ground outside bars and under causeways from drunks. Those who’d tried but failed to piss the excess booze away. Those who didn’t realise they were doing it until the warm streams met their inner legs.

The stench singed the hairs in his nose, but it was worse than that. Concentrated, mixed with blood and excrement too, from whomever hadn’t held it. But how could you blame them? Finding out vamps existed was the cliche for shitting one’s pants as it was. Yeah, it didn’t scream sanitary.

Of course it wouldn’t. Even with the refrigeration unit not fired up and under cooler temperatures. The walk-in cooler was the perfect example of a living petri dish, and he would’ve expected no less from any civilian. Five people in a room, six if you included when Humphries was there, things were bound to build. All of you left in a giant closet. Some, more than a week. 

If Ronald had died in here, it would’ve been worse for the other three that were still there, not knowing if they were next. Not knowing why they’d been targeted. Dean wondered if you knew now, having been on the case with him and Sam. 

Wasn’t something he was about to bring up here and now, though.

You’d think those flames coursing through him would’ve spared him from the ice, but no. His skin, his hands, his cheeks—the parts exposed, felt the air seep down into his bones as he strode across to you. 

If you were okay, then why weren’t you giving him some smartass rendition of him being too late, not struggling to say his name? You were supposed to say something witty. Supposed to by rounding up the others and keeping their morale high, but you weren’t. 

Your shoulders curled over. Your head dropped even though you’d seen him. 

Was he too slow—too late? Thoughts of babies and human chorionic—whatever—be damned. Were you okay?

He said your name as he dropped to his knees on the mat below him. The moisture trapped in the bases of the anti-slip holes soaked into the fabric of his pant legs. He ignored that, too. Even as the rubber edges dug into his skin like icicles in the snow.  

“Hey.” His palm came to your thigh, squeezing just enough for you to feel him through your jeans as he looked up into the umbra of your face. “You alright?” He forced a smile, though all you’d see were his teeth, uneven from the force of it. His brows folded at the cold that covered your own legs and the dark patch on your neck, catching what little light had filtered in from the hall.

“Told ‘em—come.” Your voice, though hoarse and rambled, huffed in amusement. ‘Cavalry.” Your half thoughts sounded more like you’d just woken up rather than being excited he was here to rescue you. Whether you were was neither here nor there to him. Not when you were within his arm’s reach. 

“Think you became the bait,” he muttered, trying his best to be lighthearted. He reached into his pocket and fumbled for his phone. “How many’d you count?” He focused on the specifics, hoping you’d understand without further explanation. The last thing he wanted was to spook the crowd any further, but with his fingers distracted, his gaze only flicked to them. 

“Um,” you muttered, “five—think. How—”

“Five,? he said, unlocking the screen and holding it up to his ear once he’d dialed Sam. “Pattinson’s girlfriend was the last,” he chuckled. He just didn’t expect you to question him on his knowledge of teenage vampires when you were struggling to speak.  

Before you could get any further than the ‘how,’ he was squeezing your leg again as he waited for the dial tone to do its thing. At least your gears were doing theirs. “Take it easy, yeah. M’here now. Gonna get you out of here.” 

The light from his device, even against his cheek, had lit up your face enough for him to really see you: alert, somewhat, exhausted maybe. The bite on your neck, the same as any other he’d seen on you and others before, though it hit differently.

“Hey,” he said again when Sam answered, not giving his brother time to say more than a greeting back before he cut him off. “Found her. Get the car and bring it to the front.” He hung up just the same, keeping the screen lit up to see you all better. 

“Now the real cavalry’s here.” He winked at you, eyes soon tracing the bite on your neck once more. 

Blood still oozed out of your wound. Not flowing enough, you’d bleed out, but enough for Dean to know they’d bitten more than once in the few hours they’d taken you. Most likely now, before he’d arrived thanks to Bella. The back of your hand had a catheter as Mr. Humphries had done. Tubing attached to it, wound round the back of your chair to one of five drips.

His remarks about Ronald would ring true in some ways; if the cancer patient had been the one to put the catheters in everyone. Someone had some kind of medical training, not that Dean did himself. He was just repeating what the coroner had mentioned. And Dean?

“Let’s get you out of this, honey,” he said. 

Much like the handle of the machete in his hand the night before, the plastic in Dean’s hand sweats against his skin. 

Of course, it’s the crinkle of it that grabs yours and Alex’s attention. Of course, you both turn away from what you’re doing and look up at him, taking any choice of knocking away from him. All that’s left is to plaster his face with an over-confident grin. He licks his lower lip through it when he sees the state of your undress and what he’s actually walked in on. 

