We’re All Going to Hell, Enjoy the Ride

Russell Shaw

Russell felt the moment your head settled against his shoulder.

The two of you sat on the ratty motel couch, hours deep into surveillance footage for the latest case. You hadn't been sleeping well, and eventually exhaustion won.

Russell went still.

"You're supposed to warn a guy before you do that," he muttered under his breath.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair before forcing his attention back to the laptop.

The footage continued to play, faces and number plates blurring together, but he couldn't have told anyone what he was looking at.

All he could think about was the weight of your head resting against him. His heartbeat was louder than the audio coming from the laptop.

Carefully—slow enough that he wouldn't wake you—he shifted just enough to make sure your neck wasn't at an awkward angle.

Once he was satisfied you were comfortable, he settled again.

He didn't move after that.

Dean Winchester

Dean thought you'd done it on purpose when your head landed against his arm. For half a second, he figured you were messing with him.

Then he leaned forward just enough to catch a glimpse of your face. Your eyes were closed. Your lips were slightly parted. Your breathing had settled into the slow, even rhythm of someone completely asleep.

He blinked. "Wait..." he whispered. "She's actually asleep?"

His eyes darted around the room as if he expected hidden cameras to appear. This had to be some kind of joke.

Except it wasn't.

You'd simply...fallen asleep on him. Dean glanced back at you, suddenly afraid that even breathing too hard might wake you.

It was strange.

People relied on him. Needed him. Counted on him to save the day.

But trusting him enough to fall asleep against him? That was different. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He didn't even think about shifting you off. He'd stay there as long as it took.

If it meant you got a little more sleep, the numb arm was worth it.

Beau Arlen

You hadn't had the heart to cancel movie night with Beau. Even though you were exhausted.

It had become a weekly tradition—curling up on the deck of the Airstream with snacks, Western movies, and whatever commentary Beau had to offer.

You'd promised yourself you'd stay awake. You didn't.

Beau noticed the moment your head found his shoulder. He glanced down, expecting you to apologize or shift away. Instead, he found you fast asleep.

He didn't mind. Not one bit.

Carefully, he reached for the blanket draped over the back of the loveseat and unfolded it with one hand.

The moment he settled it over you, you instinctively snuggled deeper into the warmth, letting out a quiet, contented sigh. Beau's smile only grew.

He turned the volume down until the movie became little more than background noise.

He spent the rest of it stealing the occasional glance at you instead.

Somehow, this had turned into the best part of movie night.

Soldier Boy

Of course you'd fallen asleep. And of course you'd picked him as a pillow.

He stared straight ahead, jaw tightening.

Seriously? Now he was stuck here. He couldn't move without waking you, and apparently waking you wasn't an option.

Wait. Since when?

This wasn't him.

He didn't do... whatever the hell this was. He glanced down. Your face was completely relaxed, your breathing slow and steady as you slept against his shoulder. He let out a quiet sigh through his nose. "Jesus Christ," he muttered.

It would've been so easy to nudge you awake. Tell you to move. Complain that your head was getting heavy. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was.

Then the front door to the loft swung open.

Hughie and Billy wandered in, still arguing about Homelander.

"Hey!" Soldier Boy hissed far louder than he intended. Both men stopped. He pointed toward you with a glare. "Shut the fuck up. She's sleeping."

Hughie's eyes widened. He awkwardly grabbed the shopping bags and hurried into the kitchen without another word.

Billy lingered behind the sofa, one eyebrow slowly climbing as a knowing grin spread across his face.

"Don't." Billy's grin widened. "I said don't say a fuckin' word." Billy chuckled under his breath and walked away. Soldier Boy rolled his eyes. "Asshole."

Mark Meachum

He knew it was going to happen. He'd known since the start of the day.

He noticed the dark circles beneath your eyes. He noticed how often you rubbed at them when you thought no one was looking. He noticed the slight slump in your shoulders every time you walked to refill your coffee.

He noticed. It was his job to notice. That's what he told himself, anyway.

So, when he asked you to help sort through a mountain of case files, it wasn't because he couldn't manage them alone. It was because sitting on the couch for a few hours sounded a lot kinder than sending you back out into the field.

For a while, you managed. You highlighted reports, made notes, and quietly compared witness statements with him. Then he noticed your grip on the folder begin to loosen. Your blinking slowed. Your breathing became softer.

He looked up just as your head started to tip.

Without a word, he shifted closer. Not enough for you to notice. Just enough that, instead of your head falling awkwardly to the side, it came to rest against his shoulder.

Right where he'd intended.

A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. "There you go," he murmured. Carefully, he brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face before returning his attention to the file in his lap.

Boaz Priestly

Priestly had brought over the world's worst horror movie for your usual Friday night after work.

Neither of you were really watching it. You'd demolished a couple of foot-longs, argued over which monster was the least convincing, and settled into opposite ends of the couch. Or at least, you had.

By the halfway point, exhaustion was catching up with you. Your eyelids grew heavier. Your replies to his commentary became slower. You fought to stay awake. You lost.

The moment your head landed on his shoulder, Priestly completely melted. His heart practically stopped. For one glorious second, he thought you'd done it on purpose. Then he glanced down. Your eyes were closed. "...Oh." The biggest grin spread across his face.

He couldn't stop smiling if he tried. Unable to help himself, he rested his head lightly against yours for just a second.

This was nice.

Then another thought struck him. The movie. It was way too loud. He should turn it down.

Carefully—very carefully—he leaned forward without moving his shoulder.

The remote sat on the coffee table. Just... A little... Farther.

His fingertips brushed the edge of it. "Come on..." One more inch. Without thinking, he leaned just a fraction too far. His shoulder disappeared from beneath your head. With a soft whump, you slid sideways into the gap between him and the couch.

Your eyes flew open. "...What happened?"

Priestly froze, remote finally in his hand. "...I was trying to be romantic."

You blinked at him. "You pushed me off the couch."

"I know." He sighed dramatically, dropping his head into his free hand.

"I am spectacularly bad at this." Despite yourself, you laughed. Priestly looked up hopefully. "So... points for effort?"

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Following them, you stopped outside Mark's home office.

You pushed the door open. Mark was leaning against his desk, arms folded, while your daughter sat on top of it, swinging her legs. Both of them were staring intently at the corkboard mounted on the wall.

