#tracker x reader

⋰˚☆ russell x reader | smut, fluff | 3.8k ⋰˚☆ where it's that time of the month, and your cramps are being anything but kind to you. luckily, russell thinks he has a solution. ⋰˚☆ content: fem!reader, established relationship, smut, in the bath together, fingering, reader is on her period but russell doesn’t care, pet names (sweetheart, baby, sweet girl, my girl, pretty girl, angel), praise, russell taking care of reader

a/n: maybe i wrote this for myself bc i fear my hormones are acting up bc of my period rn. also this is my first time writing any smut so please be kind 😭

Couple Costumes (FT. Jensen Characters)

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Pairings; Dean Winchester x reader, Beau Arlen x reader, Soldier Boy x reader, Alec McDowell x reader, Tom Hanniger x reader, CJ Braxton x reader, Boaz Priestly x reader, Mark Meachum x reader, Russell Shaw x reader

Dean insists on being Fred every Halloween because he had a huge childhood crush on Daphne. He fully embraces the role: the perfectly coiffed blond hero, carrying a fake flashlight like it’s a sword of destiny. He tries to stay calm and “strategic,” but inevitably trips over something or gets distracted by snacks.

You, naturally, are Daphne, looking flawless even in a costume. You’re smart, witty, and a little annoyed at Dean’s over-the-top hero act—but secretly find it adorable. Sometimes you “accidentally” let him rescue you, just to see the proud, smug grin plastered on his face.

Dean uses every excuse to be close to you—“checking for traps,” “helping you climb over a fence,” or “protecting you from ghosts.” He’s low-key living out a childhood fantasy.

Sam is Shaggy by default, reluctantly eating all the candy and muttering about how ridiculous the whole thing is, while Dean and you steal the spotlight.

Cas might show up as Scooby for a laugh—or just because Dean begged him. Cas takes it very seriously and somehow makes it even funnier because he doesn’t get the humor in the first place.

By the end of the night, Dean is mortified but happy because he finally got to be Fred with his Daphne. You just smirk and ruffle his hair, knowing he secretly had the best time.

This year, the trio decides to do “The Addams Family” as a theme: Beau as Gomez, you as Morticia, and Emily as Wednesday. Beau is so extra about being Gomez, twirling imaginary mustaches, doing dramatic kisses on your hand, and declaring you the most beautiful Morticia in the world.

You, as Morticia, play along with your usual calm, collected elegance—but you can’t help smirking at Beau’s over-the-top theatrics. You dramatically “scold” him for being too loud in front of Emily, but it’s clear you’re secretly enjoying every second.

Emily, loving the spooky vibe, is all in as Wednesday, complete with her deadpan expressions and perfectly braided hair. She occasionally sides with you to “correct” Beau’s goofiness, rolling her eyes at him, but he eats up her little critiques because she’s obviously impressed by his costume energy.

The trio spends the evening going door-to-door. Beau tries to show off his charm, winking at neighbors as Gomez would—but Emily keeps whispering sarcastic comments like, “Dad, you’re embarrassing us.” Beau pretends not to hear, giving you a sly grin instead.

By the end of the night, there’s candy chaos: Emily has a strategic stash, Beau has way too much sugar, and you’re just laughing at both of them, pretending to scold them while secretly loving the little family chaos.

Beau insists on taking family photos in exaggerated Addams poses, which Emily reluctantly participates in, and you can’t help but laugh as Beau dramatically dips you for the “perfect Morticia shot.”

This year, you and Soldier Boy go for a classic superhero vs. supervillain theme. Soldier Boy insists on being Captain America–style Soldier Boy, naturally, while you go as a villainous femme fatale, like a Catwoman-inspired or Poison Ivy-inspired character. He loves the dynamic because it’s playful, flirty, and lets him show off his heroic bravado.

Soldier Boy spends the night puffing out his chest, doing overly dramatic poses, and “rescuing” you from imaginary danger, even when you don’t need it. Every time he flexes or delivers a cheesy one-liner, you roll your eyes but can’t hide your grin.

You lean into your villain role, teasing him mercilessly: “Oh no, Soldier Boy, not the chandelier!”—while holding a candy bowl or pretending to steal the “city’s treasure” (aka the Halloween candy). He takes it seriously, striking heroic poses, and everyone watching thinks it’s adorable.

He’s extra about the details: shining boots, perfectly polished shield, maybe even practicing dramatic slow-motion running in the yard. You love mocking him a little but secretly admire his dedication to the bit.

Trick-or-treating (or the party) is a power couple showdown: Soldier Boy tries to keep the act going, striking heroic poses at every turn, while you flirtily act like the clever villain who might just get away. He can’t help but laugh when you “escape,” but he’s obviously planning your “rescue” again.

By the end of the night, Soldier Boy is exhausted but grinning ear to ear, clutching candy like trophies, while you lean against him, smirking: mission accomplished, your way of saying you loved watching him be all dramatic for you.

You and Alec decide to go as classic sci-fi icons: Alec as a sleek, cyberpunk-inspired Cyborg Hero (think Blade Runner meets Soldier Boy vibes) and you as a rogue hacker/antihero—matching his futuristic aesthetic but giving you your own edge. He’s low-key proud of the matching aesthetic, though he tries to act like it’s “just a costume.”

Alec is meticulously precise about the details: your costumes have to look believable, gadgets have to be “functional” (aka little props and LEDs), and makeup has to be flawless. He spends an absurd amount of time explaining why your outfits are perfect for the “post-apocalyptic dystopia” theme.

You lean into your hacker role, playfully teasing him: “Your circuits must be overheating with all this dramatic posing.” He grunts, slightly flustered, but secretly loves that you get his nerdy, perfectionist energy.

Trick-or-treating or party time is full of quiet chaos: Alec keeps scanning the room like he’s analyzing threats, while you flit around, chatting with people, stealing candy, or “hacking” the snack table. He’s protective but keeps it low-key—just enough to make it obvious you’re the center of his attention.

When it comes to photos, Alec awkwardly lets you pose dramatically, trying not to smile, but you can catch the little smirk when the camera flashes. You tease him afterward: “So broody, McDowell. Classic.” He just rolls his eyes but gently drapes an arm around you.

By the end of the night, he’s quietly proud of how well you two pulled off the look, while you’re glowing from the little adventures and attention you got as a pair. The mix of his calculated presence and your playful energy makes you the most striking couple at the party.

You and Tom decide on a classic horror movie couple theme: Tom goes as a charming, slasher-style killer (like a Valentine’s twist on Jason or Michael Myers, but polished and stylish), while you go as his cunning, fearless survivor/partner-in-crime, giving the dynamic a sexy, dark edge.

Tom embraces the eerie charm of his costume: he keeps the mask half-off to smirk at you, or dramatically brandishes a fake weapon, all while acting like the brooding, dangerous type. He loves how you balance him perfectly—you’re sharp, confident, and not afraid of him, which only draws him in more.

You lean into your survivor role: teasing him, keeping up with his antics, and sometimes “outsmarting” him in playful ways, like sneaking candy from his stash or dodging his fake attacks. He pretends to be annoyed but secretly loves your cleverness.

Trick-or-treating or a Halloween party becomes a seductively playful cat-and-mouse game: Tom lurks in corners, you pretend to stumble into his “path,” and onlookers are half terrified, half fascinated by your chemistry.

When it comes to pictures, Tom’s broody, intense presence contrasts perfectly with your confident, teasing grin. He may roll his eyes at the camera, but he subtly keeps you close, showing off your pair energy without saying a word.

By the end of the night, you’ve totally captivated him: he’s both amused and impressed by your boldness, while you’re basking in the thrill of being his perfect Halloween partner in mischief.

You and CJ decide on a classic “rebel couple” costume vibe: CJ goes as a bad-boy biker or leather-clad rebel, naturally exuding his cool, brooding energy, while you match him as a rocker chick or edgy partner-in-crime, giving off effortless style and attitude.

CJ is low-key showing off: leaning against walls, giving smoldering looks, occasionally teasing you about how “everyone’s jealous” of your pair. He doesn’t go overboard with theatrics—his presence alone is magnetic—but he loves the fact that you get his vibe.

You playfully tease him, nudging his shoulder or making sarcastic comments, and he responds with that signature smirk, maybe leaning closer just to whisper something flirty, making you blush.

Trick-or-treating or a Halloween party turns into a little rebellion of your own: dodging awkward conversations, stealing candy, and slipping away from groups to be together. CJ is protective but relaxed, letting you take the lead in little antics, because he loves seeing you confident and bold.

When it comes to pictures, CJ gives his classic smolder, but you throw in playful expressions that break through his tough-guy exterior—he can’t help laughing afterward, though he pretends he’s annoyed.

By the end of the night, CJ is quietly proud of how effortless you two look together, while you’re enjoying how naturally the two of you fit as a pair—equal parts cool, flirty, and slightly chaotic.

