#worm!reader

Straightening up, you push off from the wood to block his view. The familiar scent of soap and rain clinging to his suit envelops you. “You’re home early. How’s-”

“Baby. Who was that?” Dex cuts you off mid-sentence, his voice low, bordering on threatening instead of affectionate. His gaze stays fixed on the creaking doors, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Did you invite someone over?”

“No,” you snort, though it sounds like you’re bluffing. “Don’t be silly, sweetie. C’mere. Let me help you get out of these.”

Your hands reach for his gear straps, but he pulls back. His head cocks to the side, eyes piercing into yours.

“Don’t change the subject.” His voice leaves no room for argument. “Tell me, who are you hiding?”

The rustling sound doesn’t stop, which only complicates the situation. Before another excuse leaves your lips, Dex sidesteps around you and heads straight for the doors. His fingers brush the knife strapped across his chest as his eyes sweep the room for anything else he can use.

Then again, anything can become a weapon between those calloused fingers.

“Ooof!”

Time seems to freeze after he yanks the door open, realization slowly dawning over him.

The puppy swings his tail from left to right, tongue hanging out, floppy ears jiggling with the movements. He looks up at Dex with wide, bright eyes, like the man hung the moon.

You huff a small, awkward laugh. “Surprise!” The fluff ball chimes in with another joyful bark.

“This is who- what you’re hiding? Jesus- I thought-”

“Sorry, baby. I didn’t know how to tell you,” you explain, kneeling on the floor when the fluffy little thing waddles towards you, mud dragging along his path. “I found him on the street. It was raining hard, and there was no one around. He looked so sad, Dex. I couldn’t leave him there.”

As you scratch underneath his floppy ear, your voice shoots up three octaves. Baby talk activated. “Yeah, you like that, don’t cha? You like that, huh? Who’s my good boy? Yeah, you are. You’re my good boy.”

The sight of you beaming and the little dirt ball nuzzling into your hand drains all the fight out of Dex. He stares at the messy trail like a stubborn stain that refuses to fade after the third wash on his favorite shirt, the corner of his mouth twitches.

Then the whelp yaps again, pulling Dex back into reality. “No.”

“What do you mean no?” You scoop the cotton ball into your arms, muddy paws and all.

“It can’t stay.”

“Why not?”

“It was living on the street. You don’t know where it’s been.”

“Okay. Not anymore.” The little guy licks your cheek, agreeing with you. “Aww. Look at him, Dex.”

“I am looking at it.”

“And?”

“It appears to be a dog.” You blink at him. “And?”

“Dogs are loud, sweetheart. They shed. They smell weird.”

You gasp softly, offended on the pup’s behalf, then tilt your head to whisper in his ear. “He didn’t mean it like that, cutie pie. Don’t listen to him. Dex’s just being silly. He’s so silly, don’t he?”

Oblivious to the insults, the fuzzy ball gives another yip and licks your cheek again.

Dex can only sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose, contemplating how this ten-pound bundle of wet fur and oversized paws is somehow gonna fit into his your squeaky-clean apartment without him going insane.

And that’s how you end up in the bathroom at 11 pm, scrubbing brown smudges out of the sheets because someone let a stray baby roll around on the bed before Dex got home. According to your man, “that's your accomplice.”

Instead, he gently grabs your waist and moves you out of the way. "I'll handle it. Why don't you go get the coffee, hm?" He murmurs, already reaching for the spatula to scoop the ruined eggs into the trash.

"Wait!" your hand shoots out to grab his bicep. The cotton of his sleeve is soft beneath your fingers. Dex looks over at you, confused. "It's still edible. We just need to uh… separate the pepper from the eggs."

That makes Dex arch his brow. He looks at you, then at the pan in his hand, then back at you again.

"You serious?"

"As a heart attack."

Then, with the resignation of a man accepting his fate, he puts the pan back on the stove and reluctantly attempts the egg-pepper surgery.

Logic has never stopped him from fulfilling your requests. And it's safe to say it'll stay that way for a long time.

Fast forward to that evening. You step into your shared apartment after a long day at work. Exhausted, all you want to do is shut out the world and cuddle with your man. The breakfast incident had already left your mind hours ago.

Dex is hunching over the stove, cooking. He'd already changed his crisp suit into a t-shirt and sweatpants. You pad into the kitchen, wrapping your arms around his middle. "Smells good, baby."

Then, the shaker catches your attention.

There's a strip of clear plastic wrapped around the container, just above your initials, securing the cap.

You chuckle, tilting your head to catch his side profile over his shoulder. "Did you do that?"

Dex doesn't look up from the chopping board, his rhythm perfectly steady. "Unless some helpful mice crawled out of the walls and took care of it while you were at work… then yeah, it was me."

Sarcasm. Damn, you taught him good.

Your smile deepens, and you tighten your embrace. "You didn't have to."

Thwack. Thwack… Thwack.

Three tiny metallic darts shoot through the air and hit the center of the red bullseye, stacking perfectly on top of each other.

“My turn, my turn!” You beam, rising from the couch. But Dex quickly steps back in position, and the darts, again, land perfectly on the panel before you can take them.

“Hey! It was my turn!” You frown at him, hands on your hips.

He answers with a crooked grin as he yanks the sharp metal off the board. “Can’t help it, sweetheart. You should’ve been faster. Besides, I’m gonna win either way. Accept it.”

You roll your eyes at him, but your smile is the biggest traitor.

Lately, Dex’d been pacing around the apartment like a caged animal since Mr. Charles advised him to stay put for the next mission. He needs enrichment, you thought when you bought the dart set. But you didn’t think he would turn this silly game into an olympic sport.

“Tsk. Don’t be cocky. Now let’s see if you can do it without looking,” you challenge.

Dex’s eyes light up instantly. He loves a challenge. Especially from you. He turns his entire body around, his back fully to the target.

With another flick of his wrist, the dart flies across the room, bounces off the edge of the TV, and strikes right in the middle of that red circle. That little shit turns around with a ridiculous smug grin that you just want to swipe right off his face. Show off.