Pinned in the centre was a handmade Valentine's card—a bright red card decorated with a glittery pink heart and your daughter's name written neatly underneath.

That wasn't what caught your attention.

Red string stretched from the card to four school photographs, each connected with handwritten notes, photocopies of handwriting samples, and what looked suspiciously like pieces of artwork.

"…What are you two doing?" you asked cautiously.

Both heads snapped towards you. "Mommy!" your daughter squealed.

Mark lifted her down from the desk, and she raced straight into your waiting arms. "Hi, baby." You kissed the top of her head before looking back at the evidence board. "So… what exactly are you and Daddy doing?"

She giggled. "I got a secret admirer."

"Ohhh…" You dragged the word out, your eyes drifting to Mark, who still hadn't moved from his spot beside the desk. "Is Daddy helping you figure out who it is?"

She nodded enthusiastically. "We've narrowed it down to four boys. Dylan, Noah, Bradley and Liam."

"And how," you asked slowly, "did you manage that?"

She proudly pointed at the board. "Thank-you cards. Shared drawings. Christmas cards." You blinked.

Mark answered as casually as if he were discussing tomorrow's weather. "I compared handwriting samples."

You stared at him. "Mark…"

"What?"

"She's seven."

"Exactly." He gestured dramatically towards the board. "And another seven-year-old has declared his love for her."

You laughed. "Mark, it's a Valentine's card. Not a marriage proposal."

He shook his head. "That's how it starts. One boy gets away with this, then another thinks he can, then another. Before you know it, I've got a line of boys at the front door."

You folded your arms, trying not to smile. "You are being ridiculous."

"I'm being proactive. I can't have these boys thinking they have a chance with her. Especially Dylan... or Liam."

Your daughter pointed at one of the photos. "What's wrong with Dylan?"

Mark walked over and tapped Dylan's picture. "Where do I start? He's constantly got his finger up his nose. He spells 'thank' with an 'f'." He paused dramatically. "And I once saw him eat sand."

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "He was three."

"So?"

"Everyone eats something weird when they're three."

"He chose sand."

Your daughter giggled. "What about Liam?"

Mark's expression darkened immediately. "I don't trust him."

You raised an eyebrow. "You don't trust… a seven-year-old?"

"I've got a bad feeling about him."

"A bad feeling? About a child?" He nodded firmly.

"Damien from The Omen was a child."

You blinked. "You think Liam is the Antichrist?"

Mark opened his mouth. Closed it again. "…No." He thought for another second. "But I can't rule it out."

You burst into laughter. "Oh my God."

Your daughter looked between you both. "What about Noah and Bradley?"

"They're nice," you pointed out.

Mark sighed heavily. "Noah still has training wheels."

"So?"

"So he lacks commitment."

You stared at him. "…That's your reason?"

"It tells me everything I need to know."

"And Bradley?"

Mark looked almost offended. "He throws like a girl."

"Mark!"

"What?" he defended. "Athleticism matters. And he has trouble written all over him."

You shook your head, unable to stop smiling. "You were trouble when I met you."

A smug grin spread across his face. "Yeah…" He stepped closer, wrapping an arm around your waist. "…but didn't you have fun?" He winked. You rolled your eyes, laughing despite yourself. "And that's exactly why Liam isn't an option," he added.

Your daughter sighed dramatically. "So who is it?"

Mark looked between the board and his little girl before letting out the biggest sigh of the day.

"I suppose…" He crouched until he was eye level with her. "…there is a third option." Her face lit up hopefully. "No boys until you're eighteen." She frowned. He reconsidered. "Actually… twenty-five." Another pause. "…No." He shook his head. "Thirty."

"Daddy!" she groaned.

You laughed. "Mark."

He stood, pulled the Valentine's card off the corkboard and handed it back to your daughter.

"Investigation closed." Then, after one last glance at Liam's picture, he quietly added, "…I'm still keeping an eye on him."

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Their brilliant plan was to trick Crowley into a Devil's Trap lasted all of three minutes.

Dean sighed heavily. He was too tired for games. "Where is she?"

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Where's who?"

Dean closed his eyes briefly, nose scrunching in frustration. "You know exactly who." When he looked up again, there was nothing but exhaustion in his expression. "Where's Y/N?"

"Oh," Crowley said with mock understanding. "You mean the little mouse who stumbled right into my trap?" Dean's jaw clenched. 

You'd been missing for two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours. Not that he's been counting.

His biggest fear at first has been that you'd left. Packed your bags. Walked away. Dean knew it was irrational. You wouldn't do that to him. Would you?

One drunken night in a motel room somewhere in Nebraska, he'd admitted something he'd never told anyone before. That people leaving terrified him. Whether they wanted to or not, they always left. You'd listened quietly. Then promised him you weren't going anywhere. 

Dean wanted to believe that promise. Which only left one possibility. Someone had taken you. And whoever it was had covered their tracks damn well.

Dean had been losing his mind trying to find you. You'd disappeared during a vampire hunt. One minute you were heading to the bakery across from the motel to grab breakfast. The next? Gone.

The bakery just happened to sit beside the truck stop the vampires had been using to lure victims. Coincidence wasn't exactly a word that existed in Dean Winchester's vocabulary anymore.

The nest had paid for it. Him and Sam had torn through every single vampire inside that building. When the dust settled, all they'd found were bodies, severed heads, and an empty warehouse.

No sign of you. No clues. No trail. No stone had been left unturned. Bobby had been called. Jody had been called. Every lead had been chased. Every rumour investigated. Every hunt within three states followed. Which had eventually led them here.

Crowley

They'd actually come to ask for his help. Their last resort.

Of course, the plan had been subtlety. The plan had gone out the window the moment one of Crowley's demons had smirked and said:

"Finally come looking for your bitch?"

After that? Dean honestly didn't remember much. Just red. A whole lot of red. The resulting demon massacre had gained Crowley's attention remarkably quickly.

Which was how he'd ended up tied to a chair in an abandoned warehouse while the King of Hell looked at him like he was watching reality television.

"By the way," Crowley said casually, "thanks for wiping that vampire nest. They were absolutely murdering my market share."

"Crowley, please."

