Tiredofthehumanlife

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The bear masterlist

Billy the kid masterlist

Bridgerton masterlist

Criminal minds masterlist

Stranger things Masterlist

Lockwood & Co masterlist

Ouat Masterlist

Outer Banks Masterlist

Percy Jackson masterlist

Supernatural masterlist

The umbrella academy masterlist

Movies

Bottoms masterlist

Harry Potter master list

Marauders masterlist

Kickass masterlist

The hunger games masterlist

Anime

Death Note Masterlist

Mha/bnha masterlist

Misc.

 For weeks now, Damian was acting weird. He was whispering into phone calls. He was turning his phone off when you leaned your head on his shoulder. When you brought him a cup of tea to the small library, he was shutting his planner before you reached his side. Your birthday was coming up, so you assumed he was just hiding a gift from you. He had always gotten a little more tense around your birthday. 

 His gifts were always thoughtful. A special limited edition version of your favorite book. A replica of your favorite stuffed animal you lost as a kid. Another bottle of your favorite lotion and its matching candle. A leatherbound journal he had custom designed with his art. They always made you coo and press kisses to his cheeks. Damian would scrunch his nose at your kisses and mumble about the simplicity of his gifts. You had a feeling he was always worried that his gifts were inadequate. So you’d always make sure to mumble about how much you loved the gift for the week after. 

 You were pretty sure you knew what he was getting you this year. For your recent seven-year anniversary, you went on a trip to Scotland. One day you both spent an evening in a cafe, and you had the most amazing tea of your entire life. When you got home, you and Damian spent weeks drinking through boxes of tea trying to find a dupe. You never succeeded and eventually gave up. It had been a long time since you had forgone the idea of getting another sip of that tea. But you knew Damian. He would spend years chasing something down just to make you grin and kiss his face. You were entirely certain that he would hand you his beautifully wrapped present and inside would be a tea that tasted just like that evening in Scotland. You were excited to finally have the tea tomorrow after months of searching. 

 You sighed as you settled down into your side of the bed. Damian glanced over the edge of his phone at you. You readjusted your blankets, patting down the fluffed covers. You pulled your phone from your bedside table. You opened your alarm app. Damian pressed his cheek to your shoulder, staring down at the screen. 

 “What time are you planning to wake up tomorrow?” Damian muttered. You hummed. You reached a hand up, pinching at his cheek. 

 “I was thinking of getting up early; I have to run to the craft store and a couple other things. So probably eight.” You said. You set your alarm, double-checking the time again. Damian tilted his head, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. He straightened up, staring down at his phone. 

 “I was thinking of getting up early too. I wanted to run to the gym before making your breakfast.” You nodded at his words. He always made you your favorite breakfast for your birthday. There wasn’t a minute of your birthday that he didn’t remind you how much he cherished you. “So probably like Four.” Damian finished. You froze, your mouth falling open. You tore your eyes from your phone. You stared at the wall across the bedroom like it might offer you support. The room was silent as you wrapped your head around his words. How dare he compare your times? Four and Eight were not the same early. He was psychotic. Damian tapped at his phone, likely setting his alarm for the ass crack of dawn. 

 “I can’t fucking stand you.” You muttered. You set your phone down on your bedside table. You clicked your lamp off. You leaned forward, puckering your lips.

 “Yes, Habibi,” Damian responded. He leaned to the side, kissing you goodnight. You tried to pull away, only for Damian’s hand to pull you back by your chin. He kissed you again before pecking the corner of your mouth. You grinned, settling down into your sheets. You pulled the blanket up. You sighed as your head hit your pillow. You closed your eyes, ignoring the glow of Damian’s lamp. 

 After a few minutes, his phone finally clacked to his nightstand. He turned his lamp off. The blankets and bed shuffled around as he sank to his pillow. Damian finally sighed as he lay down, his breath hitting your face. You were grateful for the mint toothpaste. You felt his hand find your cheek, his thumb rocking back and forth under your eye. 

 “Happy Birthday-eve, Ya Ayni,” Damian whispered. You felt a grin pulling at your lips. You surged forward, poking your tongue out of your mouth. You licked the tip of his nose. Damian groaned. His hand left your face, wiping at his nose. You giggled evilly as you lay back down. 

 “Thank you, Dam-it.” You muttered, tugging your blanket closer. Damian scoffed as he settled onto his back, pressing one hand to his stomach. He slept like the dead. He was always on his back, and he was a deep sleeper. He’d only wake up for his alarm and you shaking him around. You tossed and turned constantly. Early in the relationship, he tried to cuddle you in your rest. He’d try to follow your movements and curve with your tossing. It only ended up with you elbowing him and Damian getting eye bags. So he gave up on that. 

Instead, he’d keep a hand on you at all times. He’d find the contact one way or another. When you flopped onto your stomach, he’d press his hand to your back. When you switched over onto another side, he’d hold your shoulder. Sometimes you’d wake up to him holding your arm to his chest. You remembered Damian’s palm warming your wrist before you slipped into your dreams. 

Your brain was swirling you around in storylines that made no sense. You vaguely felt the weight of Titus joining you both in bed, wrapping around your feet. 

You could smell strawberry fields more clearly. There was sun poking at your eyelids as you twirled in the greenery. Bright red, mouthwatering strawberries called to you from under the soft green leaves. You leaned down, gently tugging at one. Just as the small stem broke, a hand wrapped into your hair. Your body startled, your eyes flying open. Only to find there was a hand pressed to your scalp and a face staring at you in the dark from the floor. 

Your hand shot out, smacking the stranger in the face. They howled, falling back onto the ground. They cradled their face in their hands as they cowered on the floor. You yelled in fear, reaching over to flick on your lamp. You looked back to the form, slowly recognizing the slope of the shoulders and curls. 

“Damian?” You asked. Damian lifted his head from the floor, his hand still hovering over his eye. 

“Yes, Habibi. Good morning to you as well.” He grumbled. He gently tapped at his skin, frowning at the sting. You winced. You smacked your partner in the face. You cooed, reaching out for him. He leaned forward, gratefully letting you cradle his head. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was you.” You gently traced over the small red hue spreading across one cheek. You were starting to worry it might bruise. 

 “I had this weird dream. It was dark; it’s only-” Your eyes shot to the clock on your bedside table. 

“It’s only tw-” You paused, looking back to the clock to make sure you read that right. A bright 2:35 blinked at you. You furrowed your brows, the softness from your voice slipping away. 

“Why the hell are you waking me up at two in the fucking morning?” You snipped. Damian closed his eyes, sighing deeply. He pulled your hands from his face, gently kissing your palms. 

“It’s your birthday,” Damian explained. You scoffed, rolling your eyes. 

“Fuck that.” You flopped away from him, tugging your blanket back up. You squeezed your eyes shut, hoping Damian would shut off your lamp soon. Damian’s weight pulled at the edge of the bed, making you fall back into him. You glared up at him. 