“That’s cheating!” You fold your arms, shaking your head. “Nuh uh. I don’t know how you did it, but you cheated! It doesn’t count.”

Dex, who very much enjoys your feigned annoyance, clasps a hand over his chest and gasps dramatically.

“I did no such thing!” he walks towards you, warm hands closing around your waist, swaying you a little. “I’m hurt, baby. Deeply. I literally practiced it for twenty minutes when you were in the shower earlier. No tricks.”

“You practiced while I was in the shower?” You arch a brow. “That’s cheating, genius. I can’t believe it. Betrayed by my own man.”

You make a whole show of wriggling out of his embrace. “You know what? I’m not playing with you anymore. And… and, no cuddles tonight.” But Dex already pulls you back into his chest before you can escape.

Of course you have to be a pain about it. Stomping your feet, huffing and puffing, the whole shebang, until Dex stops you by crashing his lips onto yours. One hand of his grabs your chin to keep you where you are, the other one digs into your side while he sucks on your tongue.

Your eyes widen a little before you tilt your head to let him in as your arms find their home around his neck, pressing yourself to him until there’s no air left between you.

Dex groans at the unexpected prickle that runs down his spine when your nails rake through his hair, his fingers on your chin tightening in response. His other hand reaches back to grip your backside, his thigh slips between yours. You almost giggle, thinking how easily he would fold for you after just a small tantrum.

He then only breaks the kiss to trail open-mouthed kisses from your cheek down to your jaw, then along the side of your throat, pulling a small moan out of you instead of the triumphant chuckle.

“Dex…” You whisper, instinctively grinding your hips against his, feeling the hard line he doesn’t even pretend to hide anymore.

“Hm?” his teeth sink into your skin where your collarbone and neck meet. His warm hand slips beneath your sleep dress, spreading across your stomach before cupping one of your breasts, thumb ghosting over your hard peak. “You want something, baby?”

“You know what I want.” You roll your hips harder against his thigh, desperate for more friction. The slick heat of you sweeps through the fabric of your panties to his trousers. Your breathing grows heavier after every second.

“I don’t think I do, sweet girl,” he coos, pressing his knee against the junction between your legs, making you cling to him tighter. “You said you didn’t wanna play with me anymore.”

“Dex, come on!” You grumble as you yank on his hair, demanding because you can and because you know he’ll do whatever you ask, even when he’s being an ass about it.

“Bossy,” he chuckles lowly and spins you around. Suddenly, you’re lying face first on the couch with your knees digging into the cushion, your dress hiked up over your rear.

Dex leans his full weight on you while his hands grope and touch and caress everywhere he can, nose nuzzling into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like it’s the only thing that can keep him from devouring you right now.

His calloused fingers glaze over your soft skin until he finally finds your core over the damp silk, circling and rubbing and toying with you until you’re a begging, whimpering mess as he ruts into the leather between your legs.

“You like it, angel?” He whispers into your ear, and a chill runs down your spine, your hips turning up in anticipation. “You want more?” to which you answer with a nod and a soft whimper.

“Shh… Stay still. Lemme take care of you.” His fingers, now slick with your arousal, finally slip beneath the hem of your panties and start pumping in and out of you, the wet sound echoing in the quiet living room that makes your ears turn to another shade of red.

Your hips buck up for more, but the jackass always pulls back just a tad further from where you need the most. Every time you push yourself back, a soft sigh slips out of his lips, sending it straight to the center of you. His hips roll harder against the couch shamelessly.

Dex wants to tease you a little bit more. He loves listening to your voice when you call his name. When you call him names. Between the breathless, filthy words, he feels like he’s the center of your world as much as you’re his. He wouldn’t want it any other way.

But the sharp sting from where your teeth dig into his forearm snaps something in him. “Do you want to do this or not?” you glare at him over your shoulder, aiming to be threatening, but you only sound needier to him. You can see the way his pupils blow wide when you “handle” him, even when he’s the one on top.

He returns the bite on your shoulder, making you hiss and turn on even more. Dex pulls his fingers out, glistening with your juice, and he puts them into his mouth, tongue swirling around them. Your breath hitches, chewing on your lower lip as you imagine what it would feel like if he had let you do that instead.

He pulls his fingers out with a loud pop, and his hands are suddenly everywhere. Gathering up the silk hem of your sleep dress, bunching it up past your waist.

You can hear the sharp snap of elastic as he hooks his fingers into your panties and yanks them down your thighs, discarding them to the floor. Then comes the sound of his zipper, loud in the quiet room, and off they go, his trousers land on the floor without a second thought.

He positions himself, the broad, leaking tip rubbing against your opening, teasing you until you whine again, his other arm holding you in a headlock. “Oh, baby,” he murmurs against your ear, his voice dropping into something thick and dangerous that sends another trail of goosebumps along your skin. “The things I’mma do to you…”

“Like what? Talking til– God!” You yelp, fingernails scratching the leather of the couch, panting when he drives forward, sinking into you in one long thrust that stretches you out so deliciously. Your vision goes white, your toes curl as your body molds around his thickness.

“Fuuuuck,” Dex groans. The man is heavy as hell on top of you, pinning you into the couch so hard you can barely move, but his body is actually shaking against your back.

He tries to stay still for you adjust, he really does. But he can’t help it. You feel too good. He needs more of this.

He needs more of you.

Dex buries his face in your hair, his breath hot and trembling. “You okay? Can I move? I need– Can I move? I can’t– I need you, please.”

Geez. Hearing him like that makes your stomach flip, knowing you’re the one who did that to him. You completely broke the most dangerous man in NY with just a bite and a pout.

The moment your hips tilt up, pushing back into him as an okay, he loses his mind. A broken and grateful little sound escapes him as he reciprocates, the arm around your neck tightening just a fraction over your windpipe.

“Yesss. Push back into me. Good girl. My good girl. Just like that.”