You and Boaz decide on quirky, slightly offbeat couple costumes to match his charmingly nerdy, mischievous personality. He goes as a mad scientist, complete with wild hair, goggles, and a lab coat, while you dress as his experiment or “assistant gone rogue”, playful and slightly chaotic to match his energy.

Boaz is overly excited about the details: insisting on fake “scientific” props, concocting weird (but harmless) Halloween potions, and giving dramatic explanations of “how the experiment went wrong” in his signature humorous, dramatic way.

You play along perfectly, teasing him about his over-the-top theatrics, pretending to “resist” his mad-scientist plans, or dramatically acting like you’re “outsmarting” him. He loves it, obviously, because it means you’re matching his energy.

Trick-or-treating or a Halloween party becomes a mini-performance: Boaz narrates everything like it’s part of a grand experiment, while you play your part, causing small chaos and laughs wherever you go. People can’t help but notice how perfectly in-sync the two of you are.

Photos are a hilarious mess of props and poses: Boaz insists on exaggerated “scientific triumph” gestures, while you strike “defiant assistant” poses. You both end up laughing at how ridiculous it looks, but it captures the quirky dynamic perfectly.

By the end of the night, Boaz is exhausted but ecstatic, holding a pile of candy like “scientific spoils,” while you lean on him, giggling—he’s thrilled you embraced his chaotic, playful energy.

You and Mark decide on a sleek, “undercover operative” couple theme: Mark goes as a tactical secret agent or spy, sharp suit, dark shades, and all the gadgets, while you match him as a femme fatale operative, equally skilled and confident. The dynamic is stylish, dangerous, and perfectly in sync with his serious, calculated personality.

Mark is meticulous about the details: your costumes have to look realistic, accessories precise, and your movements coordinated. He even practices “team maneuvers” with you beforehand, low-key enjoying that you actually keep up with him.

You play along, teasing him just enough—like pretending to “outsmart” him in a fake mission scenario—while he gives a rare small smile or smirk, appreciating your confidence and cleverness.

Trick-or-treating or a Halloween party becomes a low-key operation: you two move like a team, scanning the room, “securing intel” (aka candy or party snacks), and maintaining an air of cool composure. Everyone around notices your chemistry, even if Mark acts like he’s oblivious.

Photos are all business at first, Mark stiff and serious, but you manage to coax subtle warmth into the shots, capturing a rare glimpse of his softer side. He barely admits later that he enjoyed it.

By the end of the night, Mark is quietly proud of how well you two executed your “mission,” while you enjoy seeing him slightly loosen up, letting his intense, protective, and clever side shine in a fun, flirty way.

You and Russell decide on a dynamic, adventurous duo theme: Russell goes as a classic action hero or rugged adventurer (think Nathan Drake vibes), while you match him as a fierce explorer or treasure-hunting partner, ready for action and mischief.

Russell is in his element, leaning into the heroic, charming side of his personality: striking dramatic poses, teasing you with playful banter, and occasionally acting like the “damsel-in-distress” scenario has gone horribly wrong—but in a fun, flirty way.

You fully embrace your role: teasing him, occasionally “outsmarting” him, and making little jokes about his heroic antics. He secretly loves that you can keep up with his energy and match his adventurous flair.

Trick-or-treating or a Halloween party is full of playful chaos: Russell loves finding clever “obstacles” to make the adventure feel real (like pretending the snack table is booby-trapped), while you happily play along, keeping the vibe fun and flirty.

Photos turn into mini-adventure shots: him dramatically holding you like you’ve been “rescued,” you smirking with a prop map or treasure, and onlookers can’t help but admire your chemistry.

By the end of the night, Russell is slightly exhausted but grinning, proud of the fun you two created together. You’re laughing too, thrilled at how perfectly you mesh as an adventurous, daring pair.

╰┈➤ Finding You

Colter Shaw x sister!reader Russell Shaw x sister!reader Summary: You were kidnapped one day by people who wanted you as leverage to get your brothers. Colter and Russell had to work together and track you down to save you.

Notes: This has been in my drafts for freaking ever. I'm just finished watching Tracker so I decided to actually write this. Also I updated the tag list making it a bit neater and the lists more specific. So if you wanna be tagged in any other fandoms you should check it out. Warnings: kidnapping/stabbing/violence/angst

The November wind rattled the windows of your dorm room at Berkeley as you balanced your phone between your shoulder and ear, highlighting passages in your sociology textbook with methodical precision. The desk lamp cast a warm glow over the scattered papers, empty coffee cup, and the framed photo of you, Colter, and Russell from years ago—back when things were simpler, back when your family was whole.

"You're still coming for Thanksgiving, right?" Colter's voice came through warm and reassuring, a stark contrast to the cold evening outside and the stress of finals looming on the horizon.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," you said, smiling despite the exhaustion weighing down your shoulders from a week of midterms. "Though I'm warning you now, I'm bringing approximately seven loads of laundry and I expect you to have actual food in that trailer of yours. And by actual food, I mean more than protein bars and black coffee."

His laugh was soft and genuine, the sound immediately easing some of the tension in your neck. "The trailer's always open for you, kid. I'll even stock the fridge. How are classes going? You surviving your first semester?"

"Surviving and thriving," you said, setting down your highlighter and leaning back in your desk chair. "Though Professor Darve is trying to kill us with this workload. We have a twenty-page paper due next week on social stratification theory. Twenty pages, Colt. I'm eighteen years old. I shouldn't have to know words like 'stratification.'"

"But you do know them," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "Because you're brilliant. How'd that midterm go? The one you were stressed about last week?"

Your grin widened. "Got my grade back today. Ninety-four percent. Professor Darve told me it was one of the best essays he'd received in years. He actually used the word 'insightful,' which coming from him is basically like winning a Pulitzer."

"Of course it was one of the best." The pride in Colter's voice made your chest warm, filling some of the hollow spaces that college life couldn't quite reach. "Dad would've been so proud of you. You know that, right? First Shaw to go to college, making it look easy."

The mention of your father brought the familiar ache, but also comfort. Colter was the one who kept his memory alive in the best ways—not dwelling on the conspiracy theories or the paranoia that had consumed their dad's final years, but remembering the man who had taught you to track deer through the woods, who had read you stories about explorers and adventurers, who had believed you could do anything.

"It doesn't feel easy," you admitted, picking at the corner of your textbook. "Sometimes I feel like I'm drowning. Everyone here seems so much smarter, so much more prepared. There are kids in my classes who went to elite prep schools and had private tutors. I'm just a girl from nowhere who got lucky with a scholarship."

"You're not lucky. You're smart and hardworking, and you earned every bit of that scholarship," Colter said firmly. "Don't sell yourself short. You belong there just as much as anyone else. More, even, because you actually had to fight for it."

You blinked back the sudden moisture in your eyes, grateful he couldn't see you getting emotional over the phone. "Thanks, Colt. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You'd be fine. You're a Shaw—we're survivors," he said, but his voice had softened. "But you'll never have to find out. I'm always here, okay? Anytime, day or night. You need anything—money, advice, someone to vent to, or just someone to listen—you call me."

"I know." You twisted the phone cord around your finger. "You're the best big brother anyone could ask for."

There was a pause, and you knew what was coming before he even spoke. "Have you talked to Russell lately?"

The warmth in your chest immediately crystallized into ice. "No," you said flatly, your jaw tightening. "Have you?"

"Not in a few months. I just thought—"

"Well, don't think," you cut him off, harsher than you intended. Your hand clenched into a fist on the desk. "I have nothing to say to him, Colt. He made his choice when he disappeared. When Mom needed us, when we needed each other after Dad died, where was he? Off playing soldier or spy or whatever the hell he does now. He abandoned us."

"I know you're angry—"

"I'm not angry," you lied, your voice rising slightly. Your roommate Margret glanced over from her bed where she was studying, concern flickering across her face. You lowered your voice. "Okay, I am angry. He left us, Colter. You were there, dealing with everything, helping me with college applications, making sure I was okay. And where was Russell? He didn't even come to my high school graduation. His own little sister's graduation, and he couldn't be bothered to show up."

"He had reasons—"

"I don't care about his reasons." You stood up, pacing the small space between your desk and bed. "You don't just abandon family. That's not what family does. You taught me that. You've been there for every important moment since Dad died. Russell? He's proven that whatever he's doing is more important than us. More important than me."

Colter's sigh was heavy, weighted with years of being caught between his siblings. "He's still our brother. He's still your brother, whether you want to acknowledge it or not."

"Biologically, sure. But family is more than blood, Colt. It's showing up. It's being there. And he's failed at that spectacularly." You rubbed your eyes, suddenly exhausted. "Can we not talk about him? Please? He doesn't deserve the energy."

"Okay," Colter agreed quietly. "Okay, we won't talk about him. But maybe someday—"

"Maybe someday I'll feel differently," you finished. "But today is not that day. Today I need to focus on this paper and getting through finals and surviving on four hours of sleep."

"You need more sleep than that," Colter said, slipping easily back into protective big brother mode. "Your brain can't function properly without rest. What have I told you about taking care of yourself?"

