& i would do it, all over again

Being a tutor and a TA was a great first step for someone in college. 

But good grief was it an exhausting one. 

You’d had five tutoring sessions on Saturday, way more than your average, but several of the usual tutors had decided to travel with the football team and asked you to cover for them. Even though it was short notice, you’d accepted eagerly, hoping to really do well on your next paycheck. 

By the third one, however, you were missing Dean’s quick wit and attitude. The students in front of you weren’t stupid, exactly, but it was a miracle a couple of them could even read, much less produce high level work. They’d worked without wasting your time and they’d signed the timesheet, so you tried not to think too poorly of them even in your own head.

The worst part was, they’d all been back-to-backs, so you hadn’t even gotten to watch the livestream of Dean’s scrimmage and you weren’t sure why that disappointed you. 

There was a hesitation to text him Saturday morning, like Bela and Jo were urging you to. Apparently “good luck” texts to athletes were a common courtesy, but you didn’t want to blur the line between tutor and friend, so you’d resisted. But your finger had hovered over the Send button for far too long in between your study sessions. 

Bela and Jo had decided to go with some other cheerleaders and you might have lingered on a few pictures they’d sent you of Dean in action.

Although if interrogated, you’d deny it to your dying breath.

Once the tutoring sessions were over, you’d checked your phone to an update from Jo saying that the team had won by a landslide and most of the starters had been taken out early in the 3rd quarter. You were glad, Dean had been stressing about the game and this was a good start to the season.

But tutoring wasn’t your only job this semester. So you munched on a granola bar you’d packed in your backpack and cracked your neck as you approached the mounting work of being a TA. Dr. Crowley might have been a Grade-A Asshole with every other TA, but he was more than fair to you. You taught a couple of his upper-level classes, but they were small, so there was never a crazy grading work lode. 

His freshman level classes however… every freshman at State had to have those classes, so they were always massive. The stack of quizzes he’d handed you the day before was extremely thick and none of the questions were multiple choice.

Awesome. 

It took almost all of the evening Saturday and into the afternoon on Sunday to grade the stack with a level of feedback you knew Crowley would approve of. You made a mental note to discuss it with him on Monday because expecting you to finish that amount of quizzes in two days was unethical and near impossible. You would not be doing that again.

By the time you crept out of your bedroom on Sunday evening, you were ready to fall out. By the time your laundry had finished at 1 am Monday morning, you’d fallen asleep at the kitchen table.

Dr. Crowley’s first class was at 9 am, so when Jo woke you at the kitchen table on her way out the door to her 8 am class, you still had plenty of time to make yourself semi-presentable (meaning, the most comfortable clothes you owned and a wee bit of dry shampoo so your hair looked like it had been washed in the last 3 days) and stop by the Starbucks on campus before you handed them off. Then you’d have time to hit the library and get your life together before your first class at 10. 

Excellent plan. 

State University had a large campus, so there were plenty of coffee shops spread throughout, but this one was closest to your apartment and that made it the best. 8:15 am was still plenty early for college students on a Monday, so you weren’t surprised to see that there were less than five patrons within.

“Looks like you need it directly into your veins, sweetheart.” A familiar voice called. 

You looked over your shoulder to see Dean Winchester with a ball cap pulled down low over his eyes. “Gee, thanks, you look like shit too. Party too hard after the easy win?”

He grimaced, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “You see the game?”

You shook your head and faced forward again. “Nope. Had to work all weekend.”

“That sucks,” he said. 

“Jo and Bela went though, they sent me updates.”

“Oh yeah?” He raised his eyebrows. “We’ll have to get you to a game here soon.”

The silence fell easily as you waited in line. You were glad, you had a headache and you were sore from sleeping at the table the night before. Honestly, if you tried, you could probably take a 5 minute nap standing up while you waited for — 

“What’s your poison?” 

When you looked at him, eyes a little dazed, he had pointed up to the menu. “You one’a those ‘secret menu’ girls?”

“Nope. Just a plain ole white chocolate mocha.”

“Pretty basic,” he commented. “Least it’s not Pumpkin Spice.” He struck his tongue out.

“Give me a couple weeks,” you quipped, hoping your voice didn’t sound as dead as you felt. “First time I see a leaf fall off a tree, it’ll be all PSLs for months.”

He frowned then. Apparently your bravado had not covered your exhaustion. “Somethin’ wrong?”

You shrugged. “Told you I worked all weekend. It’s caught up to me. I fell asleep at the kitchen table last night after midnight. And Mondays are always my busiest day.”

“Ooh, that’s not good. Definitely need the extra espresso shot then.”

By then, you’d made it to the front. Your order was pretty basic and it ranked your nerves that Dean had said so. You added a cake pop just for some pizazz. 

Once you’d gotten the total, you pulled out your student flex card to pay, but Dean’s hand whipped out to cover yours. “She’s with me.”

“You sure?”

He smirked and nodded. For all that he’d teased you, Dean was pretty basic too, ordering a s’mores frappe and a cake pop before paying with a debit card instead of the student flex card. He came to stand next to you while you waited together. 

“Guess today’s not a good day to ask for a study session,” he ventured, hands in his sweats. 

“Not today, Sweetness.”

He grinned at that. “What?”

He shrugged. “Nothin’. Prospect of caffeine’s makin’ you feel a little better, huh?”

You rolled your eyes. “But no, I doubt I’ll have time to eat between now and 9 pm, much less an hour to study.”

“Oh yeah? That busy?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you have practice or something?”

He nodded and reached with one hand for the ball cap, turning it around backwards. “Just came from the weight room, actually. Got study hall this afternoon at 4, then film at 5.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“No,” he chuckled. “Normally, we analyze the film and it’s not so bad. You get to see where you messed up, what you could do better, stuff like that. But after a game like Saturday, there’s not much for the starters to analyze.”

“So it’ll focus on the 2nd and 3rd string guys, huh?”

He nodded. “Great for them, boring for me.”

Your names were called at the same time and you both stepped forward. The coffees were next to each other, the cake pops in one bag.

Reaching for them at the same time, you jumped whenever your fingers touched. You let out a chuckle and flicked your eyes up to Dean, who wore the same smirking expression he had when you’d called him Sweetness. You reached again and grabbed your coffee while Dean took his and the cake pop bag.

“Thanks for the coffee,” you said as he held the door open for you. 

“No problem, least I could do since you’ve been helpin’ me.”

You took a sip and let the iced caffeine goodness sink into your veins. “Oh, god this stuff is good. But you know I get paid for that, right? You don’t owe me anything.”

He took a sip of his, other hand deep in the pocket of his sweatpants. “Yeah, I know. You’ve just been nicer than you had to be, so I wanted to do somethin’ nice.”

You just nodded and walked along, feeling better with every sip.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“I know a way you can pay me back.”

He looked out of the corner of his eye down to you. “Oh, yeah? What is it, sweetheart?”

You eyed his frappe. “Let me try your drink — I haven’t had that one.”

He scoffed and grinned at you. “How do I know you don’t got cooties or somethin’?”

“Ew,” you scrunched your nose. “What are we, seven?”

He reached over and let you take a drink from the straw. 

“Very nice,” you complimented. “Definitely tastes like s’mores.”

“Tastes like fall,” he clarified. “Glad we’re even now.” He leaned over, nudging your shoulder.

“Till the next session, anyway.”

The English building was one of the larger on campus and you were surprised when Dean opened the door and followed you inside. 

“Don’t work too hard today,” he said, frowning a little with … concern?

You smiled. “Got my caffeine now, I’ll be fine till tonight, at least.”

He nodded. “Well, let me know what tomorrow looks like for you. Have a good day.”

“You too, and thanks for the coffee.”

You parted ways then, waving as you headed toward Dr. Crowley’s office and Dean went in the direction of the lecture halls. Dr. Crowley’s office was one of the more … eccentric of the staff. He had amassed a rather large collection of antiquities, as he called them. To you, it looked like something off a Hoarders and American Pickers crossover.

The worst part was, Crowley would answer questions about none of them. You’d tried. Not where he’d got them, when, how much they were, or even what they were. You’d taken pictures of some of the more interesting ones, hoping to reverse Google Search them, but they’d mysteriously come up with no results.

More than once, you’d wondered if Crowley had broken into the Vatican archives or something. He had to know people in order to get this much useless and anonymous stuff.

Since the door was open, you let yourself in and walked around the space, observing if anything had been added since you’d been there on Friday. 

Of course, Dr. Crowley wasn’t there when you called, and he hated when you just left things on his desk for him to find later. You took another sip of your coffee and groaned at the prospect of finding him before his next class.

As his TA, one of your jobs was to lead his classes and generally take some of the work load off him. He preferred to teach the freshman lectures himself, citing that it was “fun” to mess with the younger crowd, as well as the 400 level classes so he could dive a little deeper into the works with them.

The only class that you’d ever asked him to give to you was the 205 - the Shakespeare class, and it was the only one he’d steadfastly refused, telling you it was his favorite. Oh well, you were glad you weren’t teaching it - Dean needed help and he was honorable about making sure you got paid. 

Which was the whole point.

You checked your watch and looked up at the schedule on Dr. Crowley’s office door. He was about to start the 205 Shakespeare class …

It would be a good opportunity to see Dean. The thought popped unbidden into your mind and you felt yourself start to flush. 

To see Dean, in action, in class, so I can see if he’s actually participating, you amended to yourself, setting your shoulders straight and marching in the direction of the classroom. This was for purely professional reasons - you needed to give Dr. Crowley the quizzes and you wanted to see how the student you were tutoring actually did in class.

That was it.

So why were you so nervous as you reached for the door? Why did it feel like you were walking into a test you hadn’t studied for? 

You’d already seen him this morning. He’d paid for your coffee and walked you to the building. You hadn’t been this nervous when you’d heard his voice behind you in the coffee shop.

Maybe there was no time to panic, that same voice said in your head. 

You figuratively rolled your eyes at that little voice and filed in the lecture hall in behind another student. 

Crowley was at the bottom of the lecture hall, which was built staggered into a pit so that every student could see easily. He was leaned against the desk, arms crossed over his chest, when he noticed you.

And frowned.

Which, compared to the hiss and scowl he gave most people, meant he was decently happy to see you.

“Ah, my lovely assistant,” he greeted, the British accent flowing smoothly. “What brings you to the depths of a 200 level class?”

You set your backpack down on the closest desk and fished out the quizzes. “Finished these for you over the weekend and you weren’t in your office.”

“So you hand-delievered them?”

You shrugged. “Had some time.”

“Thank you, love,” he said, flipping through the stack of papers. 

“Also wanted to make sure you didn’t ruin my weekend like that again,” you put a hand on your hip and stared pointedly at the stack.

“Hm?”

“Handing me that on a Friday afternoon and asking for it this morning was a crap move, and you know it.” You kept your voice light enough to sound like teasing, but Crowley knew you well enough to know you were serious.

He nodded, just a brief tilt of the head. “Noted.”

“Thank you.”

The lecture hall was filling up, so he looked down at his watch. “Almost time. Would you want to stay for the lecture and discussion?” 

He hadn’t been looking at you, but you knew what the question meant. Crowley didn’t often ask questions where he didn’t already know the answer.

And he knew you loved Shakespeare. 

You nodded, trying to hide your excited smile. “Is that okay? I haven’t had a chance to sit in on any of your classes yet this semester.”

He gestured to the open desks on the front row. “Get comfortable.”

Dr. Crowley always started promptly at 9:00. The door opened at 9:01 to emit a student and he scowled at them, pausing his words until the poor kid found his seat. 

Dean had learned long ago that if he left on time for class, someone would inevitably stop him to talk about football or parties and he’d be late. So he made a habit of leaving the apartment earlier than needed and if campus wasn’t busy, he’d stop for a coffee. 

He was glad he had this morning. Even though you looked like hell and he knew you’d had a rough weekend, Dean had been glad to see you. He was already planning what his message would say later whenever he checked in.

The seat he’d grabbed on the first day of class was on the edge of the lecture hall, about 3/4 of the way up. All he wanted was to be out of the way and unrecognized. Since most of this class was people who were destined to be English majors, he hadn’t had much problem with people swarming him and the only rude question he’d gotten was why he was even taking this class.

Because I fuckin’ had to was what he always wanted to say. Instead he’d just shrugged and smiled. “Needed it.”

He’d needed one more English credit for his teaching major and by the time he’d signed up, this was the only one open.

Then he’d failed it.

So he took it again, thinking it would be easier the second time.

It wasn’t, but he had you in his corner now, so he was more optimistic.

“Alright,” Crowley said, nodding as the latecomer found his seat. “Last week, we extensively discussed Act 1 of Macbeth and you were supposed to have read Act 2 prior to today’s class for discussion.”

He turned to the side opposite Dean and gestured to someone sitting in the front row. “We do have a special guest with us today, by complete happenstance. Would you care to review Act 2 for us?”

Dean heard a laugh - a laugh he knew.

You stood from the desk and came to stand beside Crowley, coffee in hand. Apparently the caffeine had done more for you than anything, because you looked like yourself again. Dean made a mental note of that.

“Well, in case you didn’t read Act 2 or in case you did and forgot, let’s review it,” you began.

Dean was entranced. He listened as you covered Act 2 the same way you had started to last week, before you’d discussed his paper. Your eyes lit up the exact same way as whenever you talked to him about it, and damn if you didn’t look beautiful. 

“So Scene 1 ends with Macbeth already starting to struggle and deteriorate,” you explained. “In Scene 2, we get a view of Lady Macbeth. Remember, she’s been the one driving this train so far, really pushing her husband into the prophecies because she is ambitious — and to Shakespeare’s crowd, ambition was a sin.”

“Scene 2 sees the hallucination of the dagger and Duncan’s death off-screen. Now,” you looked out at the crowd. “What do you guys think was the most important part of Act 2?”

A kid near the front raised his hand and said, “Duncan’s death, obviously.”

“How so?”

It was fascinating to watch you teach. You knew the content, Dean knew that, but it was the way you could lead the students to the question without giving it away, making them think they’d done it on their own. He wanted to be embarrassed at knowing that you’d done that for him, more than once, but he just wasn’t. It wasn’t a testament to how bad he was at English, it was a testament to how good of a teacher you were. 

You finished with that student, leading him to a thought that maybe Duncan’s death wasn’t the most important point, and Dean thought he knew where you wanted the conversation to go, so he raised his hand.