On the inside, he’s still wondering what the hell he’s going to say to you. There’s a lot you need to talk about, but he’s gotta push all the self doubt and loathing to the side, because at the end of the day? You’re what’s important to him. 

He flicks his gaze to your face. “How’s the patient?” is what he goes with. Simple, though he’s feeling like an idiot. Doesn’t even know why he’s thinking so damn hard about this when it’s just you. It’s just Alex. She’s seen it all. He’s just sure as hell wishing she was seeing it from a different room. 

It’s bad enough he’s been failing when it comes to you, and now he has an audience with her. Even with the boyfriend turned vampire, he doubts she’s seen everything. She hasn’t seen him handle relationship stuff. At least Sam left him to his own devices for most of the case, which is why he’s in this mess.

As much as he’s grateful Alex is checking your wound, he was gone for over an hour. She should’ve been and gone when he was gone plenty enough for her to be done with this. Out buying you the stuff the doctors at the hospital said you needed, that they needed. And like the weight of the test in the pharmacy bag pulled tight against his fingers in the bunker that night he brought it home, the one from Jody’s local market weighs on him. 

He’s got vitamins. He’s got the candy you like. Ice cream and the cereal you always stock, already in Jody’s kitchen, even though he’s planning on heading home with you and Sam tomorrow. But you might want it. He can’t believe he’s gonna say it, but this is his kid; they might want it, too. He’d get you a cheeseburger to wash it all down with just for them. 

“Just redressing her wound,” Alex says with the faintest sliver of a smirk gracing her lips. Her teeth on show like she’s trying to impersonate Elvis or her former found family, but in actuality, she’s just concentrating as she places the last of the bandages.  

Okay, yeah, the question was obvious, but she didn’t need to be like that. It’s the first time he’s come to see you since the kitchen, after listening to Jody and Sam waffle on about how lucky you both were. He’s brought up the courage to talk to you now, because the last time you really talked you were sitting out the front of the Walsh’s house and that didn’t go so well.

Which is why he still doesn’t see it. The part about him being lucky. The part where he should just talk to you. Like he hasn’t tried that already.

You hid this from him for days. You hid being late for two weeks, but he could forgive you for that. He can forgive you for the not telling yesterday, too. 

Just has to keep his cool and not fuck up like last time. Part of the reason he’s been letting you rest since he got you to Jody’s place was so he could mull over everything. Avoid saying something else, he’s gonna regret. 

And he’s regretting everything. From the moment you told him you were late in his bed, he can see how he’s been a dick. Asking you out like that. Walking out on you like that. The list can go on; he’s just aware there’s two sets of eyes still staring at him until Alex focuses on helping you slip his flannel back over your shoulder. The one he gave you this morning at the hospital. The one you’ve worn since.

He thumps his free fist against the door—twice, like he’d planned with the knocking. “I can help her with that. Think Jody said she needed you in the kitchen.” He doesn’t care that it’s obviously a lie. Just relieved Alex stops mid button. 

She seeks your confirmation. A single glance, before you’re nodding that it’s okay. Which, great? Perfect, though Dean’s wondering if some silent communication is also going on with the amount of times your eye twitches. 

“Thanks, Alex,” you say as she stands up and collects the supplies she brought in with her up in her arms. 

Dean mutters his own. The hand behind his back rearranges his fingers around the bouquet and the bag he’s holding, but he has to drop them to his side when you work at the next button yourself. 

He pretends neither of you is staring at the bright pink wrap and the softer tones of the peonies the lady at the store helped pick out for him as he strides over to you. The thing is offensive to his eyes, too. Can’t remember a time when he’s even given someone flowers, unless he counts his own mom.

Even then, it was the djinn in Joliet and Mary herself that reminded him of it. The weeds he pulled from the Lawrence house’s front lawn reminded four-year-old Dean of his yellow Tonka truck. His mom’d said he’d been proud of them. 

He wasn’t so proud when Sam gave him shit for it, however. Even though it was the actions of a kid and not of a grown man, like Alex’s continuous smirk, it was damn hilarious, to everyone but him.

Dean places the flowers and the rest of his haul on the bed next to you, only to find Alex still staring at him. Her lips, now flattening, but somehow pushing her cheeks higher up her face to the baseline of her lashes. 

