#spn reader insert

When I come into the room, he has the front door open and is standing in front of it, ready to intercept her if she magically finds her footing and takes off.

"Ok, Poppy. Good girl. Now just stay..." he drags out, holding a hand up as he backs up slowly to step onto the porch. "Ok. Now, any urges to follow me?" he asks her as she sits staring at him with a tilted head. "Atta girl. Now-" just as he starts to congratulate her, she jumps in excitement and starts running to him, and without fail, trips over her ears three steps from freedom.

"Ooo," I cringe as she tumbles into a somersault, and Dean chuckles, shaking his head, scooping her 25lb self up, and flopping her ears away from her eyes.

"We'll work on that a little more, but at least you have the sit part down."

"She came with the sit part already down," I chuckle, feeding her one of the kibbles I brought.

"Yeah, well, she does it faster with me, so," Dean argues, petting her soft head and kissing it before putting her back on the ground. "Eventually, we'll get to playing dead and retrieving beers from the fridge. Saw that one on Instagram. Benny sent it to me," He adds proudly.

"Yeah, sure." I shake my head and take a seat on the couch, the TV paused on a show we started this weekend.

It's been almost three weeks living with Poppy. After the initial week with her, I knew Dean was sold and wouldn't hand her back. And honestly, I couldn't either. She's tied to Dean throughout the day, even goes to work with him and follows him around the station, but at night... She's my cuddle bug.

When we got her from Julia, crate-trained, Dean suggested keeping her in it at night, but she cried each time. It only took two nights before Dean couldn't stand hearing her whimpering and brought her into bed. When I say he was devastated that she chose to curl up into me instead of him, I couldn't emphasize the word enough.

He pouted, back turned to us, mumbling things about "his girls preferring each other over him," and I had to laugh before pulling him into the shared snuggle.

The only person to beat us out so far was Jessie. Every day after school, she'd go to the station or come to our house, waiting for her dad to pick her up. Poppy and she were two peas in a pod. It's cute to see the men of the station thinking they were the people running it when those two were in the vicinity.

"I talked to Julia yesterday at carpool. I forgot to tell you," I share as Dean sits next to me, patting the cushion between us where her favorite toy rabbit Jessie so kindly donated to her was. "She said the baby is doing really well and they're getting along a lot better without having a third baby to watch." I scratch the spot between the little bassethound's ears, getting a playful grumble as she chews on her toy.

"I don't doubt it," Dean sighs, one arm thrown over the back of the couch, brushing my shoulder, and the other reaching for the beer on the end table. "Having her around is enough for me right now. Couldn't imagine adding a human to the mix."

"Yeah? I thought you were ready for a family, Mr. I-want-to-be-a-dad-already."

"I do. Just saying it'd make more sense to have a trained pup rather than a baby that's still needing all the attention this sweet girl needs," he fake pouts as he ruffles her loose skin up and down her back. "And she deserves all the attention," he coos.

"You're never going to survive as a girl-dad," I say, watching him melt into a puddle with her as if he hadn't been with her all day already.

"I survived Jessie," he argues with a faux-offended huff on his lips.

"You've survived Jessie up to this point. You haven't gotten to her first crush or boyfriend-"

"Don't even speak those words into existence. She's in 4th grade. She's got plenty of time before that shit starts," he waves me off, turning to the TV to busy himself with a distraction.

"Oh, so she hasn't told you about her school crush Johnath-"

"I swear, Y/N. If you go saying a little 4th grader's name, I'll have no choice but to look him up in the system and-"

"He's in 5th grade," I grin, knowing each word out of my mouth is riling him up. 80% of my job as a girlfriend is ragebaiting this poor man. Harmlessly, of course...

Dean takes a deep breath in through his nose and closes his eyes before exhaling.

"Carter," is all he says, and I'm grinning ear to ear, knowing I did my job.

"Winchester," I snark in the same deep tone he uses.

Slowly, he opens his eyes and turns his head to me in an intentionally terrifying way. Ok... Maybe I'm playing with fire. But sue me. I like it.

"Don't," I say, my legs folding up towards my chest as I give him a warning look.

"Don't what?" he says, a predatory look on his face, turning his body to face mine.

"Don't look at me like that. I don't like what follows..." I point to the evil smirk growing on his lip as he stares at me, enjoying my growing realization.