"That I'm no good to anyone if I'm burnt out," you recited. "But Colt, there aren't enough hours in the day. Between classes, studying, my work-study job at the library, and trying to have something resembling a social life—"

"The social life can wait. Your health can't." His voice took on that stubborn edge you knew so well. "Promise me you'll get at least six hours tonight."

"I promise I'll try." You glanced at the clock on your desk. "Actually, I was about to head down to the common room to get some coffee and maybe take a break. Clear my head before I dive back into this reading."

"Good. Take breaks. And remember what I taught you—stay aware of your surroundings, especially at night. I know college campuses feel safe, but—"

"But statistically they're not always as safe as they seem," you finished, having heard this particular lecture many times. "I know, Colt. I'm careful. I walk with friends when it's dark, I keep my phone charged, I lock my door at night. You've trained me well."

"Just humor your paranoid older brother."

"You're not paranoid. You're cautious. There's a difference." You grabbed your key and phone. "I'm going to head down now. I'll call you tomorrow? Maybe we can talk about what you want me to bring for Thanksgiving. Fair warning, my cooking skills haven't improved."

"You could burn water," Colter teased. "But that's fine. I'll handle the cooking. You just bring yourself and those seven loads of laundry."

"Deal. Love you, big brother."

"Love you too, kid. Be careful out there."

"Always am."

You ended the call, slipping your phone into the pocket of your hoodie—one of Colter's old ones that you'd stolen last summer, worn and soft and smelling like safety. Margret looked up from her laptop as you headed for the door.

"Going to get coffee?" she asked, pulling out her earbuds.

"Yeah, want anything?"

"I'm good, thanks. Don't stay up too late studying. You look exhausted."

"Says the girl who pulled an all-nighter for chemistry," you shot back with a grin.

"Do as I say, not as I do." Margret smiled. "Hey, are you okay? That call seemed kind of intense."

You paused at the door, hand on the handle. "Just family stuff. My brother Russell... it's complicated."

"The one who's never around?"

"That's the one." You shook your head. "But Colter's great. He's basically raised me since our dad died. He's the reason I'm here, honestly. I don't know what I'd do without him."

"He sounds amazing. Very different from Russell, from what you've said."

"Complete opposite," you agreed. "Anyway, I'll be back in twenty. Don't let me stay up past midnight if I try, okay?"

"You got it, roomie."

You stepped out into the hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The dorm was relatively quiet for a Wednesday night—most people were either in their rooms studying or had gone out to the library or late-night cafes. Your footsteps echoed on the floor as you walked toward the stairwell, mentally cataloging everything you still had to do before you could sleep.

The stairwell door was heavy, the hinges creaking as you pulled it open. The concrete stairs were dimly lit, the bulb on the second floor flickering. You'd mentioned it to the RA last week, but facilities was apparently backed up with maintenance requests. You made a mental note to mention it again as you started down the stairs, one hand trailing along the metal railing.

You were halfway between the third and second floor when you heard footsteps below you. Heavy footsteps, moving quickly. Two sets, maybe three.

Colter's voice echoed in your head: Stay aware of your surroundings.

You slowed, listening. The footsteps had stopped.

Maybe they'd exited the stairwell. Maybe you were being paranoid. Maybe Colter's warnings had finally gotten to you.

You continued down, reaching the second-floor landing.

The hand came out of nowhere.

One second you were alone, the next a gloved hand was clamped over your mouth, cutting off your scream before it could form. Your phone clattered to the concrete as strong arms wrapped around you from behind, pinning your arms to your sides. You thrashed, trying to remember everything Colter had taught you—stomp on the instep, elbow to the ribs, make yourself deadweight—but a second attacker appeared in front of you, and together they were overwhelming.

"Stop fighting," a rough voice growled in your ear. "Make this easy on yourself."

Like hell you would.

You managed to kick backward, connecting with someone's shin. The grip on you tightened painfully, and then something dark was being pulled over your head—a bag, rough fabric that smelled like oil and dirt. Panic flooded your system as your world went black.

You tried to scream again, but the hand over your mouth pressed harder, cutting off your air. Your lungs burned. Your heart hammered against your ribs.

"Got her?" another voice asked, this one younger, nervous.

"Yeah. Move. We need to get out of here before someone comes."

You were lifted off your feet, carried like you weighed nothing. You could hear a door opening—not the stairwell door, something else. A service entrance, maybe? You struggled again, desperate, but it was useless. Strong arms held you immobile as you were carried outside into the cold November air.

A vehicle door opened. You were shoved inside, landing hard on what felt like a van floor. Zip ties bit into your wrists, then your ankles, cinched tight enough to cut off circulation. The engine started, and the van lurched into motion.

"Who are you?" you managed to gasp out, your voice muffled by the bag. "What do you want?"

"Shut up," someone snapped. Something pressed against your side—hard and unmistakable. A gun. "Don't talk, don't scream, don't try anything. Understand?"

You nodded, fear turning your blood to ice.

"Good girl."

The van drove on, turning left, then right, then left again. You tried to track the movements, tried to count seconds to estimate distance like Colter had taught you, but panic was making it impossible to concentrate. Your mind raced through possibilities. Random kidnapping? Targeted? Was this about your father? About the conspiracy theories and military secrets he'd obsessed over before his death?

Colter, you thought desperately. Colter, please. Please know something's wrong.

But how could he? You'd just talked to him twenty minutes ago. He was probably miles away, tracking down some missing person or following a lead on a reward case. He wouldn't know you were gone until you didn't call tomorrow. Until Margret reported you missing when you didn't come back to the room.

By then, it might be too late.

The van drove for what felt like hours but was probably only thirty or forty minutes. When it finally stopped, you were dragged out, carried again, and then thrown into a room that smelled like mildew and decay. The bag was ripped off your head.

You blinked in the sudden light—a single bare bulb hanging from a water-stained ceiling. The room was small, concrete walls, no windows. An abandoned warehouse or basement, maybe. Your captors were two men in dark clothing and ski masks. Professional. Prepared.

"Why are you doing this?" you asked, proud that your voice only shook a little. "If this is about money, my family doesn't have—"

"It's not about money," the taller one interrupted. He crouched in front of you, dark eyes visible through the mask. "It's about leverage. Your brothers have something we want. Information. And you're going to help us get it."

Your blood ran cold. "My brothers?"

"Colter and Russell Shaw. We know they're looking into the Horizon Initiative. We know they're close to finding something they shouldn't find." He tilted his head. "So here's how this works. We contact them, we tell them what we want, and if they're smart, they'll back off and you'll go home safe. If they're not smart..." He let the threat hang in the air.

"I don't know anything about a Horizon Initiative," you said honestly. "Colter doesn't tell me about his cases. And Russell—I haven't talked to Russell in years."

"That's unfortunate for you." The man stood. "But I'm sure they'll be motivated to comply once they know we have you. Especially Colter. He's the protective type, from what we've gathered."

They left you there, hands and feet still zip-tied, sitting on the cold concrete floor with your back against the wall. The door shut with a heavy clang, and you heard a lock click into place.

You were alone.

And you had never felt more terrified in your life.

▸

Forty-Eight Hours Later

Colter's phone buzzed with an unknown number at 3:47 AM. He was already awake, parked outside a motel in Nevada, reviewing case files on his laptop. He'd learned years ago that sleep was a luxury in his line of work.

He answered without hesitation. "Shaw."

"Mr. Shaw." The voice was distorted, run through a modulator. "We have something that belongs to you."

Colter sat up straighter, every sense immediately on alert. "Who is this?"

"That's not important. What's important is that we have your sister. The baby of the family. What's her name again? Oh, right—" The voice said your name, and Colter's blood turned to ice.

"If you've hurt her—"

"She's alive. For now. Whether she stays that way depends entirely on you and your brother." There was a pause, the sound of muffled voices in the background. "You and Russell have been looking into things you shouldn't. The Horizon Initiative. Whatever you think you've found, whatever you think you know—you need to stop. Erase everything. Walk away."

"Put her on the phone," Colter demanded, his hand gripping the phone so tight his knuckles went white. "I want proof of life."

Silence. Then a different voice, younger, scared: "Colter?"

Your voice. Definitely your voice.

"I'm here," Colter said, forcing calm into his tone even as panic clawed at his chest. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm okay, they haven't—" A sharp sound, like someone had hit you, and your voice cut off.

"You have your proof," the distorted voice returned. "Now here's what's going to happen. You have seventy-two hours to delete everything you have on Horizon, and you need to convince your brother to do the same. After seventy-two hours, if we're not satisfied, your sister dies. If you go to the police, she dies. If you try to find her, she dies. If either of you continues investigating, she dies. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," Colter said, his mind already racing through scenarios, tracking protocols, rescue strategies. "But I need more than seventy-two hours. Russell and I—we don't exactly keep in regular contact. Finding him will take time."

"That's your problem, not ours. Seventy-two hours, Shaw. The clock starts now."

The line went dead.