Short of asking if he can help her, “We’ll call you if we need you,” he says. His tone, more preteen than adult-Dean. He might not know her as well as he knows Claire, but it only makes it easier to be dickish, even if it’s not called for. 

“Might need me sooner than you think.” She snickers, as if she knows Dean’s got no idea, which is telling. There must be some silent communication going on between the two of you. More so when Alex pulls her cheeks higher with her brow and the way her eyes flicker to the flowers. 

He still doesn’t see what’s so funny, though. Sure, he’s got them and he asked you out the way he had, but the gesture is all there. It’s all about the action, not the words.

“Would you just—” He cocks his head to the door and lowers himself down to take over the button you’re still struggling with. Seems neither of you can take a hint, much like the women in the store who chattered at his sheer presence in the florist. 

If he’s honest, cocky even, he’ll admit it’s not the first time he’s received looks like the ones they were giving him. Sideways glances and whispers that’d make most guys feel three feet tall. Technically, he did at that moment, already feeling so out of place in a tiny little shop front full of flowers grazing each limb as he tried to avoid others.  

As it is now, your fingers pull his jean leg, and his name on your lips pulls him back.

Once Dean had removed the catheter from your hand, he wrapped his tie around your wrist and pulled you to your feet, hoisting you up, bridal style, against his chest. His fingers, digging into your flesh beneath your clothes, held you tight as he carried you out of the refrigeration unit. 

He didn’t look back.

There was no way he was hanging ‘round. You needed a hospital. To be checked over, and he…he needed to know for sure. 

His heart worked faster. Throbs passed by his ears and tremors tingled in his legs as he moved. He stepped over Robert’s girlfriend, kicking her one extra time before he continued back down the path towards Tiny, the others, and the entry where he hoped to God Sam had brought the Impala to.

They could call the feds once he had you in Baby. Even better once you were on your way out of Grafton if he could get away with it. He needed to get you to a doctor. Needed to get you checked out. “I’ll get you to a hospital, yeah?” he muttered as his boots tread over the squares of moonlight that still kissed the concrete. “Get you checked out, make sure—”

He stopped himself. Couldn’t bring himself to say it over the lump in his throat.

Dean wasn’t even sure you’d figured it out yet—why they’d taken you. Why they’d gone after the others. 

You hadn’t been there for that conversation, having been locked in the bathroom, yet again. But the IV he’d taken out of your arm? The case. Sam, discovering all the others had HCG in their blood. Unless he’d missed something all the times you’d slept together, there was only one conclusion he could draw from everything.

And he was going to make sure you both were okay.

Dean shuts the door as you asked. His grip, gentle on the handle. The tips of his fingers, hanging off the brass. As the worn latch clicks into place, the soft thud of wood against wood sets deep in his gut.

It’s the first solid chance he’s had of getting you alone since he carried you out of that warehouse and into the safety of Baby. Before then, it was the moment he left you at the motel to go with Sam and interview the punk-ass kid with the craters on his face. 

A fleeting thought goes to Edith and the others he left behind when he got you out of there, but he couldn’t do much more for them than what he and Sam have already done. There were two of them, and no way he was letting you walk out of there, even if you’d been coherent or insistent. The fact that you weren’t, screamed at him to focus on you. Teenage moms be damned. 

There’s enough guilt racing around his heart as it is without adding more to it. The sound of the plastic ‘round the peonies crinkling under your touch has his attention for now. Hand still on the door, his spine straightens, and he turns. The kind of spin he’s seen in the movies when the guy walks away from the love interest, only for them to call out to him and turn back around. 

You’re not calling out to him though. The tone you’d used with him when you told him to close the door was short, but the bouquet is louder still. He’d say deafening, only that spots going to his heart, that’s racing again, even though it’s heavy and he isn’t. He’d rather take running through a warehouse with your body cradled close to him or his boots thundering through an empty lot over what he has to face now.

So he does turn ‘round. His feet, slow and unpredictable, shuffle his body to face you. If his legs were any longer, he’d be toppling over because both heels seem to catch on nothing but the carpet beneath his feet and the hem of his jeans. Both frayed and shaggier than Jody’s floor, and in need of replacing before he can even think of doing anything about his life and this kid you’re potentially going to be bringing into the world. 

He still doesn’t even know if you want to keep the baby. Not much was said at the hospital aside from getting you there. Even if he wanted to, you couldn’t. You weren’t coherent enough. 