The demon actually looked offended. His hand flew dramatically to his chest. "Is Dean Winchester begging me?" he gasped. "My, my. How hopeless you've become."

Dean lowered his head. Defeat tasted bitter. "Just tell me she's here." His voice cracked slightly. "Please."

Crowley's expression faltered for half a second. Then his usual smirk returned. "Well." He sighed theatrically. "This is getting embarrassingly pathetic." He clicked his fingers.

The double doors behind him swung open.

Dean glanced up slowly. Two demons stepped into the room, dragging a smaller figure between them by thick silver chain wrapped around their waist.

His breath caught.

You.

You looked exactly the same as the day you'd disappeared. The oversize hoodie that doubled as your comfort blanket. The leggings. The worn trainers. There was no blood. No bruises. No cuts. No signs of torture. Which somehow made it worse. 

What the hell had they been doing to you?

Your eyes lifted through the curtain the hair. "Dean?"

The whisper barely reached him. Dean bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. Relief crashing into him so violently it almost hurt. You were alive. You were here. You hadn't left him.

He'd found you.

"You okay, sweetheart?" Immediately, he wanted to punch himself. Of course you weren't okay. You'd been kidnapped by demons.

You gave a weak shrug. "Been better."

Despite everything, Dean laughed. A sad, broken sound. Of course you were making jokes. "You hurt?"

You shook your head. "No."

Crowley groaned dramatically. "Oh, enough with the touching reunion. Honestly, it’s making me nauseous."

"Let her go." Dean strained against the ropes again. He needed to get to you.

"And where," Crowley asked lazily, "would the fun be in that?"

Dean glared at him. "What do you want?

Crowley's smile widened. "Now we're getting somewhere."

"Whatever it is, you can have it."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Dean swallowed hard. "Take me instead."

"Dean, no!" You lunged forward instantly. The demons yanked hard on the chain. You crashed to the floor with a cry. Dean surged forward in the chair.

"Y/N!"

"Careful," Crowley mused. "You'll hurt yourself."

"She has nothing to do with this!"

Crowley looked positively delighted. "Oh, but she has everything to do with this." He stepped toward you. "Because we've discovered something rather fascinating." Dean's jaw clenched. "Apparently little Y/N here is the secret to destroying Dean Winchester."

Dean froze. "What?"

"You become remarkably irrational where she's concerned." Crowley smirked. "You slaughter vampire nests, start demon massacres, and throw yourself into deals without so much as blinking." His grin widened. "So naturally I thought—why not use that?"

A laugh echoed through the warehouse. Crowley stopped speaking. The laughter got louder. Your shoulders shook.

"Y/N," Crowley warned.

You wiped beneath your eyes. "I'm sorry," you said between laughs. "I really couldn't hold it anymore."

Dean frowned. "What the hell is going on?"

You stood. The chains around your waist slipped away effortlessly, falling to the floor with a metallic clang. "God, get this off me." You pulled your hoodie over your head, tossing it aside. You stood in leggings and a low V-neck tight shirt.

Crowley's grin mirrored your own. "Mouse here joined the dark side."

You raised an eyebrow. "Joined is a strong word."

Crowley waved dismissively. "Fine. Strongly encouraged. Forced almost."

You stepped back until you stood beside him. Dean stared. "This isn't you."

You gasped dramatically. "Dean Winchester, are you saying you don't like the new me?" You slowly turned in a circle. "New and improved."

Dean said nothing. That hurt more than it should have. You moved toward him slowly, swapping your hips with each step. Rested your hands on his shoulders and leant down slightly. His eyes betrayed him immediately, enjoying the view.

You smirked. "Oh, there he is." Dean groaned. "You should join us, Dean."

"Never gonna happen, sweetheart."

You leaned closed. "Not even if I asked nicely?" You swung one leg over his lap.

Dean sat bolt upright. "Uh..." His brain had officially left the building. "What exactly are you doing?"

You smiled, sinking into his lap. "I liked you, you know." Dean blinked. "The old me. " Your fingers brushed along the stubble on his jaw. "God, I fell for you the second I met you." His breathing stopped. "I wanted you so bad." You leaned closer. "Still kinda do."

"Y/N..." His voice came out strangled. "Please stop talking."

A throat cleared behind you. "Do you two need a room?"

You looked over your shoulder. "Could we?"

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Fine. But clean up after yourselves."

The doors slammed shut behind him. Dean immediately snapped back to himself. "Y/N, listen to me. This isn't you."

You traced your thumb over his bottom lip. The tip of his tongue poked out before realising what was going on. "We could have fun, Dean."

"Now is really not the time."

You pouted. "But I like you like this." Your hand slid into the hair at the nape of his neck. "At my mercy." Dean swallowed hard. "I've actually imagined this before." His eyes widened. "You tied up." Your hand tightened slightly in his hair. "Me in charge." You pulled his head back gently. "I think you like a woman taking control."

Dean's smirk finally returned. "Never said I didn't."

Your grin widened. As you shifted on his lap—

Oh.

Well

This is interesting.

You leaned toward his ear. "Looks like someone agrees with me."

Dean closed his eyes. "Oh, this is my personal hell."

You rolled your hips slightly. His head hit the back of the chair. "Definitely my personal hell."

Your lips ghosted along his throat. A strained groan escaped his mouth. "I'm gonna enjoy this."

Dean's eyes opened. "Oh, I'm gonna enjoy it too."

You frowned, pulling back from him. "What?"

Pain exploded through your side. You looked down. Ruby's knife protruded from your side.

Sam stood behind you. Very much not unconscious.

You barely had time to register the betrayal before your vision filled with a flash of red before fading to black.

You woke up hours later in your room at the bunker. Cas had already healed the stab wound. Also checked the rest of you after the possession.

You sat on the bed with your face buried in your hands. Dean sat beside you looking entirely too amused. "I'm not gonna lie," he said. You already hated where this was going. "I liked the demon you."

"Oh my god." You groaned louder. "Shut up."

Sam leaned in the doorway. "You practically gave him a lap dance."

You looked up in horror. "I did not."

Sam nodded seriously. "You absolutely did."

"I was possessed."

"I still had to sit there and watch it happen whilst playing dead."

Dean pointed accusingly. "Yeah, could've stabbed her sooner, bitch."