Your eyes met his, the excitement never lagging. “Yes, Dean?”

All eyes in the lecture hall turned to him and he felt his palms growing sweaty again.

Funny, they never do that at football, he thought.

“I think the most important thing in this act is Lady Macbeth’s monologue,” he claimed, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck.

Just a slight tick in your smile, a barely there motion, and Dean knew he was on the right track.

“Go on,” you pressed, your voice neutral. 

“Well, doesn’t she say something about how she would’ve done it herself, but Duncan looked like her dad?”

“Yes, and why is that important?”

He smirked. “She just spent 20 minutes berating her husband because he forgot something simple, but then in the next breath, she admits that he had to do it because she couldn’t do it herself. That’s the whole ambition point, right? Women couldn’t do anything without a man attached to them, because of society and stuff, so it’s a metaphor for how women would … I don’t know, trap men into doing these ambitious things that they couldn’t otherwise do.”

“Yes,” you praised. “Her treatment of him, insulting him, cleaning up after him, and being dependent on him, is a direct metaphor for society in that time period.”

You gave a slight turn to go on to the next person, but you stopped, looking back at Dean, “Good work, Winchester.”

He scooted down in his seat, avoiding the jealous glares of the students who hadn’t made that connection, and he couldn’t stop the wave of pride in his chest. 

When his phone buzzed in his pocket, he fished it out. Crowley was one of the few professors who didn’t have an opinion on cell phones in class. To him, it was your tuition money, and if you wanted to waste it by not paying attention… wasn’t his problem.

Dean couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. You were funny. Funny in a way that wasn’t performative, too.

He’d met plenty of girls at high school and college parties that tried to appeal to his sense of humor, but it all just fell flat. Like Dean could tell within seconds that they were just attempting to get closer to him, like it was all a scam.

Not you though. 

He craved your humor. 

He could feel Crowley’s eyes on him, so he put his phone in his pocket and tried to focus as you led the rest of the class. It was hard.

You left a couple minutes before the class ended and Dean couldn’t help how bummed he felt. He’d wanted to chat with you, maybe walk you to your next class. He’d liked walking together this morning. But the idea of text you to see where you went just made him look like a creep. 

So he meandered through the rest of the day, going to his classes, taking notes, attempting to look like this morning hadn’t set a pace for the rest of his day. 

4 pm rolled around and Dean sat in the same lecture hall he’d been in this morning. His eyes kept flickering to where you’d sat, as if hoping you’d magically materialize in the middle of football study hall.

His laptop was open to the paper you’d helped him start, but it had the exact same amount of words that it did whenever he’d left the session Friday. His headphones were blasting his normal study playlist, but Dean felt he couldn’t focus. Shakespeare just reminded him of you. 

When Benny elbowed him, Dean nearly jumped out of his skin. He took out a headphone and raised an eyebrow at his friend. 

“How’s it goin’ with the Shakespeare class?”

Dean shrugged and hoped it was more nonchalant than he felt. “Feel like I’m getting better, but haven’t got any papers or quizzes back yet, so I don’t know.”

Castiel sat on Dean’s other side. “So the tutor’s helping?”

“Yeah, she’s awesome,” Dean answered. “Really knows her stuff. Good at teachin’ it too.”

“You seein’ her this week?” Benny’s Louisiana accent drawled out.

Dean shrugged. “Prob’ly once. She said she was working nearly all day today, so I think we’re gonna try for tomorrow.”

Coach Singer stood from the desk at the bottom of the hall and raised a hand for everyone’s attention. “Alright, folks. We’re doin’ film a little differently this week. Starters, you don’t have to join. Completely optional. If you are second-string for any position then you need to make sure you attend. We’ll be breaking down the third and fourth quarters only.”

Dean, Benny, and Castiel all looked at each other and grinned while the sophomores and freshman groaned. Like Dean had told you that morning, it was boring to break down film of other people playing the game. He’d endured his share of it when he’d been the second-string quarterback and it had been hell.

His friends started discussing what they would do with their evening off, and Benny started calculating the possibility of a small party. The cheerleaders always had Mondays off, so they would likely be down. Benny and Cas were buried in their phones, texting people from other athletics teams to see who’d want to come. 

Dean’s thoughts wandered to you. He scrunched his face as he took out his own phone. When had he ever invited a girl to a party? When had he ever even thought the words invite, girl, and party in the same sentence - unless the word don’t was included? 

Girls didn’t come to parties with Dean. They simply showed up to the same parties he was at and he didn’t have to do much beyond make sure the DD was sober. He didn’t take advantage of anyone by any means - girls threw themselves at him and he didn’t always bite.

But tonight he didn’t want to go home with someone he didn’t know or care about. In fact, after-party sex was a distant thought, something that hadn’t really entered his mind.

Dean wanted conversation. He thought about earlier during class - he wanted your conversation, your humor, your approval. 

You didn’t seem like much of a party girl, but you had looked so tired this morning that Dean doubted you’d be down for anything except a meal and a nap. 

The party seemed much less fun when he thought of himself there playing beer pong and you falling asleep on your kitchen table again.

And something you’d said this morning drifted back to him. I doubt I’ll have time to eat, much less …

He pulled out his phone too. He told himself it was a friend checking in on another friend, like friends do. He was a friend, he told himself. 

He frowned down at his phone. He didn’t like that. 

He knew what it was: Dean took care of people.

Like Sammy, for one. As the oldest brother, it was his job to take care of Sam - hell, it was why he was taking his grades so damn seriously this semester, why he made sure he wasn’t running around with cleat chasers or getting involved with any kind of ESPN-worthy scandal. He needed to be a good example for his brother. He couldn’t even count how many fights he’d been in during middle and high school because someone had said the wrong thing about his little brother. When Mom had been in the hospital and Dad was there with her, it was Dean who had made sure Sammy was fed, bathed, clothed, and at school on time. It was Dean who had reassured him that it was a routine thing and Mom would be home in no-time.

The guys on the team, for second. He had been made captain last year and he took that role seriously too. His guys wouldn’t follow anyone who didn’t practice what they preached, so Dean made sure he attended class, got decent grades (except for one class last semester), didn’t party the night before a game, took practice seriously, and took care of each other. He was a guy who checked on every player, regardless of whether or not they started, whether they were offense or defense or what the hell ever.

He took care of his people.

And now, he guessed, you were one of those people.

He had to make sure you ate, he reasoned. He was just making sure you were taking care of yourself. He didn’t like the bruises under your eyes this morning, but he remembered how much more energetic you’d seemed after the coffee.

Yeah. He was going to take care of you by making sure you took care of yourself tonight.

It was what friends did.

If you had to read one more bullshit answer about how Gatsby was “the ultimate player,” you were going to scream. They were all hand-written, in-class assignments, so you knew none of this shit was AI, but you weren’t sure if that made it better or worse.

When your phone buzzed, you were only too eager to use the distraction.

You grinned, changing the name of the group chat to “Resist the 🍆” instead. You chuckled to yourself and looked around the library, hoping you hadn’t disturbed anyone else. 

You groaned and looked at the stack before you. Your class was tomorrow. 

No matter how much you’d like a break, you needed to finish these. You needed to hand them back out to your own students so that they had good feedback before you started the next assignment. You put your head against your hand - this was miserable. 

You wanted to go. You hadn’t been to a party yet this semester, being weighed down by tutoring sessions and TA duties, not to mention anything else Dr. Mills wanted you to excel at. And you had your own full course load this semester. 

But you missed being care-free. You’d known this semester was going to be hard, but it was only a week and a half in and you were so tired of being responsible. You didn’t even feel like you were in college - not the way the movies described it. This was supposed to be the last hoo-rah, your last chance to be a dumb kid before the weight of real life came crashing down.

And you were missing it to grade papers in the library. When did you stop being a college student and start being a real adult?

Alright, you took a deep breath and thought of a compromise. Because someone did need to make sure Jo didn’t fall back into bed with Benny. Their relationship was tumultuous at best and she just kept falling for the cycle over and over. If you were sober and hung out with them, then 1. You wouldn’t be too hungover to grade papers, and 2. You would be clear thinking enough to make sure she didn’t do anything stupid.

Decision made, you picked up your phone again. 

You groaned and looked at the clock. It was only 6. Your back ached, your head ached, and you were ready to just go home to your apartment and take a nice shower. 

But you knew that your friends were counting on you to come get them.

And judging by the snaps you’d already been sent of Jo sitting on Benny’s lap… they needed a sober voice in their ear. 

You were about to pick everything up and just go home when your phone buzzed again. 

Your heart sank a little in your chest. That made sense. Bela was… Bela. She was beautiful and smart, why wouldn’t anyone talk to her at a party? Especially someone like Dean.

You shook your head. Dean was not a thought you wanted to entertain. He was simply someone you were tutoring.

Even if you had thought about him during the rest of your sessions and classes today. And even if he was a breath of fresh air to you.

And even if he was fucking handsome. 

Not that you were saying he was. 

You stared down at the messages. He’d asked about you? 

Where your stomach had felt empty and hollow a few minutes ago, you felt the butterflies again. The same butterflies you had promptly banished earlier in the week. 

Rationally, it made sense that Dean would ask where you were. After all, your three roommates were there, and one of said roommates was fucking (or hopefully not fucking) one of Dean’s roommates. It would make sense that he would ask where the missing person was. 

You coughed, trying to keep from giving yourself hope. Dean was Dean. You were you. Your two lives only intersected because he was failing English and you were good at it. This wasn’t anything other than what it was.

You narrowed your eyes at the phone. Why would Bela lie? Wouldn’t it make more sense to just tell Dean that you were coming?

Bela was such a genius. But your heart began to pound heavily at the idea of Dean being mopey that you weren’t coming. Like he actually wanted to see you over any of the other girls at the party that would likely be throwing themselves at him.

You checked the time - it was only 6. You could easily go back to the apartment and freshen up, maybe even throw on a cute outfit and still have plenty of time to get there by midnight with the girls.

You nodded, packing up the quizzes and clipping together papers before putting them away neatly in your bag. You turned, satisfied with the events of the day (even if you were going to be grading for almost all of tomorrow morning), and started mentally going through all four of your closets to find the perfect going out top. 

A hard chest met you in the aisle and you nearly lost your balance. You looked up and heard “Easy there, sweetheart” in a familiar drawl, right next to your ear.

Holding on to the arms of the obstacle, you looked into the pure green eyes of Dean Winchester. 

He grinned, taking a step back out of your embrace. 

“Sweetness,” you breathed. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” he shot back, grin still plastered on his face. 

“I thought you were at the party?”

He looked away then, flush creeping up out of his collar. One hand grazed the back of his head and you noticed a Starbucks cup in the other. 

“What’s this?” You smiled.

He extended the cup to you. “Little pick me up.”

“What?” 

You took the coffee from him, your lips still parted in surprise. 

He shrugged. “You said you had a rough night and that the coffee helped earlier. Thought you might need another if you were gonna be working all night.”

“Wow,” you could feel your cheeks heating again. “Two in one day?”

He shrugged and reached up to adjust his snapback. “Hope you don’t mind,” Dean said, smirking, “but I did take a sip. Never had one before.”

“Did you like it?”

He nodded, raising his eyebrows. “Don’t tell anyone. Real men drink it black.”

“Ew,” you teased, taking a sip of it yourself. “Wait a second, didn’t you just have a frappe this morning?”

“Not answerin’ that.” He smirked.

“Hmm,” you took a drink and smiled. 

He noted the backpack and clean table behind you. “Looks like you weren’t really planning on staying here the rest of the night.”

“Girls convinced me. Not often we get a first-string-only party invite.”

The flush was creeping up to his ears and Dean thrust his hands into his jeans pockets. 

You looked at the rest of him. Gone was the sweatsuit combo and sneakers. Dean wore some jeans with a couple holes in the knees, a black State t-shirt, a pair of boots, and a State snapback turned backwards.

Your mouth went dry. He was so fucking handsome. You took another drink. 

“Doesn’t look like you came for a study session, either.”

He exhaled in a light chuckle. “Caught me. But the girls did say you were their ride home. Wanna head back to the party with me?”

When you examined him, he held up a hand. “Haven’t had anything to drink yet, swear.”

You bit your lip and looked down at his outfit, then to yours. You had managed to do some wonderful things with dry shampoo this morning, and a little mascara had helped, but it wasn’t the fabulous party outfit you’d had planned when you packed up. 

“You look fine,” he offered, reading your gaze.

“Oh?”

He nodded and reached up to put a piece of your hair behind your ear. “Yeah. Besides, this is supposed to be kinda chill, anyway.”

“Alright, then.” 

You fell into step beside Dean, a little shocked when he reached for your backpack and slung it over his own shoulder. “This is a little heavy,” he groaned, grinning.

“Hard life of a TA,” you rolled your eyes. “My muscles are probably bigger than yours.”

He looked down at you out of the corner of his eye again. “Probably. Remind me not to mess with you, sweetheart.”

You grinned at him, glad he’d come to the library for the coffee. “What were you going to do if I was staying at the library?” You heard yourself ask.

He shrugged. “Dunno. Probably hang out with you until you kicked me out.”

“Oh?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “Yeah, I was surprised when Bela said you were their ride home. I figured you’d want to crash early after the weekend and day you had.”

You stared at him for a few moments, bringing the coffee to your lips for a lack of something to do with your hands. He’d remembered. He’d remembered what you’d told him about your day. 

It was sweet. 

And not at all the playboy attitude you’d heard rumors about. 

“I have a late start tomorrow,” you heard yourself saying. “Besides, someone’s gotta keep Jo the hell away from Benny.”

He clicked the keys and the headlights of a black Chevy pickup shined in the dim parking lot. 

“That so?” He raised an eyebrow. He was walking a pace ahead of you, looking almost over his shoulder at you. 

You shrugged. “Isn’t he your best friend?”

“Yeah, him ’n Cas.”

“And you don’t mind him and Jo hooking up again?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I try not to get involved in my friends’ relationships.”

“Dean,” you reached out and grabbed his elbow. He stopped suddenly, turning almost too fast so that he faced you. You looked up and he looked down at you and —

There was no room. You were almost chest to chest.

You exhaled, wondering why there wasn’t enough air suddenly, even though you were outside in an almost-empty parking lot. 