He flicks his tongue over the curve of your ear as his hips meet yours halfway, hitting the exact spot every time with that terrifying accuracy he usually uses in battle. Except you’re the willing participant.

You’re making all the embarrassing noises into the couch cushions as his free arm reaches down between your legs. He rubs his fingers in small circles where you’re connected, knowing it will drive you crazy. You feel like you’re gonna explode right then and there.

“You’re so good to me,” he nips your skin again, his pace getting faster and harder, the slap of skin on skin loud and dirty. “You want more? Please, just a little more? Okay, baby?”

You can’t even form words anymore. You just nod, blindly reaching back to pull him deeper. The room is completely gone. The dart game, the petty argument, and the half-assed threats? Gone, too.

⸝⸝⸝

Of course, Frank's gonna forget ignore your little request so,

"...Frank," Peter cocks his head, leaning against the doorframe. "Your... uh, she texted me."

Frank's pretending to maintain his gear as if Peter isn't there and this conversation has nothing to do with him.

"She said, and I quote, make him do the 🤏 thing."

He doesn't even need to look up to see Peter's demonstration. He already knows. And he hates it.

"Ignore her, kid."

"She also sent me three crying emojis."

"..."

"..."

And Frank Castle, the big bad Punisher, boogeyman to criminals, lets out a sigh that's more miserable than anything a fight has ever pulled out of him.

But!! He's doing the hand thing don't mean he's gonna smile. Okay, maybe he smiles a little. Either way, those are going on the fridge <3

“It’s over. Damn it!”

Dean’s voice carries through the speaker, pulling you out of your slump. You glance at the clock on your nightstand, one hand rubbing your eyes, the other pressing the phone against your ear.

“Dean?” you ask, sleepy and confused. “What are you talking about? What’s wrong?”

“Sam,” he chokes out, his voice shaking. “It’s… Everything’s screwed. Damn it. I have to– I can’t–”

Your brain scrambles to catch up with his slurring words, but the fog of sleep is too thick. Besides, Dean’s always dramatic when he’s had too many, probably letting out all the things he keeps bottled up when he’s sober. You’ve done this dance way too many times before.

“Oh god,” you groan, rolling onto your side. “Slow down, Skippy. Are you drunk?”

“I’m not drunk,” he scoffs, the sound of glass clinking softly over the line. “I’ve had like… two, three beers. Basically nothing. I’m fine.”

“Uh huh. Are you in jail?”

“Excuse me?”

“What?” you grumble, flipping back onto your stomach and burying your face into the pillow while keeping the phone against your ear. “It’s almost one, you’re wasted–”

“I said I’m fine,” he mumbles.

“You’re wasted, and you called me,” you continue, words muffled by the cotton. “That means either you’re bleeding somewhere or you’ve finally gotten arrested.”

“Jesus. Straight to the punch, aren’t we?” He huffs a dry laugh. “Can’t a man call and check up on his ex?”

“Not in the middle of the night panicking like that,” you retort. “So which one is it? Are you in jail, bleeding, or both?”

Dean exhales. “No, Sherlock. My guts are in tact. I’m not calling from the county jail. And I’m definitely not panicking. It’s… it’s been a long day. That’s all.”

“So you called me? Out of all people?”

“Hey, you’re the one who picked up.”

“My thumb slipped. I was trying to turn my phone off.”

“Riiight. Because you’re totally the kind of person who answers unknown numbers in her sleep,” he drawls. “Keep telling yourself that if it helps you sleep tonight.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m gonna go back to sleep, alright.”

Dean doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, and you don’t try to fill the silence, either. Warm and comfortable, you almost drift back to dreamland.

There’s something weirdly comforting about this. Baby’s distant rumble in the background, Dean’s breathing in your ear, the soft sheets against your skin.

For a moment, you’re in the back of the Impala again, wrapped up in your boyfriend’s arms, talking about your day, his life on the road, and the possibility of him staying. You used to think you were the luckiest girl in the whole world.

“Did I wake you?” His voice cuts through your sleepy, wandering thoughts.

“Pfft. No,” you snort, rolling onto your back again. “Been up for hours. Was waiting for you to call me, actually.”

There’s that silence again before he speaks up. “Sorry. I didn’t know who else to call.”

The incoming joke dies on your tongue immediately. Dean’s never one to talk about feelings or all the “chick flick crap” he always tries to file them into. Come to think of it, he’d never called you after you two broke up. Not even once.

“Dean,” you slowly sit up, fingers tightening around the phone. “Are you hurt? Don’t lie to me. I’ll know if you do.”

“‘course not,” he scoffs again. “You think a couple of fangs and claws got my ass, Wormie?”

You roll your eyes at the old nickname, though quickly shaking off the tingling in your stomach before you can put a name to it.

“Then what happened?”

Dean doesn’t answer for so long that you have to check if he has passed out. “Dean?”

You can hear him take a long swig of his drink before he starts.

“Sam’s… gone. He left. Said he’s going to Stanford.” A bitter laugh slips out over the line. “Gonna be a college boy. Get a degree in… law or something them nerds do. Can you believe that?”

“Dad didn’t help either,” he continues. “Said if he walks out, then he’s dead to us, and Sammy just packed his little backpack, took the first bus, and… and just poof. Like that.”

“Oh.”

“Oh? That’s what you have to say? Oh?”

“I don’t know, Dean.” You run your fingers through your hair.

You’ve only met Sam a couple of times when Dean brought him along on your dates, and you don’t know John personally. But from the way he used to talk about them, you know this is not the usual rebel-teen-left-home-to-prove-something issue. This is bigger.

“Um... Are you driving?” you ask. Baby purrs in the background. “Where are you?”

“Out.”

“Out where?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Tell me.”

“I’m outside, okay? Communicating with nature.”

“Do you see a gas station?”

“Stop asking, or I’ll hang up.”

“A sign?”

“Wormie.”

“Bean.”

A small pause, static buzzing through the speaker.

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

“And I told you to tell me where you are.”

“Why do you care?”