Sam laughed. "Could've stopped enjoying it sooner, jerk."

You froze.

Slowly, very slowly, you turned towards Dean, who suddenly became fascinated by a crack in the wall. "What?

Dean shrugged. "Nothing."

"Dean Winchester."

"Nothing happened."

"You got turned on by demon me"

"I did not."

"You absolutely did." You looked to Sam for confirmation, who just nodded.

"I was tied to a chair."

"Because it was me?"

Dean's head snapped toward you. "Y/N." He warned.

Your eyes widened. "Oh my god."

Dean stood immediately. "Oh no."

"It was because it was me."

"Nope."

You crawled across the mattress toward him. "I can recreate the scene if you want."

Dean nearly tripped over his own feet backing toward the door. "I'm good."

"I can even dress up."

"Absolutely not."

You followed him into the hallway. "Dean!" He was already halfway down the corridor. "I'll give you a lap dance! Just let me get ready."

"SHUT UP, Y/N." Your laughter echoed through the bunker. Dean's horrified groan followed shortly after.

You were never letting him live this down.

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Enter the warehouse.

Rescue the victims.

Kill as many vampires as possible.

Burn the place to the ground.

Dean wasn't thrilled with the strategy, especially because it meant splitting up. He and Sam would clear the east side of the building while you and Cas handled the west. Logically, it made sense.

Emotionally?

Dean hated it.

You leaned against the Impala, adjusting the sheath of your machete as Dean pulled Cas aside for what had to be the fourth time in ten minutes.

"Watch her."

Cas blinked. "I am aware of the objective.”

"No, I mean watch her."

Cas frowned. "I am looking directly at her."

Dean rubbed a hand down his face. "Cas." The angel stared back blankly. You bit back a laugh. Dean lowered his voice. "If anything happens—"

"Dean."

His head snapped toward you. "What?"

"I'm standing right here."

"I know."

"Then stop talking about me like I'm not."

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Opening it again. "You know what I mean." You rolled your eyes.

And there it was again. Another confusing Dean Winchester moment.

One minute he'll be staying up until sunrise drinking beer with you, sharing stories he never told anyone else.

Next he'd be introducing you as his friend. Just a friend. Nothing more.

Nevermind the almost kiss. Never mind the lingering looks. Never mind the way his hand always found the small of your back whenever danger was nearby.

You weren't imagining it. You knew you weren't. The tension was there. You could feel it every time you looked at him. The problem was Dean could feel it too, and Dean Winchester would rather wrestle a nest of vampires than talk about his feelings.

You knew he cared. You saw it every hunt. Every time you got hurt. Every time he looked you over after a fight just to make sure all your limbs were still attached. He cared. The idiot just refused to admit why.

God, men.

"You ready?" Sam asked.

You nodded. "As I'll ever be."

The four of you exchanged one final look before heading toward the warehouse. As you moved past Dean, his hand caught your wrist. You froze. "Be careful."

Your heart sank a little. That was it? Just be careful? You offered him a small smile.

"Always am."

Dean and Sam finally reached the Impala, both leaning against the car as they tried to catch their breath.

The warehouse burned behind them, flames licking through shattered windows and lighting up the night sky. Smoke billowed upward in thick black clouds.

They hadn't found a single survivor. Only bodies. Vampire corpses and severed heads littered the warehouse floor.

Dean hated it. The whole damn night.

His eyes immediately went to the warehouse doors. Cas emerged through the smoke, coughing as he made his way across the lot. Alone.

Dean's stomach dropped. You weren't with him. "Cas!" His voice echoed through the industrial park. Dean shoved away from the Impala and stalked toward the angel. "Cas, where is she?" Cas barely had time to answer before Dean grabbed the front of his trench coat. "You were supposed to stay with her!" Dean shouted. "Where is she?"

Every horrible possibility slammed into him at once.

Bitten. Dead. Trapped. Burning.

Dean's breathing became shallow. His grip tightened.

"Dean—"

"WHERE IS SHE?" The warehouse door remained empty. Dean couldn't look away from it. Couldn't stop staring. Cas followed his gaze.

"Y/N was right behind me. She pushed me out before the roof collapsed." He frowned. "I don't know—"

A cough interrupted him.

All three of them snapped their heads toward the sound. A figure emerged from the smoke. Hobbling. Slow. Alive. Dean's heart lurched.

You rounded the side of the building, illuminated by the fire behind you. Blood covered you from head to toe. It stained your clothes. Even your white sneakers. A machete dangled limply from your fingers. Your other arm was pressed protectively against your ribs.

"Shit." Dean was moving before he even realised it. The closer he got, the worse you looked. Blood matted sections of your hair together. Scratches covered your face and arms. Bruises were already beginning to bloom beneath your skin.

You stumbled. Dean caught you before you hit the ground. His hands immediately moved to your face. Shaky. Desperate.

His eyes darted over every inch of you. Looking for bites. Looking for wounds. Looking for proof that you were okay.

His mouth opened. Then closed again. No words came out.

You stared at him. Really stared. His chest was heaving. His eyes were glassy. His hands wouldn't stop shaking. The realization hit immediately. 

Dean Winchester was having a panic attack.

"Dean." Your voice came out rough from the smoke. His eyes kept moving. Searching. "Dean." Nothing. You grabbed the front of his jacket. "Dean!" His gaze finally locked onto yours. You shook your head. "It's not my blood." His breathing hitched. "It's not my blood," you repeated. "I'm okay." His eyes searched yours. "I'm hurt a little," you admitted. "But I'm okay."

His voice came out small. Almost childlike. "You're okay?"

You nodded. "I'm okay." Your hands pressed against his chest. Grounding him. Grounding yourself. "I'm alive." Dean swallowed hard. "We're okay."

The words repeated quietly between you. A mantra. A promise. Dean nodded. Trying to convince himself it was real. You were here. Alive. In his arms. He hadn't lost you. The overwhelming relief hit him all at once. His head was exhausted. His heart wasn't.

Before he could overthink it, before he could talk himself out of it, Dean leaned forward and kissed you.

Soft. Desperate. Real.

Your eyes widened briefly. Then you melted against him. Your fists tangled in his jacket, pulling him closer.

Dean kissed you like he'd been holding it back for months. Like he'd almost lost the chance. Every fear. Every sleepless night. Every feeling he'd buried. It was all there.