“What is it, sweetheart?” He murmured, lips just barely moving. 

You swallowed and looked away from his lips. 

“You don’t seriously think the two of them are good together, do you?”

His eyes never left yours. You could see the building heat and inferno behind them. Was he burning just the way you were? You weren’t even touching.

“No, I don’t,” he answered honestly. “But Benny’s never asked me, so I keep my mouth shut.”

His eyes flicked down to your lips and your tongue reached out to wet them. His eyes darkened as he saw the movement. 

“H-has Jo asked you?”

You nodded. “We’re the ones who have to pick her up and take care of her whenever he breaks her heart.”

A car door slammed somewhere in the parking lot and you both startled. Your first instinct had been to back away from Dean, like you didn’t want anyone to see you together, but Dean’s hands had shot out for your arms, pulling you close to him. 

You exhaled, the tightness in your chest and the pool of heat under your ribs rising. 

“We should - uh, we should probably head out,” his voice was husky and rough.

“Is this you?” You asked, pointing to the Chevy.

“Sure is,” he answered, opening the passenger door for you. He held your hand as you stepped up on the running board, only handing you the backpack once you were sitting.

“It’s a nice truck,” you commented when he climbed in the driver’s side.

“Yeah, it’s alright.”

“Alright?” You repeated. You gestured to the cab. “Dean, this is nice.”

He grinned, putting keys in the ignition and firing it to life. “It’s a decent truck, I’ll give you that, but it’s not my favorite.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What is your favorite?”

The radio started, playing some classic rock station. Dean turned down the radio before fishing his phone out of his pocket. He unlocked it and you saw him swiping through pictures for a second. 

“There she is,” he beamed, showing you the picture. “That’s my girl.”

It was a black four door - maybe something from the late 60’s. It was sharp. Well maintained, you could tell. 

And there was Dean, leaned back against the driver’s door with a huge smile at whoever was taking the picture.

“She’s beautiful, Dean.”

“’67 Chevy Impala,” he told you. “Built’er from the ground up.”

That raised your eyebrows. “Really? Dean that’s - that’s … wow. I didn’t know you worked on cars like that.”

He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, but the grin he hid told you it was. He put the phone in the holder on the dash and clicked it off. “Dad gave it to me, but it was in poor shape. He runs his own body shop, so he taught me what to do, but I did it all myself.”

He put the truck in reverse and began to back out of the space, ignoring the back-up camera and putting his hand on the shoulder of your seat so he could turn and see behind him.

You pressed your legs together. Until tonight, you’d had no idea how fucking hot that was.

Once he put it in drive and started for Michael’s house, you found your voice again. “Guess I’ll call you if I ever need anything done to my car.”

He glanced over at you and raised an eyebrow. “Somethin’ wrong with your car, sweetheart?”

“Oh, no,” you assured him. “Just saying, if I ever do need something.”

His left hand was on the steering wheel, easily maneuvering through the side streets. His right was extended over the console and you looked down, noticing it was next to yours. Dean looked down too, away from the road, and you saw his fingers twitch toward yours. 

“Absolutely. What do you drive?”

“Just a Camry,” you told him. “Something good on gas.”

He grinned. “Easy car to work on. But if I ever need a roadtrip, then I guess I’ll be comin’ to you.”

He adjusted in his seat and casually brushed his fingers with yours. Casual enough that you figured he’d call it an accident if you didn’t reciprocate.

You flushed, moving so your pinky finger brushed against his. Just enough of a confirmation. 

“I - I’d like to see it someday,” you blurted, anything to break the tension. “The - uh - the Impala.”

Dean’s hand snapped back and formed a fist. He sat it down on the console, but he was tense, as if it took effort to be slow and careful. He chuckled. “I usually bring it up from home, just a couple times a year though.”

“Why only a couple?”

“Have you seen the way people drive here? I’d come back to a missing mirror or some shit. Absolutely not.”

You laughed then, reaching tentative fingers to his forearm. “You’re pretty protective, Sweetness.”

He looked at you out of the corner of his eye again and you saw the green in his eyes all lit up. He looked down at his arm and back up to you, eyes softer, smile brighter. 

“Hey now, don’t knock my baby. I gotta take care of my girl.”

Michael and Gabe lived at the end of a cul-de-sac in a two-story house with a good size yard and basement. It was usually the party house because all of their neighbors also attended State University, so there was never anyone to really call the cops if they got too loud. 

You’d only been a couple of times, mostly at the end of the last football season. Michael and Gabe’s parties were the stuff of legends, and both that you’d been to had been overcrowded and way too hot. Not really your vibe. 

There were only a few cars in the driveway and spread throughout the cul-de-sac, so you guess it really was a chill party like Dean had said. 

He parked the truck and turned back the ignition, releasing the keys.

“When I left earlier, everyone was out back by the fire pit.”

“Oh?”

“Yep,” he answered. “It’s finally cooled off enough for a bonfire… that okay with you?”

You crossed your legs, jiggling your toes to try to keep from being completely anxious. 

“Because, if not,” Dean started speaking quickly, he ran a hand over the back of his neck, “I can take you home and I’ll bring the girls home, it’s no big deal —”

“Dean,” you interrupted, squeezing his forearm. “A bonfire sounds fantastic.”

His shoulders drooped with relief, he put his warm hand on top of yours. “Yeah?”

You nodded and bit your lip. “I didn’t bring a chair or anything, though.”

He smirked. “No worries about that. C’mon.”

The lights of the cab were almost too bright as you opened the doors wide. Dean was at your side before you could climb down onto the sidewalk, a hand at your elbow. He clicked the lock of the truck and pocketed the keys efficiently, leading you toward the carport. 

He said nothing as his hand grasped yours, but you felt the explosion of electricity echoing through you at the simple touch. You looked up and saw the corners of his eyes crinkle in a smile, but the flush creeping up his neck betrayed his bravado.

The carport housed a truck that was every bit of brand spankin’ new, but Dean went around it, passing the side door to the kitchen. You saw the glow of the bonfire in the backyard and stiffened.

Dean, ever observant, paused, hand still in yours. “You ready?”

You bit your lip. “Won’t people… talk if we show up together?”

He shrugged, the gesture meant to be nonchalant, but you saw the tick in his jaw. “They’re gonna talk regardless.”

You smirked, elbowing him in the side. “Just hate to ruin your rep, Winchester. I’d hate for all those pretty girls to know you’re off the market.”

A corner of his mouth quirked up into that smirk you were beginning to love. “C’mon, sweetheart.” Then he winked.

The heat between your legs was instant. You’d seen old men leering and winking before, but when Dean Winchester winked at you…

Well, that was different altogether. 

You cleared your throat, recovering quickly. You were almost sure that Dean had noticed what the wink had done to you, but he didn’t say anything. Maybe he didn’t want to embarrass you further. 

Either way, he pulled on your hand and took a step toward the bonfire. 

“Actually,” Dean murmured, pulling you back into the shadows of the carport. 

“What?”

Dean leaned down to your ear. You felt his smile against the shell of your ear and shivers erupted down your spine.  “Wanna give’em somethin’ to really talk about?”

You looked up through your lashes. “Like what?”

His hand let go of yours and you hated the way your chest caved at the loss of warmth, but it was quickly replaced when he wound his arm around your shoulders, bending it and drawing you in close. Your hand found his on your shoulder and threaded your fingers through his again.

Oh yeah, this was much better. 

“Stick with me, Shakespeare. We’ll wow’em all tonight.”

“Easy there, Sweetness,” you teased, falling into step with him.

Coming into sight of the bonfire, you were greeted with screams and yells from your already-too-drunk friends. The bonfire was large, but not dangerously large, with several coolers spread out around the circle with folding chairs and hay bales in between. 

It was nearly the entire varsity roster, but there were a few of the second-stringers trickling in, and you knew there would be more before the night was truly over. 

You clocked Jo sitting on a hay bale next to Benny and frowned. She was very drunk with a red solo cup in hand, but Benny was just as (if not more) drunk thank she was, so you let it go for the moment. As long as they didn’t slip away together, it would be easy to pry her from him when it was time to go home.

Bela would be harder. 

There was an a-frame that had been pulled up close to the fire with a wooden bench swing, and as one of the hosts, Michael had claimed a seat. He had a cushion behind his back as he sat up against the arm of it, legs sprawled down the length of the bench.

And Bela had claimed his lap. She was curled up between his legs, leaned against his back, sipping on her own beer bottle. Her face was calm and casual, but her eyes danced and gleamed. She was exactly where she wanted to be, and if the opportunity presented itself, you knew there was no way in hell you’d get her to come home with you and the girls tonight.

Charlie sat over to the side with one of the other cheerleaders, Dorothy or something stupid. They looked cozy, but nothing inappropriate.

Dean’s arm stayed around you as he greeted the group. There were high-fives and hands shaken, beers offered (and refused, since Dean insisted on driving you girls home), and everyone was nice to you as well. Most of them already knew your name, since you were roommates with Bela and Jo, but they only knew you in passing or by name. You took a Smirnoff from one of the cheerleaders and handed it to Dean to open.

There was an empty fold out chair, and Dean wasted no time in claiming it. “More comfortable than the damn hay bales,” he explained, plopping himself down into it. 

You raised your eyebrows at him. The nearest seat was a few feet away, and you couldn’t help the desire that curled through you at wanting to still be close to him.

He winked again and that desire increased tenfold. Surely he’d be able to tell.

His hands grasped at yours, taking the Smirnoff and putting it in the cloth cupholder before pulling you sharply into his lap. You wobbled, off-balance, before crashing into his space, coming down almost too hard on his thigh.

“There you go,” he whispered into your ear. “Get comfortable.”

He spread his legs wider, giving you room to put your legs between them. His arm came behind your back, resting along the arm rest but still supporting you. His fingertips grazed under your sweatshirt, just dusting the little bit of exposed skin. 

Just light enough to send goosebumps racing across your back.

“Cold, sweetheart?”

You reached for your drink and smirked. “Maybe I should move closer to the fire.” You planted your feet, feinting like you were going to get up.

“Not a chance.” His voice was husky as both hands encircled your waist, crushing you back down to him and drawing you in to his chest. “I’ll keep you warm, I promise,” he murmured in your ear.

You felt his body tense as he leaned up, just enough to ghost his lips over your cheek. Your chest felt light and fuzzy and you hoped the dim light of the bonfire covered the darkening blush across your cheeks.

“Plenty to talk about, huh?” You pressed the cold bottle to your lips.

Being a tutor and a TA was a great first step for someone in college. 

But good grief was it an exhausting one. 

You’d had five tutoring sessions on Saturday, way more than your average, but several of the usual tutors had decided to travel with the football team and asked you to cover for them. Even though it was short notice, you’d accepted eagerly, hoping to really do well on your next paycheck. 

By the third one, however, you were missing Dean’s quick wit and attitude. The students in front of you weren’t stupid, exactly, but it was a miracle a couple of them could even read, much less produce high level work. They’d worked without wasting your time and they’d signed the timesheet, so you tried not to think too poorly of them even in your own head.

The worst part was, they’d all been back-to-backs, so you hadn’t even gotten to watch the livestream of Dean’s scrimmage and you weren’t sure why that disappointed you. 

There was a hesitation to text him Saturday morning, like Bela and Jo were urging you to. Apparently “good luck” texts to athletes were a common courtesy, but you didn’t want to blur the line between tutor and friend, so you’d resisted. But your finger had hovered over the Send button for far too long in between your study sessions. 

Bela and Jo had decided to go with some other cheerleaders and you might have lingered on a few pictures they’d sent you of Dean in action.

Although if interrogated, you’d deny it to your dying breath.

Once the tutoring sessions were over, you’d checked your phone to an update from Jo saying that the team had won by a landslide and most of the starters had been taken out early in the 3rd quarter. You were glad, Dean had been stressing about the game and this was a good start to the season.

But tutoring wasn’t your only job this semester. So you munched on a granola bar you’d packed in your backpack and cracked your neck as you approached the mounting work of being a TA. Dr. Crowley might have been a Grade-A Asshole with every other TA, but he was more than fair to you. You taught a couple of his upper-level classes, but they were small, so there was never a crazy grading work lode. 

His freshman level classes however… every freshman at State had to have those classes, so they were always massive. The stack of quizzes he’d handed you the day before was extremely thick and none of the questions were multiple choice.

Awesome. 

It took almost all of the evening Saturday and into the afternoon on Sunday to grade the stack with a level of feedback you knew Crowley would approve of. You made a mental note to discuss it with him on Monday because expecting you to finish that amount of quizzes in two days was unethical and near impossible. You would not be doing that again.

By the time you crept out of your bedroom on Sunday evening, you were ready to fall out. By the time your laundry had finished at 1 am Monday morning, you’d fallen asleep at the kitchen table.

Dr. Crowley’s first class was at 9 am, so when Jo woke you at the kitchen table on her way out the door to her 8 am class, you still had plenty of time to make yourself semi-presentable (meaning, the most comfortable clothes you owned and a wee bit of dry shampoo so your hair looked like it had been washed in the last 3 days) and stop by the Starbucks on campus before you handed them off. Then you’d have time to hit the library and get your life together before your first class at 10. 

Excellent plan. 

State University had a large campus, so there were plenty of coffee shops spread throughout, but this one was closest to your apartment and that made it the best. 8:15 am was still plenty early for college students on a Monday, so you weren’t surprised to see that there were less than five patrons within.

“Looks like you need it directly into your veins, sweetheart.” A familiar voice called. 

You looked over your shoulder to see Dean Winchester with a ball cap pulled down low over his eyes. “Gee, thanks, you look like shit too. Party too hard after the easy win?”

He grimaced, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “You see the game?”

You shook your head and faced forward again. “Nope. Had to work all weekend.”

“That sucks,” he said. 

“Jo and Bela went though, they sent me updates.”

“Oh yeah?” He raised his eyebrows. “We’ll have to get you to a game here soon.”

The silence fell easily as you waited in line. You were glad, you had a headache and you were sore from sleeping at the table the night before. Honestly, if you tried, you could probably take a 5 minute nap standing up while you waited for — 

“What’s your poison?” 

When you looked at him, eyes a little dazed, he had pointed up to the menu. “You one’a those ‘secret menu’ girls?”

“Nope. Just a plain ole white chocolate mocha.”