But the lump that’s been continually in his throat and the nerves that even now urge him to draw you back into him like he’d done at the warehouse. Like every hour that’s passed since he carried you through the warehouse. Since he bundled you into Baby’s back seat and held you closer. Since he carried you into the ER, all he could think was how much he wanted you to, too.

A moth drawn to a flame, his eyes catch on your body as they did the moment he stepped back from you after placing you on the hospital bed. You, now further away than you were then, like you were in Grafton compared to Omaha. Like you were in Majorie’s living room.

The tears well behind his eyes like they‘d done back in Grand Forks. When he wished he’d taken you to the hospital in Grafton over driving those extra forty-five minutes because of his damn job. His worthless life couldn’t afford the risk of being found out, even at the risk of you. 

Of them. 

He scans the length of you, head to toe. He was certain he was the one burning. His whole body on fire from adrenaline alone, but the evening glow spilling through the curtains behind you lights up your silhouette like you’re his holy grail. Halo and all, crowning your hair like the glow he saw way back in the bunker when you first took that test in the bathroom. 

He supposes its part true. You are his holy grail. Missouri’s words, a prophecy, inscribed in his head like the sigils he bears in his ribcage. Like the vision of you before him now. His flannel over your shoulders and his…his kid, all six millimetres of them, hidden behind the layers of your still flattened stomach. Protected from him and his life, for now. 

He’d continue staring at you. At the way your fingers curl around the bouquet and you focus on the delicate petals with your fingertips, but “The white ones are f’apologies,” he mutters, digging deep into both his pockets. With how tightly his own stomach muscles are working, the waist slides easily down his hips unlike his words.

“The, ah, the yellow’s for good luck,” he takes a tentative step, catching the way your eyes flicker over the flowers as you consider what he’s said. His catch on your form and latch onto it for fear of him blinking and you no longer being there. 

He sees your lips move and the whisper you produce is so quiet, he’s lip-reading your question on them ‘bout the pink ones.  

“Lady at the store says they’re for romance.” He leaves the part out about them being used in bridal bouquets and swipes his hand through the air, holding it up before you can say anything untoward him dating you again. “Not that I’m expecting anything. I just, ah, wanted you to have something nice. That’s all.” He nods his head as if that sets everything in stone.

On that note, he strides forward, dropping to his knees in front of you as he’d done in the warehouse. As he’s done many times before. 

Only he’s reaching for the bag you’ve ignored until now. Ignoring you instead of looking at you up close now that he’s shrinking before you. He’d compare himself to yet another animal as he takes out the remaining things. The beaten and bloodied dead bird is all that’s missing to show off to you, but you’ve got his face to contend with there. Cuts and bruises from the fight, his gut sure flips as if there’s more than that plastered on it, along with everything else running through his head.

“De—”

“I, ah, I got you this,” he hands you the candy bar, “and, ah—” His fingers hover over the small bottle of prenatal vitamins the doctor recommended. 

It didn’t cross his mind at the store that you might not want ‘em. The thought has his lower lip running over the lump in his throat that’s only spreading further since he crossed Claire’s room to you. It’s doubled in size since last night, and only expanding. 

You’re pregnant now, right? It can’t hurt to give ‘em to you. Can only help with your healing while you decide what you’re going to do, if you’re going to do anything at all. 

His fist takes them firm. The plastic container, small enough to hide behind it with only the lid poking out when he raises it higher.

He could bite the thing like he could chew his knuckles. Could throw the lot out the window before you caught on, but he doesn’t. Just channels his inner Sam with his next delivery. Man up, ‘cause deep down, he wants you to want them too. “I got you the pills the doc mentioned,” he says. “Wasn’t sure if you’d want ‘em, but I thought they—” 

He swallows the next words when your palm reaches his stubble. Follows the plaid pattern covering your arm, past the bandage, past the dried blood you haven’t quite removed from your skin in the surrounding areas. Travels past all that to find your eyes, staring back at his. Narrowing, confused. “De—”

“Just thought they’d help with the recovery, y’know?” His mouth twitches. The corner of his lip barely forms into a smile because he can’t for the life of him read your expression. And even with your face dropping lower to his, he’s dropping his own to where you can’t reach it. 

He turns away from you again as he readies himself to say his next words, because he can’t keep looking at you. Not when every time you open your mouth, it feels like he’s risking everything by not saying this stuff to you. No matter how many jokes he’ll use to mask any future rejection or the one you’re about to throw at him for everything that he’s done and will no doubt continue to do. 