Colter sat frozen for exactly five seconds, letting the information process. Then he was moving, starting the truck, pulling up contacts on his phone. He had calls to make. Resources to activate.

And he had to find Russell.

He'd sworn he would never ask his older brother for help again, not after the last time they'd spoken had ended in a shouting match about duty and family and all the ways Russell had failed at both. But that was before. Before someone had taken you. Before everything changed.

Colter had contacts everywhere—people who owed him favors, information brokers, hackers, former military personnel who could track down ghosts. Within thirty minutes, he had a location: Russell was in Virginia, apparently working some kind of freelance security consultation job.

Colter made the call.

Russell answered on the fourth ring, voice thick with sleep. "Yeah?"

"They have her," Colter said without preamble. "They have our sister."

Silence. Then Russell's voice came back, sharp and alert: "What? Who? When?"

"Forty-eight hours ago, we think. She went missing from her dorm at Berkeley. I got a call an hour ago—proof of life. They want us to stop investigating the Horizon Initiative or they'll kill her."

"The Horizon Initiative." Russell's voice had gone flat, and Colter could practically hear the gears turning in his brother's mind. "Jesus. Colter, you have no idea what you've stepped into—"

"I don't care what I've stepped into. I care about getting her back alive." Colter's jaw clenched. "I need your help. I know we haven't exactly been on good terms, and I know she's not talking to you, but—"

"Where are you?"

"Nevada. But I'm heading to Berkeley now, see if I can pick up any trails from where she was taken."

"I'll meet you there. I can be on a plane in two hours." Russell paused. "Colter, the people behind Horizon—they're not playing games. They're connected, well-funded, and they have no problem eliminating threats. If they have her..."

"Then we get her back," Colter said firmly. "That's not negotiable. She's our sister, Russell. Our baby sister. Whatever else has happened between us, whatever issues we have—this comes first."

"Agreed." Russell's voice had taken on that cold, focused quality that Colter remembered from their childhood, when Russell would hunt with their father and come back with that same lethal intensity. "Send me everything you have. Every detail, every lead, every piece of information about Horizon. I've got resources too. Between us, we'll find her."

"Russell—" Colter hesitated. "She doesn't want to see you. She's still angry about you leaving. About everything."

"I know." Russell's voice was quiet now, almost vulnerable. "But she doesn't have to forgive me. She just has to survive. We'll deal with the rest later."

"Okay." Colter started the truck, already plotting the fastest route to California. "I'm sending you the files now. Meet me at Berkeley, Hayes Hall. That's where her dorm is."

"I'll be there."

▸

Sixty Hours After Abduction

You'd lost track of time in the windowless room. They brought you water and food occasionally—granola bars, bottled water, nothing that required utensils they could use as weapons. Your wrists and ankles were raw from the zip ties. Your body ached from sitting on concrete. But mostly, you were terrified.

You'd heard your captors talking when they thought you were asleep. Snatches of conversation that made your blood run cold: "...Shaw brothers are still investigating..." "...we might need to send a stronger message..." "...the girl is a liability..."

The door opened suddenly, flooding the room with light from the hallway. The tall one entered, the one who seemed to be in charge. He carried something that made your heart stop: a knife.

"Time to send another message to your brothers," he said, advancing toward you. "They're not cooperating fast enough. Still digging, still asking questions. They need proper motivation."

"No, wait—" You scrambled backward, but there was nowhere to go, just concrete wall pressing against your back. "Please, they'll stop, just give them more time—"

He grabbed your arm, and you struggled, but he was stronger. The knife flashed in the dim light.

You screamed.

▸

Colter and Russell stood in your empty dorm room, the tension between them thick enough to cut. They'd spent the last sixty hours working in parallel, sharing information but barely speaking beyond necessity. Too much history, too much pain, too much blame to address when their sister's life hung in the balance.

Margret, your roommate, sat on her bed, looking shell-shocked. "She just went to get coffee," she kept repeating. "She was supposed to be back in twenty minutes."

"The phone," Colter said, examining the evidence bag the campus police had provided. Your phone had been found in the stairwell, screen cracked. "No defensive wounds in the stairwell, no blood. They were professional. Probably two or three people, based on the positioning."

Russell was studying his laptop, running through security footage he'd obtained through less-than-legal means. "Got them. Two men, entering the building through the service entrance at 9:43 PM. Faces covered. They knew where the cameras were—avoided most of them."

"Can you track the van?"

"Working on it." Russell's fingers flew over the keyboard. "License plates were fake, but there are only so many routes out of Berkeley. I'm cross-referencing traffic cameras, looking for the vehicle."

Colter's phone buzzed. Unknown number. He answered immediately, putting it on speaker. "Shaw."

"Your sister's time is running out," the distorted voice said. "You're both still looking. Still digging. That's disappointing."

"We need more time," Colter said. "The data is scattered across multiple—"

A sound interrupted him. A scream. Your scream, raw and agonized.

Both brothers went rigid.

"Stop!" you were crying in the background. "Please, stop—"

"Next time, it won't just be a cut," the voice said calmly. "Next time, we go deeper. Twelve hours, gentlemen. That's all you have left. After that, your sister comes home in pieces."

The line went dead.

Russell and Colter looked at each other, and something unspoken passed between them—a shared determination, a brotherly understanding that transcended their years of distance.

"Screw their timeline," Russell said. "We find her now."

"Agreed." Colter pulled up a map on his phone. "You said you recognized some of the terminology they used in that first call—the way they referenced Horizon. What does that tell us?"

"Military background, probably private sector now. The Horizon Initiative was a black ops program, shut down officially five years ago. But some of the operatives went private, formed their own security companies. There are three in the Bay Area that I know of—all with ties to the original program."

"Locations?"

Russell rattled off addresses. "But they won't be keeping her at an official site. Too risky. They'll have a safe house, somewhere off the grid."

"Then we find the safe house." Colter was already moving, grabbing his gear. "We have twelve hours. We work every contact, every lead, every piece of information until we find her."

They split up, working their respective networks. Colter called Bobby who immediately started digging into property records and financial transactions. Russell reached out to former military contacts, people who still had connections in the black ops world.

Eight hours later, they had a location: an abandoned industrial complex on the outskirts of Oakland, owned by a shell corporation that traced back to Horizon operatives.

They met outside the complex at dawn, both armed, both ready.

"We go in quiet," Russell said, checking his weapon with practiced efficiency. "Extract her first, deal with the kidnappers second. Agreed?"

"Agreed." Colter looked at his older brother. "After this—after we get her out—we need to talk. Really talk. About everything."

"I know." Russell's jaw tightened. "But first, let's bring our sister home."

They moved into the complex like shadows, using the skills their father had taught them years ago—tracking, stealth, reading environments. The building was mostly abandoned, but there were fresh tire tracks, disturbed dust patterns. Someone was here.

Russell signaled: two guards, main entrance. Colter nodded: take them quietly.

They moved in perfect synchronization, years of brotherhood overriding years of separation. The guards went down without raising an alarm.

They found you in a basement room, and Colter's heart nearly stopped at the sight.

You were slumped against the wall, zip ties still binding your wrists and ankles. Your clothes were torn and dirty. But it was the blood that made Russell swear under his breath—fresh blood soaking through your shirt on the right side, a crude bandage that wasn't doing nearly enough.

"Hey," Colter said softly, rushing to your side and cupping your face. "Hey, kiddo. Open your eyes. We're here."

Your eyes fluttered open, glazed with pain and shock. When you focused on Colter, tears immediately spilled down your cheeks. "Colt?"

"I've got you. You're safe now." He was already cutting through the zip ties with his knife, gentle despite the urgency. "Can you walk?"

"I—I don't know. They stabbed me. I tried to fight when they—" Your gaze shifted, landing on Russell standing in the doorway, and your expression hardened even through the pain. "What is he doing here?"

"Helping save your life," Russell said quietly. "We need to move. Can you stand?"

You tried, but the moment weight settled on your legs, you gasped in pain and would have collapsed if Colter hadn't caught you.

"I've got you," he murmured. "Russell, clear us a path."

"Already on it." Russell moved ahead, weapon raised, checking corners and doorways.

They made it halfway to the exit before the shooting started.

The kidnappers had realized something was wrong. Bullets sprayed the hallway, and Russell returned fire while Colter shielded you with his body, dragging you toward cover behind a concrete pillar.

"Stay down," Colter ordered, then joined Russell in the firefight.

You'd seen your brothers handle themselves in tough situations before—Colter had told you stories about tracking dangerous fugitives. But you'd never seen them like this: moving in perfect coordination, covering each other, taking down threats with lethal precision. They moved like they'd been fighting together their whole lives, even though you knew they'd barely spoken in years.

When the shooting stopped, Russell reappeared, breathing hard but uninjured. "We need to go. Now. There might be more."

Colter lifted you carefully, cradling you against his chest like you weighed nothing. "Hold on, okay? We're getting you to a hospital."

"Don't want... hospital," you mumbled, shock making your thoughts fuzzy. "Want... home."