"Consequences, Carter. You don't like the consequences." He clicks his tongue in a tsking manner and shakes his head as he slowly inches closer to me. "Yet you still make the decisions that lead to them."

"Dean, I swear- Don't even think about-"

"Ah ah ah," he puts a finger up, scooting another half a foot closer. "You know the importance of consequences to actions. You teach them every day as part of your job. Yet for some reason..." Another half a foot and he's on the center cushion, moving Poppy to the 'safe' side of the couch in the mix. "You never learn the lesson."

"I'm warning you. I won't bake that Texas Sheet cake you were asking me to make this weekend." I'm practically shoved between the cushion and the space that goes down into the arm of the couch with my feeble attempt to keep a distance. However, the mention of withholding baked goods has his brows furrow, and he pauses for a second.

He considers his odds. Considers the pros and cons to follow, and the latter doesn't seem to deter him.

"I'm not worried about it," he shrugs, and before I can try to retort something to delay the inevitable, he pounces like a panther.

One second, I'm crunching in a defensive ball to keep from being attacked, and the next, I'm spread out, exposed in all the places he knows to tickle me.

"Not so smug now, huh?" he grins as he pokes, tickles, and runs his hands over all the sensitive spots that have me giggling and wiggling in his grasp. "I'll get that cake and an apology for bringing up Jessie's future dating life!"

"You-" *laugh* "Only get-" *laugh* "One of-" *laugh* "Those!" I shout just as I push his hands away enough to catch a short breath before he's moving to another spot.

"No deal," Dean shakes his head and goes in harder. "Submit, or I'll sic Poppy on you to lick your face too!" he threatens as he pokes my side with his finger, and I jump.

"Dean!"

"Y/N!" he mocks me this time.

I debate holding on and not letting him win, but alas, as usual, I'm not strong enough when it comes to being tickled to death.

"Fine! Truce! Mercy!" I shout, grabbing his hands just before he stops.

We're both panting slightly, and while he hangs over me smiling, I look up, knowing my hair is a ruffled mess under me, and press my hand on his chest as a precaution to push him back if needed.

"Mercy, huh?" Dean grins, pushing some wayward hair from my face. "You gave up quicker than usual."

"Yeah, well. Somedays, my threshold for being attacked is lower than others." I huff a breath and push his chest lightly. "You gonna get up or..."

"Nah, I like the view." He grins as he pushes some hair behind my ear. "I'd like it better on our bed, though. Without clothes."

"That right, huh?" I chuckle at how fast this man seems to get turned on. "You ovulating?" I tease.

"For you, always." He smiles brightly before jumping up from the couch and offering a hand for me to grab. "Come on. I'm gonna fuck you so good, you'll be baking me more than a Texas sheet cake."

I raise a brow as I take his hand and he pulls me up, casually throwing me over his shoulder with a quick bend of his knees.

I don't even squeal about it much anymore because it's so common. Instead, I prop my elbow on his shoulder and place my chin in my hand as he carts me to the bedroom.

"Was that an induendo for the bun in the oven phrase?" I ask.

"Maybe. Or maybe I just want you to bake me a pie, too. Can never have enough sweets." His reply is followed by a strong swat to the ass that has me jumping some. "All the sweets."

______________________

Three months later. Early Spring.

Sam won a raffle for the local team's baseball game at one of Jessie's PTA fundraisers, and happened to come down with the flu right before. So, currently, Jessie, Dean, and I were walking through the concessions trying to find our section for our seats.

"Want anything else besides cotton candy and popcorn, J-bird?" Dean asks, hand patting his niece's head as we pass a few more stands.

"Nah, I'm good for now," she says, stuffing her mouth with the sugary fluff that disintegrates in seconds. "Maybe some dip-and-dots later, though."

"Great minds think alike," Dean grins, hip-bumping her as he takes a swig from the beer he's drinking and then sticks his tongue out, attaching the kernels at the top of the overfilled bucket to his tongue before giving me a wink.

"Dean, don't salivate all over the popcorn. That's for everyone," I groan and roll my eyes as Jessie seconds me.

"Yeah, Uncle Dean, gross."

"I'll eat the top layer happily then, to save you princesses," he says, sticking his tongue out at us and giving Jessie a look that she giggles at.

I sneak a piece of cotton candy from Jessie as she laughs, and then pull a box of peanut M&M's from my purse as we find our section and move to sit.