“I know we haven’t talked about that yet,” his tongue plays with his inner cheek, “but I just wanna make sure you’re okay. That’s all I want.” His lips repeat the last sentence without a sound. Weak and pathetic, like the poor excuse of a human that he is. 

When he lets you say his name in full, he doesn’t deserve the kind tone you’re using. Doesn’t deserve for you to even be speaking to him or to be in Jody’s slice of apple pie when he should be in the river like Humphries, catheter and all. 

When you ask him if he’s finished, he’s finished alright. Finished and ready to sit back and take all you’ve got. He’ll sit there without another word from him or you if he has to. Just an awkward silence between you. Take years of silent treatment ‘cause Chuck knows he only has a few years left on his ticker now. He’s two beats away from a heart attack and an ever soaring blood pressure.

Only you’re climbing down to him. Sinking down to his level. Your hand on his cheek, moving to his shoulder to steady yourself. Without thought, he brings his to your waist, like he’s clinging to you. Bunching up the fabric of his shirt beneath his fingers as your legs fold against his knees. He drops himself to his side, his own thighs stretching beneath him as if he’s fallen and is rearing to get up. But he’s not. He won’t.

He might cling to your waist still, but he’s clinging to every second you’re close to him. Can feel the warmth exuding off of you as if you were still in his arms and against his chest, like you were from the moment he’d picked you up in the warehouse until he was placing you on the hospital bed. 

The clinical smell still clings to you as much as he does, and he hates it. The disinfectant, reminding him of mothballs and doilies and death. And that’s not you. You’re full of life. You’re supposed to be carrying life. His thumb brushes close to your stomach, even though he knows he shouldn’t. Can’t help it. Not if it means he might not get to again.

“You’ve been talking since Grafton.” You lean forward, tilting your chin to see him better, like the cat that’s definitely about to skitter. “It’s my turn, yeah?” 

“You weren’t exactly talking before it,” he mutters.

“And now you know why.”

If it weren't for you moving so close to him, he wouldn’t have heard you that time. Hell, if Jody’s house had a basement, he’d be collecting his stomach from down there because he’s lost it. His thumb stills on you. His whole body does. Freezes. Stiffens. “You knew all that time.” 

“No,” your head tremors, “no, I mean—you saw the test in my bag.” Your hands move to your lap, pulling on your fingers again like you wanted to break them until Dean takes your wrists in his grip and pulls you towards him.

Before you can protest, he’s taking you up in his arms and adjusting his bow legs to accommodate you. 

It looks more like he’s tackled you to the ground during a fight and faced the wrong end of the deal, but he’s just trying to prevent one. Stopping himself from backing away himself by anchoring you to him while he has the chance. If this is the last time he holds you, so be it. He’ll savour the moment for what it is. The last piece of apple pie he’s ever going to get, surrounded by you in Jody’s home. 

He’s surrounded by you. Enveloped by your scent beneath the clinical one and the soap that Jody keeps in her bathroom. His flannel mixes with it. Baby’s in there somewhere, too. Clinging to the fabric, clinging to his skin.

There’s carpet under his ass and your ass is on him. It’s not what he knows, but it’s comfort compared to polished concrete and fading tiles. You lean into his chest, and he just secures you tighter. A hand, unashamed and covering your stomach, now the one chance he has to hold them, he tells himself.  

He doesn’t care if you try to move; he’ll let you, but he’ll resist first. He listens as you tell him the words he’s been longing to hear. To just have you talk to him again, even if it’s telling him you won’t keep them. He won’t make you. 

“My period didn’t come,” you whisper. “Was starting to think it was all in my head, and you weren’t helping.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” You twist to look at him. Your hand on his own stomach digs into the flesh, but he’s too busy watching every movement you make from your folded brow to the way your breath fans across your lips.

They’re pouting and there’s a slight sheen to them like the one he saw in the bunker that night. He wants to do nothing more than capture them under his own, but he won’t. He’s too busy. Still too scared to remove his gaze from you.

Even in his arms as he has you now, he can’t risk closing his eyes to feel you better. Can’t blink in fear of you taking off, ‘cause your chest is heaving now. You stare back at him, and it’s challenging and terrifying, like he can still lose you. Terrifying that for a few seconds he allows himself to pretend things might mend between you with a simple touch. With a simple hold. 

“You got butthurt because I rejected you, but I don’t need you to do all this.” You nod at the bouquet. To the candy. To the vitamins. “People have kids on their own all the time. I don’t need you to date me.”