That makes you stop short. The engine growls louder on his end. You stare at your bedroom wall, looking for an answer that is not there as your brain works overtime. It’s too late, or too early, for… whatever this is.

With a small sigh, you answer. “Because you called.”

On the other end, his breathing seems to stop.

“C’mon, Dean,” you try again. “Tell me where you are.”

Another sip of his drink, and the silence snares at you.

“Your town,” he says quietly. “I just hit the county line.”

“You’re here?”

You stumble out of bed to peek through the curtains, hoping to see the familiar headlights cutting through the darkness of your street. But nothing. Not yet, at least.

Dean, again, zips his mouth shut.

“See, my town doesn’t have any tunnels, Bean.”

You turn around, kicking the half-blanket pooling on the floor and making your way toward the kitchen.

He barks a small, surprised laugh, and you hate that you still miss that sound.

“Can you not? I’m having a crisis here.”

“I know. That’s why I’m trying to help.”

“I don’t need your help.” His tone turns serious and defensive. “Mind your business.”

“Uh huh. Sure you don’t.”

You reach for the fridge, opening it aimlessly to have something to do with your hands when an idea pops into your head.

“Why don’t you come over, Bean? I have… some cold egg rolls and half a bag of marshmallows. I need someone to finish them before they expire.”

A small snort comes from his end.

“Really, Wormie? You need me over to finish your food?”

“Yep,” you gather the leftovers onto the counter, sounding way too casual. “Why else would I ask you to come over? Okay. Cool. Drive safe!”

Then you hang up, not giving him a chance to refuse. Or accept. You don’t wanna know.

The sleepy fog finally clears, reality takes its place, and you move around your apartment like a storm. Your living room is a mess of clutter while the kitchen sink is filled with unwashed dishes you keep putting off.

As you clean up the place, your mind spins around Dean’s words from earlier. Your jaw clenches when you rub the stubborn stain on the plate. It’s happening again. The familiar gravelly voice echoes in your ear.

“It was Flagstaff,” Dean murmurs against your skin. “Dad was on a hunting trip, and Sam… kid ran away on my watch.”

He tightens his arms around you, burying his face into your hair. “Two weeks. For two weeks, baby, I thought…” His voice cracks, just above a whisper. “I thought I failed him. I thought I failed Dad.”

You clear your throat, shaking that memory away as you scrub the dish harder to swallow the muffled, breaking sound of him.

When everything seems less chaotic, you settle onto the couch and stare at the black phone screen. What’s taking him so long? Is he coming or not? Oh, no. Did he get into an accident? Why does he keep drinking and driving all the time?

Then you look down at your sleep shirt, wondering if you should change, like putting on a clean shirt is somehow gonna make this any better.

Three sharp knocks cut through the quiet night when you’re in the middle of the wardrobe debate with yourself. You jump a little, looking at the wood like your worst nightmare is waiting on the other side instead of the man you’ve been missing for two years.

You cross the hall to the door, and your throat suddenly goes dry when you yank the door open. Your fingers curl around the doorknob like a lifeline when your eyes finally meet. He’s not the one in the photos you keep under the bed. Not the one you see in your dreams.

He’s here. Really here.

Dean’s standing at your door, broad shoulders wrapped in a leather jacket and worn jeans, looking exactly the same but entirely different. His face is more refined. His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle ticking under his stubble. He looks completely hollowed out, like a ghost from your past. In a way, he is.

“Hey,” Dean’s the first to break the silence. The same old half grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Hey,” you return with a small smile, hyperaware of the proximity. You can just reach out and–

“Come in,” you step aside, gesturing to the couch. “Uh… have a seat. I’ll get the food.”

Dean walks in, his eyes scanning the apartment, a habit honed over years of always having to watch his shoulder.

The windows are locked. Shoes are kicked by the door. Magazines are stacked neatly on the coffee table, right next to the monkey lamp he used to hide away whenever he came over. The corner of his mouth twitches.

“You still have that thing?” he notes, shrugging off his jacket as the couch groans under his weight. He leans forward, elbows resting on his thighs as his gaze follows you into the kitchen.

“What thing?” you call out, your back turned to the living room.

“Alvin… and the gang.”

Your hands freeze, hovering over the bowl as a memory flashes through your mind.

“Why are there three monkeys under your lamp, Weirdo?”

“Because they’re adorable.”

“They’re fugly.”

“Don’t be rude. Alvin and the gang can hear you.”

“As in Alvin and the Chipmunks?”

“Uh huh. Come say hi. This is Alvin, Simon, and Theodore!”

The memory arrives uninvited, and you have to bite back a smile when you pad into the living room, where Dean is slouched against the couch cushion, staring at nothing.

“Of course I still have it. They still sing me to sleep, if you’re wondering.”

The ceramic clicks against the wooden table, louder than it should be.

“Wow,” Dean whistles, unimpressed with the lukewarm egg rolls and a sad pile of stale marshmallows. “You really know how to woo a guy, don’t you?”

“Oh, please. This is basically a five-star meal.” You finally look at him, but quickly look over your shoulder to the kitchen again. “You want anything to drink? Tea? Coffee? I don’t have any beer... Okay. Water it is.”

Before Dean can answer, you return with two glasses of water.

“Wait, napkins! We need napkins.”

And you’re gone again.

Dean narrows his eyes, pushing himself up from the couch. His footsteps are so light that you don’t even notice him stepping up behind you.

“What are you doing in here?” You almost slam into him when you turn. “Get back out there.”

“The napkins are out there. In the living room.”

You glance at the napkin-free counter you’ve been staring at.

“Oh.” A breathless, defensive laugh escapes you. “That explains it. I was about to call a search party. C’mon.”

You sidestep around Dean, heading straight back to the couch, twisting the hem of your shirt into a tight knot. Then the cushion dips next to you, his shoulder brushing your sleeve. The bitter scent of beer and something distinctively Dean settles around you.

“Breathe, Jumpy,” Dean mumbles, his voice rough and low. A tired smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Or you’re gonna pass out before we even get to the cold egg rolls.”