“Pretty basic,” he commented. “Least it’s not Pumpkin Spice.” He struck his tongue out.

“Give me a couple weeks,” you quipped, hoping your voice didn’t sound as dead as you felt. “First time I see a leaf fall off a tree, it’ll be all PSLs for months.”

He frowned then. Apparently your bravado had not covered your exhaustion. “Somethin’ wrong?”

You shrugged. “Told you I worked all weekend. It’s caught up to me. I fell asleep at the kitchen table last night after midnight. And Mondays are always my busiest day.”

“Ooh, that’s not good. Definitely need the extra espresso shot then.”

By then, you’d made it to the front. Your order was pretty basic and it ranked your nerves that Dean had said so. You added a cake pop just for some pizazz. 

Once you’d gotten the total, you pulled out your student flex card to pay, but Dean’s hand whipped out to cover yours. “She’s with me.”

“You sure?”

He smirked and nodded. For all that he’d teased you, Dean was pretty basic too, ordering a s’mores frappe and a cake pop before paying with a debit card instead of the student flex card. He came to stand next to you while you waited together. 

“Guess today’s not a good day to ask for a study session,” he ventured, hands in his sweats. 

“Not today, Sweetness.”

He grinned at that. “What?”

He shrugged. “Nothin’. Prospect of caffeine’s makin’ you feel a little better, huh?”

You rolled your eyes. “But no, I doubt I’ll have time to eat between now and 9 pm, much less an hour to study.”

“Oh yeah? That busy?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you have practice or something?”

He nodded and reached with one hand for the ball cap, turning it around backwards. “Just came from the weight room, actually. Got study hall this afternoon at 4, then film at 5.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“No,” he chuckled. “Normally, we analyze the film and it’s not so bad. You get to see where you messed up, what you could do better, stuff like that. But after a game like Saturday, there’s not much for the starters to analyze.”

“So it’ll focus on the 2nd and 3rd string guys, huh?”

He nodded. “Great for them, boring for me.”

Your names were called at the same time and you both stepped forward. The coffees were next to each other, the cake pops in one bag.

Reaching for them at the same time, you jumped whenever your fingers touched. You let out a chuckle and flicked your eyes up to Dean, who wore the same smirking expression he had when you’d called him Sweetness. You reached again and grabbed your coffee while Dean took his and the cake pop bag.

“Thanks for the coffee,” you said as he held the door open for you. 

“No problem, least I could do since you’ve been helpin’ me.”

You took a sip and let the iced caffeine goodness sink into your veins. “Oh, god this stuff is good. But you know I get paid for that, right? You don’t owe me anything.”

He took a sip of his, other hand deep in the pocket of his sweatpants. “Yeah, I know. You’ve just been nicer than you had to be, so I wanted to do somethin’ nice.”

You just nodded and walked along, feeling better with every sip.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“I know a way you can pay me back.”

He looked out of the corner of his eye down to you. “Oh, yeah? What is it, sweetheart?”

You eyed his frappe. “Let me try your drink — I haven’t had that one.”

He scoffed and grinned at you. “How do I know you don’t got cooties or somethin’?”

“Ew,” you scrunched your nose. “What are we, seven?”

He reached over and let you take a drink from the straw. 

“Very nice,” you complimented. “Definitely tastes like s’mores.”

“Tastes like fall,” he clarified. “Glad we’re even now.” He leaned over, nudging your shoulder.

“Till the next session, anyway.”

The English building was one of the larger on campus and you were surprised when Dean opened the door and followed you inside. 

“Don’t work too hard today,” he said, frowning a little with … concern?

You smiled. “Got my caffeine now, I’ll be fine till tonight, at least.”

He nodded. “Well, let me know what tomorrow looks like for you. Have a good day.”

“You too, and thanks for the coffee.”

You parted ways then, waving as you headed toward Dr. Crowley’s office and Dean went in the direction of the lecture halls. Dr. Crowley’s office was one of the more … eccentric of the staff. He had amassed a rather large collection of antiquities, as he called them. To you, it looked like something off a Hoarders and American Pickers crossover.

The worst part was, Crowley would answer questions about none of them. You’d tried. Not where he’d got them, when, how much they were, or even what they were. You’d taken pictures of some of the more interesting ones, hoping to reverse Google Search them, but they’d mysteriously come up with no results.

More than once, you’d wondered if Crowley had broken into the Vatican archives or something. He had to know people in order to get this much useless and anonymous stuff.

Since the door was open, you let yourself in and walked around the space, observing if anything had been added since you’d been there on Friday. 

Of course, Dr. Crowley wasn’t there when you called, and he hated when you just left things on his desk for him to find later. You took another sip of your coffee and groaned at the prospect of finding him before his next class.

As his TA, one of your jobs was to lead his classes and generally take some of the work load off him. He preferred to teach the freshman lectures himself, citing that it was “fun” to mess with the younger crowd, as well as the 400 level classes so he could dive a little deeper into the works with them.

The only class that you’d ever asked him to give to you was the 205 - the Shakespeare class, and it was the only one he’d steadfastly refused, telling you it was his favorite. Oh well, you were glad you weren’t teaching it - Dean needed help and he was honorable about making sure you got paid. 

Which was the whole point.

You checked your watch and looked up at the schedule on Dr. Crowley’s office door. He was about to start the 205 Shakespeare class …

It would be a good opportunity to see Dean. The thought popped unbidden into your mind and you felt yourself start to flush. 

To see Dean, in action, in class, so I can see if he’s actually participating, you amended to yourself, setting your shoulders straight and marching in the direction of the classroom. This was for purely professional reasons - you needed to give Dr. Crowley the quizzes and you wanted to see how the student you were tutoring actually did in class.

That was it.

So why were you so nervous as you reached for the door? Why did it feel like you were walking into a test you hadn’t studied for? 

You’d already seen him this morning. He’d paid for your coffee and walked you to the building. You hadn’t been this nervous when you’d heard his voice behind you in the coffee shop.

Maybe there was no time to panic, that same voice said in your head. 

You figuratively rolled your eyes at that little voice and filed in the lecture hall in behind another student. 

Crowley was at the bottom of the lecture hall, which was built staggered into a pit so that every student could see easily. He was leaned against the desk, arms crossed over his chest, when he noticed you.

And frowned.

Which, compared to the hiss and scowl he gave most people, meant he was decently happy to see you.

“Ah, my lovely assistant,” he greeted, the British accent flowing smoothly. “What brings you to the depths of a 200 level class?”

You set your backpack down on the closest desk and fished out the quizzes. “Finished these for you over the weekend and you weren’t in your office.”

“So you hand-delievered them?”

You shrugged. “Had some time.”

“Thank you, love,” he said, flipping through the stack of papers. 

“Also wanted to make sure you didn’t ruin my weekend like that again,” you put a hand on your hip and stared pointedly at the stack.

“Hm?”

“Handing me that on a Friday afternoon and asking for it this morning was a crap move, and you know it.” You kept your voice light enough to sound like teasing, but Crowley knew you well enough to know you were serious.

He nodded, just a brief tilt of the head. “Noted.”

“Thank you.”

The lecture hall was filling up, so he looked down at his watch. “Almost time. Would you want to stay for the lecture and discussion?” 

He hadn’t been looking at you, but you knew what the question meant. Crowley didn’t often ask questions where he didn’t already know the answer.

And he knew you loved Shakespeare. 

You nodded, trying to hide your excited smile. “Is that okay? I haven’t had a chance to sit in on any of your classes yet this semester.”

He gestured to the open desks on the front row. “Get comfortable.”

Dr. Crowley always started promptly at 9:00. The door opened at 9:01 to emit a student and he scowled at them, pausing his words until the poor kid found his seat. 

Dean had learned long ago that if he left on time for class, someone would inevitably stop him to talk about football or parties and he’d be late. So he made a habit of leaving the apartment earlier than needed and if campus wasn’t busy, he’d stop for a coffee. 

He was glad he had this morning. Even though you looked like hell and he knew you’d had a rough weekend, Dean had been glad to see you. He was already planning what his message would say later whenever he checked in.

The seat he’d grabbed on the first day of class was on the edge of the lecture hall, about 3/4 of the way up. All he wanted was to be out of the way and unrecognized. Since most of this class was people who were destined to be English majors, he hadn’t had much problem with people swarming him and the only rude question he’d gotten was why he was even taking this class.

Because I fuckin’ had to was what he always wanted to say. Instead he’d just shrugged and smiled. “Needed it.”

He’d needed one more English credit for his teaching major and by the time he’d signed up, this was the only one open.

Then he’d failed it.

So he took it again, thinking it would be easier the second time.

It wasn’t, but he had you in his corner now, so he was more optimistic.

“Alright,” Crowley said, nodding as the latecomer found his seat. “Last week, we extensively discussed Act 1 of Macbeth and you were supposed to have read Act 2 prior to today’s class for discussion.”

He turned to the side opposite Dean and gestured to someone sitting in the front row. “We do have a special guest with us today, by complete happenstance. Would you care to review Act 2 for us?”

Dean heard a laugh - a laugh he knew.

You stood from the desk and came to stand beside Crowley, coffee in hand. Apparently the caffeine had done more for you than anything, because you looked like yourself again. Dean made a mental note of that.

“Well, in case you didn’t read Act 2 or in case you did and forgot, let’s review it,” you began.

Dean was entranced. He listened as you covered Act 2 the same way you had started to last week, before you’d discussed his paper. Your eyes lit up the exact same way as whenever you talked to him about it, and damn if you didn’t look beautiful. 

“So Scene 1 ends with Macbeth already starting to struggle and deteriorate,” you explained. “In Scene 2, we get a view of Lady Macbeth. Remember, she’s been the one driving this train so far, really pushing her husband into the prophecies because she is ambitious — and to Shakespeare’s crowd, ambition was a sin.”

“Scene 2 sees the hallucination of the dagger and Duncan’s death off-screen. Now,” you looked out at the crowd. “What do you guys think was the most important part of Act 2?”

A kid near the front raised his hand and said, “Duncan’s death, obviously.”

“How so?”

It was fascinating to watch you teach. You knew the content, Dean knew that, but it was the way you could lead the students to the question without giving it away, making them think they’d done it on their own. He wanted to be embarrassed at knowing that you’d done that for him, more than once, but he just wasn’t. It wasn’t a testament to how bad he was at English, it was a testament to how good of a teacher you were. 

You finished with that student, leading him to a thought that maybe Duncan’s death wasn’t the most important point, and Dean thought he knew where you wanted the conversation to go, so he raised his hand.

Your eyes met his, the excitement never lagging. “Yes, Dean?”

All eyes in the lecture hall turned to him and he felt his palms growing sweaty again.

Funny, they never do that at football, he thought.

“I think the most important thing in this act is Lady Macbeth’s monologue,” he claimed, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck.

Just a slight tick in your smile, a barely there motion, and Dean knew he was on the right track.

“Go on,” you pressed, your voice neutral. 

“Well, doesn’t she say something about how she would’ve done it herself, but Duncan looked like her dad?”

“Yes, and why is that important?”

He smirked. “She just spent 20 minutes berating her husband because he forgot something simple, but then in the next breath, she admits that he had to do it because she couldn’t do it herself. That’s the whole ambition point, right? Women couldn’t do anything without a man attached to them, because of society and stuff, so it’s a metaphor for how women would … I don’t know, trap men into doing these ambitious things that they couldn’t otherwise do.”

“Yes,” you praised. “Her treatment of him, insulting him, cleaning up after him, and being dependent on him, is a direct metaphor for society in that time period.”

You gave a slight turn to go on to the next person, but you stopped, looking back at Dean, “Good work, Winchester.”

He scooted down in his seat, avoiding the jealous glares of the students who hadn’t made that connection, and he couldn’t stop the wave of pride in his chest. 

When his phone buzzed in his pocket, he fished it out. Crowley was one of the few professors who didn’t have an opinion on cell phones in class. To him, it was your tuition money, and if you wanted to waste it by not paying attention… wasn’t his problem.

Dean couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. You were funny. Funny in a way that wasn’t performative, too.

He’d met plenty of girls at high school and college parties that tried to appeal to his sense of humor, but it all just fell flat. Like Dean could tell within seconds that they were just attempting to get closer to him, like it was all a scam.

Not you though. 

He craved your humor. 

He could feel Crowley’s eyes on him, so he put his phone in his pocket and tried to focus as you led the rest of the class. It was hard.

You left a couple minutes before the class ended and Dean couldn’t help how bummed he felt. He’d wanted to chat with you, maybe walk you to your next class. He’d liked walking together this morning. But the idea of text you to see where you went just made him look like a creep. 

So he meandered through the rest of the day, going to his classes, taking notes, attempting to look like this morning hadn’t set a pace for the rest of his day. 

4 pm rolled around and Dean sat in the same lecture hall he’d been in this morning. His eyes kept flickering to where you’d sat, as if hoping you’d magically materialize in the middle of football study hall.

His laptop was open to the paper you’d helped him start, but it had the exact same amount of words that it did whenever he’d left the session Friday. His headphones were blasting his normal study playlist, but Dean felt he couldn’t focus. Shakespeare just reminded him of you. 

When Benny elbowed him, Dean nearly jumped out of his skin. He took out a headphone and raised an eyebrow at his friend. 

“How’s it goin’ with the Shakespeare class?”

Dean shrugged and hoped it was more nonchalant than he felt. “Feel like I’m getting better, but haven’t got any papers or quizzes back yet, so I don’t know.”

Castiel sat on Dean’s other side. “So the tutor’s helping?”

“Yeah, she’s awesome,” Dean answered. “Really knows her stuff. Good at teachin’ it too.”

“You seein’ her this week?” Benny’s Louisiana accent drawled out.

Dean shrugged. “Prob’ly once. She said she was working nearly all day today, so I think we’re gonna try for tomorrow.”

Coach Singer stood from the desk at the bottom of the hall and raised a hand for everyone’s attention. “Alright, folks. We’re doin’ film a little differently this week. Starters, you don’t have to join. Completely optional. If you are second-string for any position then you need to make sure you attend. We’ll be breaking down the third and fourth quarters only.”

Dean, Benny, and Castiel all looked at each other and grinned while the sophomores and freshman groaned. Like Dean had told you that morning, it was boring to break down film of other people playing the game. He’d endured his share of it when he’d been the second-string quarterback and it had been hell.