“My love.” He drawled out, his tone too sweet and husky for him to be doing it accidentally. You shook your head. 

“No. You know I don’t get up before the sun. It’s rude to Mother Nature.” You complained. Damian shook his head, leaning into your space. He dragged his lips across yours, giving you a whisper of a kiss. 

“Please.” You scoffed at his plea. 

“You know how much you love chocolate pudding?” You ventured. Damian hummed. 

“You don’t need to remind me of the pudding pool metaphor. I’m well aware.” Damian responded. He tipped his head down again, capturing your lips in a slow, sensual kiss. You sighed, following the pattern of movement he created. He poked his tongue at your bottom lip. You shook your head, pulling your mouth from his. 

“If we had a pool of chocolate pudding and I was like ‘Go crazy, Dam-it, you can swim however long you want in this pool,’ and then ten minutes later, you were having the time of your life, I said ‘okay, you have to get out now; we’re draining the pool,’ How would you feel?” You rambled, digging your hands into his pajama shirt. Damian groaned, tilting his head back. 

“I understand. You don’t want to be woken up. You will like this. I picked out your outfit; you just have to put it on. I’m driving. You don’t have to do anything.” Damian said, pulling your fingers from his clothes. He intertwined them with his. 

“You’re putting me down like a dog.” You theorized. Damian glared at you.   “You will like this.” 

“Promise?” You asked, squinting your eyes at him. 

“I promise, Ya Ayni,” Damian whispered. He pressed a kiss to your lips, sealing the promise. You dropped your head back, groaning loudly. Titus lifted his head from the end of the bed. You looked back to Damian. 

“Fine. But you’re putting my clothes on for me. I’m not supposed to be awake at this time, and it’s your fault.” You stated. Damian grinned, stepping off the bed and peeling you up by your hands. 

Damian was gentle, sliding your clothes on, but the whole time he smacked his lips in disdain. You glared at him when he finished. He held onto your hand, leading you into the car. He didn’t turn on music as he started to drive. You didn’t mind it; it was probably good to talk so you could wake up. 

“Where are you taking me?” You asked, peering out at the city lights flying by. 

“Secret.” 

“This is kidnapping. I’ll put my head out the window and scream stranger danger.” You said, wiggling your hand over the window button threateningly. 

“You will not,” Damian grumbled. You stared at his side profile as you pressed your finger to the button. Your window slowly rolled down, hitting you in the face with cold Gotham air. Damian’s eyes snapped to you before looking back to the road. He rolled your window back up with his button. 

“You’re infringing on my rights.” You scoffed, staring out the window with a grumpy face. 

“You’re infringing on my good attitude,” Damian whispered back. You gasped. 

“Damian Al-Ghul-Wayne and good attitude in the same sentence is preposterous.” You snapped. “You get pissy breathing.” 

“I do not,” Damian said, pissily. 

“You’re the one smacking the shit out of me for no reason.” Damian piped back. You rolled your eyes. 

“That was an accident!” You scoffed. Damian hummed, pursing his lips. 

“Tell that to my bruise.” You glared at him, even though you knew he didn’t catch it. 

“Asshole.” You grumbled. 

“Dickhead.” Damian muttered back, pulling into the Wayne Manor. 

You gave him odd looks as he led you through the dark halls. You were knowledgeable about their late-night activities. Damian refused to work on holidays, which included your birthday. Yet being walked through the quiet halls of the manor at 3 in the morning was not the norm for you. 

 “You are killing me.” You whispered as he walked in front of you. He split the pure darkness with his phone flashlight. His hand was pressed behind his back, like he could sense whether or not you were following with his palm. A glare was shot at you over his shoulder. He looked forward again. He sighed as he reached the closed double doors to the dining room. He turned to the side, glancing at you before pushing the door open. Damian slipped into the darkness. You followed after him. The lights flashed on, a thousand voices screaming at you. You jumped, your eyes scouring over the room. 

 “Happy Birthday!” They called again. Dick, Jason, Tim, Bruce, Duke, Barbara, Stephanie, Cass, and Alfred were standing around the dining table. Your mouth dropped open. Good lord, what a load of people. You turned to the side, stealing a look at Damian. He shot one shoulder up at you in a half shrug. Your eyes were pulled from him as you were tugged into a hug by Dick. He was still in his suit, the dirt creating a cloud as you fell into his hug. You laughed and pulled away. You started to notice that just about everyone was still in their suits. Who else could say they had the real Nightwing and Batman at their birthday? Jason held a party hat out at you. You gratefully took it, slipping the cheap stretchy band under your chin. Damian joined your side again. 

 “I don’t remember verifying party hats, Todd,” Damian grumbled, glaring at the bright, pointy cardboard on top of Jason’s head. Jason pulled another from his stack, waving it at Damian. 

 “Don’t be a David Downer.” Jason sang. He tipped the hat forward, tapping it to Damian’s cheek. Damian’s nose scrunched up, swatting it away. 

 “I would never wear such a thing,” Damian mumbled. You pulled the hat from Jason’s hands. 

 “Yes, you will,” you countered, pulling at the strap. Damian tilted his head to you, allowing you to snap the band under his chin. You straightened the hat on top of his head. 

 “You’re a pain in my ass, Ya Anyi,” Damian grumbled. His hand reached out for you, gently rubbing his thumb over your skin. 

 “My birthday wish is that you aren’t so fuckign annoying.” You grumbled back. Damian curled his lips up in a snarl. He mockingly rocked his head back and forth. 

 “Bastard.” You whispered. 

 “Ass,” Damian mumbled, dropping his hand into yours. You gave him a soft smile, slipping into the green of his eyes. You couldn’t be more irritated by him, but you didn’t love anyone else in the world more. You were more than happy to complain about him until your last breath because it would mean he never left. 

 “I am late.” A smooth voice declared from far too close to your back. You startled,  letting out a small yelp. You turned around, finding Talia staring at you from down her nose. You grinned awkwardly, letting out a chuckle. 

 “You are quiet.” You mumbled. Talia nodded. 

 “Well, my training-” 

 “Mother, you made it,” Damian said, pulling from your side. He fell into her arms, pulling her into a hug. You held back your coo, smiling tightly. You glanced at Bruce on the other side of the room. He was staring at her with his mouth slack. Jeez, he was a lost cause. You caught eyes with Dick, finding him mumbling with a grin to Jason. Gossip hogs. You turned back to Talia. Damian pulled from her hug. 