When he finally pulled away, neither of you moved far. His forehead rested against yours. His eyes stayed closed. "I thought I lost you." The confession cracked on the way out. A shaky breath escaped him. When he finally opened his eyes, they were brighter than before. Greener. Softer. Terrified. "You scared the hell outta me."

You smiled weakly. "Sorry."

"I'm never letting you out of my sight again."

A laugh escaped you. "Never?"

Dean finally laughed too. The tension breaking at last. "Never."

You studied him for a moment. Then grinned. "You like me."

Dean groaned immediately. "Oh, for the love of—"

"You like me," you sang again.

"Shut up." Was Dean Winchester blushing? Apparently he was. Sam's laughter echoed from beside the Impala.

Dean shot his brother a glare. "Not a word."

Sam held both hands up. "I didn't say anything."

Dean rolled his eyes before carefully wrapping an arm around your waist. "C'mon." He pulled you gently toward the car. "Let's get you back to the bunker." This time, when his hand settled against your side, neither of you pretended it meant nothing.

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Russell Shaw

Kristoff - Frozen

The roar of the Chevelle Malibu's engine shattered the peaceful silence of the country road. You sat in the passenger seat with one hand gripping the door handle as the wind whipped through your hair.

You'd asked Colter for help after your sister went missing, but he was tied up on another job and had passed you his brother's number instead.

After giving Russell everything you knew—where she'd last been seen and where you thought she was headed—you'd barely had time to fasten your seatbelt before he'd floored it.

"Hang on!" he yelled as the Malibu launched over a speed bump, all four wheels briefly leaving the ground.

You laughed, grabbing the handle tighter. "Don't worry. I like fast." You kicked your feet onto the dashboard, settling further into the seat.

"Whoa, whoa!" Russell reached over, pushing your legs back down. "Feet off the dash." He shot you an offended look. "This is a classic. Show her some respect."

You rolled your eyes with a smile.

"So," he continued, eyes fixed on the road, "what happened the last time you saw your sister?"

"Oh..." You hesitated. "It was kind of my fault."

"How so?"

"I... got engaged."

"...Congratulations?"

"But I'd only known him for a day."

Russell's head snapped towards you before he immediately looked back at the road. "I'm sorry." He blinked. "You got engaged to someone you'd known for one day?"

"Anyway," you continued, deliberately ignoring him, "she completely freaked out because she wouldn't give us her blessing, and then I got mad, so she got mad..."

"Hold on." He pointed at you. "You mean to tell me you accepted a marriage proposal from a guy you met that morning?"

"Yes." You gestured towards the road ahead. "Eyes on the road."

He stared at you for a beat before letting out a disbelieving laugh. "Didn't your parents ever teach you about strangers?"

You looked at him cautiously. "...Yes."

Russell smirked. "Sweetheart, believe me—you don't have to worry about me. I don't bite." He flashed you a grin before winking. "Unless you ask nicely."

Dean Winchester

Flynn Rider - Tangled

"Give me my stuff back," Dean scoffed, straining against the ropes binding him to the chair.

You'd found him sneaking around your house, peeking through the curtains as he watched something outside. You weren't sure if he was hiding from someone... or something.

Before he'd had a chance to turn around, you'd panicked and smacked him over the head with a frying pan. Dragging his unconscious body across the floor and tying him to a chair had been considerably harder than you'd expected.

You didn't get out much. Your mother had always insisted it was safer inside, protected from the evils of the outside world. So strangers were a rarity. Especially handsome strangers.

Then you looked inside his duffel bag. Long silver knives. Rock salt. Lighter fluid. A stack of fake IDs. Handsome or not... What kind of man carried all that around? Maybe tying him up hadn't been such a bad idea after all.

Dean let out a long sigh. "So..." he said. "I help you, and you give me my stuff back?"

"I promise." You nodded earnestly. "And when I make a promise, I never, ever break it. Ever." You leaned closer, determined to make your point.

Dean's eyes flicked over you before he sighed again. "Alright. Listen... I didn't want to have to do this, but you're leaving me no choice." He straightened in the chair. "Here comes the Blue Steel." He lowered his head dramatically before snapping it back up. His eyes narrowed, one eyebrow lifted, lips pursed into what he clearly thought was an irresistible expression.

You simply stared. "..."

"What?" he finally asked.

You blinked. "Did you expect me to swoon?"

Dean's expression immediately dropped. "I expected something," he muttered. "Not... whatever this is." He huffed. "This is kind of an off day for me. It usually works better." He sighed, letting his head fall back against the chair. "Fine." He rolled his eyes. "I'll help you."

"Really?" Your face lit up. Without another word, you spun on your heel and hurried toward the front door.

Dean watched you disappear before looking down at the ropes around his wrists. "...Are you forgetting something?" he called. You stopped. He rocked the chair from side to side for emphasis. "A little help here!"

Beau Arlen

Aladdin

"You, uh..." Beau scratched the back of his neck. "You don't wanna go for a ride, do you? We could get outta here. See the sights."

You'd seen the mysterious cowboy around town before. The one with the dark hair and impossible green eyes. The one you'd secretly wondered what it would feel like to run your fingers through his hair. The one who'd stepped in earlier that day when a group of thugs had cornered you in town.

You still didn't know how he'd found you. Or where he'd come from. Only that he'd saved you.

And now he was here again.

He sat patiently on his horse on the other side of the fence as music and laughter drifted from the party inside your parents' house. Another evening of smiling politely at people you barely knew. You'd been counting the minutes until it was over.

"Do you trust me?" Beau asked.

A shiver ran down your spine. "What?"

He smiled softly before extending his hand across the fence. "Do you trust me?"

Your gaze dropped to his outstretched hand. You barely knew him. You didn't know where he lived. You didn't know where he was taking you. You didn't even know his last name.

And yet...

You wanted to say yes.

What you couldn't see was Beau's hand trembling ever so slightly. He wasn't this guy. He wasn't the charming cowboy who swept in and whisked the girl away into the sunset. He'd never been the hero in the love story. He was the best friend. The one who stood quietly on the sidelines. The one who waited. The one who watched someone else get the girl.

His heartbeat hammered against his ribs as he silently prayed you wouldn't notice the tiny shake in his hand.