His friends started discussing what they would do with their evening off, and Benny started calculating the possibility of a small party. The cheerleaders always had Mondays off, so they would likely be down. Benny and Cas were buried in their phones, texting people from other athletics teams to see who’d want to come. 

Dean’s thoughts wandered to you. He scrunched his face as he took out his own phone. When had he ever invited a girl to a party? When had he ever even thought the words invite, girl, and party in the same sentence - unless the word don’t was included? 

Girls didn’t come to parties with Dean. They simply showed up to the same parties he was at and he didn’t have to do much beyond make sure the DD was sober. He didn’t take advantage of anyone by any means - girls threw themselves at him and he didn’t always bite.

But tonight he didn’t want to go home with someone he didn’t know or care about. In fact, after-party sex was a distant thought, something that hadn’t really entered his mind.

Dean wanted conversation. He thought about earlier during class - he wanted your conversation, your humor, your approval. 

You didn’t seem like much of a party girl, but you had looked so tired this morning that Dean doubted you’d be down for anything except a meal and a nap. 

The party seemed much less fun when he thought of himself there playing beer pong and you falling asleep on your kitchen table again.

And something you’d said this morning drifted back to him. I doubt I’ll have time to eat, much less …

He pulled out his phone too. He told himself it was a friend checking in on another friend, like friends do. He was a friend, he told himself. 

He frowned down at his phone. He didn’t like that. 

He knew what it was: Dean took care of people.

Like Sammy, for one. As the oldest brother, it was his job to take care of Sam - hell, it was why he was taking his grades so damn seriously this semester, why he made sure he wasn’t running around with cleat chasers or getting involved with any kind of ESPN-worthy scandal. He needed to be a good example for his brother. He couldn’t even count how many fights he’d been in during middle and high school because someone had said the wrong thing about his little brother. When Mom had been in the hospital and Dad was there with her, it was Dean who had made sure Sammy was fed, bathed, clothed, and at school on time. It was Dean who had reassured him that it was a routine thing and Mom would be home in no-time.

The guys on the team, for second. He had been made captain last year and he took that role seriously too. His guys wouldn’t follow anyone who didn’t practice what they preached, so Dean made sure he attended class, got decent grades (except for one class last semester), didn’t party the night before a game, took practice seriously, and took care of each other. He was a guy who checked on every player, regardless of whether or not they started, whether they were offense or defense or what the hell ever.

He took care of his people.

And now, he guessed, you were one of those people.

He had to make sure you ate, he reasoned. He was just making sure you were taking care of yourself. He didn’t like the bruises under your eyes this morning, but he remembered how much more energetic you’d seemed after the coffee.

Yeah. He was going to take care of you by making sure you took care of yourself tonight.

It was what friends did.

If you had to read one more bullshit answer about how Gatsby was “the ultimate player,” you were going to scream. They were all hand-written, in-class assignments, so you knew none of this shit was AI, but you weren’t sure if that made it better or worse.

When your phone buzzed, you were only too eager to use the distraction.

You grinned, changing the name of the group chat to “Resist the 🍆” instead. You chuckled to yourself and looked around the library, hoping you hadn’t disturbed anyone else. 

You groaned and looked at the stack before you. Your class was tomorrow. 

No matter how much you’d like a break, you needed to finish these. You needed to hand them back out to your own students so that they had good feedback before you started the next assignment. You put your head against your hand - this was miserable. 

You wanted to go. You hadn’t been to a party yet this semester, being weighed down by tutoring sessions and TA duties, not to mention anything else Dr. Mills wanted you to excel at. And you had your own full course load this semester. 

But you missed being care-free. You’d known this semester was going to be hard, but it was only a week and a half in and you were so tired of being responsible. You didn’t even feel like you were in college - not the way the movies described it. This was supposed to be the last hoo-rah, your last chance to be a dumb kid before the weight of real life came crashing down.

And you were missing it to grade papers in the library. When did you stop being a college student and start being a real adult?

Alright, you took a deep breath and thought of a compromise. Because someone did need to make sure Jo didn’t fall back into bed with Benny. Their relationship was tumultuous at best and she just kept falling for the cycle over and over. If you were sober and hung out with them, then 1. You wouldn’t be too hungover to grade papers, and 2. You would be clear thinking enough to make sure she didn’t do anything stupid.

Decision made, you picked up your phone again. 

You groaned and looked at the clock. It was only 6. Your back ached, your head ached, and you were ready to just go home to your apartment and take a nice shower. 

But you knew that your friends were counting on you to come get them.

And judging by the snaps you’d already been sent of Jo sitting on Benny’s lap… they needed a sober voice in their ear. 

You were about to pick everything up and just go home when your phone buzzed again. 

Your heart sank a little in your chest. That made sense. Bela was… Bela. She was beautiful and smart, why wouldn’t anyone talk to her at a party? Especially someone like Dean.

You shook your head. Dean was not a thought you wanted to entertain. He was simply someone you were tutoring.

Even if you had thought about him during the rest of your sessions and classes today. And even if he was a breath of fresh air to you.

And even if he was fucking handsome. 

Not that you were saying he was. 

You stared down at the messages. He’d asked about you? 

Where your stomach had felt empty and hollow a few minutes ago, you felt the butterflies again. The same butterflies you had promptly banished earlier in the week. 

Rationally, it made sense that Dean would ask where you were. After all, your three roommates were there, and one of said roommates was fucking (or hopefully not fucking) one of Dean’s roommates. It would make sense that he would ask where the missing person was. 

You coughed, trying to keep from giving yourself hope. Dean was Dean. You were you. Your two lives only intersected because he was failing English and you were good at it. This wasn’t anything other than what it was.

You narrowed your eyes at the phone. Why would Bela lie? Wouldn’t it make more sense to just tell Dean that you were coming?

Bela was such a genius. But your heart began to pound heavily at the idea of Dean being mopey that you weren’t coming. Like he actually wanted to see you over any of the other girls at the party that would likely be throwing themselves at him.

You checked the time - it was only 6. You could easily go back to the apartment and freshen up, maybe even throw on a cute outfit and still have plenty of time to get there by midnight with the girls.

You nodded, packing up the quizzes and clipping together papers before putting them away neatly in your bag. You turned, satisfied with the events of the day (even if you were going to be grading for almost all of tomorrow morning), and started mentally going through all four of your closets to find the perfect going out top. 

A hard chest met you in the aisle and you nearly lost your balance. You looked up and heard “Easy there, sweetheart” in a familiar drawl, right next to your ear.

Holding on to the arms of the obstacle, you looked into the pure green eyes of Dean Winchester. 

He grinned, taking a step back out of your embrace. 

“Sweetness,” you breathed. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” he shot back, grin still plastered on his face. 

“I thought you were at the party?”

He looked away then, flush creeping up out of his collar. One hand grazed the back of his head and you noticed a Starbucks cup in the other. 

“What’s this?” You smiled.

He extended the cup to you. “Little pick me up.”

“What?” 

You took the coffee from him, your lips still parted in surprise. 

He shrugged. “You said you had a rough night and that the coffee helped earlier. Thought you might need another if you were gonna be working all night.”

“Wow,” you could feel your cheeks heating again. “Two in one day?”

He shrugged and reached up to adjust his snapback. “Hope you don’t mind,” Dean said, smirking, “but I did take a sip. Never had one before.”

“Did you like it?”

He nodded, raising his eyebrows. “Don’t tell anyone. Real men drink it black.”

“Ew,” you teased, taking a sip of it yourself. “Wait a second, didn’t you just have a frappe this morning?”

“Not answerin’ that.” He smirked.

“Hmm,” you took a drink and smiled. 

He noted the backpack and clean table behind you. “Looks like you weren’t really planning on staying here the rest of the night.”

“Girls convinced me. Not often we get a first-string-only party invite.”

The flush was creeping up to his ears and Dean thrust his hands into his jeans pockets. 

You looked at the rest of him. Gone was the sweatsuit combo and sneakers. Dean wore some jeans with a couple holes in the knees, a black State t-shirt, a pair of boots, and a State snapback turned backwards.

Your mouth went dry. He was so fucking handsome. You took another drink. 

“Doesn’t look like you came for a study session, either.”

He exhaled in a light chuckle. “Caught me. But the girls did say you were their ride home. Wanna head back to the party with me?”

When you examined him, he held up a hand. “Haven’t had anything to drink yet, swear.”

You bit your lip and looked down at his outfit, then to yours. You had managed to do some wonderful things with dry shampoo this morning, and a little mascara had helped, but it wasn’t the fabulous party outfit you’d had planned when you packed up. 

“You look fine,” he offered, reading your gaze.

“Oh?”

He nodded and reached up to put a piece of your hair behind your ear. “Yeah. Besides, this is supposed to be kinda chill, anyway.”

“Alright, then.” 

You fell into step beside Dean, a little shocked when he reached for your backpack and slung it over his own shoulder. “This is a little heavy,” he groaned, grinning.

“Hard life of a TA,” you rolled your eyes. “My muscles are probably bigger than yours.”

He looked down at you out of the corner of his eye again. “Probably. Remind me not to mess with you, sweetheart.”

You grinned at him, glad he’d come to the library for the coffee. “What were you going to do if I was staying at the library?” You heard yourself ask.

He shrugged. “Dunno. Probably hang out with you until you kicked me out.”

“Oh?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “Yeah, I was surprised when Bela said you were their ride home. I figured you’d want to crash early after the weekend and day you had.”

You stared at him for a few moments, bringing the coffee to your lips for a lack of something to do with your hands. He’d remembered. He’d remembered what you’d told him about your day. 

It was sweet. 

And not at all the playboy attitude you’d heard rumors about. 

“I have a late start tomorrow,” you heard yourself saying. “Besides, someone’s gotta keep Jo the hell away from Benny.”

He clicked the keys and the headlights of a black Chevy pickup shined in the dim parking lot. 

“That so?” He raised an eyebrow. He was walking a pace ahead of you, looking almost over his shoulder at you. 

You shrugged. “Isn’t he your best friend?”

“Yeah, him ’n Cas.”

“And you don’t mind him and Jo hooking up again?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I try not to get involved in my friends’ relationships.”

“Dean,” you reached out and grabbed his elbow. He stopped suddenly, turning almost too fast so that he faced you. You looked up and he looked down at you and —

There was no room. You were almost chest to chest.

You exhaled, wondering why there wasn’t enough air suddenly, even though you were outside in an almost-empty parking lot. 

“What is it, sweetheart?” He murmured, lips just barely moving. 

You swallowed and looked away from his lips. 

“You don’t seriously think the two of them are good together, do you?”

His eyes never left yours. You could see the building heat and inferno behind them. Was he burning just the way you were? You weren’t even touching.

“No, I don’t,” he answered honestly. “But Benny’s never asked me, so I keep my mouth shut.”

His eyes flicked down to your lips and your tongue reached out to wet them. His eyes darkened as he saw the movement. 

“H-has Jo asked you?”

You nodded. “We’re the ones who have to pick her up and take care of her whenever he breaks her heart.”

A car door slammed somewhere in the parking lot and you both startled. Your first instinct had been to back away from Dean, like you didn’t want anyone to see you together, but Dean’s hands had shot out for your arms, pulling you close to him. 

You exhaled, the tightness in your chest and the pool of heat under your ribs rising. 

“We should - uh, we should probably head out,” his voice was husky and rough.

“Is this you?” You asked, pointing to the Chevy.

“Sure is,” he answered, opening the passenger door for you. He held your hand as you stepped up on the running board, only handing you the backpack once you were sitting.

“It’s a nice truck,” you commented when he climbed in the driver’s side.

“Yeah, it’s alright.”

“Alright?” You repeated. You gestured to the cab. “Dean, this is nice.”

He grinned, putting keys in the ignition and firing it to life. “It’s a decent truck, I’ll give you that, but it’s not my favorite.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What is your favorite?”

The radio started, playing some classic rock station. Dean turned down the radio before fishing his phone out of his pocket. He unlocked it and you saw him swiping through pictures for a second. 

“There she is,” he beamed, showing you the picture. “That’s my girl.”

It was a black four door - maybe something from the late 60’s. It was sharp. Well maintained, you could tell. 

And there was Dean, leaned back against the driver’s door with a huge smile at whoever was taking the picture.

“She’s beautiful, Dean.”

“’67 Chevy Impala,” he told you. “Built’er from the ground up.”

That raised your eyebrows. “Really? Dean that’s - that’s … wow. I didn’t know you worked on cars like that.”

He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, but the grin he hid told you it was. He put the phone in the holder on the dash and clicked it off. “Dad gave it to me, but it was in poor shape. He runs his own body shop, so he taught me what to do, but I did it all myself.”

He put the truck in reverse and began to back out of the space, ignoring the back-up camera and putting his hand on the shoulder of your seat so he could turn and see behind him.

You pressed your legs together. Until tonight, you’d had no idea how fucking hot that was.

Once he put it in drive and started for Michael’s house, you found your voice again. “Guess I’ll call you if I ever need anything done to my car.”

He glanced over at you and raised an eyebrow. “Somethin’ wrong with your car, sweetheart?”

“Oh, no,” you assured him. “Just saying, if I ever do need something.”

His left hand was on the steering wheel, easily maneuvering through the side streets. His right was extended over the console and you looked down, noticing it was next to yours. Dean looked down too, away from the road, and you saw his fingers twitch toward yours. 

“Absolutely. What do you drive?”

“Just a Camry,” you told him. “Something good on gas.”

He grinned. “Easy car to work on. But if I ever need a roadtrip, then I guess I’ll be comin’ to you.”

He adjusted in his seat and casually brushed his fingers with yours. Casual enough that you figured he’d call it an accident if you didn’t reciprocate.

You flushed, moving so your pinky finger brushed against his. Just enough of a confirmation. 

“I - I’d like to see it someday,” you blurted, anything to break the tension. “The - uh - the Impala.”

Dean’s hand snapped back and formed a fist. He sat it down on the console, but he was tense, as if it took effort to be slow and careful. He chuckled. “I usually bring it up from home, just a couple times a year though.”

“Why only a couple?”

“Have you seen the way people drive here? I’d come back to a missing mirror or some shit. Absolutely not.”

You laughed then, reaching tentative fingers to his forearm. “You’re pretty protective, Sweetness.”