The game goes well, and it's wholesome watching Dean explain the sport to the eager little girl between us. We were in the 7th inning and down 3 runs, so we decided to head out early to avoid the crowd.

"I'm going to run to the bathroom. Jess, you need to go?" I ask as we stop outside the pitstop.

"Yeah, that icee is getting to me," she says, shoving the half-empty popcorn bucket into Dean's hands.

She runs in, and I follow behind her. When I go in, I notice my stomach starting to feel a little funny. Must be the chili hot dog and the loads of sugar that followed. My stomach isn't as much of a steel trap like Dean's, but I'm sure I'll manage until we get home.

When I come back out, Dean's looking down at his phone with furrowed brows, and Jessie is nowhere to be seen.

"Did she not beat me out?" I ask, looking around.

"She did. She's getting a popcorn refill," he nods his head towards the concession stand, giving her a quick check-in before looking back at his phone.

"What are you looking at?" I question, coming to his side and covering the wince at the sharp pain in my side that flutters by.

"Sammy's location," he says as he zooms in on the screen. "He's not at home."

"He isn't?" I ask, looking over his shoulder.

On the screen, the location looks like downtown. The area has a strip of restaurants and a few boutiques, along with our local art museum.

"The Art museum?" Dean mumbles under his breath as the blue dot hovers over the location. "What the hell is he doing there if he's got the flu?"

"Maybe it's glitching," I offer.

"Five miles from his house?" Dean finally looks up with a furrowed brow, not convinced of my idea. "Yeah, no. I don't care for cellphones and all their trackers and listening devices most days, but this can't be wrong."

"I mean, it can, but-" I scrunch my face as another sharp pain hits me. "Jesus..."

"Hey, you ok?" Dean says, immediately concerned with me, rather than his phone.

"I'm good," I wave off, breathing out the pain. "Just a gut cramp, I think. You know greasy ballpark food. It picks and chooses its victims."

Dean hums, nodding, still looking at me like he's not fully convinced, but when Jessie comes back, he seems to move on.

"Ok! I'm ready to go!" she grins, a bucket of freshly popped and buttered popcorn overflowing once again.

"Your stomach is as vast as your uncle's," I chuckle, ruffling her hair some.

On our walk back to the car, I notice the side stitches more and try to hide the grimaces that take over my face, but as Dean gets Jessie settled in the car, I lean on the passenger side of the Impala and breathe through some of it.

"Y/N," Dean's voice is concerned and stern as it comes around the car to me. "What's going on?" I feel his hands on my waist before I even register he's by my side.

"Nothing, nothing..." I say through a breath. "Seriously, just have some side stitches. That greasy food isn't settling well with me, I guess."

"You're sure? You look a little pale, sweetheart."

I shake my head, eyes still closed, as I lean forward on the car. "Truly, I'm fine." But the truth is, I'm growing increasingly lightheaded. "Just need to sit-" It's then, my legs go out from under me, and I feel weak and dizzy.

"Y/N!" Dean's voice sounds before my vision tunnels in and goes black.

______________

There's a beeping and the smell of sterile chemicals. I scrunch my nose at the sudden aroma and will my heavy eyes to open, only to be slightly blinded by the florescents above.

"Easy... Easy." I hear a familiar, comforting voice, and milliseconds later feel a warm hand on my arm. "You up, sweetheart?"

I blink a few times, my eyes blurry and body feeling... strange.

"You're in the ER." The voice says, reading my mind of anxious thoughts. "You're ok. You're safe, but we're waiting for the doctor to come back with some lab work."

My eyes finally open all the way, and I raise my hand to rub the grogginess from it, seeing the face that matches the voice. But there's a constraint on my arm, and I realize it's an IV.

"Careful, baby," he says, putting a hand on my arm and gently guiding it back to my side. "You're hooked up to a few machines. You passed out and were in and out of consciousness for a bit."

"What-What's wrong?" I grumble, my throat dry, which he seems to read and brings me a styrofoam cup with a straw that I take a long drink from.

"Don't know yet, but the doctors are running their tests and procedures to figure it out." I feel his thumb, brushing over my pulse on my wrist like he's trying to monitor it himself. "Scared the shit out of me." He huffs a relieved yet concerned breath out and leans forward, pressing his forehead to my hand. "Jesus, Y/N."