Then, slowly, your fingers slipped into his. Warm. Soft. Real. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth before he helped you climb over the fence. He kept hold of your hand until you were safely seated behind him on the horse. Tentatively, you rested your hands on his broad shoulders.

Beau reached back, gently taking your wrists before guiding your arms around his waist.

"You'll wanna hold on tight, darlin'."

Your cheeks warmed as your hands settled against his stomach.

Soldier Boy

Gaston - Beauty and the Beast

"What do you know about my dreams, Soldier Boy?" you asked, watching him casually stroll into your house as though he owned it.

Persistence wasn't a problem for him. Subtlety was.

Soldier Boy had never hidden the fact that he wanted you. As far as he was concerned, it made perfect sense. He was America's greatest supe, and you were the prettiest woman in town.

Naturally, the two of you belonged together. The only problem? You had standards. You wanted someone intelligent. Someone you could lose yourself in conversation with. Someone kind. Someone who made you laugh.

Soldier Boy relied on three things. His looks. His powers. And his ego.

"Picture this." He dropped into one of your kitchen chairs, kicking his mud-covered boots onto the table where you ate every night. "Big house. White picket fence. Huge backyard." He gestured animatedly as the fantasy unfolded in his head. "I come home after another long day of saving America. My gorgeous little wife has dinner waiting. Couple kids running around with the dogs." He stood, towering over you with that familiar cocky grin. "We'll have six or seven."

"Dogs?" you asked innocently.

He looked at you like you'd grown another head.

"No, doll." He puffed out his chest. "Boys." He jabbed a thumb into his own chest. "They'll take after their old man."

You blinked up at him. "Soldier Boy..." A smug smile spread across his face. "I'm speechless."

"I know." He smirked. "Most women are."

"...I don't know what to say." You ducked beneath his arm, trying to slip past him. He simply followed. A chair scraped loudly across the floor as he shoved it aside without looking. You backed toward the front door.

One step. Then another. Until your shoulders bumped against the solid wood. Well... That wasn't ideal.

Soldier Boy planted both hands against the door on either side of your head, boxing you in.

"C'mon, doll." His voice dropped lower. "I'll take care of you." He leaned in just enough for you to count the freckles scattered across his face. "You know you want this." His grin widened. "Me and you? We'd be unstoppable."

For a split second... You almost forgot how insufferable he was. Almost. You smiled sweetly. "Oh, Soldier Boy..." His grin grew even wider. "...I'm terribly sorry." You rested a hand against his chest. "But..." His eyebrows lifted expectantly. "...I just don't deserve you."

Before he could process the words, you twisted the doorknob. The door swung open.

With nothing to brace against, Soldier Boy stumbled straight through the doorway, arms pinwheeling before he crashed onto the porch with a loud thud.

You smiled down at him. "Have a lovely evening." Then you shut the door firmly in his face.

Mark Meachum

Li Shang - Mulan

You could feel his eyes on you.

He knew. He had to.

You'd spent weeks convincing yourself that your disguise was flawless. The haircut. The baggy clothes. The lowered voice. The fake confidence.

But Mark Meachum was a detective. Noticing things was literally his job.

You wanted to be a police officer, but the academy's old-school recruits had made it clear they didn't think women belonged there. So, after watching She's the Man for the fiftieth time and deciding subtlety was overrated, you'd borrowed your brother's identity and taken his place.

He'd passed the initial rounds. Then he'd gotten bored. You, however, had wanted this your entire life. So here you were.

Standing in a firing line, praying Mark hadn't figured out your secret.

His face revealed nothing. No raised eyebrow. No smirk. No look of suspicion. Just those sharp green eyes studying the recruits one by one. Evaluating. Calculating. Watching. Your stomach twisted.

The instructor called for everyone to take position.

You raised your handgun and lined up your shot.

Breathe in.

Exhale.

Steady.

Then suddenly—

A boot nudged the back of your ankle. Your stance widened involuntarily. Every muscle in your body locked. He was standing directly behind you. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him. Close enough that if you concentrated, you were pretty sure you'd feel his breath against the back of your neck. You immediately decided not to concentrate.

"Wider stance." His voice was low and calm.. "Bring your right foot back." You obeyed instantly. "Lean forward. Absorb the recoil." A large hand wrapped around your forearm. Your breath caught. He adjusted your arm slightly before moving his other hand to your shoulder. "Relax." His grip was firm. Confident.

The touch lasted maybe two seconds. Three, if you were lucky. Then he was gone.

Just like that. Already moving down the line to correct someone else's posture.

Your heart, however, hadn't received the memo. It was still trying to punch its way out of your chest.

You stared straight ahead at the target, trying desperately to remember how breathing worked. Because honestly? Getting caught wasn't your biggest problem anymore. Your biggest problem was that Mark Meachum was ridiculously attractive.

And if he hadn't figured out your secret yet... You were probably going to give yourself away first.

Boaz Priestly

Milo Thatch - Atlantis

The thing you loved most about Priestly was his passion. You could hear it whenever he talked about something he genuinely cared about. The sarcasm disappeared. The walls came down. For a few precious minutes, he stopped being the cool guy behind the counter and became someone willing to share a piece of himself.

There was an old legend in Santa Cruz about a forgotten underground city hidden somewhere beneath the cliffs. Most people thought it was ridiculous. Priestly did not.

Over the years, he'd collected articles, maps, photographs, and stories from anyone willing to talk about it. His bedroom was practically a shrine to the mystery. So when he announced he was finally exploring a cave system connected to the legend, you volunteered immediately.

The group moved deeper underground, beams of light sweeping across the rocky walls. Then someone spotted the carvings.

Ancient drawings stretched across the stone. Figures. Symbols. Stories frozen in time. Priestly immediately pulled out the worn journal he carried everywhere. You watched him flip through pages filled with sketches, notes, and theories, comparing them to the carvings in front of him.

"Oh, come on," one of the guys laughed. "They're just drawings."

"Yeah?" Priestly shot back. "And Star Wars is just a movie."

A few people chuckled. Normally, that would've been the end of it. A joke. A shrug. A quick change of subject. But something in Priestly's expression shifted.

You recognised it immediately. He cared. His gaze lingered on the carvings. "It's not about the drawings."