He looked at you out of the corner of his eye again and you saw the green in his eyes all lit up. He looked down at his arm and back up to you, eyes softer, smile brighter. 

“Hey now, don’t knock my baby. I gotta take care of my girl.”

Michael and Gabe lived at the end of a cul-de-sac in a two-story house with a good size yard and basement. It was usually the party house because all of their neighbors also attended State University, so there was never anyone to really call the cops if they got too loud. 

You’d only been a couple of times, mostly at the end of the last football season. Michael and Gabe’s parties were the stuff of legends, and both that you’d been to had been overcrowded and way too hot. Not really your vibe. 

There were only a few cars in the driveway and spread throughout the cul-de-sac, so you guess it really was a chill party like Dean had said. 

He parked the truck and turned back the ignition, releasing the keys.

“When I left earlier, everyone was out back by the fire pit.”

“Oh?”

“Yep,” he answered. “It’s finally cooled off enough for a bonfire… that okay with you?”

You crossed your legs, jiggling your toes to try to keep from being completely anxious. 

“Because, if not,” Dean started speaking quickly, he ran a hand over the back of his neck, “I can take you home and I’ll bring the girls home, it’s no big deal —”

“Dean,” you interrupted, squeezing his forearm. “A bonfire sounds fantastic.”

His shoulders drooped with relief, he put his warm hand on top of yours. “Yeah?”

You nodded and bit your lip. “I didn’t bring a chair or anything, though.”

He smirked. “No worries about that. C’mon.”

The lights of the cab were almost too bright as you opened the doors wide. Dean was at your side before you could climb down onto the sidewalk, a hand at your elbow. He clicked the lock of the truck and pocketed the keys efficiently, leading you toward the carport. 

He said nothing as his hand grasped yours, but you felt the explosion of electricity echoing through you at the simple touch. You looked up and saw the corners of his eyes crinkle in a smile, but the flush creeping up his neck betrayed his bravado.

The carport housed a truck that was every bit of brand spankin’ new, but Dean went around it, passing the side door to the kitchen. You saw the glow of the bonfire in the backyard and stiffened.

Dean, ever observant, paused, hand still in yours. “You ready?”

You bit your lip. “Won’t people… talk if we show up together?”

He shrugged, the gesture meant to be nonchalant, but you saw the tick in his jaw. “They’re gonna talk regardless.”

You smirked, elbowing him in the side. “Just hate to ruin your rep, Winchester. I’d hate for all those pretty girls to know you’re off the market.”

A corner of his mouth quirked up into that smirk you were beginning to love. “C’mon, sweetheart.” Then he winked.

The heat between your legs was instant. You’d seen old men leering and winking before, but when Dean Winchester winked at you…

Well, that was different altogether. 

You cleared your throat, recovering quickly. You were almost sure that Dean had noticed what the wink had done to you, but he didn’t say anything. Maybe he didn’t want to embarrass you further. 

Either way, he pulled on your hand and took a step toward the bonfire. 

“Actually,” Dean murmured, pulling you back into the shadows of the carport. 

“What?”

Dean leaned down to your ear. You felt his smile against the shell of your ear and shivers erupted down your spine.  “Wanna give’em somethin’ to really talk about?”

You looked up through your lashes. “Like what?”

His hand let go of yours and you hated the way your chest caved at the loss of warmth, but it was quickly replaced when he wound his arm around your shoulders, bending it and drawing you in close. Your hand found his on your shoulder and threaded your fingers through his again.

Oh yeah, this was much better. 

“Stick with me, Shakespeare. We’ll wow’em all tonight.”

“Easy there, Sweetness,” you teased, falling into step with him.

Coming into sight of the bonfire, you were greeted with screams and yells from your already-too-drunk friends. The bonfire was large, but not dangerously large, with several coolers spread out around the circle with folding chairs and hay bales in between. 

It was nearly the entire varsity roster, but there were a few of the second-stringers trickling in, and you knew there would be more before the night was truly over. 

You clocked Jo sitting on a hay bale next to Benny and frowned. She was very drunk with a red solo cup in hand, but Benny was just as (if not more) drunk thank she was, so you let it go for the moment. As long as they didn’t slip away together, it would be easy to pry her from him when it was time to go home.

Bela would be harder. 

There was an a-frame that had been pulled up close to the fire with a wooden bench swing, and as one of the hosts, Michael had claimed a seat. He had a cushion behind his back as he sat up against the arm of it, legs sprawled down the length of the bench.

And Bela had claimed his lap. She was curled up between his legs, leaned against his back, sipping on her own beer bottle. Her face was calm and casual, but her eyes danced and gleamed. She was exactly where she wanted to be, and if the opportunity presented itself, you knew there was no way in hell you’d get her to come home with you and the girls tonight.

Charlie sat over to the side with one of the other cheerleaders, Dorothy or something stupid. They looked cozy, but nothing inappropriate.

Dean’s arm stayed around you as he greeted the group. There were high-fives and hands shaken, beers offered (and refused, since Dean insisted on driving you girls home), and everyone was nice to you as well. Most of them already knew your name, since you were roommates with Bela and Jo, but they only knew you in passing or by name. You took a Smirnoff from one of the cheerleaders and handed it to Dean to open.

There was an empty fold out chair, and Dean wasted no time in claiming it. “More comfortable than the damn hay bales,” he explained, plopping himself down into it. 

You raised your eyebrows at him. The nearest seat was a few feet away, and you couldn’t help the desire that curled through you at wanting to still be close to him.

He winked again and that desire increased tenfold. Surely he’d be able to tell.

His hands grasped at yours, taking the Smirnoff and putting it in the cloth cupholder before pulling you sharply into his lap. You wobbled, off-balance, before crashing into his space, coming down almost too hard on his thigh.

“There you go,” he whispered into your ear. “Get comfortable.”

He spread his legs wider, giving you room to put your legs between them. His arm came behind your back, resting along the arm rest but still supporting you. His fingertips grazed under your sweatshirt, just dusting the little bit of exposed skin. 

Just light enough to send goosebumps racing across your back.

“Cold, sweetheart?”

You reached for your drink and smirked. “Maybe I should move closer to the fire.” You planted your feet, feinting like you were going to get up.

“Not a chance.” His voice was husky as both hands encircled your waist, crushing you back down to him and drawing you in to his chest. “I’ll keep you warm, I promise,” he murmured in your ear.

You felt his body tense as he leaned up, just enough to ghost his lips over your cheek. Your chest felt light and fuzzy and you hoped the dim light of the bonfire covered the darkening blush across your cheeks.

“Plenty to talk about, huh?” You pressed the cold bottle to your lips.

He fucking hated Coruscant. This entire fucking too-many-things-in-one-place city. Every single time he’d ever been here ended in disaster.

But the tracker in the CommLink was still active and pointing to Coruscant, so there was no choice about it. 

He pulled up the navigation system and locked it on to the CommLink signal, set in the Understory of Coruscant. 

“Even better,” he muttered to himself. 

Most people saw Coruscant as the highest layer, the Emergent. Oh it was beautiful, alright, filled with the types of places that high-ranking government officials and the wealthiest of the wealthy could afford. And on Coruscant, these people were the only ones who actually saw the sky.

Most of Coruscant’s actual activity was housed in the Canopy, a sub-level. It functioned like most highly developed cities that Din had ever seen, but there was a huge industrial section for exports and imports. Alot of the people who lived here were just trying to make a living and as much as he hated this godsforsaken place, he respected that.

He flew the Starfighter down past the Canopy, into the vertical tunnel that separated it from the Understorey. There were only a few such tunnels and they were the only ways to actually get into the Understorey, but this one was the closest to where the CommLink said you were. 

It went against his every instinct to fly slowly, to join the traffic as it cut through the smog-infested and dank air here. R5 beeped, pulling up landing pads on his Navigation System, and Din grunted in response, finding a close one and engaging the landing protocol. There was no registration system, no way to sign in or rent a space for his visit, but there was no option of leaving the Starfighter in the Canopy. Even with his jet pack, he’d never make it up through the tunnel quickly enough to escape. 

Once landed, he opened the hatch on the Starfighter and hopped out, surprised to see R5’s hatch open as well. 

“You’re not going,” he told the droid. 

It beeped and whirled, but Din was too frustrated to care. “I said no,” he barked. He gestured widely with his arms, “do you see where we are? Someone has to stay with the ship.”

More beeping. More whirling. More lights.

R5 could fly the damn thing without him, he knew. And he would, if Din needed it. There was enough fuel that R5 could probably fly in the damn atmosphere the entire time Din was searching, and the droid knew it. 

He put his hands on his belt. “You done?”

R5 beeped with more attitude than was necessary. Din rolled his eyes behind his helmet. 

“Stay alert,” he instructed the droid, pulling out all of the weapons and ammo he’d packed from the Crest. “I might need your help once I’m in there, and I’ll definitely need the ship hot and running once I have her.”

Most everything was concealed on his person, which was good. If someone saw only the blaster, they’d underestimate him. 

Well, he hoped anyway. 

He left R5 and made sure his vambrace was linked to the droid’s communications. With a beep in his ear, Din nodded at the droid and started walking. 

Just about everything here was illegal - Din saw at least ten suspicious activities just in his walk down from the landing pad, but there were no police to report it to. Any kind of legal presence was rare here. No, the only justice the people of the Understorey would get was if they were in with one of the crime syndicates and they handled it.

He wondered if Karga had contacted the Pykes at all. Did they know what Tanau had done? Did they care? Would they sign off on Din killing the bastard?

Not that it mattered much, Din was going to kill Tanau regardless. If he spent the rest of his life looking over his shoulder for Pykes, well… so be it. 

The Understorey was set up more like a city within a mountain, Din thought. All of the buildings were cut directly into stone, but he knew that it was manufactured; there was an entire layer of forest beneath the Understorey, but it was dangerous, unpopulated, and unknown. If Tanau had been trying to seek somewhere to hide and lay low, why not there? The crime bosses had nothing to do with the forest floor, everyone knew that. 

The warehouse was one of the larger ones he could see throughout the dimly lit space. It looked dilapidated and abandoned, but Din knew there was a plethora of illegal activity that all took place within, probably several all sharing the same floors or rooms. 

The only good part about this section of Coruscant was what made it so dangerous: people didn’t look around much and they didn’t ask questions. If someone thought he was conspicuous with his beskar armor, they either kept their heads down or their mouths shut. All in his favor.

The warehouse was just as dimly lit as the rest of the godforsaken place, but Din found a door barely hanging on its hinges and pushed it open to admit himself. He tapped the side of his helmet, engaging the night vision and turning off the modulator speaker. If he did speak, he only wanted R5 to hear him.

He reached down to the vambrace and his finger hovered over the button for your CommLink. He had told you he wouldn’t be able to call you first, but you hadn’t made any attempt to contact him either. It had only been a few hours, he knew, but that didn’t mean he liked it. 

Trying your method, he clicked the button on and off three times. Then he waited.

As he waited, he made his way through the open floor of the warehouse. It was just as shitty as it looked from the outside, but he was sure the actual illegal stuff was well hidden and locked up. 

“Ner ka’ra?” Your voice whispered in his helmet. 

Din exhaled, blinking furiously to keep the hot tears from pricking at his eyes. “Cyar’ika” he breathed. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” you whispered. “I’m in - there’s some sort of cell.”

His boots made no noise as he made his way through. The night vision within his visor easily mapping out the floor, and R5 had layered a map over it, pointing him to your CommLink. He followed both.

“I need you to rest,” he told you, voice soft. “Remember what I promised you?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “But Di-” you caught yourself on his name, “what if -”

“Let me worry about the rest,” he assured you. “Just be ready.”

“Okay.” Your voice was slurred, breathy. Din’s heart began to beat faster. You’d said you had a concussion, ribs broken.

He pat the pouch containing a bacta shot in his belt. You’d be fine. He just needed to reach you first. 

There was a door to his right with a brand-new touchpad. Brand-new. In this hell-hole.

It had a retinal scanner and a number pad, but Din didn’t give a shit. He briefly wondered if firing on the touchpad would set off an alarm, and decided it was probably the type that would lock the door down even more rather than popping open. 

He still had the Darksaber though. The corners of his mouth turned down to his jaw, not bad.

He took it from its holster and hit the space that made the blade appear. As always, he was in awe of such a weapon. The weight of it wasn’t lost on him - this was a weapon of his forebears, of his people. It had been made specifically to battle the Jedi and it had a long history of being won from rulers rather than passed down or given.

It cut through the door like a hot knife through butter. He cut a hole large enough to slip through and thanked the Darksaber for helping him, but he couldn’t have said why. 

Following the map in his visor, Din retrieved his blaster and kept it at the ready. He wasn’t sure if Tanau had an entire legion with him or whether he was working on his own, or even if he’d done all this with the blessing of the Pykes, but he didn’t care. 

Fury pumped through his veins, granting him the clarity of mind he needed. His anger wasn’t a distraction for him, it was a focusing tool, and he had been taught the difference a long time ago. Even violence was something that Din tried to avoid if at all possible, but while it might be against his personal code, he relished in it now. 

There was a beast inside him, dark and coiling through his chest, and the beast craved the blood of those who had wronged him and those he loved. The beast whispered to him and hardened that jagged hole in his chest. 

Protect, protect, protect.

He would. Then he would remind them all who he was. 

Deep into the underbelly of the warehouse, Din began to hear others. 

Not all were screaming, but some were. The ones who weren’t screaming sat within the cells, staring. Most were bloody, all were bruised and starved. 

The beast within him growled and paced and muttered, but Din let it focus him, each step bringing him closer to the CommLink’s signal. 

He almost didn’t see you within the cell. It was barely five feet across, and the cot at the end had a giant hole in one end, a small figure huddled over on the other. 

His heart ached, stealing his breath while the beast snarled and writhed. He pressed the side of the helmet again so that the modulator could be heard from outside his helmet.

“Ner cyar’ika?” He breathed.

There was movement from the small figure. “Ner dral ka’ra?” You whispered.

Din heard it twice, once through the CommLink in his helmet, but the other through the regular audio. 

“Turn around,” he told you.

Your head whipped around, body joining so fast that you almost fell off the cot. You yelped, hands bracing yourself as the pain from your broken ribs caught up to the movement. 

You’d said you had broken ribs and a possible concussion, and while Din didn’t think you were exaggerating either of those, you’d neglected to tell him that you’d been beat to hell. 