"Hospital first," Colter said firmly. "Then home. I promise."

The drive to the nearest hospital was a blur. You kept fading in and out, aware of Colter's hands pressing against your side, trying to slow the bleeding. Russell drove like a man possessed, running red lights, taking corners at dangerous speeds.

"Stay with me," Colter kept saying. "Stay awake. Talk to me. Tell me about your classes. Tell me about that paper you were writing."

"Colt..." Your voice was weak. "I'm tired."

"I know. But you can't sleep yet. Come on, kiddo. Stay with me."

Russell's voice from the front seat: "Two minutes. Hospital's two minutes away."

"She's losing too much blood."

"She's going to make it. She's a Shaw. We're too stubborn to die."

The hospital was chaos—doctors and nurses rushing toward you the moment Russell screeched to a halt outside the ER entrance. Colter carried you inside, refusing to let go until medical staff physically pried you away.

"Stab wound to the right lower abdomen," a doctor was saying. "Possible internal bleeding. We need to get her to surgery. Who are you?"

"Her brothers," Colter and Russell said in unison.

"Wait outside. We'll update you as soon as we can."

The waiting room was sterile and cold, filled with uncomfortable plastic chairs and outdated magazines no one was reading. Colter sat with his head in his hands, still wearing his blood-stained shirt. Russell paced, unable to sit still, that military restlessness making it impossible to settle.

"She'll be okay," Russell said after an hour of silence. "She's strong."

"She shouldn't have been involved in this at all," Colter replied, his voice raw. "This is our mess. Our father's conspiracy theories, our investigations. She should have been safe at college, worried about papers and boys and normal college kid stuff."

"We didn't know they'd target her."

"We should have." Colter looked up, and Russell was struck by the anguish in his younger brother's eyes. "I should have. I knew we were poking at dangerous things. I should have made sure she was protected."

"This isn't your fault."

"Feels like it is." Colter slumped back in his chair. "You know she doesn't talk to you, right? She's furious at you. Has been for years."

"I know."

"She was fourteen when you left. Fourteen, Russell. Dad had just died, Mom was barely functioning, and you disappeared into whatever black ops program recruited you. She needed us. She needed her big brothers. And you weren't there."

Russell stopped pacing, standing with his back to Colter. "I know," he said quietly. "I had my reasons, but that doesn't make it right. I thought—I thought I was protecting you both by staying away. By keeping that life separate."

"We didn't need protecting from you. We needed you. Period." Colter's voice cracked. "Do you have any idea how many times she asked about you? How many times I had to explain that you weren't coming to her soccer games or birthday parties or graduation? How many times I had to watch her face fall when she realized you'd chosen whatever mission or operation over us?"

"I never wanted—" Russell turned around, and Colter was surprised to see moisture in his older brother's eyes. "I never wanted to hurt her. Either of you. The work I was doing—I couldn't risk bringing that darkness home. I couldn't risk getting you involved in things that could get you killed."

"And how did that work out?" Colter gestured angrily. "She still got taken. She's still in surgery with a stab wound because of things we're investigating. Your distance didn't protect her, Russell. It just made her feel abandoned."

Russell sank into a chair, suddenly looking older than his years. "I know. God, I know. And I don't know how to fix it. I don't know if she'll ever forgive me."

"I don't know either," Colter admitted. "But if you want any chance at a relationship with her, you're going to have to show up. Consistently. Not just for the dramatic rescues, but for the boring stuff too. For the phone calls and the visits and the being there even when it's inconvenient."

"I can do that." Russell looked at his brother. "If she'll let me."

They sat in silence for another two hours before a doctor finally emerged, still in surgical scrubs.

"She's stable," the doctor announced, and both brothers sagged with relief. "The blade missed any major organs, but she lost a significant amount of blood. We've repaired the damage and she's receiving transfusions. She's going to be very sore and weak for a while, but with proper rest and care, she should make a full recovery."

"Can we see her?" Colter asked immediately.

"She's in recovery now. Give us another hour to get her settled in a room, and then you can visit. Fair warning—she's going to be groggy from the anesthesia."

"We'll wait."

When they were finally allowed into your room, you were awake but clearly disoriented, blinking slowly at the ceiling. Your skin was pale against the white hospital sheets, and there were IVs in both arms.

"Hey," Colter said softly, approaching the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Like someone stabbed me," you murmured, managing a weak smile. "Oh wait. Someone did."

Colter laughed, the sound slightly strangled with relief. "There's my girl. Your sense of humor survived intact."

You turned your head, saw Russell standing awkwardly by the door, and your expression shuttered. "Why is he still here?"

"Because I wanted to make sure you were okay," Russell said, stepping closer despite the coldness in your eyes. "I know you don't want to see me. I know you're angry. But I couldn't leave without knowing you were going to be alright."

"Well, now you know. The doctors said I'll live. You can go." Your words were harsh, but your voice wavered.

"I don't want to go." Russell pulled a chair to the other side of your bed, sitting down despite your obvious displeasure. "I know I have no right to be here. I know I failed you. I missed your graduation, your birthdays, all the important moments. I chose my work over my family, and there's no excuse for that."

"You're right. There isn't." Tears were building in your eyes, and you tried to blink them away. "Do you know what it's like, having a brother who doesn't care enough to show up? Who can't even send a text on Christmas?"

"I cared. I always cared." Russell's voice was thick. "I just—I didn't know how to balance it all. The work I was doing, the things I was involved in, I thought keeping my distance was the right thing. I thought it would keep you safe."

"I didn't need to be safe from you, Russell. I needed my brother." The tears were falling now, and you couldn't stop them. The pain medication was lowering your defenses, bringing all your buried feelings to the surface. "When Dad died, I was so scared. And Colter was there, he held everything together, but I kept waiting for you. I kept thinking you'd come home, that you'd help us get through it. But you didn't."

"I'm sorry." Russell's own eyes were wet now. "I'm so sorry. You deserved better. You deserved a brother who showed up."

"Why didn't you?" Your voice broke. "Why weren't we enough?"

"You were. You are. You're everything." Russell reached out hesitantly, and when you didn't pull away, he took your hand. "I was messed up. Dealing with things from work that I couldn't process, couldn't talk about. I thought I was doing the right thing by staying away, but I was just being a coward. I was running from the hard stuff because I didn't know how to handle it."

"You should have tried." But your fingers were curling around his, holding on despite your anger.

"I know. And I want to do better. I want to be the brother you deserve, if you'll give me a chance." Russell's voice was earnest, vulnerable in a way Colter had never heard before. "I can't change the past. I can't give you back those years. But I'm here now, and I promise—I swear—I'm not going anywhere. Not anymore."

You studied his face, looking for any sign of insincerity. "You promise?"

"I promise. Birthdays, holidays, random Tuesday afternoons—whatever you need, whenever you need it, I'll be there." Russell squeezed your hand gently. "I know trust is earned, not given. So I'm prepared to spend however long it takes proving to you that I mean it."

You were quiet for a long moment, tears still streaming down your face. Then: "You missed a lot of important stuff."

"I know."

"My first day of college. My first A on a college paper. The time I got food poisoning from dining hall sushi and spent a whole night in the bathroom."

"Dining hall sushi?" Russell's lips quirked despite the heaviness of the moment. "That's just asking for trouble."

"Colter said the same thing." You glanced at your younger older brother, who'd been silently watching the exchange. "He came to visit that weekend, brought me soup and crackers and made fun of me for two straight days."

"That's what big brothers are for," Colter said with a soft smile.

"Both of you are supposed to do that," you said, looking back at Russell. "The visiting and the soup and the making fun of me when I do stupid things. That's the deal."

"Then that's what I'll do," Russell said. "If you'll let me."

You were quiet again, exhausted from the surgery and the emotional conversation. "I'm still mad at you."

"You have every right to be."

"But..." You took a shaky breath. "But you came for me. When I was taken, you came. Both of you."

"Always," Colter and Russell said simultaneously, then glanced at each other in surprise.

"We're brothers," Colter continued. "And you're our sister. That doesn't change, no matter what else happens. When it matters—when you need us—we're there."

"I always needed you," you whispered. "Not just in emergencies. In the regular stuff too."

"I know," Russell said. "And I'm going to do better. Starting now. Starting with staying right here until you're ready to leave this hospital, and then making sure you have everything you need while you recover."

"I'm staying too," Colter added. "Between the two of us, you're going to get very tired of your big brothers hovering."

Despite everything—the pain, the exhaustion, the emotional turmoil—you smiled. "I don't think I could ever get tired of that."

Russell raised your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. "I'm so sorry. For everything. I'm going to spend the rest of my life making it up to you."

"You can start by telling me about your work," you said. "Colter gets to tell me about tracking down fugitives and solving impossible cases. What do you do? And don't say it's classified."

Russell laughed, the sound rusty but genuine. "Some of it is classified. But I can tell you the unclassified parts. And I can tell you about the stupid mistakes I made as a kid that Colter doesn't know about."