You scrunch your nose and snatch a marshmallow from the bowl.

“I’m not jumpy. Just… shut up and eat.”

A dry laugh rumbles in Dean’s throat, but it dies quickly. He shakes his head and reaches for an egg roll. His movement is mechanical, eyes fixed on the blank spot of your dark TV screen as he chews.

Dean finishes the last roll, wiping his hands on a napkin as his head drops back against the cushion, his eyes closed.

In the dim light of your living room, he doesn’t look like Dean the hunter. Right now, he’s Bean. One who used to sneak into your room, just like tonight, to steal a few kisses before a long hunt.

Your gaze roams over his face, desperately trying to remind yourself of the two years of distance between you. Despite your best attempt, all those endless nights when you cried yourself to sleep, praying for the phone to ring, suddenly don’t hurt as much.

Watching the soft rise and fall of his shoulders, you wonder if he’d spent the last two years missing you, too.

Then his lips move.

“He packed everything,” Dean whispers before a bitter laugh slips out. “Didn’t even hesitate. Nope. Just packed his crap and left.”

You stay still, fingers digging into your thighs, trying to keep yourself from reaching out to him.

“And you know what the worst thing is?” Dean finally opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling. “Dad gave him a damn ultimatum. Stay or never come back. Like you can force someone to stay like that.”

Your breath hitches. The word ‘ultimatum’ hangs in the air, ugly and poisonous.

“Why does everyone do that?” He snaps, moving his gaze to you, and your stomach churns. “Why does everyone just fucking leave, huh? Am I not enough?”

The question echoes in the small room, stinging just like the first time you heard it.

In a split second, it’s like nineteen-year-old Dean is sitting right next to you. The boy who choked back tears into your pillow after a hunt went terribly wrong and let you rub his back until he could breathe again. He’s asking the same thing now, but you doubt that you can fix it this time.

“Dean, that’s not–”

“Every fucking time,” he sits right up, his green eyes flashing with anger, and his voice cracks. “First you. Now Sammy. Seriously, what is it?”

You blink.

“Is there a… a… support group for people who ditch me?” He raises his voice. “Do you guys get matching t-shirts, too? Is staying with me really that miserable? What did I ever do to deserve all this shit?”

You just stare at him like he just grew a second head. Oh, he did not.

“Oh, absolutely. We meet on Tuesdays, and I’m the fucking president!” You finally snap back, irritation bleeding into sarcasm. “Look around, Dean. You’re sitting on my couch. At one in the morning. I literally fed you, and you want to blame me for what I didn’t do? A thank you would be nice.”

“What you didn’t do?” He scoffs, anger flaring up as he jabs a finger at you in the air. “You left me. I don’t see why I should thank you for that.”

“I didn’t leave you!”

“Yes, you did!”

“No. I didn’t! Let’s get the facts straight, Dean. I gave you a choice. And we both know you didn’t choose me.”

“What was I supposed to do?” He stands up and starts pacing around. “I got a job to do. Dad needed me. Sam needed me. People were dying out there. I couldn’t just leave them like that.”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms like a shield.

“You sure didn’t have any problem leaving me.”

“Hey. Don’t.” Dean snaps his head right back at you. “Don’t you fucking say that. It’s unfair, and you know it.”

“I know!” You rise after him. “It’s unfair that you chose a death wish over me!”

“Oh, here we go again. Forgive me for doing my job, your majesty.” He bites back, walking up to you. “I didn’t choose a death wish over you. I didn’t choose anything. That wasn’t even a choice, sweetheart.”

You huff a humorless laugh, shaking your head.

“Right. You didn’t have a choice. Family business. That’s what you said, wasn’t it?”

“Damn right I said it because it was true.” He tilts his head, his eyes searching yours. “And it still is.”

“Well, guess what, Dean? I didn’t give a damn about your family business.” You point at yourself. “I just wanted you to be safe. I just wanted you to stay for dinner.”

His jaw ticks.

“Oh, I’m sorry my ‘cross-country monster-hunting schedule’ didn’t fit into your neat little planner,” he air quotes. “Next time a werewolf is eating someone, I’ll tell them I can’t help because my girlfriend wants to go to the movies!”

“Don’t you dare twist my words, Dean! I didn’t say that your job isn’t important.” You glare at him, fingernails digging into your palms. “Fine! Enough about what I want. You obviously don’t care anyway.”

“Hey, I never said I–”

“Let’s talk about what you want.” You talk over him, and his breath catches visibly. “Two years ago, right on this couch, you said you wanted out. You did. So why are you always coming back when your dad calls? Why?”

Time seems to freeze after the words leave your lips, and Dean looks like he’d been slapped.

“Oh, silly me.” You wave him off, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s always what your dad wants, isn’t it?”

“That’s enough,” he grunts, his voice dropping lower, like the calm before the storm. “You don’t get to talk about my dad.”

“Why not? Because it’s the truth?”

He scoffs, rubbing his jaw, his other hand on his hip.

“You’re twenty-two years old, Dean. But the second your dad snaps his fingers, you’ll turn right back into a scared little kid. He did it to us once, and he just did it again to Sam.”

“I said enough,” he grumbles.

“No.” You gesture at the door as if John Winchester is right outside.

“You see what your dad did? He dragged you across the country since you two were kids. Then he kicked Sam out when your brother wanted to do something for himself. You’re just too scared to admit your dad is a tyrant!”

“He’s not a tyrant!” Dean barks, towering over you. “He keeps us alive. He keeps people alive. You wouldn’t get that, would you? Because you’re too busy sitting in your cozy little apartment, talking to your stupid lamp, and judging a life you couldn’t handle for five minutes!”

“Oh, I couldn’t handle it?” You scoff, jabbing a finger at his chest. The touch is barely there, but it makes him flinch.

“I handled you, Dean. The blood, the nightmares, the days I didn’t know if you were still alive. I was always there. I handled it all until you decided I wasn’t enough to stay for.”