 “I did not want to miss your birthday,” Talia said, meeting your eyes. You straightened your back, squaring your shoulders back. You had met Talia multiple times over the years you had been with Damian. You had already spent many holiday dinners sharing elbow space with her by the time you were moving in together. It never made it easier, though. She never seemed exactly overjoyed that you were who her son decided on. She never seemed exactly disappointed either. You were pretty sure she was perfectly neutral on you. Damian returned to your side. Talia stepped forward, looking you up and down from the floor. You suddenly felt like you should’ve checked over what Damian put you in before you left. This was a lot for a box of tea. 

 “I brought you this.” She held out a neatly wrapped box. It was hardly bigger than your hand. The corners were pointed, and the edges were crisp. You giggled at the wrapping. 

 “I see where Damian got his wrapping skills.” You chuckled. Talia did not laugh. You glanced up at her face, feeling your mouth dry at the blank look she gave you. Damian’s hand gently pressed against the small of your back. You smacked him away. 

 “Don’t.” You grumbled. Damian tilted his head to invade your eyeline. He gave you a mocking look, whining to mimic your tone. 

 “Dickhead.” You whispered, your heart stalling when you remembered who you were standing in front of. 

 “Asshat,” Damian mumbled back, glancing over his shoulder at his chatting family. He was acting like this was casual. You were staring at the ground, realizing you were totally dead. You lifted your eyes from the gift, searching Talia’s face. Although to your surprise, she had actually cracked what you assumed was a grin. Though it could be discomfort. You weren’t totally sure. You shot her a smile and tore off the wrapping paper. You shoved it into Damian’s chest. He fumbled to hold your trash, dropping a small piece. 

 “Always making a mess.” You mumbled. Damian scoffed. Without the paper was a stunningly carved wooden box. It was stained a dark red, and you hadn’t seen a more intricate design. 

 “Talia, this is beautiful. I haven’t seen-” 

 “That’s just the box; open it,” Talia ordered, pointing her finger at it. Oh okay. Damian needed to shoot you now so you never had to think about this moment again. You nodded, looking back down at the box. Damian snickered next to you. 

 “I’ll gut you.” You snapped. Damian only chuckled harder. 

 “If you wish, Ya Anyi,” Damian muttered. You slowly pulled the wood lid off. You gently held it in your hands like it might shatter if you breathed too hard. You stared down into the box. A small shining blade was staring up at you from a black velvet background. Your mouth parted as you stared at the weapon. It wasn’t very big, but there were jewels embedded in the handle that caught the light of the Wayne chandelier. It looked like a knife someone would hide in a garter. Damian peeked his head over your shoulder, staring down into the box. 

 “Mother.” Damian ground out. You ignored him as you pulled the blade from the velvet, passing the wooden box to him. You cradled it in your hands, tracing over every small metal detail. The handle had carved vines into it that sprouted out jewel flowers. The metal had an almost pearl shine to it that fascinated you. 

 “I told you in advance, no weapons. They are a civilian; there is no need-” You cut Damian’s rambling. 

 “Talia, this is beautiful. I’ve never seen such a stunning knife.” You gaped, tearing your eyes from the blade to look at her. 

 “Dagger.” She corrected. You pressed your lips tightly together. Damian was definitely hers. He would rather choke than let you make a grammar mistake. 

 “Habibi-” 

 “Well, it’s lovely. These jewels aren’t real, are they?” you asked, turning to the side. You held the dagger above your head, twisting it in the light as you stared at it. Stunning. 

 “They are. You deserve such jewels; no need to fight me on it.” Talia said. You raised a brow, glancing at her in question. 

 “Damian has written about you struggling to accept gifts you deem yourself unworthy of.” You hummed disapprovingly, shooting a glare at Damian. He was staring at you with his mouth agape. You gave him a look of questioning before staring back at the dagger. 

 “I love it. I’m only not sure what to do with it.” You mumbled. You probably should’ve kept it to yourself. Talia hummed. 

 “I can get a stand for it, decor for your home?” You nodded at her suggestion. 

 “This would be very pretty in our library.” You whispered. You tilted it to the side, smiling at the way the gems pointed the light back at you. Damian reached up, gently pulling the knife from your hands. 

 “Mother, this was very kind, but we cannot-” 

 “To tell you the truth, I find a younger reflection of myself in you. I mirrored the design of the dagger after the first one I received. Obviously, we have led very different lives. I am happy for it, but I still believe that a good quality dagger is useful to most people. I think you know how to appreciate the finer things, even when they come in more…” Her eyes trailed to the floor as she searched for her word. “Off putting form.” She finished. You grinned widely. You nodded quickly. 

 “I’m honored.” You replied, tugging Damian closer to you by his shoulder. Damian was frowning down at the box. You gently placed the knife back into its home. Damian grumbled as he closed it. Damian spun around the table, setting down the intricate box. Talia drifted away from you, greeting the rest of the family. You were excited to know if she would be talked into a party hat as well. Damian turned back to you with a tightly wrapped box. It was taller and wider than Talia’s. He had to hold it with both hands, but it wasn’t large enough to not be tea. You smiled at him as he held it out for you. 

You tore through the paper, tucking it under your arm. A bland cardboard box was revealed. You pulled at the top, finding a glass jar. You gently tugged it from out of the box, turning it in your hands. It had tea leaves filled to the top. You glanced at Damian. 

“Is this what I think it is?” You asked. Damian raised a brow. 

“That depends on what you think it is,” Damian responded. Alfred appeared next to you, holding a small teacup out at you. You took it from his hands, raising it to your lips. The warm liquid swept into your mouth. You were snapped right back into the cafe with Damian. You could feel the leftover foam on the corner of your lips. You could see Damian’s grin as he wiped it away. You could smell the fresh rain. You handed the cup back to Alfred, quickly pulling Damian into a hug. The box squished between the two of you. He dug his arms out from between you, wrapping them over your back. 

“It’s perfect. I can’t believe you found it. It must’ve taken forever.” You muttered, burying your face into his shirt. Damian loosened his hold on you. You pulled away, grinning at him brightly. 

“Anything for you, Ya Anyi,” Damian whispered. You pressed a kiss to his nose. Damian scrunched his face up. You finally gave the large family your attention. You spent about two hours with them. Alfred baked a cake that was amazing. Their laughs were so loud you could swear your eyes were ringing on the ride home. You were honestly excited to go back to bed. And in the real morning, with your special breakfast, you’d drink your tea. You’d definitely have to ask Damian how he found it. You wouldn’t be surprised if he flew to Scotland just to find it. 

When the car finally stopped, Damian didn’t make a move for his seatbelt. So you sat with him. When he stared out the window in silence, you waited. When he let out a huff through his nose, you didn’t respond. When he dropped his head onto his hand resting on the door, you folded your hands in your lap. When he wrung the steering wheel, you felt the urge to whistle. You instead just tucked your lips. 

“I don’t like that she gave you that knife.” Damian finally whispered. You sucked in a deep breath. 

“Why?” Damian kissed his teeth at your word. 