The group fell quiet.

Priestly stepped closer to the wall, tracing one of the symbols without quite touching it. "It's about somebody sitting here hundreds, maybe thousands of years ago and making something that didn't exist before." His voice softened. "They took the time to record their story. Their history. Everything they thought was important." The flashlight in his hand illuminated the carvings as he looked up at them. "Think about that." Nobody interrupted him. "Somebody loved this enough to make sure it survived." His fingers tapped absently against the edge of his journal. "They wanted people they'd never meet to know who they were."

You couldn't stop smiling.

Because suddenly he wasn't talking about the cave anymore. Not really.

"They didn't care if anyone thought it was cool." He swallowed. "They just wanted it to matter." The words hung in the air. For a second, nobody spoke. Everyone was staring at him. Priestly noticed.

Immediately. His shoulders stiffened. His ears turned red. And just like that, the walls slammed back into place. He cleared his throat. "Anyway." He snapped the journal shut. "Now I sound like a freaking Hallmark card."

A/N: Sorry I haven't been posting much, the creative bug has just not bit me recenlty! I've also had a bit of a new fixation with Jungkook from BTS, read some amazing fanfics!!

Jensen will always be my number one though! I have a Soldier Boy fic that I want to write, but that means I actually have to write it!

This might have to be a small series of head canons. I can do it with Pixar and female Disney characters.

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Feel free to Ask Me Anything or Request

Life, however, never seemed interested in giving either of you a chance. When Beau was single, you weren't. When you were available, he wasn't. The timing was always wrong.

You dated the same boyfriend throughout high school while Beau watched from the side-lines. Then college came, and Beau got serious with Carla while you spent your weekends at frat parties and football games.

And somehow, the years kept slipping by until one day you were both standing at separate altars, promising forever to other people.

As you set the burgers beside the grill, Beau's eyes drifted to the gold band on your finger. His chest tightened. Every time he saw that ring, it felt like a small heartbreak.

A reminder of what could have been.

You rose onto your tiptoes and kissed Matt's cheek. Your husband immediately wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer.

Beau looked away. Or tried to.

The possessive touch sent a sharp stab of jealousy straight through his chest.

You chatted with the men around the grill before finally spotting him. Your entire face lit up.

Beau couldn't stop the smile that answered yours. Excusing yourself, you made your way across the garden.

As you approached, Beau deliberately avoided looking at Matt. The man never liked him. Matt always claimed men and women couldn't be friends. Eventually, something always happened.

The irony wasn't lost on Beau.

He straightened slightly as you stopped in front of him. "Hey," he greeted warmly, his gaze flickering over you. "You look great."

You laughed and spun slightly, making your blue sundress flare around your legs. "Oh, this old thing?"

"Yeah," Beau said, unable to stop smiling. "It looks good on you."

You opened your arms and he stepped into the hug automatically. It was familiar. Easy. Dangerous. Pulling back, you smoothed a hand over the skirt. "You don't think I look like some 1950's housewife?"

"Not at all." His eyes betrayed him for half a second as they swept over the way the dress hugged your figure. He quickly cleared his throat. "Fancy a beer?"

You groaned dramatically. "God, yes. You have no idea." You led him inside while he carried the six-pack to the kitchen. "I always volunteer to host," you said with a laugh, "and then halfway through I remember I actually hate hosting."

"But you're so good at it," he teased.

"That's because I'm suffering silently." Beau chuckled as he put the beers in the fridge and grabbed two cold bottles. You accepted one gratefully. "I've only got a few more hours and then peace." He leaned against the counter beside you while you took a long drink. For a few moments, it felt almost normal.

Like old times.

Then Matt appeared in the doorway. Beau noticed the glare before you did. The second you turned around, however, it vanished behind one of Matt's trademark smiles. "Hey, honey."

"Sausages and chicken are done," Matt said. "Just waiting on the burgers. You got the salad?"

"Oh. Right. I'll make it now."

As soon as your back was turned, Matt shot Beau another warning look before disappearing outside again. Beau hid his smirk behind his beer bottle. You grabbed a chopping board and began preparing vegetables.

"Want some help?" Beau asked.

"Nope. Just keep me company." That earned another smile. "How've you been?" you asked while slicing cucumbers. "Feels like I haven't seen you in forever."

Beau scratched the back of his neck. "Work's been crazy lately. Crime never sleeps and—"

You stopped listening. Your eyes had drifted to the window.

Jessica Roman.

A recently divorced neighbour who'd undergone a complete transformation in the last few months. New hair. New body. New attitude. And right now, she was making a beeline for your husband.

Beau followed your gaze. Jessica smiled up at Matt, standing far too close as her hand drifted along his arm.

Matt glanced toward the house. Then smiled right back. Your stomach twisted.

"Shit." Pain shot through your finger. You'd sliced straight through the tip without even noticing. Blood immediately welled up. Beau was moving before you could react. He grabbed your wrist and guided you to the sink.

"You okay?" You didn't answer. You were still staring out the window. At Matt. At Jessica. At the way they looked at each other. At the way he never looked at you anymore.

Beau followed your line of sight. Understanding dawned immediately. His jaw clenched.

"He thinks I'm stupid," you whispered.

"What makes you say that?"

You laughed bitterly. "Look at him." And suddenly Beau saw everything. Not friendship. Not harmless flirting. Something else. Something worse. You swallowed. "He's sleeping with her." The words barely made it out.

Beau reached across you and pulled the blinds shut. "How do you know?"

You stared at the running water. "It started small. Perfume on his clothes. Late nights at the office. The blonde hairs on his shirts. But he's a chiropractor and he has to get close to people." You took a deep breath. "Then our neighbour got his car stolen and asked to look at our security camera footage to see if it caught anything. It captured the thief. It also captured my husband going to Jessica's house every Wednesday and Friday, for the last two months.

By the time you finished explaining, Beau's hands were clenched into fists. "Shit," he muttered quietly. His heart broke a little at the sight of you standing there trying so hard not to cry. "I'm sorry, darlin'."

You shrugged. "Yeah."

Beau gently hooked a finger beneath your chin. You looked up at him. "This isn't on you." You tried to look away. He wouldn't let you. "This is him. Not you. You didn't fail as a wife. You didn't make him do this. He made that choice."