"I thought it was just a bad stomach cramp from shitty food," I grumble.

He sighs and pulls back, pressing a kiss to my hand before he does. "Let's hope it's something as simple as that and nothing worse."

"Wait, where's Jessie?" I ask, suddenly noticing her absence.

"Don't worry," he says, my hand brought up to his lips to press kisses there while he explains. "I called my mom to come grab her. They're in the waiting room right now, making sure you're good before they go. I called Sam too, and get this," he lets out a soft laugh. "He was on a date."

"Date?" I say groggily, but with a slight smirk growing on my lip.

He seems relieved at the normal reaction and smiles with a nod. "I know, right? A date."

"With who?" I ask, shifting in my spot.

"Didn't get that info. Your situation was a bit more important to me at the time." His answers show the worry that's still prevalent. "How do you feel? Woozy? Tired? Any pain?"

I shake my head lightly and can already feel myself waking up more. The grogginess of it all was slowly fading, but the discombobulation is still lingering.

"I just feel... weird."

Right on time, a nurse comes and knocks on the glass door, which isn't much of a barrier since it doesn't take up the whole wall, just like the pink curtain she pulls back.

"Hi there." She looks to be my age, maybe a few years older, putting gloves on and moving to the monitors on the side that Dean isn't. "Nice to see you awake and alert. How are we feeling, Ms. Carter?"

"I'm decent. Still a little confused as to what happened," I say, leaning back in the bed.

"Makes sense. We found that your iron levels were pretty low, and we think your blood pressure dropped, which doesn't help the light-headedness that led to you passing out. Can I ask you a few questions on your basic medical background?"

"Sure," I nod, and Dean scoots his chair up just before another nurse peeks her head in through the curtain.

"Sorry to interrupt. Mr. Winchester, your brother is here and wanted to see you. Do you mind if I steal you away for a quick second?"

Dean immediately turns back to me. The silent question of whether I'll be ok or not crosses his features, and I nod. "I'm fine. You go update them. And tell Jessie I'm fine." I add the last part, knowing the poor girl can't seem to stay away from traumatic visits to the hospital. I don't even want to know what fear I created after slumping against the Impala.

"You're sure?"

"I'm fine. Go make sure they are," I nod, squeezing his hand in mine.

"Ok, I'll be right back," he nods, before leaving with the nurse, but not without giving me one more glance before he's gone.

"Right. So, when was your last menstrual cycle, Ms. Carter?" the nurse asks.

"Um..." I say, closing my eyes as I try to think. "It should be coming up this weekend, so I'd say... About three weeks ago. A little over that."

She hums, taking note, and then sets the clipboard on her hip as she writes on it. "How heavy was your last menstruation?"

"Um... Pretty light actually. More so, spotting and bloody discharge than anything," I answer while fidgeting with the blanket.

"And how many days did it last?"

"Only about three. It was shorter. I usually only have about 4-5 day periods on a good week."

She scribbles my words into her chart and then looks up with a soft smile.

"Ms. Carter, is there any chance you could be pregnant?" she asks, not as casually as most doctors do, and it makes me feel... concerned.

"I mean, I'm sexually active, yes. But I'm on the pill."

"Consistent with it?" she says, noting that.

"Um, yeah," I nod, but even though I know I am, I'm all of a sudden unsure. "Is there something-"

"I'd suggest stopping the birthcontrol, and since it's early on, I wouldn't worry about any problems in the time you have, but your bloodwork came back positive," she says and looks at me like she's expecting me to know what she's saying, yet I'm in shock and can't verbalize my question, so instead... She answers it. "You're pregnant, Ms. Carter."

Supernatural Tags:

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My Lovelies forever:

There’s a crumpled letter in your hand as you cross the great hall and take a seat beside your cousin, letting out a deep sigh of discontent as you do.

She’s eating grapes, pretending to read a book, though her eyes linger on everything but the page as she listens in on the ladies talking across the room. After your second weary sigh, she finally turns to you.

“What happened to you?” she asks, popping another grape into her mouth.

When she notices the letter clenched in your fingers, she rolls her eyes. “The prince again?”

You nod faintly, gaze fixed on the folded page. 

She watches you for a moment, then softens a little. “What does he say this time?”

“Nothing,” you reply. “That’s the problem. He says the same thing every time. He hardly responds to what I write.”