"Hey," Colter protested. "I want to hear those too."

"See, now you're both ganging up on me," Russell said, but he was smiling. "This is going to be a problem."

"That's what you get for coming back," you said. Your eyes were drifting closed, the medication and exhaustion catching up with you. "Don't leave before I wake up, okay?"

"I won't," Russell promised. "I'm here. I'm staying."

"Both of us," Colter added. "We're not going anywhere."

You fell asleep holding Russell's hand, and Colter watched as his older brother sat there, tears silently tracking down his face as he held his little sister for the first time in years.

"Thank you," Russell said quietly. "For taking care of her all this time. For being the brother I should have been."

"You're here now," Colter replied. "That's what matters. And maybe—maybe we can figure out how to be brothers again too. All three of us."

"I'd like that."

They sat in silence, watching you sleep, two brothers who'd been fractured and separate now united by the sleeping girl between them. There would be more conversations, more healing that needed to happen. Trust would take time to rebuild, and the wounds of the past wouldn't disappear overnight.

But this was a start.

And for the Shaw siblings, broken and battered but still standing, still together—a start was more than enough.

Summary: Colter Shaw x fe!Reader -> Colter gets kidnapped on a job, and you're there when he's found.

Disclaimer: Mentions of weapons, descriptions of kidnapping and a car crash, blood, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, co-workers/friends to lovers, happy ending, shorter fic.

It wasn’t meant to be like this. It was meant to be a quick job, searching for a missing local girl who seemingly went into hiding after photographing the wrong people on a job. 

Instead, from the moment Colter had called you asking for your help, things hadn’t been adding up. 

In a daze, you mustered enough energy to unclip your seatbelt and push the truck door open. The engine was smoking, oil was leaking out into the rain covered road and Colter…was missing. 

“Colter?” 

You searched around the truck, finding nothing but glass and traces of blood in the driver’s seat. “Colter?” 

You were getting worried, feeling the usual tight feeling in your chest. Only, this time you couldn’t stop it from growing. “Colter?!”

Out in the road, you saw deep tracks, skid marks and muddy grass spilled across the road a little further up, along with a growing trail of blood. 

Pulling out your phone, you tried to see through your fuzzy vision. Finding his contact, you started calling. It went straight to voice mail; six times. 

“Colter?!”

Genre; Fluff and Action

Word Count; 3.9k (who saw that coming)

Warnings; heights, the reader gets stuck on a ledge in a high place (but they’re fine)

Pairings; Russell Shaw (Tracker) x Reader (gender neutral as always)

I have been reminded of my love for Russell by the new season (which I haven’t finished yet!! No spoilers!) and I feel certain that this man would be able to score a date out of rescuing someone. This was really fun to write, hope you like it!

Masterlist

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Mid-hike in the redwood forests of California, you were taking a break to look out over the canyon below your trail. A beautiful, clear river roared a few hundred feet down. The ridge on the other side was bright green from the tree cover. Those same trees towered above you, providing shade from the blazing morning sunlight. You put your pack down for a moment while you stepped closer to the edge to snap a photograph or two of the landscape, to have something you could put in an album. It could have been fatal so easily.

Your boot slipped, on gravel, or a smooth rock, or whatever, and your feet went straight out from under you. You somehow managed to stop your head from hitting the ground. You scrabbled around frantically enough to end up on your stomach, clawing at dry grass and grit as you slipped right over the edge. Your stomach dropped at the feeling of nothing more than air beneath you and gravity snatching you down. You kicked and tried to grab at the cliff as you fell, looking for any kind of purchase that might help save your life. You hadn’t paid enough attention to the drop below you to know your chances.

But, after a few seconds that lasted longer than the entire rest of your life, you simply stopped. You stayed absolutely still, clinging to whatever was beneath you for dear life. Your limbs trembled, your heart pounding in your ears. When you gathered your courage to look around and see what had happened, it was to find you had slid, rather than properly fell, onto a ledge. With nothing more than a sheer cliff below it.

⋰˚☆ russell x reader (feat. colter) | fluff | 1.7k ⋰˚☆ where you recently began decorating your place for christmas, but since russell got home for the holidays, you start noticing mistletoe everywhere. ⋰˚☆ content: fem!reader, established relationship, russell being his usual flirty self, suggestive / sex references

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Pairings; Mark Meachum x reader, Russell Shaw x reader, Beau Arlen x reader, Dean Winchester x reader, Soldier Boy x reader, Jensen Ackles x reader

Genre/Warnings; Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Soft Angst

Summary: The boys make it their personal mission to prove that Y/N's birthday-no matter how close it is to Christmas-will never be overshadowed as long as they're around.

A/N: Everyone say happy birthday to my best friend April or I'll kill you all

4244 words

Mark Meachum

Mark Meachum notices things other people miss.

He notices patterns, exits, the way a room breathes when someone dangerous is inside it. He notices when your voice shifts half a degree lower when you’re tired. He notices when you stop asking for things because you’ve learned not to expect them.

So when December rolls around and you brush off your birthday like it’s an inconvenience, he notices that too.

“It’s whatever,” you say, shrugging when he asks. “It’s basically Christmas. Everyone’s busy. Always has been.”

You say it lightly. Too lightly.

Mark doesn’t respond right away. He never does when something settles wrong in his chest. He just files it away, like evidence. Like a threat assessment.

You don’t see what he does later that night—him sitting at the kitchen table long after you’ve gone to bed, sleeves rolled up, jaw tight, calendar open on his phone. Your birthday circled in red. The twenty-third.

Two days before Christmas.

“Basically Christmas,” he mutters to himself, like it’s an insult.

Mark grew up learning that love was conditional and attention was earned. He learned early not to want things. But that also means he knows exactly what it looks like when someone else learned the same lesson.

And he hates it.

The first thing he does is make a rule.

Your birthday will not share space.

No joint gifts. No Christmas wrapping paper. No “this is for both.” No one-day-fits-all celebration that quietly tells you that you come second to tinsel and obligation.

The second thing he does is plan.

Mark Meachum doesn’t plan parties—he plans operations. But this feels close enough. He starts small, precise. He takes a personal day without telling you why. He clears his schedule like he’s expecting a firefight. He memorizes your offhand comments from months ago, the ones you didn’t think anyone heard.

“I always wanted one of those,” you’d said once, passing a shop window. “I used to love this place as a kid,” you’d mentioned, dismissive. “I don’t really do surprises,” you’d laughed. “They never go right.”

He ignores the last one.

On the morning of your birthday, you wake up expecting nothing.

Instead, Mark’s side of the bed is empty—and there’s a note on your nightstand. Plain paper. Your name written in his sharp, controlled handwriting.

Get dressed. Comfortable. We’re leaving in thirty minutes.

No heart. No flourish.

You should’ve known.

When you come out, he’s already in his coat, keys in hand, watching you with that unreadable expression he wears when he’s thinking three steps ahead.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

“Your birthday,” he says.

You blink. “Mark—”

“No,” he interrupts, gentle but immovable. “You don’t get to talk your way out of this.”

There’s no cake. No balloons. No forced cheer.

Instead, he takes you to that place you mentioned once—the one you loved as a kid. It’s quieter now, tucked between newer buildings, but it’s still there. He buys your ticket before you can protest. He watches your face soften when recognition hits, like something unknots in you without permission.

“You remembered,” you say quietly.

“I remember everything,” he replies, and means you.

Later, there’s lunch at a place you love but never go because it feels like a waste for “just a regular day.” Mark orders for you without asking—exactly right—and when you stare at him, suspicious, he just shrugs.

“You’re predictable,” he says. “In the best way.”

In the afternoon, there’s a gift.

Just one.

He hands it to you in a bag that is aggressively not festive. No red. No green. No snowflakes. The paper inside is plain, elegant.

“This isn’t a Christmas thing,” he says, before you can even open it. “Don’t confuse it.”

Your throat tightens before you can stop it.

Inside is the thing you wanted but never asked for. The one you convinced yourself you didn’t need. The one that feels like being seen, not indulged.

You look up at him, eyes glassy. “Mark…”

He shifts, uncomfortable with the weight of your gratitude. “I know your birthday’s always been… crowded,” he says. The word is carefully chosen. “I figured it deserved its own space.”

You swallow. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I know,” he says. “I wanted to.”

That’s the moment it hits you—not the gift, not the day, but the intention. The way he’s carved this out for you, protected it, like something fragile and important. Like you are.

That night, there’s no big party. Just the two of you, lights low, city humming outside. He produces a small cake from the fridge—not themed, not festive. Just chocolate. Just yours.

You laugh softly. “You really went all out.”

He watches you blow out the candle, expression unreadable but eyes steady. “You don’t disappear just because the calendar’s inconvenient,” he says. “You don’t get absorbed into something louder.”

You look at him then, really look at him.

“Did anyone ever do this for you?” you ask.

A pause. Barely perceptible.

“No,” he says honestly.

You reach for his hand, squeeze. “Then thank you. For learning how.”