And though Dean knows he shouldn’t, he can’t help himself. He ignores the rest, even the part about dating, and only grasps onto the phrase about people ‘having kids’ and runs with it before the chance runs away from him again. “You wanna keep it?” he rushes only to find your irises flicking back and forth in their sockets, reading his face much the same as he’s trying to read you since you sat on the floor next to him.

Your lips purse. The shine, more apparent. His twitch, but he’s not risking saying anything more now, though the pause is too much. The anticipation, too great. His heart, beating in his chest so fast, he’s feeling the palpitations in his arms and legs. 

They flitter. Little thrums more like the sensation of his stomach protesting at the thought of another cheeseburger from Granny’s. Like the little niggle he felt when Jake said Edith had taken a home pregnancy test like you had, and nothing can bring it down or take it away. 

Not until you ask him, “I—I mean, is that okay?” 

It takes a while for the words to register in his brain, because you’re asking him? Here he’s been telling himself since that night that it was all up to you. That it was your choice in the end if you kept it because it was your body, this was all happening to you. But you’re giving him a choice? 

He was against it before, but he allows himself to blink because he sees your worry. He sees the uncertainty, clearer now for what it is, and he revels in it. Licks his lips as he does. 

And when his eyes stay open long enough to find yours, he’s bringing his mouth back to you. His saliva on your skin, his tongue tracing the edges. The spark he’d lost in the bunker returning, tenfold.

“Is that a yes?” you say as he presses yet another kiss over you. 

“It’s a yes.” He breathes your name onto your skin, and nips at the very spot, feeling the warmth he left come back to him. “But I’m gonna need you to accept I didn’t ask you ‘cause you’ve got my kid in there.” He brushes his nose over yours as he changes sides. Enough to steal another glance and see you smile before he’s sampling you again.

More kisses, more pecks, more nibbling. “Did it ‘cause I wanted to,” he says between it all. “Need to know if you’ll have me.” 

He knocks his skull against yours and stares into the flash of colour that shines brighter ‘round the whites of your eyes. Hands on your neck now, holding you there in place as his true cocky grin comes out. “Is that a yes?” he says with a smirk.

“What?”

“Wanna date me?” he chuckles, broadening his grin like his heart is as light as a hot-air balloon. His attached cheeks, now bright red, the canvas that carries it away. “Cause that’s an easy—“

You swat his chest. He only laughs harder. You narrow your eyes, but your teeth are showing like his are. 

Your fingers grip his flannel and tug the collar down, prickling tiny hairs and the skin beneath them. “I’ll date you Dean Winchester,” you say. The rise and fall in your tone, channelling one, Missouri Mosley, down to the way you draw him in like you’re reaching deep into his soul. “Just don’t ask me to marry you.” 

And what can he say to that, aside from grinning at you further or reclaiming your mouth with his tongue? 

He does both. His smile, doing the kissing now. More demanding, more forceful. More of himself, put into it because his heart’s elated just to be given the chance. His hands, wherever he can reach you, adjusting his position on the floor so he can reposition you in his lap. His lips, never far from yours.

They lavish your skin; your skin tingles his own. When he pulls you closer, your own hands cling to him like he’d been clinging to your waist and your every word. 

There are things you’ll still need to sort out. There’s still so many more things you need to say and do, like finding a decent doctor ‘round Lebanon or potentially leaving the bunker. One thing is for certain, though, Dean still has some loose ends to tie, but there’s nothing wrong in saying he won’t ask you to marry him in the future. He just doesn’t tell you that.

Like the journey from point A to point B took him from Dede’s doorstep to here in Claire’s room, there’s an excitement in the unknowing that slots somewhere in between becoming a father and making an honest woman out of you. Until then, he just has to keep working and practicing on those night moves of his, because now? He has a lot more to lose than he originally started with, and he ain’t losing you again. No matter what.

A/N: And that’s all folks. Thank you for reading all the way through to the end 😊

As mentioned above, this story was written for a competition. If you liked this or want to check out the other entries, you can find them here. On top of official judging, there is also a Reader’s Choice Award where reader’s can vote for their favourites from the competition. Please consider checking it out, too. Voting closes 30th July.

I set this story in season 13 with the original intention that I could dive into the similarities between Dean's relationship with the reader and his relationship with Mary. In particular with him wanting to go to the otherworld to save Mary and Jack. This set-up had me wondering if he would still want to do that if the reader was pregnant (I had them fighting over this in an earlier draft). Part of me still wants to explore that - and maybe more smut!

Would love to know your thoughts, or if you'd like to see more of this pair in the future - ❤️

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