“Then stop replying,” she says easily. “Enjoy your freedom while you still have it.”

You breathe out through your nose, considering it. Duty says you must answer—every letter, every time. But maybe, just maybe, this one got lost. Never reached you in time. 

“You already have to spend the rest of your life with him,” she adds, nudging the plate of fruit toward you. “Skipping a letter or two won’t doom the realm. I would know.”

“You’re probably right,” you concede, folding the letter with deliberate care, as if that alone might lock it away from your thoughts.

It doesn’t work.

Barely a minute passes before you’re staring at it again, thumb tracing the crease absentmindedly, as the thought of marriage looms closer and closer. Six months is all you have left. 

Your cousin closes her book and sets it aside with intent.

“You know what you need?” she says, eyebrows lifting, mischief lighting her eyes. “A really nice distraction.”

Before you can respond, she tilts her head toward the far side of the hall.

Your father is seated there. And beside him—Sir Dean.

You turn back to her, eyes wide at her implication.

“What?” she says, entirely unbothered. “He’s very handsome. And—” she leans closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “—I’ve caught him looking at you once or twice.”

Warmth creeps into your cheeks. “I’m sure you imagined it,” you say, though your gaze drifts back to him anyway, where he stands listening intently to whatever your father is saying.

“I have excellent vision,” she replies smugly. “And you stare quite a bit yourself. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Luckily for you, not everyone is as observant as I am—or you’d already be in serious trouble.”

“I do not stare,” you whisper, unconvincingly.

She just smiles, clearly enjoying herself.

“There’s nothing wrong with liking someone,” she says. “Even if your duty lies elsewhere. A little harmless flirting never hurt anyone. Kissing would be even better.”

You kick her under the table. She laughs, utterly unrepentant.

“Trust me,” she continues, lowering her voice again. “When you’re married to a man you don’t love, you’ll regret not having something beautiful to remember.”

“I can’t do that,” you say quietly. “Not when I know that I have to leave so soon.”

She picks up her book again, opening it to a random page. “Things don’t have to last long to be meaningful,” she says lightly. “Quite the opposite, actually.”

When you look back toward Dean, his gaze is already on you as he follows your father out of the room.

When he catches your eyes, he bows his head in a respectful salute—then looks away.

You pointedly avoid your cousin's eyes, the smug I-told-you-so written in them as she pretends to read.

—

One step in front of the other, you circle the edge of the clearing, fingers curled tight around your father’s letter. Dean follows a few paces behind, leading the horse by the reins, deliberately giving you space; he’s close enough to protect you, far enough not to intrude.

The paper trembles slightly in your grasp.

…

My beloved daughter, If you are reading this, then you are already far away from me. I know how frightened you must be. I know you will want answers I cannot give you, and comfort I cannot offer in person. Forgive me for that. Forgive me for choosing duty when all I want is to hold you and tell you everything will be all right. Wherever you are, remember this: you are loved beyond measure, and nothing that happens here will ever change that. Trust Sir Dean. I place my life, and yours, in his hands without hesitation. If fate is kind, we will meet again. Your father. — I could not finish this letter without telling you that I am wearing the blue ribbon you gave me for luck at the tournament. It felt right to keep something of you close tonight. I hope it works again, as it did then.

….

You stop.

Your fingers tighten until the paper creases beneath them, and you draw in a slow, careful breath, trying not to break, trying not to unravel under the weight of everything that has happened since last night.

Your thoughts stray despite your efforts. To your family, to every voice and laugh that once filled the safety of the castle. You wonder if Marie and her husband escaped in time. If your cousin and her baby are hidden somewhere warm and alive. You wonder how many goodbyes you didn’t know you were making at the excruciatingly boring dinner held just two days ago.

You wonder if fate will allow you to see any of them again.

When you glance back, Dean is still there, walking in silence. His armor is darkened with blood—some of it his, most of it not. His gaze lifts the moment he feels you slow, attention sharpening instantly, as if he’s been tuned to your movements the entire time.

You can’t bear the thought of making this harder for him than it already is.

You’re both running, but only one of you is expected to be unbreakable. Only one of you is sworn to think three steps ahead, to put his body between you and whatever comes next, to die if that’s what it takes. 

So you push back the tears burning behind your eyes. You force your hands steady and fold the letter with deliberate care as he draws closer.