Mark doesn’t smile easily. But he does now—small, crooked, real.

“Happy birthday,” he says.

Russell Shaw

Russell Shaw notices dates. Deadlines. Schedules. Threat windows.

He notices your birthday the same way—circled once in his head, neat and unobtrusive, sitting far too close to Christmas to be ignored and far too easy to overlook.

December twenty-second.

Too close to lights and lists and obligations. Too close to everyone saying we’ll celebrate you later and meaning never quite properly.

You don’t make a big deal out of it. That’s the part that bothers him.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you tell him a week before, shrugging into your coat. “It’s basically Christmas anyway.”

Basically.

Russell hums noncommittally, jaw tight, already filing the word away like a problem he hasn’t solved yet.

On the morning of your birthday, the city is quiet in that strange, muffled December way. Snow threatens but doesn’t fall. The air is sharp enough to wake you up all on its own.

You wake first, padding into the kitchen in socks, expecting nothing. You make coffee. You check your phone. A few texts from family. A couple of friends remembering at the last second, adding sorry it’s so close to Christmas like an apology wrapped in tinsel.

You’re pouring milk when you hear him.

“Hey.”

Russell stands in the doorway, already dressed, jacket on, hair still damp from the shower. His expression is neutral—but his eyes are alert, like he’s braced for something.

“Happy birthday,” he says. Simple. Direct. No smile, but softer than usual.

You blink. “You remembered.”

His brow furrows just slightly. “Of course I did.”

You smile anyway, small and automatic. “It’s okay if—”

He cuts you off gently. “It’s not okay.”

That stops you.

“I mean,” he adds, clearing his throat, “it is okay. If you want it to be. But I didn’t forget.”

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a folded card—plain, cream-colored, no glitter, no Santa, no red-and-green nonsense. Just your name, written carefully in his handwriting.

You take it like it might break.

Inside, the message is short. Thoughtful. Personal. No jokes. No clichés. Just him, in words he probably agonized over.

You swallow.

“Russell…”

“There’s more,” he says quickly, like he needs to get it out before you say anything else. “I took the day off. Cleared it with work. No interruptions unless the world’s ending.”

You stare at him. “You did what?”

“I took the day,” he repeats. “It’s your birthday.”

The way he says it—like that should explain everything—makes your chest ache.

He doesn’t surprise you with anything loud or public. No party. No crowd. He knows better.

Instead, he takes you out of the city, driving until the buildings thin and the trees grow tall and bare, frost clinging to their branches. There’s a small cabin tucked into the woods, smoke curling from the chimney, Christmas lights strung lazily along the porch—but not turned on yet.

“It’s not… festive,” he says, parking. “I made sure.”

You laugh, breath fogging. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he says, opening your door anyway.

Inside, it’s warm. Quiet. There’s a fireplace crackling low, a record player humming something soft and instrumental. On the table sits a small cake—plain chocolate, no holiday decorations, just a single candle.

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t want it to feel like… an afterthought,” he says, hands in his pockets now, shoulders a little stiff. “Or like it got swallowed by Christmas.”

You look at him. Really look at him. The careful distance. The effort hidden under restraint.

“You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I know,” he says. “I wanted to.”

That’s the part that undoes you.

Later, you sit by the fire, knees pulled up, cake half-eaten and forgotten. Snow finally starts to fall, quiet and slow, visible through the window.

You lean into his side, and after a moment—just a moment—he lets himself relax. His arm comes around you, solid and warm.

“Can I tell you something?” you ask softly.

“Always.”

“My birthdays used to kind of… disappear,” you admit. “Everyone was always busy. Saving things for Christmas. I told myself it didn’t matter.”

His jaw tightens.

“It matters,” he says firmly. “You matter.”

You rest your head against his shoulder. “Thank you for seeing it.”

He exhales, long and steady, like he’s been holding that breath all day.

“I don’t always know how to do this,” he says quietly. “The… personal stuff. But I pay attention. Even when I don’t say it.”

You smile into his sweater.

“I know,” you say.

Outside, the snow keeps falling. Inside, the lights stay dim, the world held at a distance. For once, your birthday doesn’t feel like it’s borrowing space from a holiday.

It feels like it belongs to you.

And Russell Shaw makes damn sure it always will.

Beau Arlen

Beau finds out about your birthday by accident.

It’s scribbled in the corner of the calendar at the station, half-hidden behind red and green Sharpie notes about Christmas potlucks and Secret Santa sign-ups. Your name, your date, small and unassuming. Easy to miss.

He doesn’t miss it.

“Your birthday’s next week,” he says later that night, leaning against the kitchen counter with a beer in his hand, eyes on you like he’s already working something out. “That right?”

You shrug, nonchalant by reflex. “Yeah. Kinda gets lost in the holiday chaos.”

That’s all it takes.

Beau doesn’t say anything right away. He just nods, jaw tightening in that subtle way it does when he’s decided something important. You know that look. It’s the same one he gets before a risky move, or when someone he loves has been wronged.

And apparently, this counts.

The morning of your birthday, you wake up before your alarm.

The apartment smells like coffee and something sweet—vanilla, cinnamon. You pad down the hall and stop short in the doorway.

The living room is Christmas-adjacent, but not overwhelming. The tree lights are off. No tinsel, no red wrapping paper, no reindeer nonsense. Instead, there are balloons in your favorite color, a small banner that says Happy Birthday like Beau had to search three stores to find one that didn’t mention Christmas, and a single cupcake box on the table.

Beau’s in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair still messy from sleep.

“Morning, birthday girl,” he says, casual but soft. “Before you say anything—this is not a joint celebration. This is yours.”

Your throat tightens immediately. “Beau…”

He holds up a finger. “Uh-uh. I’ve been informed”—he taps his temple—“that people born this close to Christmas get screwed over their whole lives. Combo gifts. Leftover wrapping paper. Being told ‘we’ll celebrate later.’ Not happening on my watch.”

He hands you a mug of coffee, exactly how you like it, and presses a kiss to your temple that lingers longer than usual.

“I see you,” he adds quietly.

That almost undoes you.

Later, he takes the day off—miracle of miracles—and drags you out into the cold. He doesn’t call it a date, but it is. Lunch at that little place you love. A walk through town where he keeps your hand tucked into his coat pocket like he’s afraid the winter might steal you away.

At one point, you joke, “You didn’t have to do all this.”

He stops walking.

Turns to you fully.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low but steady. “I did.”

That night, after dinner and laughter and a gift that proves he listens—something you once mentioned in passing months ago—you sit curled up on the couch, legs over his, his hand warm on your thigh.

“You know,” you admit softly, “I usually kind of hate my birthday.”

Beau’s thumb stills.

“Not anymore,” he says, certain. “From now on, it’s yours. I don’t care if there’s a tree up or snow on the ground or a thousand Christmas songs playing. This day?” He taps your chest gently. “This is about you.”

He leans in, forehead resting against yours, voice dropping into something intimate and unguarded.

“And I’ll make damn sure you never feel like an afterthought again.”

You believe him.

Because Beau Arlen doesn’t do half-measures. And when he loves someone—he makes room for them. Even in the middle of winter.

Dean Winchester

Dean Winchester finds out your birthday is three days before Christmas the same way he finds out most important things—by accident, and way too late.

He’s in the bunker kitchen, elbow-deep in a pie he absolutely does not need help with, when Sam casually goes, “Oh yeah, Y/N’s birthday is on the twenty-second.”

Dean freezes. Slowly looks up. “…Her what?”

Sam blinks. “Birthday.”

Dean stares at him like he just said the Impala runs on diesel. “Why does everyone just know this but me?”

“You’ve been dating her for almost a year.”

Dean’s mouth opens. Closes. He points with the pie server. “Okay, first of all—rude. Second of all—why didn’t she tell me?”

Sam smirks. “She probably figured it’d get lumped in with Christmas. Happens to people born this time of year.”

Dean’s expression shifts. Not angry. Not joking. Just… serious in that quiet, dangerous way.

“Oh hell no.”

You’ve never been big on your birthday. Too close to Christmas, too many “this is for both” gifts, too many people saying we’ll celebrate after the holidays and never actually doing it. You’re used to it. You don’t complain.

Which is why you don’t expect anything when you wake up to Dean hovering over the bed at six in the morning.

“Dean,” you mumble, half-asleep. “If the bunker’s on fire—”

“Happy birthday!” he blurts.

You squint at him. “It’s… what?”

He grins, way too proud of himself. “See? This is exactly the problem.”

He shoves a mug into your hands. Your favorite coffee. Exactly how you like it. There’s a bow taped to the handle. A bow.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Stop.” He points at you. “Today is not a ‘didn’t have to’ day. Today is a ‘Dean Winchester absolutely had to’ day.”

You sit up, confused and already smiling despite yourself. “Dean, it’s three days before Christmas.”

“Yeah, and?” He scoffs. “That just means Jesus had bad timing. Not your fault.”

He refuses to let anyone mention Christmas. At all.