“Don’t you put words into my mouth,” he narrows his eyes. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to say it. You showed me!”

You’re both breathing heavily now, jaws tight enough to crack teeth. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The apartment feels too small for your staring contest. Suddenly, Dean brushes your hand away and turns to the couch. 

“You ruined it,” he mutters, almost sounding like he’s pouting if you listen close enough. “We were happy. Everything was fine before you ruined it all with that stupid ultimatum.”

“That’s not–”

“Stop.” He holds a hand up, cutting you off, shoulders slumping. “Just stop. I don’t even know why I came here tonight.”

“To eat my egg rolls and be a jerk, apparently.” You double down, rolling your eyes.

He barks out a humorless laugh and grabs his jacket, clumsily sliding into it as if he’s shaking. “Wow. Truly. The hospitality is breathtaking, sweetheart.”

“You know what?” he says, fetching his keys out of his pocket, heavy footsteps trailing towards the entryway. “I’m gonna go.”

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Anywhere but here.” He keeps his back to you, reaching for the doorknob. “Seriously, I’m tired of getting kicked when I’m already down.”

You tug at his jacket sleeve, stopping him from opening the door.

“Hey, don’t be like that. It’s two in the morning, and you’re exhausted. You’re not going anywhere tonight.”

Dean looks down at your hand on his jacket, then looks back at you, his face hardens. “Watch me.”

“No.” You pull on his jacket until he’s facing you.

“I’ve watched you step out of this door too many times. And the last time I did, you never came back. So no. I’m not watching you leave again. Not tonight.”

Dean stares at you. The anger is still simmering behind his eyes, but it’s buried beneath something heavier now.

“Let go,” he grumbles, though making no move to remove your hand.

“No.”

“I’m serious.”

“Good. That makes it two of us.”

With a long, weary sigh, he drops his hand from the doorknob.

“You’re the most annoying person I’ve ever met.”

“Right back at you.” You pull him back to the couch. “Now, sit.”

“You can’t order me around.”

“Sit.”

He glares at you for a few seconds before flopping onto the couch, though not before shrugging off the jacket and mumbling something you can’t quite make out.

“Be right back.” You walk down the hallway and disappear into your bedroom.

“What are you doing?”

“Just a sec.” Your voice carries through the room before you return with a blanket and two pillows.

Dean arches a brow, judging. “What are those?”

“What do you think, genius?” You drop them into his lap. “You’re not in any state to drive or to win any argument tonight. Take the couch.”

“Your couch sucks,” he huffs, rough hands feeling the cotton.

“You’re lucky I’m offering.”

“I don’t need your pity,” though he’s setting up his little cocoon right against the cushions. One pillow draped over the armrest, the other one tucked neatly against the back of the couch.

“Never said it was.”

He kicks off his boots and smooths the blanket over his knees, avoiding your eyes. “Five minutes.”

“What?”

“I’m staying for five minutes.”

You bite back a smile, eyeing the dirty boots on your carpet. “Of course you are.”

“I mean it,” he continues, fluffing his pillow. “I’m just resting my eyes. And then, I’m going.”

“Uh huh.”

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought really loud.”

You scoff, though it’s more amused than annoyed. The frustration is still there, but looking at him tucked in on your couch like that, you can’t help but recall the simpler times.

After gathering the plates into the sink, you pad back into the living room and find Dean “I’m just resting my eyes” Winchester snoring under the blanket, his mouth slightly open and his arm hanging off the couch.

You stand there for a long time, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Even though your body is exhausted, you can’t bring yourself to go to bed. The harsh, cruel words you threw at each other earlier, the screaming match, the old wounds, everything seems to be amplified in the late night.

You decide to settle in the armchair next to the couch instead. Curling up, you wrap your arms around your legs as you slowly drift off. Dean’s soft snore blends with the hum of the fridge, a lullaby you never thought you’d miss. But here you are.

The sky outside is starting to lighten. In the slumber, you hear sharp hitches replace Dean’s steady breathing. The couch creaks softly as his body jerks.

“Sam…” he chokes out, muffled by the pillow. “Sammy… Don’t…”

You jolt awake, and your eyes snap right in his direction. His head lolls back, shoulders shaking under the cover.

“Wait… Don’t go! No!”

You slip out of the armchair, kneeling next to the couch.

“Bean, hey, wake up.”

He’s drowning in it. Short breaths crawl out of his throat, raw and aching. You reach out, carefully pressing your hand against his shoulder.

“Wake up, Dean.” Your voice stays soft and low. “You’re dreaming. Wake up.”

Dean snaps his eyes open, wide and unfocused. His hand instinctively slides under the pillow, where his Colt should be. But it’s not there.

“Dean, look at me.” You try again. “You’re at my place. You’re safe.”

He gasps, grabbing your collar as his fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, his chest heaving. “Sammy?”

“Easy,” you whisper, your eyes searching his. Your hand stays warm against his shoulder instead of yanking his wrist away. “It’s me. You’re safe, Dean. Just breathe.”

Dean blinks, his gaze darting across your features when reality finally catches up. The shift is instant, and you can feel it immediately.

His face hardens, fingers loosening on your shirt as he gathers himself to sit up.

“Sorry.”

You sit back on your heels, watching Dean drag a hand across his face, his jaw working tightly under the stubble.

“I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”

“You’re not fine.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“You’re shaking.”

He clutches at the blanket pooling around his waist, rubbing his eyes with his other hand. “I’m just cold.”

You pause before your voice turns firmer. “Dean. Look at me.”

“I said I’m fine. Goddamn it!”

“Then why don’t you look at me?”

The sunlight peeks through the curtains, warm and bright. So different from the raging storm inside your living room.

“Because…” he starts, picking at the invisible threads on the blanket. “If I do, I’m gonna say something stupid.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

That earns you a look. Sharp and annoyed.

“Well?” you prompt.

Dean swallows hard, his green eyes hollow as he looks down again.