“It feels like she’s saying she wants you involved in all the violence business. What civilian needs a dagger?” Damian grumbled. He pulled at his hair, making it look even more slept on than it already did. You stared at the front door of your house. You’d kill someone to keep this house. If you didn’t die in this house, you were going to drag your half-corpse body to the front doorstep. 

“No, I don’t think so. I think she was giving me her blessing.” You stated. You actually could kill for some ice cream. You’ll make a note to have it next year. Damian scoffed. You tore your eyes from the house, turning in your seatbelt. You stared at Damian, begging your half-asleep mind to focus on him. 

“How did you figure that out?” Damian asked. 

“She was going on and on about how I can appreciate nice things even when they come in more ‘off-putting forms’. That’s you.” You explained. Damian snapped his head to you in offense. 

“That is not me.” Damian snapped. You raised a brow. 

“Yeah.” You grimaced. 

“No, it’s not.” 

“I like that you’re a little pissy and off-putting.” You tried. Damian glared at you before pointing his nose at the window. You sighed, reaching over the console to rest your hand on his forearm. He turned to look back at you. 

“Really?” He mumbled. You nodded. He sighed out of his nose. His other hand landed on top of yours. 

“I don’t know what you’re going to do with it,” Damian whispered. You nodded. 

“I’ll figure something out. And she said I reminded her of a younger her. I think that’s a compliment, right?” You said, looking out the window. Damian stayed silent. He didn’t hum in agreement. He didn’t even sniff. You shot your face back to him. 

“Right?” Damian quickly nodded. 

“Oh yeah. It’s a compliment.” He declared. You hummed in acknowledgement. Okay then. You were totally winning on this whole future-in-law thing. 

“Pretty sure,” Damian added. You dropped your mouth open. 

“You’re not sure?” 

“I’m not even positive Talia is my mother’s real name, to be truthful with you,” Damian responded. You shook your head. You dragged your hand down his arm, sandwiching your hand between both of his. 

You both sat in silence as you stared forward. Talia was really stunning. You were baffled by Damian’s looks when you first met him. When you met his parents, all the pieces clicked together. Human genealogy was really something else. Bless those hot people for making your hot boyfriend. You opened your mouth to finally break it. Damian held a finger up, silencing you. 

“Don’t say it,” Damian muttered. You huffed, turning away from him. He waited for you to ignore his demand. You stayed perfectly silent, the tension rolling away from his shoulders. 

“I was only going to say that I’m glad your parents liked each other so much 27 years ago. I’m quite appreciative of it, in fact.” You grumbled. Damian groaned, dropping his head against the headrest. 

“Get out of my car.” He demanded, unbuckling his seatbelt. You scoffed. 

“Don’t tell me what to do. I’ll get out when I want to.” You snapped. Damian leaned across your lap, pulling your gift bags from the floorboard under your feet. 

“So you plan to sleep in the car tonight?” Damian asked. He pushed open his car door, sticking one foot out. You crossed your arms. 

“You know what, maybe I will. We’ll see how you feel about sleeping alone.” You pursed your lips, glaring at Damian. He squinted at you. 

“Okay.” He left the car, shutting the door behind him. The car’s lights turned off as you sat in your seat. You watched Damian’s back as he stepped closer and closer to the front door. You could do this all night. Damian glanced over his shoulder, raising a brow at you. Fuck him, seriously. He was evil. 

You dropped your hand to the seatbelt. You pushed your door open, chasing after him. He snorted as you jogged to reach his side. He held his elbow out, letting you slip your hand through it. 

“I missed your stupid face.” You grumbled. Damian hummed, pushing the front door open. 

You finally woke up at the appropriate time, clicking off your alarm. You didn’t bother getting dressed. You only headed straight for the kitchen in your robe. Damian wasn’t there making your breakfast. But you found a note taped to the fridge. He’d be back soon after his run. Your gifts were there. 

By the time your tea finished brewing, Damian was rushing through the door covered in sweat. He entered the kitchen behind you, his breath coming out in short huffs. 

“Apologies, Habibi. I’m running a little behind. I’m going to rinse off and get started on your breakfast.” You turned around from the counter, taking your tea with you. You tried your hardest to keep your eyes glued to his face. You tried really hard not to stare at his sweat-soaked muscles, looking like a glistening Thanksgiving turkey. Damian pulled at the bottom hem of his t-shirt, dragging it over his face. You stared at his abdomen, shaking your head. Fuck this guy. 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had a crush on me.” You said. Damian froze. He dropped his shirt, furrowing his brows. 

“Yes. We are dating. That is quite the norm, Habibi.” Damian explained. You sighed. 

“Joke.” 

“Ah.” Damian huffed. You nodded, dropping your eyes to your tea. Damian followed your look. 

“What are you doing?” He asked. You paused, the bejewelled dagger’s tip stilling in your tea. It really made quite a great utensil. You were planning to use it to cut your breakfast too. You pulled the metal from your cup. You took a gentle sip, staring at Damian over the edge. You pulled it away, dipping the dagger back into your tea. 

“Enjoying my birthday presents, Dam-it.” 

 Body hair was completely natural, and you rarely ever bothered removing it. You had bigger fish. It wasn’t a deal in your relationship either. Adrian was rather radical with his views of life. Kill Nazis, all cops are pigs, and expectations of a hairless body were created by a racist, pedophilic, and misogynistic society. He was a simple man with simple pleasures. God, he was a joy to discuss issues with. He couldn’t remember how many legs a hedgehog had, but he’d sooner shoot himself than forget a piece of history. 

 After a long day, you really enjoyed settling back against your mattress, fluffing a pillow under your head, and wrapping your legs around your boyfriend’s head. Adrian loved every second of it and never voiced any complaints. However, it was getting to the point that he’d have to smooth back your hair to even settle down for his meal. 

 You just trimmed it down a little. It was hardly bare, and it wasn’t exactly grass short; just the tiny, curled ends that would tangle together were gone. You really thought Adrian wouldn’t even notice. He was usually more focused on the sensitive skin framed by your hair rather than the mop itself. 

 When you finally did get home, Adrian was sitting on your couch skimming through a National Geographic magazine you bought him months ago. You were surprised he hadn’t memorized every page yet. Adrian tilted his head back, smiling at you as you pulled at your shoes. You tossed the last one off, making a beeline for the bedroom. You snapped your fingers, pointing to the door. You were a person who preferred efficiency over fluffy conversation. Adrian hated fluffy conversation because he usually lost the meaning halfway through. So he appreciated when you made things simple. Adrian nodded, closing his magazine and chasing after you. 

 You pulled at the waistband of your pants, dropping them to the side. You flopped onto the made bed. You twisted backwards, smacking at your pillow to fluff it up. You settled it under your head, sighing. You patted your hips, waving Adrian over from the door frame. He giggled as he jumped on top of you. He slid down your front, wiggling down between your legs. 