“Are you all right?” he asks quietly, his gaze dipping briefly to the letter, then back to your face, searching.

You don’t answer. There’s no word that could possibly help either of you.

Instead, you tuck the letter into the horse’s satchel, then turn your attention to him. Your fingertips brush his armor where the cloth is wrapped beneath it. The fabric is stiff with dried blood. Relief flickers when you realize it’s no longer bleeding.

He stills completely while you touch him.

He doesn’t step back, doesn’t lean in. He simply holds himself there, breathing shallowly, as if helpless under your touch. 

When you finally pull your hand away, his breath leaves him in a quiet exhale.

“Shall we go?” you ask.

He nods.

Without another word, you mount the horse. 

One of his hands hovers near you, ready to steady you if you falter, though it never quite makes contact. Then he swings up behind you.

In the quiet of the forest, in the stillness left in the wake of violence, your heart gives a small, traitorous leap when his arms come forward to take the reins. Your posture stiffens automatically. His legs bracket yours, solid and unmoving. He’s everywhere around you without touching you at all.

“You can lean back,” he says carefully. “It’s a long road ahead.”

“What about your injury?” you ask, keeping your gaze forward.

“You won’t hurt me, my lady.”

There’s something in the way he says it, almost gentle, that loosens something in your chest. Slowly, you allow yourself to rest back against him.

He’s warm and steady behind you.

The relief that follows is immediate and almost painful in its intensity. He feels like the only safe thing left in the world, and selfishly, you cling to that sensation, because it may be the last comfort you’re allowed.

There were supposed to be two months still ahead of you. Two months inside your home, surrounded by people who loved you. That privilege has been torn away in a single night.

You hope, naively, that it’s the only thing you’ll lose in this world.

Reason tells you otherwise.

The horse steps forward, easing into a careful gallop, leaving the clearing behind. The first drops of rain strike your skin. Then another. And another.

You reach back to pull up the hood of your cloak, and his fingers meet yours at the same instant, both of you reaching with the same thought. The contact is brief but unmistakable, warm skin against warm skin. Neither of you moves for the span of a breath.

Then he withdraws first.

“This is good,” he murmurs behind you, withdrawing his hand to secure his own hood while the other remains steady on the reins. “The rain should cover our tracks for a while.”

His arms remain close after, not quite touching, but close enough that you feel them all the same.

—

The rain comes down without mercy, soaking everything it touches; your hair is plastered to your face, your skin chilled beneath heavy fabric.

The sun has already dipped low, the light thinning mile by mile. Soon, there will be nothing but shadow and sound.

Still, you keep going.

When Dean finally eases the reins, the horse slows, and you catch sight of a small house ahead. Grey stone walls darkened by rain. Smoke is rising steadily from the chimney. A single window lit from within, the glow faint but steady.

Dean brings the horse to a stop beside the house and dismounts, movements efficient despite the hours behind you. He ties the reins quickly, fingers stiff with cold, then turns just as you struggle to shift your soaked dress.

Before you can manage it, his hands are already at your waist.

“Careful,” he murmurs as he lifts you down.

You reach for his shoulders without thinking, fingers curling into the damp fabric of his cloak, and land directly in front of him. For a brief, unguarded second, neither of you moves.

You’re close enough to see rain caught in his lashes, melting slowly down his cheek. Close enough to feel the heat of him through soaked layers, solid and steady in a world that has come apart.

“This way,” he says quietly.

His hand settles on your shoulder and guides you toward the door. Every step is heavy; your dress and cloak drag at you, waterlogged and cold, turning the short distance into a trial of effort.

Dean knocks twice.

Then, after a pause, twice again.

Footsteps approach from within. The door opens to reveal an older man holding a candle, squinting into the rain-dark night.

“Dean?” he asks, disbelief on his face.

Dean inclines his head. “Uncle Bobby. I apologize for the hour.”

The man’s gaze shifts to you, sharp and assessing, and he does a clear double-take. He steps aside after a heartbeat, letting you both inside, eyes lingering as the door closes behind you.

You feel the weight of that look, the unspoken questions. A knight arriving soaked through with a woman in tow, well past sunset. The kind of thing people talk about.

The door shuts, cutting off the rain, just as a woman appears at the top of the stairs in her night clothes, candle raised.