Sam gets banned from the kitchen for humming carols. Castiel tries to wish you both a merry Christmas and Dean physically blocks him with his body. There are no red-and-green decorations allowed near you—everything is blue and silver and very deliberately not festive.

“This is a birthday,” Dean declares. “Not a Hallmark hostage situation.”

He takes you out. An actual date. Pie first, obviously. Then a dive bar where the jukebox still works and the bartender knows Dean by name. He buys you drinks, tells embarrassing stories about himself on purpose just to make you laugh, and keeps stealing your fries even though he ordered his own.

At one point you catch him watching you instead of the TV over the bar.

“What?” you ask.

He shrugs, suddenly shy in a way that still knocks the air out of you. “Just… making sure you know this isn’t getting buried under tinsel and wrapping paper.”

Your chest tightens. “Dean—”

“Nope.” He cuts you off gently. “I know you’re gonna say you don’t need a big deal. And that’s fine. But you deserve to be celebrated. You. Not Christmas. Not ‘combined gifts.’ You.”

Back at the bunker, there’s a cake. It’s slightly crooked, definitely homemade, and the frosting is uneven.

“Did you make this?” you ask.

Dean crosses his arms. “I did most of it. Sam helped with the part where fire becomes a possibility.”

The candles are already lit. He waits. Patient. Watching you like this moment matters more than he’s letting on.

You make a wish. You don’t tell him what it is. He doesn’t ask.

When you blow out the candles, he leans down and kisses you—soft, warm, unhurried.

“Happy birthday,” he says again, quieter this time. “And just so we’re clear? Next year? Same thing. Bigger cake.”

You laugh, resting your forehead against his. “You’re ridiculous.”

Dean grins. “Yeah. But I’m your ridiculous guy.”

And for once, your birthday doesn’t feel like an afterthought.

Soldier Boy

Ben claims birthdays are bullshit.

Says it with a snort, boots kicked up on the coffee table, beer sweating in his hand. “Another year closer to the grave,” he mutters. “Congrats.”

You learned early on not to take that at face value. Ben says a lot of things like he doesn’t care. It’s his favorite armor.

Still, when December rolls around, you feel that familiar tightening in your chest. Lights go up everywhere. Stores drown in red and green. Christmas music starts too early and never shuts up. People talk about family, traditions, the holidays.

And your birthday—your actual birthday—gets shoved into the corner like an afterthought.

You don’t make a big deal out of it. You never have. You’ve learned how uncomfortable it makes people when you remind them that yes, you were born on December twenty-third, no, it’s not “basically Christmas,” yes, it still counts.

Ben notices anyway.

He notices because you stop correcting people when they lump your birthday in with Christmas. Notices because you laugh it off too easily. Notices because you don’t mention it at all this year.

The day before, he asks casually, “So. What d’you want for Christmas?”

You shrug, eyes on your phone. “I don’t know. Whatever.”

Ben squints at you. “That’s not an answer.”

You give him a smile that doesn’t quite land. “Neither is ‘I don’t believe in holidays,’ but you say that every year.”

That should be the end of it. Normally is.

Instead, he drains his beer and goes quiet.

On the morning of your birthday, you wake up to silence.

No music. No decorations shoved in your face. No Santa bullshit. Just soft light through the curtains and Ben sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, holding something behind his back.

You blink. “What’s going on?”

He clears his throat. “Happy birthday.”

You freeze.

It’s not loud. Not flashy. No sarcasm. Just… real.

“Ben,” you say softly, “you didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he cuts in. “But I wanted to.”

He hands you the thing he’s been hiding. It’s a small box. Plain. No wrapping paper. No Christmas colors.

Inside is a necklace. Simple. Vintage-looking. Something solid, not flashy—something that feels you. Tucked beneath it is a folded card.

You stare at it for a long second before opening it.

This is not a Christmas present. This is yours. —B

Your throat tightens.

“You didn’t even put a tree on the card,” you joke weakly.

“Damn right I didn’t,” he says. “This ain’t about Christmas.”

You look up at him, eyes burning. “You remembered.”

He frowns. “Of course I remembered.”

Most people don’t. They forget, or they merge it, or they give you one gift with a shrug and an apology. Ben doesn’t forget anything—not really. He just pretends not to care.

“You always look like it doesn’t bother you,” he continues, voice rougher now. “But I can tell. Everyone acts like your birthday’s some inconvenient speed bump before the big holiday.”

You swallow. “I’m used to it.”

His jaw tightens. “Yeah. That’s the problem.”

He reaches out, thumb brushing under your eye when a tear escapes despite your best efforts. His touch is surprisingly gentle, like he’s afraid he’ll break something.

“Listen to me,” he says quietly. “You don’t get an ‘and.’ You don’t get lumped in. This is your day. Just yours.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Since when do you care about birthdays?”

He scoffs. “I don’t. I care about you.”

That shuts you up.

He stands, tugging you with him. “C’mon.”

“Where are we going?”

“Out,” he says. “Somewhere that doesn’t have tinsel shoved up its ass.”

You end up at a quiet diner on the edge of town. No decorations. No carols. Just coffee and greasy food and a waitress who says happy birthday without mentioning Christmas once.

Ben orders for you without asking—your usual—and slides into the booth across from you like this was always the plan.

When the food comes, he watches you like he’s waiting for something.

“For the record,” he says, “if anyone tries to sing to you, I will absolutely shut that shit down.”

You grin. “My hero.”

He smirks, but there’s something soft underneath it. Something real.

Later, back home, you sit curled against his side on the couch. Outside, you can hear distant laughter, holiday parties, the world wrapped up in its seasonal chaos.

Ben presses a kiss to your hair. “Next year,” he says, “we do this again. Bigger. Or smaller. Whatever you want.”

“You’re really committing to this?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Your birthday doesn’t get overshadowed as long as I’m around.”

You tilt your head up to look at him. “You know you’re kind of terrible at being sentimental, right?”

He snorts. “Don’t tell anyone. Ruin my reputation.”

You laugh, and this time it doesn’t hurt.

For once, your birthday doesn’t feel like something squeezed between obligations and expectations. It feels seen.

And for someone who claims he doesn’t give a damn about holidays, Soldier Boy makes damn sure you never feel forgotten again.

Jensen Ackles

Jensen finds out your birthday is three days before Christmas by accident.

You’re in the kitchen, half-asleep, wearing one of his old flannels, scrolling on your phone while the coffee brews. He’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching you with that soft, fond look he gets when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

“You always been this weirdly quiet about your birthday?” he asks.

You shrug. “It’s whatever. It’s basically Christmas-adjacent. Gets… swallowed.”

That’s it. That’s all you say.

But Jensen Ackles does not miss tone.

His brows knit just a little, jaw tightening in that subtle way that means he’s already decided something. “Swallowed,” he repeats, like he doesn’t like the taste of the word. “As in… combo gifts? One cake? ‘This is for both’ kind of nonsense?”

You laugh, but it’s the tired kind. “You know it.”

He exhales through his nose and shakes his head. “Nope. Don’t like that.”

You glance up. “What?”

“Your birthday,” he says firmly. “It doesn’t get lost. Not on my watch.”

You should know then that you’re done for.

On the morning of your birthday, you wake up to warmth and quiet—no Christmas music, no twinkling lights shoved in your face, no red-and-green overload. Just Jensen beside you, arm heavy around your waist, his voice rough with sleep.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Happy birthday.”

That’s it. No carols. No mention of Christmas. Just you.

When you sit up, there’s a small gift on your nightstand, wrapped in plain brown paper with a deep green ribbon. No snowmen. No ornaments. Just simple. Intentional.

“This is before anything else,” he says. “Birthday comes first.”

Inside is something thoughtful—something that proves he listens. Maybe jewelry you once admired in passing, or a leather-bound notebook he knows you’ll actually use. Something you, not seasonal filler.

You blink a little. “Jensen…”

He smiles softly. “Yeah. I know.”

The day is unmistakably yours.

Breakfast at your favorite place, even though it’s packed with holiday chaos and he has to weave an arm around you protectively to keep you from getting jostled. He orders your usual before you even open your mouth. He steals bacon off your plate and grins when you scold him.

Later, he takes you somewhere quiet—maybe a drive, maybe a walk, maybe just back home with the world shut out. No tree yet. No Christmas prep. He refuses.

“This can wait,” he says, waving vaguely at December. “Today’s about you.”

That night, after dinner, he brings out a cake. Not festive. Not themed. Just a cake you love, candles flickering in the dim light.

You stare at it, stunned. “You didn’t have to—”

“I did,” he interrupts gently. “Because you deserve a day that’s yours. No sharing.”

You blow out the candles while he watches you like it’s his favorite moment of the year.

Later, curled up together, his thumb tracing lazy patterns along your arm, he presses a kiss to your temple.

“I don’t care how close it is to Christmas,” he murmurs. “I’ll celebrate you loud enough to drown it out.”

You smile into his chest, heart full.

For the first time, your birthday doesn’t feel like an afterthought.

With Jensen, it never will.