 “Found out today that Dolphins use pufferfish to get high. Isn’t that crazy?” Adrian asked. He tucked his hands under your thighs, pulling them over his shoulders. 

 “Pufferfish?” You repeated. Adrian nodded, dropping a kiss to your happy trail. 

 “Yeah, they’ll shake them up a bit so they spit out their toxin,” Adrian muttered, running a hand over the side of your thigh to reach between your legs. He turned his focus from your face, looking down with furrowed brows. 

 “And then they can get high off the- What the fuck is this?” Adrian shot his eyes to yours. You startled up, peering down at him. Nothing. 

 “What?” you asked. You were expecting to see some kind of wound that you didn’t notice, but there was nothing out of the norm. 

 “What’d you do? Half of your hair is missing.” Adrian grumbled, petting over the patch of hair. You rolled your eyes. Adrian gasped, startling up. 

 “Did someone take it? I’ll fucking kill them, just give me a name.” Adrian gaped at you. You groaned, dropping your head back. 

 “I just trimmed a little; you were having to part my hair with both your hands. It was just a little long, that’s all.” You explained. Adrian’s mouth dropped open more. 

 “How could you?” He asked, his tone completely disgusted. You stared at him in shock. He was taking this incredibly personally. 

 “What do you mean?” You whispered. Adrian closed his mouth. He pitifully dropped his head to your thigh, staring at your hair. 

 “You killed my best friends.” He muttered. You reeled back, your hands shooting up in exhaustion. 

 “What the hell are you talking about?” You snapped, glaring at him. His bottom lip wavered. He pulled at the shorter hair, frowning when it slipped from his fingers. 

 “Your little curls. They’d wave at me when I opened your legs.” He’s insane. Completely lost it. When was the last time he slept? Adrian let out a sad whimper. 

 “They’d say ‘Hi Adrian! We love you! We missed you. We taste so good we bet you missed you so much.’ And you killed them.” Adrian whispered to your crotch. He pitched his voice up, pretending to be your pubic hair. You dropped your head back on your pillow, staring up at the ceiling. 

 “I don’t think you should be tasting my pubic hair, Adrian.” You mumbled. The ceiling could fall right now and kill you both. You wouldn’t hate it. You’d be okay with it. 

 “I want to taste all of you,” Adrian grumbled like a kicked puppy into the flesh of your thigh. You sighed. He might not even get to make you cum tonight. This conversation may end up going for hours. And knowing Adrian, he’d never let you get up. A smear of liquid on your thigh made you lift your head. Adrian wiped at his cheek with your thigh. 

 “Are you crying?” You scoffed. Adrian looked up at you, real hot tears rushing over his cheeks. Absolutely crazy. 

 “I missed them, and you killed them. You murdered them in cold blood behind my back.” Adrain whimpered. You shook your head in astonishment. 

 “You’ve murdered real human people, Adrain.” You reminded. Adain scoffed at you, pulling his hand from its spot in your hair and pointing it at you. 

 “People and best friends are not equal. You killed my best friends. That’s way worse than people. Bad people, too.” Adrian dropped his head back to your thigh, petting at your short hair.

" 'S not the same.” Adrian muttered. You rolled your head to the side, trying to stretch the tension out. You were getting restless. Every complaint came a hot roll of breath over exactly where you needed him. All he could focus on was your damn pubic hair. You dug a hand through his hair, pulling his head back. He met your eyes, his bottom lip still puffing out. 

 “Do you think you could focus on the task at hand?” You asked, pushing his hair from his forehead. Adrian looked pitiful. Which was astonishing considering. 

 “I don’t know if I can without my best friends encouraging me,” Adrian mumbled, pulling his head from your hold. He pulled at the hair again, whimpering when it slipped from his hold. 

 “I can’t even twirl it.” Adrian huffed. You rolled your eyes. 

 “I can encourage you.” You tried. Adrian shook his head. 

 “ 'S not the same,” Adrian whined. You groaned. You rocked your hips up, bumping into Adrian’s chin. He whimpered. 

 “They’re speaking to me from the dead. They said, ‘Hi, Adrian. We miss you, Adrian. So sorry we died’” He cried, petting at your hair as his tears fell. You tried to brainstorm as you stared at the ceiling. He would be stuck on this forever if you didn’t get your foot in the door now. You might end up falling asleep in this position while he cries himself to bed. Dolphins and pufferfish. You pulled your head up, staring down at his blonde curls shaking in despair. 

 “What else did you learn about Dolphins today?” You asked, a small grin pulling at your lips. Adrian lifted his head. 

 “They have three eyes.” You squinted, tilting your head to the side. 

 “I don’t know if that’s true.” 

 “It is.” 

 “Okay.” 

 “They don’t dream, and apparently they can recognize themselves in a mirror.” His tears had stopped. His frown was replaced by a bright smile.

He always needed a show on to eat his dinner or lunch. He couldn’t sit still without it. Which you didn’t mind because you were all for dinner and a show. But it seemed his idiosyncrasies around mealtime transferred to this meal too. As he started sputtering out Dolphin fact after Dolphin fact, he’d dip his head down to lick at you. You didn’t even care that half his facts were nonsense; every word was getting drowned out by your moans. 

 “And they only have two arms!” Adrian cheered. 

 “Uh-huh. What else?” You mumbled, pulling at his hair. 

 He only seemed to notice when you finally finished, moaning over his rambles. You sighed as he pulled himself off of you. The world was slightly less evil after an orgasm. For a few minutes anyway. Maybe human life was worth all the bullshit. Adrian pulled your legs off his shoulders, climbing up to meet your eyes on level. You peeled your eyes open.

 “They have three stomachs,” Adrian mumbled, knocking his nose into your cheek. You hummed, leaning forward to catch his lips. Adrian pulled a hand from the bed, cradling the back of your head. You pulled back, licking at his lips. You dropped your head back onto your pillow. You let out a deep sigh. Life was worth living. 

 “They’re on the endangered list, too,” Adrian added. Right. The world was full of greedy monsters. So much for your jolly outlook. You swung your arm behind his neck, pressing him against you. His face disappeared behind your shoulder in your embrace.

 “Missed you.” You muttered. Adrian hummed in agreement. 

 “You know who else used to tell me that?” Adrian asked, pulling his face from your hug. Peacemaker? You hardly ever heard him say something sweet. 

 “Ads?” You asked. Adrian frowned at you. 

 “Your little curls.” You groaned in annoyance. 

 “Give it a rest, Adrian!” You complained. Adrian shook his head at you. 

“Don’t kill them again. Once they come back, leave them there forever. I miss them so much already.” Adrian whispered. You sighed, running your hands down the front of his chest. 

“I can’t stand you.” You grumbled. Adrian’s face fell, looking at you in horror. 