“I saw him. Sam. I was standing there, screaming at him. But he… he didn’t hear me.” A harsh laugh escapes him. “Or he just ignored me. I don’t know.”

“So… I watched him pack his bags,” he continues. “I kept waiting for him to stop, to turn around and tell me it was a joke. But nah. I blinked and he just… just disappeared.”

You chew on your lower lip. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you place your hand on his over the blanket. He freezes, his eyes fixed on your hands, but he doesn’t pull back.

“I’m sorry, Dean.” You tilt your head, trying to catch his gaze. “I get it. I really do.”

A low scoff curls up in his throat.

“No, you don’t. You’re a civilian. You have a life. You have your friends. Your job. You don’t know what it’s like to stand there and realize you weren’t enough to make people stay.”

“Dean, I...” Your fingers curl around his, hard enough to make his jaw tick. “I watched you leave two years ago.”

Dean just stops breathing altogether when he finally looks at you. He opens his mouth, then closes it, and he does it again.

“I was standing right there, by that window.” Your voice shakes slightly. “I watched your taillights disappear down the street. I kept waiting for you to turn around, too. For days. Weeks, even. I know exactly what it feels like.”

“That’s not the same,” he protests, though he sounds unsure.

“Isn’t it?” you press. “Tell me how it’s different.”

For a few minutes, neither of you says anything. Dean looks at your joined hands again, thinking. Then, to your surprise, he turns his hand and tangles his fingers with yours.

“I never turned around because I knew if I did…” A small pause, his eyes softening. “There’s no chance of me getting into that car.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“You’re lying.” You shake your head, but your fingers are curling into his anyway. “You can’t… you can’t say that to me and act like everything’s fine.”

“I’m not lying, Wormie. You know I’m not.”

You shake your head again, eyes burning. “You don’t get to do that.”

Dean looks at your hands, then at the tears gathering in your eyes. “Hey…”

You let out a shaky laugh. “I hated you so much, you know that? I tried so hard to hate you.”

“I know.” His hand tightens around yours, his free hand cupping your face to brush the tears away. “I don’t wanna do this anymore.”

You sniffle, looking up at him.

“I don’t wanna fight anymore,” he rasps.

Something in you finally gives out. It’s been two years. Two years of anger and pretending you didn’t look for his car every time one ran down your street. Two years of you longing for these exact words, though you’d convinced yourself those would never come.

For a second, everything blurs, and you’re her again. She laughs too hard at his unfunny jokes and steals fires off his plates. She doesn’t know distance or heartbreak. She’s just happy.

You lean into his hand, your face crumbling as you sob.

“Hey...” His voice softens, giving your hand a gentle tug. “C’mere.”

You let him pull you closer until you’re sitting sideways across his lap, and only then you realize how badly you’d been craving this feeling. Dean buries his face in your shoulder and exhales like he’s been holding his breath since he left.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Your brain short-circuits. Did Dean Winchester just apologize? Him?

“Yeah,” he huffs an awkward, self-deprecating laugh against your skin. “Guess I made a mess of things. Wasn’t trying to hurt you, Spiky. I just… I really thought it was for the best.”

“Best for who?” You pull back slightly, a frown forming between your brows.

“You,” he admits, his hand settling at your waist out of habit. “You deserve the normal life, sweetheart. And me, hey, I’m just a guy who chases monsters for a living with a blind faith in his dad.”

“Dean.” You sigh, pulling him closer until your foreheads touch. “I didn’t mean to say what I said last night. I was just angry.”

“But you weren’t wrong, sweetheart.”

Silence settles between you again, but it feels more like a truce. You take a deep breath, wiping your tears away with one hand before settling it back around his neck.

“No, Dean. I shouldn’t have said that. I was out of line, and I’m sorry.”

He studies you for a few seconds, then a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Guess we’re both idiots, huh?”

A small, shaky laugh from you. “Speak for yourself.”

The smile lingers, but he doesn’t throw a joke back at you this time.

Outside, the sun rises higher, and a bird chirps somewhere.

“It’s morning,” you murmur, nuzzling closer to him until there’s no space between you.

Dean shifts on the couch, keeping you tucked into him as he pulls the thin cover over both of you. “That so? I didn’t notice, Sherlock.”

You scrunch your nose and give him a light swat. A laugh rumbles against your ear where your head rests.

“Ow. That hurts.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“It totally does.”

“Why do you always need to have the last word, Bean?”

“Why do you always need to have the last word, Bean?” he mimics you.

“Stop it.”

“Stop it.”

“Dean!”

He just laughs, more relaxed than you’ve seen since he stepped into your apartment last night. You let your gaze caress his features. The crinkles around his eyes when he laughs. The stubble he hasn’t had time to manage. The faint scar near his chin.

“I missed you,” you blurt out, more honest than you intend to.

Dean goes completely still, and the laughter dies down. You see the corner of his mouth twitch again. It’s not amusement. It’s another sarcastic remark waiting to be presented to the world, and you almost want to take it back.

“I missed you, too,” he says, finally. “Every day, sweetheart. You have no idea.”

Then, before tears can sting your eyes again, he pivots.

“Hell, it’s like I got your stupid grin burned into the inside of my eyelids.”

“What did you just say?”

“Shut up. I’m having a moment here,” he shushes you. “Listen. Every time I close my eyes, you’re there. Giving me that look. Yelling at me. It’s scary as hell.”

You groan, hiding your face in his chest. “What are you even talking about?”

“It’s true, baby.” He feigns annoyance even when his arms tighten around you. “Hey, look at me.”

He waits until you do, then pulls the most ridiculous, all-teeth smile across his face.

“See? Exactly like this. You see how much I had to suffer for two years, Wormie?”

You give him a look, unamused and no less affectionate.

“You’re paying my therapy bills,” he adds, his eyes gleaming. “Just so you know.”

“God! You need to shut the hell up, Bean.”

He pulls you closer when you try to squirm in his lap. “Make me.”

His grin slowly fades, the playful spark in his eyes shifting into something darker when his gaze drops to your mouth.