Grimy and dirty, your face was covered in a selection of bruises just beginning to turn purple and black. One eye was swollen shut, the other black. Your nose had a cut across the bridge, and he could see the dried tracks of blood from the cut and from both nostrils. Your neck had the imprints of someone’s hand bruised into the soft skin. Clothes were ripped, the wrist of one hand beginning to purple, and Din could see red welts on each wrist and the exposed skin of your ankles where you were barefoot. 

“You came.” Your non-swollen eye began to fill with tears, streaming down your dirt covered face.

“I promised I would.”

He looked back and forth down the hall, warring with the beast within him. One instinct begged him to give you the bacta shot and run like hell, promising to rain down hellfire later, but the other instinct said that he couldn’t leave until they were no longer a threat to you or others.

“Can - can you walk?” He asked, every fibre of his being focused on not exploding.

You nodded, using your non-bruised wrist to prop yourself up on the cot. “If we go slow, I can.”

He reached for the Darksaber again - it would be quieter than the blaster. Regardless of what he decided to do, he would need an element of surprise for either escape or annihilation. 

The bars of the cell cut away easily and Din exhaled as his gloved hand clutched you to his chest. The tears came to you in a wave of emotion then, and all he could do was holster the Darksaber and wipe them away with his hand. 

“We need to go,” he told you as you sniffed into his hands. 

“I know,” you wiped your own face and took a step back. “But how?”

He reached into the pouch at his belt and pulled out the bacta shot. “I can’t give you the full dose right now, it’ll knock you out. But a little will take the edge off the pain, okay?”

You took it yourself, priming the needle at your elbow of your hurt arm and pushing the plunger until Din told you that was enough. It took effect immediately, and Din noticed you were standing up straighter and your breath didn’t sound near as labored.

He put it back, promising you you’d get the full dose once he got you off this damn planet. 

“Do you know the way out?” 

“Yes.”

He took your good hand into his and pressed his blaster into it. “Remember what I taught you?” 

You nodded, eyes wide with fright. “I - they took mine, I don’t know where -”

“I’ll get you another one,” he promised. “R5 is waiting for us just under the tunnel. If we - if we get separated, you run. R5 can get you back to Nevarro. The kid is there.”

“Absolutely not,” you snarled, with what Din thought was all the fight left in you. “We go together or not at all.”

He bit his lip, glad you couldn’t see him behind his visor. He just nodded.

Another blaster sat at his belt, but he chose the Darksaber once again, finding it a little lighter each time he took it. He wasn’t sure what that meant. 

“Din?”

“What?”

The swelling in your eye had gone down a little, enough for the eye to just begin to open. 

“Why did you come for me?”

He frowned and looked around the cell. “Because you’re in trouble?” He asked, almost frustrated since it should be completely obvious. 

“No,” you whispered, placing a hand on his chest plate. “Did you - do you… Din, I care for you.”

You looked up into his eyes and Din saw past the bruises and the grime. He saw the depth there. The emotions. The longing. He wished you could see it within his own. 

“Leaving you was a mistake,” he admitted instead. Why were you doing this now? He was having enough trouble thinking of escape plans and injuries without the added struggle of putting his feelings into words. 

“Just because you’re worried about my safety?” You challenged. 

Oh, how he wanted to admit it all. How excruciating each separated minute had been, how he wondered where you were and what you were doing, how stupid he’d felt for hurting you as he’d done. He wanted to tell you that the beast he felt within himself for the entire time you’d been taken was something he’d only felt when there was a threat to his son. 

Instead, Din pressed the cool metal of his helmet to your forehead. It was the closest he could get to kissing you and showing you how he felt. His free hand pressed to the small of your back. 

“You left me.” You whispered. And Din thought it sounded more broken than any bone in your body. 

“I did. I thought it was best.”

“Why? I know you didn’t tell me the truth - before. Tell me now. In case we — in case we die.”

“That’s not happening,” he hissed.

Your fingers tightened on his arms. “Tell me now.”

He sighed. “I was afraid that I was keeping you from a better life,” he told you. “From someone who didn’t have a Creed and a son. Someone who’s only priority is you.”

“I don’t care about that,” you murmured. “I admired you more because of those things.”

He pressed his forehead to yours again. 

 “I-I love you, Din.”

He exhaled and his eyes flew open, even though he knew you couldn’t see it. Had you… did you just…  

You kept going, anxiety and fear propelling your words. “I know this isn’t the time - or - or the place but if we - if something happens, I wanted you to, um, know how I felt. Even if you don’t - if you don’t feel the same.”

He felt the jagged edges of his chest piercing him the same way they had since he’d left you in Nevarro. How could you think that he didn’t care about you? 

Din put a gloved finger gently to your lips. Once you quieted, he pointed to his ears, and he listened. The audio in his helmet was very sensitive and he hadn’t heard any pursuit — but that didn’t mean there wasn’t any. 

“I never told you what cyar’ika means.”

“Yeah, I know,” you scoffed.

“Cyar’ika … it means darling or sweetheart,” he whispered through the modulator, aching for you to hear it in his voice. 

Your eyes widened. Were you remembering all the times he’d called you that?

“In Mando’a, there’s no translation for I love you, instead we say ke'kar'tayli… you know me. All of me. Even the parts that are hidden from the world. ke'kar'tayli… darasuum… you see me, you know me… forever.”

You smiled then, the scab at your lip breaking open, and Din wished you could see his own smile. 

“But, uh,” he looked around the cell, “can we discuss the rest later?”

You smirked then, the gesture odd on your swollen and discolored face. “Which way?”

He nodded the way he had come and reached for your hand. The bruising was already fading from your wrist, due to the proximity of the bacta shot, so he took it within his gloved hand. 

It was only as the two of you stepped out of the cell that Din heard the heavy boots running from both ends of the hall. 

He swore, pushing you back against the flat wall next to your cell. His body covered yours as he tensed, extending the Darksaber and silently asking it for its strength. 

“There’s no need for this,” one of the grunts shouted. 

“I see great need in your death,” Din’s voice was that calm and quiet timbre that meant death. 

There weren’t as many as he’d first thought on either side — as many as 7. 

Your hand was small as it gripped the space next to his pauldron. You squeezed and he could feel the fear through your touch. 

The Darksaber needed two hands to wield, but he only needed one to just hold it upright. He reached the other back around his body, grazing against your side and tucking you in closer to the cape at his back. Reassuring you. He had this. 

And when they rushed him, Din felt more peace and control than he had since he’d decided to leave you on Nevarro. 

His brain was a myriad of steps and poses, split decisions of weapons to use and to what purpose. Pulling victims back with the pulley, swiping legs out from under them with the Darksaber, cutting down their blasters before holstering the Darksaber and firing his own. 

He had meant for you to stay there against the wall, but of course you had no intentions of letting him fight alone. He barely registered the sounds of a blaster coming from behind him, only the pride within his chest at seeing that every blast hit your mark. 

He’d shown you enough to protect yourself until you could call for him; now you were protecting his back as he fought through the corridor. 

His chest heaved as he shot the last one, only vaguely recognizing the emblem of the old Empire on a necklace at his throat. 

“There’s more,” your breath came in pants as well. “I’ve seen way more people than this.”

“Do they work for Tanau?”

“I don’t think so. The way he talked, he’s trying to buy his way in, but I don’t think the imperials trust him.”

Imperials on Coruscant’s Understorey was new, however. 

Din mused on it all as he led you to the door he’d carved apart. 

And at the top of the stairs, he froze, pulling you back behind him once more. 

“There’s no use, Mandalorian.” 

You yelped behind him and Din whirled, hearing the blaster as it fell to the concrete. 

An arm was wrapped around your neck, your hands grasping at it as you tried to pull it away. Din lunged for you, hearing the decided click of a blaster’s safety turned off. You stilled as the cool metal of the barrel touched your temple. 

Wide eyes and a trembling mouth filled his gaze. 

He could fight them all and walk away bloody, but not with a blaster to your head. 

And the snickering behind him told him that they knew it. 

“We understand each other now?” The first man at the doorway asked. “Or do we need to paint the stairs with her brains first?”

Din’s answering growl sent a tremor down your spine, but he could do nothing but tremble with fury as two men took his arms. They marched right back down the hallway he had just fought to come up, staring holes in the man who still held a gun to your temple. 

His mind was a cacophony of escape plans and bargaining tactics. He wasn’t sure what the angle was here, but he categorized every piece of information he thought might be helpful. 

The Empire emblem was everywhere as they sank further into the depths of the warehouse, and Din could feel the weight of the concrete and rock pressing in from all sides. He had never done well underground - he belonged to the skies. 

They passed rows and rows of holding cells and most were in states that made yours look like a palace. Some contained people, most contained bones and scraps of cloth. 

Their group was a lively one as it passed through, the guards laughing and smiling to themselves as they told jokes about the pussy-whipped Mandalorian and how easy he’d been to cow. 

Din had stopped fighting after the first one they’d made, not because he was used to the dishonor, but because the first time he struggled, the man holding you called for a halt. He turned you sideways so that Din could see him slap your face hard enough that the gash on your nose opened and began bleeding once more. Then he turned to Din and said he would pistol whip you the next time he tried anything. 

Din didn’t have trouble believing him and it took a strength he didn’t know he possessed to remain still while they spoke so poorly of you right in front of him. 

The beast inside him was silent for the moment; there was nothing he could do without the action resulting in more pain for you, so the beast was content to bide its time. 

When they emerged into the sand pits, Din knew what was going to happen. He only prayed it was just him they set the beasts on - not you. 

It was a circular stone pit with walls too high for Din to climb or help you climb up. There were large wooden doors, like the one they’d walked out of, equidistant around the pit. And above were rows and rows of wooden benches all the way around. 

In front of them was a box with plush seats and Tanau draped himself across one, eating something. 

He looked pleased at Din’s appearance and sat up straight in the seat, smiling widely. 

“My, my,” he cooed. “Seems we have some company.”

Din bit back his retort and turned his head to look at you. The blaster was still pressed against your temple, but he was proud to see you match Tanau stare for stare. 

“Not such a bad ass now, are you, bitch?” Tanau’s voice was sharp as a knife. “Bring her.”

The man with the blaster pushed you forward so hard that you fell in the sand, causing each of the idiots to erupt with laughter. He pulled you to your feet with a rough hand fisting in your hair, making you cry out. 

He was going to take out this entire fucking cesspool. 

You were brought to Tanau’s box and made to kneel in front of his chair, between his legs, but with your back to him so you could face Din. 

The only sign of fear was the slight tremble of your mouth, but your eyes held firm to Din’s visor and you steadied. 

Was he giving you the strength you desperately needed now? The thought soothed a little of the burning rage within him — because seeing you was making him strong. 

“I’m happy you joined us, Mandalorian,” Tanau began. 

“—I’m not,” Din interrupted. 

Tanau’s face twisted into a scowl. His hand shot forward into your hair as he pulled you backward so hard that Din feared he would break your spine. 

“Watch it,” Tanau snarled in your ear. “She’s just so close and I’d hate to add to the bruises.”

He released you and you staggered forward a little. Din could see the glaze come over your eyes as you wobbled, but you blinked away the fog and stood stock still. 

“Are you so afraid of him that you have to threaten me every time he back talks?” You huffed, rolling your shoulder. “I’d like to see you in a fair—“

This time Tanau whipped you around by the shoulders, a meaty fist connecting with your jaw. Din pushed away from his two captors, knocking them down as they were caught off guard. 

But after two steps, one of the guards reared back and hit Din hard in the unprotected part of his stomach and he collapsed into the sand. The message to both of you was clear — play nice. 

When you made it back to your knees, Din could see the red spot beginning to blossom on your jaw. The bleeding from your nose wound had stopped, thankfully, but he wasn’t sure how much more you could take before falling unconscious. 

The beast whispered to him that he could fight his way out of here if you were, but it would be much easier with you watching his back with a blaster. 

“You made your point,” Din proclaimed with as little snark as he could manage. “Stop hurting her.”

“Oh, we’re just getting started,” he laughed then. He said your name then, and Din could hear the implied darkness there. “Can you remind me of the Mandalorian creed?” 

Your eyes were wide, that pride and bravado gone, terror in its place. 

Tanau was growing sick of the show. He reached a hand to your shoulder and squeezed until you cried out in pain. 

Din snarled behind his helmet, almost breaking free of the hold his guards had on him. They kicked the backs of his knees to force him to the sand. While both men held his arms, a third advanced on his front and hit him at the edge of the beskar, right where he was vulnerable. 

It knocked the breath from him, but not the fury. 

He tried to suck down air and breathe when he heard your voice, panic seeping in. “There’s - there’s lots of —”

“You know what I mean,” Tanau barked.

Din lifted his head, helmet heavy, and found your wide eyes again. He was going to make sure you never looked that way again. 

And regardless of how battered your body was or how many bruises he had, he knew you needed him to be strong. That his strength would lend to your own. So he began to recite words that were engrained in him from childhood. 

"Strength is life, for the strong have the right to rule,” he took a breath and watched your mouth move with his as the two of you recited together, “Honor is life, for with no honor one may as well be dead; Death is life, one should die as they have lived."

“Honor,” Tanau laughed, the sound sending a shiver up your spine. “Isn’t she a quick learner?” He asked Din. “We’ve been studying the Mandalorian ‘way’ in our travels.”

That was how you’d learned it then. He saw it confirmed in your face. He’d been teaching you bits and pieces of Mando’a, but this bastard had taught you the basic foundation of Mandalorian life. 

“To what purpose?” Din’s voice was deep and low, dangerous through the modulator. “Why do you use her to seek revenge against me? For a bounty that you escaped within a day?”

Tanau shook his head. “It’s not about you, Din Djarin. It’s not even about the Mandalorians.”

“Then what is it?” Din snarled. “Speak plainly.” Din knew his patience was about to run out. 

Tanau sniffed. “Your ‘way’ and creed talks of Honor. What of my honor?”

“I don’t control who requests the bounty,” he told Tanau. “Someone did and offered credits for bringing you. I simply retrieved you.” 

“Yes, but that bounty lost me the Pykes. They didn’t care how fast I escaped; only that I was caught.”

“So you need the old Empire’s protection,” Din guessed. 

“No, I desire to help restore the Empire to its glory.”