“Sarcastic comment.” You added. Adrian’s face broke into a grin again. 

“Well, I fucking hate you. I’d totally kill you! Sarcastic comment.” He giggled, nipping at your jaw. You hummed. 

“You’re hilarious, babe.” You deadpanned. Adrian giggled against your neck. 

“I know!”

Back in college, you and Carmen never had enough cash to go out to eat. You usually couldn’t even pull a shitty dinner food. Waffle House was a treat. So on study nights, you figured out that gas station food wasn’t the worst thing ever. It was cheap enough too. Every single time you had to listen to Carmen complain about how it was disgraceful to food. But he still showed up. He still bought his own snacks. 

 You would pile into Carmen’s car. He’d drive you both to the gas station, with his music blasting. You would roll his windows down and wave your hand through the air. Then at the gas station you’d get your snacks, and force Carmen to carry them all. You would pour the slushies for the both of you. You liked to layer red, green, and blue together for yourself, bouncing between the three to make sure it was perfectly equal. And despite how hard you tried to make Carmen expand his tastes, he only liked the pina colada flavor. So you’d go to the counter with a rainbow slushie and a pale white one. Carmen would always make a sniff as he dumped his armful of snacks onto the counter. It would make you chuckle because his face was always burning so bright while you two would pull your cash together. 

 You’d carry your dinner out to the car. Instead of sitting in Carmen’s shitty car, with only one working air vent, you’d both settle on the curb. You’d watch all the cars go by, and eat your shitty dinner. When the sun was down, and the crickets were screaming at you both, that was when you both would properly talk to each other. It was easier to whisper secrets with a dyed tongue, according to you anyway. You enjoyed people watching with him. You’d pick out a person and decide to make up an entire backstory for them as they stepped into the gas station. When you started reaching the bottom of your slushie, you thought about telling Carmen about your feelings so many times. But you never did. Instead, you suck in a deep breath and stood up. You’d stick your hand out to help him up, and then you’d both go back to his dorm and study. 

 Carmen always took a picture of you on those nights. He didn’t always tell you; sometimes they were while you weren’t looking. Sometimes he’d flip the camera around and point it towards both your faces. He’d whisper a half-baked joke to you. It was never funny, but it made you both giggle. And he’d snap the picture then. Sometimes he’d take it while you were looking through the rack of chips, rubbing at your bottom lip in indecision. Sometimes it was when you were glaring over your shoulder at him as you poured his bland slushie. No matter what it was, he sent it to Mikey. 

 Carmen just thought he was showing him that he wasn’t alone. He wasn’t eating alone. He had someone to share dinner with, even though it was a shit dinner. Even though he had unrequited feelings squeezing at his heart. He just had to make sure Mikey knew he wasn’t suffering in college. Mikey always had a joke about it, mocking Carmen for not acting on his feelings sooner. Carmen absolutely never told his family that he had a crush on you. Though that word seemed juvenile for something so devastating. But the day you stopped him in his high school art class was the day your name started to slip past his mouth constantly. Every time you gave him any attention, he had to complain about it. You were just so irritating. 

 Mikey knew because despite Carmen’s hardest rejections, he didn’t stop talking about you. Clearly you were friends. Mikey could tell. You grinned too much in the photos. Even in your glares, you were grinning at him. But you weren’t looking at the camera; you were looking at Carmen. Mikey loved pissing Carmen off by telling him to man up and ask you out already. But after two years, Carmen stopped sending photos. Mikey thought it was because Carmen was pissed at him. When Carmen finally came around for another holiday, Mikey asked. And he felt his heart break for his baby brother when he said you transferred. Right person, wrong time. Mikey slapped Carmen on the shoulder and hummed. Which was a genuine sympathetic statement for both of them. 

 When you did transfer, you focused on your writing more. You didn’t have Carmen to talk to anymore. It made things difficult because you needed to write, but the one person whose breathing could press your pen to paper wasn’t around. So you started the tradition on your own. You’d get your own slushie, usually the pina colada one. You just wanted to pretend Carmen was with you for a little. You settled down on the steps of your university and you’d people-watch. You’d think of backstories for people who rushed past you for their dorms. And that was how you would brainstorm your stories. You thought of your novel’s plot on the stone steps. One night, a man who looked exactly like Carmen tried to walk past you. You stopped him. He paused on the steps, staring down at you. 

All you said was: “Can I get your number?” and in a few weeks you were dating Carmen’s lookalike. And his face made up for all the lacklusterness of his personality and skills.

So years later when the real Carmen asked you out, you couldn’t be happier to jump into his car. This one had working air vents; you appreciated that. Carmen was nervous, obscenely nervous. He kept huffing out air and rubbing his hands over the steering wheel. As he started to pull into the gas station parking lot, you startled up in your seat. 

“Carmen.” He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. Carmen shrugged with one shoulder as he pulled into an empty parking spot. 

“I couldn’t think of anything good as a first date, so I thought we could take a few pages from our own book,” Carmen said. The car settled as he pulled his keys out. You didn’t bother waiting for him to finish unbuckling before you jumped out of your seat. You skidded around the side of the car, chuckling at the sound of Carmen’s door squealing open. You peered over the edge of the trunk, watching him climb out. He was grinning at you as he shoved his keys into his pockets. You jogged across the road, jumping up to the gas station door. Carmen chased after you, looking both ways. You looked over your shoulder. Carmen caught up to you, standing a step behind the door. You smiled as you yanked the door open. 

It had been a while since you had gotten a rainbow slushie. In fact, your ex had the understanding that your favorite was coconut with pineapple. You never confessed that it was really because you wished you had taken a chance to learn the taste of your college crush’s mouth. You felt a younger version of yourself absolutely giddy at the feeling of bouncing between the stations. And your first sip made your heart stutter. Your shoulders dropped in relaxation. It was like you had stepped into a time machine and you didn’t hate it. Carmen’s arms were full with snacks. Not a free hand in sight. You grabbed a second cup for him. You pointed to the pina colada. 

“Still bland?” You asked. Carmen snorted. 

“I’m horrifically bland.” He answered. Carmen didn’t bother telling you that on some nights, he would get sick to his stomach thinking about what he should’ve told you. He especially didn’t tell you that on those nights, his cigarette butts would be soaked in the last drops of his red, green, and blue slushy. You filled his cup to the top and stabbed a straw through the top hole. 

Carmen used his card to pay for it at the register. As much as you hated having to calculate all your pocket change in front of the exhausted worker, you partially missed it. It at least gave you another chance to make Carmen giggle. You liked being close enough to him that you almost knocked heads. Carmen muttered a thanks as he pulled the bag from the counter. You took both your slushies, falling in step with him as you moved towards the door. Carmen stuck his hand out in front of you. You pressed his slushy to his hand. Carmen hummed in appreciation. He turned to the side, pushing open the door with his back. He held it open for you as he wrapped his lips around the straw. You chuckled as you skipped past him. You couldn’t be more excited to sit on the ground. 