“Don’t tempt me. I swear I’m gonna…” You blink. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Just looking.”

“At what?”

He shrugs. “You.”

The annoying little thing in your chest does a violent flip as he leans closer, his forehead pressed against yours. “You’re really pretty.”

His lips brush yours hesitantly, testing the water. When you don’t pull back, he kisses you for real, large hands pressing your hips against his. Two years doesn’t seem too long anymore.

Your head spins, all of your senses are filled with him and him only. You only break the kiss for a second, both of you gasping for air.

“Tell me to stop,” Dean rasps even though he looks terrified that you actually will.

“No,” is all you give him. Your hands slide down to grip the hem of his t-shirt, then you pull it up over his head, tossing it blindly onto the floor.

The sudden sight of his bare torso makes your breath quicken. Your eyes map out the muscles before fingertips trace along the faint line along his chest, then the small, rounded puckered skin near his ribs. A few smaller scars scattered along his skin.

Every single one of them is a night he almost didn’t make it back. Back here. Back to you.

Dean flinches slightly at the contact, his grip tightening on you. Before he can try to joke again, you lean down and place a soft kiss on the scariest-looking one.

“Sweetheart…” he murmurs, his voice tight.

Then another kiss. Then another. And another. You don’t miss any spot, even kissing the small mark along his jaw.

“Let me take care of you,” you breathe, leaning down to plant another kiss at the junction of his neck and shoulder.

He blinks up at you, surprised, but a heavy heat flashes in his eyes the second you push him down and straddle his lap. His hands, still on your waist, start tracing the skin beneath your sleep shirt as you hike it up. Dean helps you to get rid of the rest of your clothes. Yours and his.

When you settle back on his hips, the hard length of him is brushing against your aching center. He’s vibrating now, jaw clenched tight, knuckles turning white on the cushion.

Dean chews on his lower lip as you slowly guide him toward your core, gathering slick before sinking down until he fills you up completely. You let out a small moan, your head dropping onto his shoulder, trying to adjust to the fullness of him.

“God…” Dean chokes out, his hands sliding up your back, pressing you flush against him. “Taking me so good… You okay?”

You hum, nodding lightly as you lift your head to kiss him again. When you tilt your hips to start moving, Dean gasps into your mouth, eyes rolling to the back of his head.

“Oh, fuuuck. Like that. Take what you need, pretty girl. Yeah… That’s it.”

You take the lead, rocking against him slowly at first. The wet, messy sound of skin against skin fills the small room. He tilts his head back against the pillow, his eyes closed as the couch groans under you two.

“I miss this.” He slides one hand into your hair, pulling you down to nip at your earlobe, making your skin tingle. “I miss you.”

Suddenly, he sits straight up, lifting you off him. Confused, your eyes wide, your chest heaving as you cling to him.

“What’s wrong? Did I do something?” Your mind is a whirlwind of emotions as Dean lays you on your back. “You… you didn’t like it? Are you–”

“No, no, baby. You’re doing so good for me.” He pats your thigh gently, though his expression says he would lose it right there if you keep asking questions. “I just… Let me, okay?”

Dean presses a kiss at the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, and the top of your nose as if to say “I’m sorry,” “I’m here,” “Don’t worry.”

A small, awkward huff escapes you as you sink back onto the couch, pillow folded under your hips. One arm of his braces on the cushion next to your head, the other one pushing your thigh wider to give him more access.

“Just relax. I got you.” Dean slides into you again, his eyes closing tight as he buries his face in your hair. “There we are…”

The new angle allows him to reach your deepest, most sensitive part. His pace turns brutal and rhythmic in a heartbeat, driving you closer and closer to the edge. Before long, you cry out his name, thighs shaking around his waist as the first wave of pleasure crashes over you.

“Atta girl,” he coos, his hips never slowing as you writhe under him. “That’s my girl. Ride it out, baby. I got you.”

His hand leaves your leg, reaching down between your bodies while the other one guides you into a faster rhythm. His fingers find your swollen core, circling right where you need the most. You arch your back against the cushion, fingers clawing into his back.

“Dean, wait, I just– I can’t–”

“Shh… shh…” he whispers into your ear, his hips thrusting forward again, chasing the high as he presses his thumb harder against you.

“Almost there, baby. Just a little more. One more. I promise. Can you do that for me?”

You whine as your thighs tense up, the familiar heat curling up in your lower stomach. Then, your vision goes entirely white as the second orgasm rolls through you, your internal muscles clamping tightly around him.

Dean lets out a loud grunt before his entire body goes rigid. He shakes violently, spilling himself into you as his mouth crashes against yours, hungrily swallowing your delicious cries.

You’re basically limp beneath him as the kiss slowly fades. Carefully, Dean rolls onto his back, letting you drape over him like a heavy blanket, his arms locking around your waist.

“You good?” he murmurs into your hair, breathing you in.

“No.”

He pulls back so fast you almost laugh, his eyes wide as they search your face.

“What? Did I hurt you? Why didn’t you say something?”

A breathless laugh escapes you as you nuzzle against his jaw, the stubble scratching at your skin.

“I’m just messing with you, baby.” You press a quick kiss at the corner of his mouth. “I’m okay.”

Dean rolls his eyes, half annoyed, half defeated, before nipping the tip of your nose.

“What is wrong with you?”

“Gotta keep you on your toes, Winchester.” A tiny smile tugs at your lips as you bury your face into the crook of his neck. “Consider it payback for ditching me.”

He lets out the most dramatic sigh you’ve ever heard, and another soft kiss is planted on the top of your head. The room falls quiet again, filled with your uneven breathing, the shared warmth of your bodies, and the morning light.

“You should probably go back to sleep,” he says after a while.

You hum as his fingers wander lazily across your back, tracing slow, absent circles against your skin.

“Are you gonna be here when I wake up?”

His hand stills for a second. Then he rolls onto his side, shifting until you’re tucked nicely between his chest and the back of your couch. Calloused fingertips glide over your back while he pulls you impossibly closer.