Your eyes burned. Part of you heard him. Part of you didn't believe a word. Still, you nodded.

And for the first time in weeks, someone made you feel like maybe this wasn't your fault.

You nodded. You heard every word Beau said. You just didn't believe them. Of course there was something you could've done better. You could've been prettier. Sexier. More attentive. A better wife. At least, that's what you'd thought when you first found out.

Now?

Now you were just angry. The tears had dried up weeks ago, replaced by something colder. Sharper. You'd already started gathering evidence. Every security recording. Every suspicious bank transaction. Every text message. The idiot hadn't even realised his phone was synced to the cloud.

The worst part was that you knew exactly why he was doing it. You and Matt had been trying for a baby for over a year. Every negative pregnancy test chipped away at your heart a little more. Every month brought another wave of disappointment. Another round of forced optimism.

A few months ago, you'd suggested getting tested. Maybe his sperm count was low. Maybe you had a fertility issue. Maybe there was a simple explanation.

You still remembered the way he'd exploded. How offended he'd been by the mere suggestion.

As though the possibility of him being part of the problem was unthinkable.

Now you know why. Instead of seeing a doctor, he'd gone looking for validation somewhere else.

How thoughtful of him.

"I know," you said quietly, offering Beau a small, tired smile. "I've already contacted a divorce lawyer. He told me to gather as much evidence as possible."

Beau nodded. "Good." His gaze dropped to your hand. "Uh..." He reached forward and turned off the tap. "Your finger's getting soaked."

You looked down.

Right.

The cut. You'd almost forgotten about it.

Beau crouched to grab the first-aid kit from beneath the sink while you dried your hands on a nearby tea towel. He carefully wrapped a bandage around your finger, his touch gentle despite the size of his hands. Then he spoke again. "Carla and I separated."

Your head snapped up. "What?"

Beau kept his eyes on your hand as he secured the bandage. "Well... she left me." The words were matter-of-fact, but you caught the hurt underneath. He leaned back against the counter.

"Said I wasn't the same man she married. Not after everything" You swallowed.

The shooting. The trauma. The months afterward. Beau had never really talked about it. "I didn't tell her what was going on up here." He tapped the side of his head with a humourless chuckle. "Guess she got tired of waiting."

"Oh, Beau..." Your chest tightened. "I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "It's okay." It clearly wasn't. But he smiled anyway. "We're alright. I'd rather Emily have two happy parents than two miserable ones pretending everything's fine."

"Is that why I haven't seen you much lately?"

"Partly." You nodded, sensing there was more he wasn't saying. Not wanting to push.

A quiet laugh escaped you. "Look at us, huh?"

Beau huffed a laugh of his own. "Yeah."

His eyes met yours. "Who would've thought we'd end up with matching divorces?" The joke landed somewhere between funny and tragic.

Silence settled between you. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy.

You stared down at your newly bandaged finger. Then, before you could stop yourself, the question slipped out. "You ever think about what would've happened if we..."

You couldn't finish. You didn't need to. Beau's expression softened immediately. He reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The touch was feather-light. Dangerously intimate. "All the time," he admitted.

Your breath caught. Three words. Three simple words. And suddenly twenty years of friendship felt like something else entirely. Beau's thumb lingered against your cheek. "I hate this." His voice was barely above a whisper. "You deserve better. Always have."

Your eyes burned. "So do you."

For a moment neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away. Your gaze drifted to his mouth before you could stop it.

The corner of his lips twitched upward. He'd noticed. Heat flooded your cheeks.

Of course he had.

You'd spent years wondering what it would be like. What it would feel like to kiss him. To be held by him. To have all those stolen glances and almost moments finally become something real. And judging by the way he was looking at you now— He'd wondered too.

Slowly, almost unconsciously, you leaned closer. Beau mirrored the movement. The space between you disappeared.

A breath.

An inch.

A heartbeat.

Then—

"GRUB'S UP!"

Matt's voice thundered through the house.

Both of you jerked apart like guilty teenagers. Reality came crashing back.

The crowded backyard. The neighbours. Your husband. The wedding rings still sitting on both your fingers.

"Uh..." Beau cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "Your finger okay?"

"I need to get the salad out." The words tumbled from your mouth at the exact same time. You both laughed awkwardly. Then immediately stopped.

Mortified.

You dumped the chopped vegetables into a bowl and practically fled the kitchen.

Beau stayed behind. For a long moment, he simply stood there.

Watching.

Through the window, he could see you weaving through the crowd with the salad bowl balanced against your hip. To everyone else, you looked happy. You smiled. You laughed. You chatted with neighbours.

Played the part perfectly.

But now that he'd seen it, he couldn't unsee it. The sadness. The exhaustion. The way your smile never quite reached your eyes. And when Matt wrapped an arm around your shoulders, there was the briefest hesitation before you leaned into him. So small nobody else would've noticed.

Nobody except Beau.

His jaw tightened. How had he missed it for so long?

Maybe because he'd spent years convincing himself not to look too closely. Because looking too closely hurts.

His gaze followed you around the yard. The same way it always had.

Since he was eight years old and stood in front of three boys twice his size because they'd made you cry.

Since football games where he'd searched the bleachers for your face before every kickoff.

Since college parties where he'd pretended not to care who you danced with.

Since your wedding.

God. Your wedding. The memory still hurt. He remembered the summer heat. The white canopy. The way his palms sweated around the folded ceremony program.

Then you appeared. And suddenly nothing else existed. Not the guests. Not the music. Not even Carla sitting beside him.

Just you. Walking down the aisle. Beautiful. Radiant. Untouchable.

For one impossible second he'd thought: Do something. Say something. Stop this. But he hadn't. He'd stayed exactly where he was.

His fingers crushed the paper program while another man waited for you at the altar.

Then came the vows. The rings. The kiss. The words he'd spent years trying to forget.

"I do."

He remembered shaking Matt's hand afterward. Remembered congratulating him. Remembered smiling. The biggest lie he'd ever told.

Because as he watched you dance with your new husband that night, there had only been one thought running through his head.

It should've been me.

It had always been you.

And judging by the look in your eyes a few minutes ago—

He had a feeling you'd spent all these years wondering the exact same thing.

A/N: There will be a part two!

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