“Dean?”

“Aunt,” he says. “I hope we didn’t wake you.”

“What happened?” she asks, already stepping closer. “Are you all right?”

Though her concern is directed at him, you can feel both their eyes drift back to you, taking in your state, your silence, the way you stay close to him without quite touching.

“Are you two in some kind of trouble?”

“We could use your hospitality for the night,” Dean replies evenly. “I’ll explain everything, I promise. But—” he turns slightly toward you, “—Aunt, could you help her? We’ve been in the rain for hours. I wouldn’t want her to fall ill.”

“Of course,” the woman says at once, her tone gentler as she addresses you. “Come with me. Let me get you something dry.”

Dean looks at you then, like he’s checking you one last time before letting you go.

“Go ahead,” he says quietly. “I’ll be right here.”

You nod, and follow her toward the stairs. The warmth of the house presses in around you, unfamiliar and strangely overwhelming. At the turn of the staircase, you glance back.

Dean is already moving with his uncle toward another room. Just before he disappears through the doorway, he looks up.

The smile he gives you is brief and restrained, nothing improper, nothing anyone else would notice. Something just for you. 

Then he’s gone.

There’s no certainty in your world anymore, not since this day started. Everything keeps changing, everything is being taken from you.

But you know he will be right there when you return. 

Waiting for you.  

---

Part 4 - Coming Soon

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“I know your curious eyes,” she says gently but firmly. “And this is not curiosity.” Her voice softens. “I’m not trying to reprimand you, my lady—but you must be careful. Don’t put him, or yourself, in a difficult position.”

“I’m not doing anything,” you say quickly. “I was just wondering.”

“You’ll be married in one year,” she reminds you pointedly.

The words grate. You almost scoff, irritation flaring. “I know very well, Marie. I’ve known my entire life.”

She studies your face, then seems to decide pushing further would only hurt you. With a sigh, she turns toward the fruit stall to buy your favorites, like she alwasy does.

You can never stay mad at her for long. You never have. 

As she and the vendor greet each other and begin their familiar haggling, you drift a few steps away, uninterested in the bargaining ritual. You stop at a stall displaying jars of honey and jam, nodding politely to the elderly woman behind it when she smiles at you.

Then you move on again, savoring the rare freedom of anonymity. There are people everywhere, too many for anyone to notice you. On market days, you almost disappear into the crowd.

If you let your imagination wander far enough, you can pretend you’re somewhere else entirely, where no one knows your name, where there isn’t a marriage looming just around the corner.

Why even believe in love—read about it, dream of it—when all you will ever be allowed is an arrangement? A promise made when you were a child, to someone you met once and barely remember.

You sigh and focus on the stall in front of you, reaching for one of the items simply to ground yourself.

A hand brushes right against the side of yours, and freezes, immediately pulling away. 

You turn.

Sir Dean stands there, head bowed. “I apologize, my lady.”

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” you hear yourself say. 

You’ve never seen him this close before. Not in daylight, not without armor shadowing his features. The sun catches in his eyes, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe properly.

“Are you not on duty today?” you ask, forcing your gaze away for one moment and inevitably looking back at him.

“I’m heading for training,” he replies. Then, after a brief glance behind you, “Are you here alone? Would you like me to escort you inside?”

There's nothing in the world you'd like more than that. 

“No,” you say, reluctantly. “I’m here with Marie.” You gesture vaguely behind you. “She’s haggling with a vendor.”

Dean nods, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t quite look away either. His gaze holds yours, steady and intent, and you find yourself bracing a hand against the edge of the stall, looking for something solid.

Your hand is burning, right where he touched it, which shouldn't even be possible. 

You wonder if you’ll ever feel like this with your husband. If you’ll ever walk beside a man who makes the world feel this sharp, this awake.

“My lady.” Marie’s voice cuts in gently but firmly at your side. “We should go.”

You look at her and give her a nod, then turn back to him one last time. “I hope your training goes well today, Sir Dean.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he replies, and perhaps you imagine the roughness in his voice, the way he clears his throat as you turn away.

You walk toward the inner walls with your heart hammering in your ears, fingertips brushing the skin he touched so briefly.

When you glance back over your shoulder, he’s still looking at you.

—

The letter sits in your shaking hands, your eyes skimming the uneven calligraphy of your father. Every sentence is painful and your heart jolts painfully with each word.