You settled down with much less grace than you used to. Six years apparently does more to your joints than you realized. Carmen sat down next to you. He lost his balance, his hand flying back to catch him. His palm dug into the dried-out grass. You giggled, pointing a finger at him. Carmen knew if he was still 19, his face would be burning hot. But he laughed with you instead, straightening himself up. 

“Time is an evil bastard.” He muttered, handing you the bag of snacks. You nodded. 

“Oh, he’s the worst.” You replied. It was shockingly easier to fall back into the pace you had with him before. It was different now; the knowledge that everything was requited changed the sighs you both let out. You could stare and not flick your eyes away when he turned his head. He lifted a finger from the side of his cup. 

“Old guy in the orange sweater.” He mumbled. You looked across the road to find him. He was hunched over, slowly making it to the glass door. His sweat was far too large for him. It reached his mid-thighs, and the shoulder seams slipped off to the middle of his arm. You hummed. 

“Louis.” You decided, looking back to Carmen. He nodded. 

“That’s his wife's sweater,” Carmen added. You mulled it over in your head. 

“He’s on retirement now. The money is running out though, and his rent is rising.” Carmen hummed at you. He pulled another sip of his slushy into his mouth. He swallowed as ‘Louis’ finally made it to the door. 

“He’s trying to find a job that will give him a little extra cash. No one wants to hire him; he doesn’t move fast enough for him to be helpful on the team.” Carmen tried. You frowned. You weren’t paying any attention to ‘Louis’ anymore. He was out of sight, probably getting powdered donuts and a Coke. 

“What makes it worse is: his wife died two weeks ago. He has to find enough money to get her buried. Her family cut her off years ago; they didn’t like who she married. Now he feels guilty because the people who could actually help him afford her funeral won’t because she married him.'

'He’s got a picture of her in his wallet, not of when she was young. It’s her when she was old, in a hospital bed. Other people would say she looks tired and drained. But he made her laugh before he took it, and he loves how carefree and beautiful she looks.'

'When he goes to pay for his peanuts, Coke, and powdered donuts, he’s going to pause and stare at her. The guy behind him in the line will be annoyed he has to wait an extra two minutes. But all Louis can think about is how 53 years wasn’t enough.” You stared at the glass door as you imagined the little old man moving about the store. You could see Louis and his wife’s life together clearly. You could see them smiling and laughing at their first dance as a married couple. You could see her getting sicker with each day. You could see Louis trying to make her laugh every morning and night. You could see him breaking down at the cash register. You could see it all even though the only view in the glass door was the chip aisle. 

Carmen sucked in a hiss. You turned your eyes to him, finding him grimacing. He gave you a weird look. 

“You’re sick and twisted,” Carmen muttered. You gasped in faux offense. You reached over and smacked him on the shoulder. 

“You started it sad! It’s not my fault.” You grumbled. Carmen rocked from your hit, a small smile pulling at his lips. He took another sip, pointing to your next victim. He was definitely in college. He had white wired earbuds trailing into his jean pocket. He pressed an orange vape to his lips before slipping into the gas station. 

“Oh, easy. He’s in college, obviously.” You scoffed. This was the easiest one yet. Carmen rolled his eyes. 

“And?” 

“Mm.” You thought for a minute. You could taste your old self. 19-year-old you would say, he loves video games and Snow Peak peach-flavored Boones. You would’ve said that just to get away from your reality of Carmen next to you. But you weren’t going to let that version of yourself win. You had wallowed so much you had never taken the chance. And because of that, you ended up with knockoff Carmen. 

“He’s in love with his classmate from high school. Head over heels. He just doesn't have the balls to say it.” You finally said. Carmen’s brows shot up. You turned your head and met his eyes. Carmen’s face slowly shifted into recognition. For a moment, he didn’t know who he was talking to. But the look in your eye was the same knowing look you had when people would compliment your writing. You already know, you just want to hear it.  

“Yeah? What else?” Carmen egged. You tilted your head to the side, really thinking. 

“They’ll move away. He won’t know where they went or if they’ll be back. He’s a little sad he missed his shot for a month or two. Then he forgets about it for six years. Until he runs into them again at a gas station and he has to get the words out now or he’ll never say them.” You whispered. You pulled at your slushy straw, stabbing through the different colors. You were silent for a moment.

All Carmen did was stare at the side of your face and wish he had been sitting next to you for those years. He wished he had watched you shift into who you are now. He wished he had said he wanted you before Mikey died. He might’ve held it together just a little better. You would’ve grabbed him by the back of the neck and shoved him into that church. But he didn’t. He held his tongue. Now he was staring at you, and somehow you were both a stranger and an old friend. He hoped you saw newer, better parts of him, not more broken bits. 

“No,” Carmen said. Your eyes jumped back to him. He had never declined one of your people-watching comments. Even when you started saying people were zombies or vampires. He always agreed with you and asked you more questions. Part of it was watching a stranger grow into someone he knew well because you both just kept adding on. Another part of it was watching your brain work and wishing he could hear what you thought of him.   “No?” You repeated. 

“No.” Carmen shook his head. “That’s not what happened.” He clarified. You didn’t respond. You only watched him.

“I’ve had a crush on you since high school. I thought once we graduated high school, I wouldn't see you again, and it would go away. College happened, and it got so much worse the more I knew you. You transferred, and I thought for sure it would slip away. I thought with time the punching and longing in my chest would finally go away. But for six years there were days where all I could think about was what I should’ve said and what we could’ve been.” Carmen lowered his voice, leaning closer into your space. 

“I didn’t forget about you.” He whispered. Your mouth twisted into a sad smile. Your eyes flickered away from him out of nerves. 19-year-old you would’ve grabbed his shoulder and shoved him away. You would’ve said ‘yeah, whatever.’ You let the moment hang. You let his words settle on your shoulder and slip past the skin of your chest. You looked back to him and nodded. 

“I didn’t forget you either.” You whispered back. Carmen smiled and nodded. 

“I hope not. You were dating my doppelganger. It’d be a real shame if you forgot the original.” He joked. You laughed and knew you couldn’t have a better first date. Especially when ‘Louis’ came back out and an old woman leaned her head out the window of her car. She asked him if he got her peanuts,  and cheered when he held them up. You turned your widened eyes to Carmen. 

“Zombie.” You muttered. 

Carmen was going to call you once he got off work tonight. He was thinking about how he needed to take you out again. Four times over the past two weeks was not enough. As a matter of fact, he was thinking about when it was appropriate to ask you to move in. He thought about which drawers he would need to clear out as he set plates, drizzling puree where he needed to. He was thinking about what color your pillowcase would be as he pinched a small sprig of mint onto a plate. He was thinking about the color of your toothbrush when Richie interrupted him. 