Din scoffed. “But they won’t have you, will they? In their eyes, you double crossed the Pyke Syndicate.”

Tanau bristled, and Din knew he’d gotten to the truth of it. “And my life gains you their trust?”

He smiled then. 

Din struggled in the sand again, inching forward on his knees. “Take me then,” he offered. “Let the girl go. Send her off-planet in my ship. I’ll go without a fight.”

Tanau frowned, pondering the proposition. Then he smiled again. “I think not. Bringing you in will gain favor with the Imperials, but her…” he purred, placing his hand on your shoulder. “Well, she’s wanted by them too. Maybe I’ll ask for her in a fair trade.”

When Din pushed to his feet, he heard your voice call out in fear. Fear for him. For what they would do to him.

He wrestled free of the arms and had his blaster free of its holster before arms could come down on his shoulders. He fired into both men at his sides and the guard before him when Tanau cocking the Amblan Rifle made him pause. 

It was pressed to your bruised neck. You whimpered as he set off the taser, your body trembling and jerking with pain.

Din lifted the blaster and Tanau pressed it harder against your skin, making you scream in pain. Din froze.

You gasped, curling in to yourself at Tanau’s feet, the sobs breaking his heart and fueling his need for violence.

“Silence, or he dies at your feet.” Tanau told you. “And you,” he growled at Din, “she’s got a long way to go before she could die.”

He set his shoulders and sank back down to the sand. He felt a blade at his neck, pressing just hard enough to break the skin. The bodies were removed as Tanau kept talking. 

You slowly sat up, using the legs of Tanau’s plush chair for help. Finding him, your shoulders eased a fraction. 

Stay strong, he wished he could tell you mind-to-mind. 

“There’s one more part of the Mandalorian Creed I want to explore,” Tanau commented casually, sinking back into the chair. “Specifically, the helmet.”

Your eyes widened. 

He said your name. “Isn’t there a lot of dishonor involved in seeing the uncovered face of a Mandalorian warrior? Even more so for his particular group, yes?”

Your eyes never left Din’s. You shook your head, shoulders trembling. 

He sat there, visor locked on you, the tension in his shoulders giving way to his rage. He felt it then, the heat of it soaking through his clothes and armor. There was nothing, only the fury and the red vision of the beast clouding his judgement. 

He had never been so angry that he felt out of control, but he felt it now. It was winding and curling through his chest, shaking its way into his limbs, exerting control. 

“Take the helmet off,” Tanau commanded. 

“If it comes off, then you will all die,” Din promised. He heard his voice through the modulator, but the beast was satisfied to see one of the men in his peripheral jerk back a half step. 

“Take it off and we will take it with us,” Tanau told the guards. As an afterthought, he leaned down to your ear and whispered, “and you will watch.”

“No,” you gasped, reaching out for Din. You both knew what it would mean if you, another living thing, saw his face.

He would be honor-bound to kill anyone to look upon his face. 

Anyone. Regardless of how he felt about them.

And if he refused to kill you… 

When I kiss someone, I’ll do it in the dark. 

He had, hadn’t he? He’d taken that loophole more than once to keep you both safe from his Creed. 

And now he was being forced to make you see him, knowing he’d never have the strength to kill you. 

He would have to leave the Mandalorian way of life. He would be dishonored and never welcomed back. No amount of bathing in the Living Waters would be able to remove the stain of this. 

It was the ultimate punishment. It was cruel. 

Especially given what you had told him in that cell, what he had admitted back to you. 

Tears began to flood down your cheeks; he didn’t need the Jedi-wizard mind reading to know you were thinking the same thoughts.

In that moment, Din didn’t care about the Creed, or the Mandalorian Way. The beast within wasn’t whispering anymore, it was roaring that only thing that mattered was keeping you safe, caring for you, reassuring you, protecting you the way he’d promised he would.

He’d deal with the rest after. 

You sobbed freely, even with Tanau’s grip digging into your shoulder. His smile was smug. 

Din wasn’t going to die. He knew that. He also knew you weren’t going to die, even if you didn’t. 

“Hush now, ka’ra,” he whispered, knowing the modulator was loud enough that you heard it. “It will be okay, cyar’ika. I promise.”

Tanau’s head tilted. “What do those words mean? What language?” 

The tears still ran, but you regained your breath and he saw your hands ball into fists, your chin raised defiantly. I trust you, you mouthed. 

The two men holding Din laughed, but he kept his eyes on you. The third man put hands on the helmet and Din could feel him begin to tug it up off his neck. He looked no where but you. He only had eyes for you. 

The helmet hissed as it disengaged and you saw the sliver of skin at his neck as it was exposed.

Your head jerked, looking down at your knees. Even when Tanau noticed and used both hands to tilt your head upright, you squeezed your eyes closed. Determined not to see that which he could not give freely. 

Din loved you for that.

He loved you for your refusal, for fighting back. As much as he knew you might have wanted to gaze upon his face, you respected his Creed. 

Stars, he loved you. 

Then the helmet was off and the rush of cool air over his bare face filled him with rage once more. 

There was no more mask, no more hiding, no going back. He could feel his mouth set in the firm line and he narrowed his eyes. He marked the face of each person in the room.

He would kill them all.

He had planned on it anyway for the mistreatment of what was his, but now… now they would all go down. Every single person connected to Tanau.

It would be a bloodbath, a massacre.

The beast cherished his acceptance of the violence that would ensue. 

Your eyes were still screwed shut, even with Tanau’s gleeful taunting. Din knew it was pointless - Tanau liked the cruelty too much and would force you or hurt you. He loved you for your bravery, but he couldn’t let it go on, knowing it would only cause you the physical pain they’d inflict.

For now there was only the sound of your sobs, fueling the burning inferno of his fury.

“You will see the Mandalorian’s face,” Tanau hissed.

“No,” you screamed, trying to jerk your head away from his grip. His head squeezed your throat, forcing your gaze. 

“Ke'kar'tayli,” Din’s voice was calm as it cut through the struggle. It sounded weird to his own ears without the effect of the modulator. 

Know me. 

It was a command, permission given. He wanted you to see him, to know him in that way. Your brows drew together at the sound of his voice.

“Ke'kar'tayli,” he told you again. 

“But—“ your voice was so small. 

“Hush now,” he whispered your name. “Ke'kar'tayli darasuum.”

Know me forever. Hold me in your heart forever. Love me forever.

See me forever.

He had only told you what it meant in the cell, only minutes before. His chest vibrated with the prayer and the hope that you remembered what it meant. 

Your lips trembled, but your body stilled against Tanau’s hands. 

“I love you,” your lips moved, but the words were just a breath, just barely loud enough to register against Din’s ears without the helmet. 

And then you opened your eyes.

Din had learned from an early age how to keep fear from controlling him. It was a hard practice as a child, but it had become easier and easier as he had grown into manhood. Fear took a backseat, acknowledged and discarded just as easily. 

He had not known true fear again until he’d met the foundling Grogu and it had shocked him the first time he had felt that true fear for you.

But the fear he felt as you stared into his unshielded eyes for the first time was a fear like Din had never known.

A fear of being rejected, he realized. What if you didn’t like what you saw there? What if your imaginings of his face were better than the reality?

It was childish, he knew, especially given the situation you found yourselves in, but the fear niggled at his chest all the same.

And still, your eyes focused, taking in his features with the wide eyes of curiosity rather than fear. 

Tanau’s grip on your throat and hair eased. You wobbled, steadying yourself with a hand on the floor, and still you looked.

Your eyes softened. Your lips parted. 

The look you gave him was one of - of love, of admiration. He knew, because he was sure that was the same way he looked at you.

And above all of that, Din saw the most important thing of all within your eyes.

Trust.

You trusted him. 

And he didn’t take that lightly. 

“Take his weapons,” Tanau commanded. “Leave only the spear.”

“Armor too?” The man next to Din asked.

Tanau thought for a moment. “Might as well leave it. He’ll be torn to pieces either way.”

“I thought you wanted to give me to the Imperials?” Din yelled. “Can’t do that if I’m in pieces, Tanau.”

“They’ll be here shortly,” he informed Din. “They’re going to see that I have you. They’re going to watch your death as a matter of entertainment. Don’t you worry - I have it all planned out.”

“What about the girl?” Another man asked. 

Din knew what his answer would be as soon as the smile curved his lips. His heart was in his stomach when Tanau said, “Send her into the pit. Watching the Mandalorian try to protect her and himself will be … fun.”

“I thought you wanted her, boss?”

He shrugged. “If there’s anything left, I’ll take her then.”

Tanau put a boot to your back, pushing you just off-balance enough that you careened down the stone steps. Din ran, breaking from those tearing off the pieces of his armor, and caught you just before you could hit the first landing. He sat you upright and went down the stairs before you, glaring at the dumbfounded expressions of the men waiting.

He did as asked, he stood patiently as they removed each of his hidden weapons. When asked, he held out an arm or a leg or rotated, but all the while, his arms were around you, hands pressing into the soft skin of your battered back and shoulders.

You said nothing as they took away each weapon, placing it on a table and mentioning something about a lock-up. Din would find it all later. 

When they handed him the wooden spear, he took it roughly. They laughed when they offered you one as well, but you took it from their hands just as roughly as Din had, chin raised and glaring. They thought that was even funnier, but Din paid them no mind and pulled you to him toward the middle of the pit. 

He kept an arm wrapped around your shoulders, tucking you in to his side as he walked. He said nothing, but his head was on a swivel, scanning the entirety of the arena. 

It only took one hand to drive the spearhead deep enough into the sand so it wouldn’t topple, so he never had to take his arm off you as he took your spear too. 

You’d begun to tremble then, whether from shock or fear or injury, Din couldn’t say, but it reminded him. “Tuck yourself under my cloak as much as you can,” he instructed. When you had, he pulled out the rest of the bacta shot he’d had in his belt pouch. He stuck it in your shoulder and dropped the plunger, pocketing the syringe before anyone in the box was none the wiser.

“It won’t put you to sleep… I don’t think.”

“Yeah, it would be nice to stay awake while we fight for our lives,” you mumbled, looking down. 

“Ka’ra,” he whispered, putting his fingers under your chin. 

Your head tilted with the gentle pressure from his hand, but your eyes were reluctant to follow. 

“Look at me, ner dral ka’ra,” he murmured. “It’s alright. Look at me.”

You did, but he could tell by the tense set of your shoulders that you were uncomfortable. “What is it?”

“What are we going to do, Din?” Your hands rested on his biceps and you squeezed. 

“Whatever they send against us, we kill. It’s that simple.”

You scoffed, looking at the two spears in the sand. “I’ve seen your face now. Does it really matter if we —”

“We will kill whatever they send against us,” he reiterated, crouching down so he was eye level with you. “Then I will kill every single one of them and we will go home.”

“But Din, I saw your face too, doesn’t that mean—”

Now he scoffed. “Do you think I’m going to kill you, cyar’ika?”

“But the - the Creed says…”

“I know what it says,” he told you. “And I don’t care.”

Your eyes widened, fingers tightening. 

“Leaving you behind was a mistake. I plan on never doing it again — if you’ll have me.” He leaned in, pressing his cheek to yours and inhaling the sweet scent, even mixed with the faint tint of blood.

“Din, I -”

He leaned back, his hand against the fading bruise along your jaw. He exhaled, noticing the swelling along your eyes and nose was going down significantly. “What? You said you loved me.”

“I do.”

“And I told you that I feel the same.”

“You did.”

“And you don’t believe I would leave the path of the Mandalorian before I harmed you?”

You cringed, biting your lip. “No, but —”

He kissed you then. He watched your eyes widen as he crashed to your lips, only closing his when you did. His mouth moved against yours, arms folding around your body as if they were made to stay there. 

And if he had anything to say about it, they always would be. 

Pulling back with a trembling breath, he heard Tanau speaking with someone jovially and guessed it was the Imperial representative. 

He looked over and saw them taking their seats. Din’s arms tightened around you and he was afraid. 

Your hands found the stubble that coated his cheeks, he leaned into your palms, closing his eyes as he felt the reverence of the touch. Your thumbs traced the high arches of his cheekbones and you nuzzled your nose against his. 

“Mesh’la,” you whispered to him. 

“What?”

“Mesh’la,” you repeated. “Your face… you’re beautiful, Din.”

“And you,” he murmured, pressing his lips to yours once again, cherishing the easiness of the act when he didn’t have a helmet between you, “you have been so brave today. Ner kotep verd’ika”

“What does that one mean?” He felt your lips moving against his when you spoke.

“My brave little soldier,” he told you. 

He heard them moving around the arena, so he stood tall, keeping you tucked against his side as his free hand reached for the spear, handing yours to you and grabbing his own. 

“Whatever they have for us,” he instructed you, “I want you to run.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he set his in a firm line, remembering now that you could see him. “Don’t argue with me,” he begged. “That bacta shot helped, but you’re in no condition to fight whatever the hell it is they have for us. Stay on the opposite side of the arena, but don’t back up to the wall in front of Tanau’s box.”

“Then take this,” you held out the spear. “If I’m not fighting then —”

He shook his head, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “No. Just in case.”

Your hands tightened around it. “They won’t take me again.”

He smiled then. Ner kotep verd’ika, indeed. 

“I have another phrase for you, verd’ika,” he said, making himself look away from you and surveying the arena instead.

“What is it?” 

“Ibi'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur.”

You repeated the phrase, the words beginning to flow more fluently from your lips; Din liked that. He loved the way his tongue fell from your lips, how easily you mastered the phrases.

“Ibi'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur,” he agreed. “It means today is a good day for someone else to die.” 

The large wooden door began to open, pulled by Tanau’s people on either side. 

Din turned to face whatever the danger was, and you stayed a step behind him, always shielded by him. “Remember what I told you,” he instructed. 

When the Rancor emerged from the shadows of its pen, it began to roar. Even within the light of the arena, the hide of it looked dark as night.

“Dank ferrik,” he swore.

“What is it?” Your voice trembled. 

“It’s not just a Rancor,” he told you. “It’s a Shadow Rancor.”

“Does that make it more dangerous?”

He nodded, eyes still on the beast as it emerged. “It’ll destroy anything it can reach.”

It seemed everyone in the arena held their breath, waiting to see who would move first. 

Din reached out with a hand, gently pushing you back. “Run,” he whispered.