“Come,” Dean says quietly, placing a hand around your arm and already moving, steering you off the narrow path and deeper into the trees. The same look is back in his eyes, the one he’s worn all morning through hidden staircases and narrow corridors. 

You hear it then—noise in the distance. Voices. Horses. 

They’re coming.

Branches whip at your cloak as you hurry after him. Mud drags at your shoes, threatening to steal your footing. Your breath comes too fast, but Dean never falters. He moves like he was born to this. Silent. Precise. Every step chosen with care.

The noise grows louder.

“They’re tracking us,” you whisper.

“I know,” he replies, low and steady. “I’m gonna take them out.”

Before you can respond, he pulls you sharply to the side, down behind a fallen tree half-rotted with age. Damp moss soaks through your palms as he lowers you with him, one knee sinking into the mud, his body instinctively positioning itself between you and the open forest.

“Listen to me,” he says, eyes locked on yours. He’s close enough now that you can see the green in his gaze, the thin scar cutting through his brow. “No matter what you hear, no matter what happens, you don’t move. You don’t speak. If someone spots you, don’t try to fight them. You run.”

You nod, throat too tight for words.

His hand closes around yours and presses a small knife into your palm. You glance down at it; the blade is cold, heavy in a way that feels foreign and terrifying.

“Last resort,” he says. “Let them get close, and go for the neck. Right here.” Two fingers press lightly to the pulse in his own throat.

Then his hands close over yours, firm around the knife, grounding you for just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“I’ll come back for you.”

Something in your chest twists painfully tight.

Then footsteps crash through the undergrowth.

Close already. 

His gaze flicks toward the sound, then back to you. For a split second, the soldier disappears, and something else surfaces—resolve edged with something close to tenderness. And beneath it, a quiet apology for what he’s about to make you endure.

He lifts a finger to his lips, reminding you to be absolutely quiet.

You nod again.

Then he rises.

“I see tracks!” a voice shouts. "There!"

Steel flashes between the trees.

Dean steps away deliberately, pulling every eye, every blade, every ounce of attention toward himself.

“Hey!” he calls, voice sharp and commanding. “Looking for me?”

He doesn’t look back.

The clash of steel erupts almost immediately. Metal on metal, the grunt of effort, men shouting as they close in.

You can hear each strike like it lands against your own ribs. Every impact sends a tremor through the ground beneath your knees. A man screams. Another voice cuts off mid-cry. 

Leaves shudder overhead. Birds explode from the canopy in a frantic storm of wings.

You wait for his voice.

It doesn’t come.

You count your breaths to keep from breaking the silence.

One. Two. Three.

At seven, you lose track.

Your fingers are numb around the knife. You realize you’re holding it wrong, the edge turned toward your own wrist. You fumble, adjust your grip, and clutch it tighter.

The forest is completely still. No wind. No birds. No footsteps.

Nothing.

A terrible thought begins to bloom.

What if this is what losing him sounds like?

Your legs tremble from crouching, but you don’t move. He told you not to move. He told you he'd come back.

Seconds stretch until they feel like hours.

Then—

“My lady.”

Dean’s voice. Close. Strained.

You move towards him immediately as he steps into view.

There’s blood on his armor.

Dark and spreading beneath his pauldron, soaking leather and mail, dripping from his fingers into the leaves below.

You gasp and reach for him.

He catches your hand gently, stopping you before you can touch him.

“I’m not hurt,” he says immediately. “Just a graze. A blade caught me when I turned.”

You step closer anyway, tearing a strip from the inside of your sleeve and pressing it firmly against the wound beneath the cracked edge of his armor. He hisses, breath sharp between his teeth, but he doesn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“For what?”

“For making you do this.”

“You didn’t make me do anything,” he says, without hesitation.

You swallow and look up at him, hands steady against the bleeding.

“You’re not allowed to get hurt like this,” you say, your voice firmer than it’s been all day. “Not today. Not any other day. Do you hear me?”

A faint, breathless smile touches his mouth. Tired and fond. 

“Yes, my lady.”

For a moment, the world narrows to the space between you. To the sound of his breathing. To the way his hand, bloodstained and shaking, comes up to steady your wrist instead of pushing you away.

The forest sounds quiet and safe again. 

But the danger, though distant now, is far from over.

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Part 3

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