“Cousin! You won’t guess who’s out there.” Richie shouted. Carmen glanced up from the plate. Dear god. It could be his mother. Or his old teacher. Hell, it could be Mike’s fucking ghost. All of which were terrifying. Richie scoffed and rolled his eyes. 

“Fine, I’ll tell you. It’s your old fling from college!” Richie cheered, a wicked grin spreading across his face. Carmen furrowed his brows. Fling? Carmen never told Richie about anyone in college. He especially didn’t have any flings. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Carmen asked. Natalie joined Richie’s side. 

“Oh, you know, the gas station kid. You guys had like three classes together.” Natalie tried, tilting her head to the side. Richie nodded. 

“You sent us pictures of them all the time.” Richie dragged. Carmen felt his stomach drop. Those were for Mikey. He didn’t consider that he had been showing them around. 

“What do you mean, who is us? I sent those to Mikey only.” Carmen snapped, pulling his attention from the plate. Richie rolled his eyes like Carmen was being a complete idiot. 

“And Mikey showed them to us.” Carmen threw his hands up. 

“And who is us!”   “Well, he showed them to me, and Sugar,” Ritchie stated, pointing at her next to him. Carmen swallowed at the thought of Mikey showing you to his mom. That on its own was terrifying. It felt like two worlds that weren’t supposed to touch exploding. 

“Did he show Mom?” Carmen sputtered. Natalie’s face twisted into disgust immediately. 

“Oh hell no,” Natalie said. Carmen sighed, smacking his hands onto the counter and dropping his head down. Thank the fucking stars. He let out a deep sigh, pretending he didn’t just feel his heart drop out of his ass. He pulled himself back up, peering over the moving heads out the glass window. At first all he saw were strangers, then a bald head moved, and there you were. You sat in the back corner with two women at your table. You were laughing lightly at something and pulling your glass to your mouth. Would your toothbrush be green? What about purple? If it was blue, he’d have to get a new one because his was already blue. 

“Well, what the hell are you doing? Go rekindle your lost love, quit being a pussy.” Richie complained from across the kitchen. The bald head moved in his way. Carmen snapped to look at Richie. 

“Why are you calling me a pussy? What is your fucking problem?” Carmen glared. Richie deadpanned at him. 

“Get out there; your pitiful love life is upsetting me.” Richie stepped around the counter, grabbing Carmen by his shoulders. He started shoving Carmen backwards to the door. Carmen pressed his hands to the front of Richie’s suit. 

“Don’t talk about my love life! I can’t leave the kitchen, Richie!” Carmen yelled, trying to shove Richie back. Richie shook his head, still powering forward. 

“You have to. It’s happening.” Richie stated. Carmen shook his head. The swinging door smacked his back, making him jump. That was closer than he remembered. Carmen’s arms flew out, clawing at the walls. Richie nodded. 

“I can’t go out there!” Carmen complained. Richie pressed both his hands to the center of Carmen’s chest and shoved, hard. Carmen stumbled back into the quiet chatter of the restaurant. He straightened up, yanking at the bottom of his buttoned shirt. Oh, he’s fucked. 

Eyes started to lift as he stood there for longer. He felt his body freeze. They were definitely jumping from their seats and starting to stab him with their forks. Richie slapped a hand on his shoulder. Carmen jumped. 

“Do I have to flirt with them for you too, or can you handle that on your own?” Richie grumbled under his breath. Carmen scoffed, smacking Richie’s hands off him. Carmen turned in the direction of your table, already hating that he was doing this. What if you didn’t want your friends to know about him yet? This had to be embarrassing for you. He had a smear of orange sauce on his sleeve. He was going to get mocked. Oh, you were going to give him that little knowing giggle that called him stupid, stupid little Carmy. He lifted his eyes from the floor, finding yours already on him. He felt his feet get caught in invisible tar. You grinned at him, tilting your head to the side. Carmen finally made it to the edge of the table. You looked up at him, raising a brow. 

He wanted to tell you something special. Something so gentle and witty it left you silent for a second. You pushed your head forward, getting impatient. He couldn’t pull his eyes from yours. He could remember the first day you pointed them directly at him and actually looked. He would have December 14th tattooed into the back of his eyelids forever. 

A quiet cough from the right pulled his attention from you. He looked between the two unfamiliar faces staring at him in confusion. He wasn’t just at your table; he was staring at your friends too. 

“Hey.” He breathed out, awkwardness dragging down the casualness. He felt his insides cringe. He hoped an airplane came crashing right through the ceiling and killed him. 

“Hello.” The two women chimed in. You cleared your throat. 

“Uh, Carmen, this is my publisher and my editor.” You explained, pointing to each one. Your publisher gave him a half grin. Your editor raised a hand, greeting him. You looked back to him. 

“I just finished all the paperwork to get my book published. It will be on shelves in about four months. So they wanted to treat me to dinner; they picked out the spot. I tried to tell our waiter we didn’t need to meet the chef, but he was adamant.” You said. You were giving him a guilty look like you tracked mud into his home. 

“Yeah, Richie. He’s a pusher. It’s good but-” He paused, glancing over his shoulder at Richie. He was watching Carmen from the window, a grin pulling across his mouth. Richie held a hand up, pointing a thumbs up at him. Carmen looked back at you. 

“Pushy.” He finished. You chuckled. 

“Well, yeah. But uh, he knew my name. Have you been telling people about me?” You asked, a small grin pulling at your lips. Carmen hung his head, feeling anxious about- well, everything. 

“No, uh. I used to send pictures of us to Mikey. Just as a- a- whatever. Apparently Mikey has- had shown them all to my family. I didn’t know that.” Camren mumbled. He swears every word he’s ever known slipped away from him. He can’t remember a single thing he learned in college. He briefly thinks that he should’ve learned to kiss you in college. The English language would’ve been nice too because he was making a fool of himself right now. 

“Oh.” You whispered. Carmen felt like he had just face-planted right in front of you. He brought up the least flirty thing ever, his dead brother. For fucks sake, could he kill the mood.

“You sent pictures of us to Mikey?” You asked, drawing his attention from the floor. Carmen nodded. 

“Yeah, he would tell me to-uh-” He glanced to your publisher and editor watching him in fascination. This was some juicy drama. 

“He’d tell me to just-you know- be a zombie,” Carmen mumbled, feeling a deep sigh pull at his chest. Jesus, he was fumbling. You snorted. 

“Like your Uncle Louis.” You added. Carmen felt a wide grin spread across his face. He nodded. You were so smart. He really just wanted to know how every cog in your brain worked. 

“That’s sweet, Carmen.” You smiled, pulling your glass to your lips again. Carmen didn’t think it was sweet. It was probably more creepy. Or he thought so; maybe you were crazy. 

“Food is good too.” You added. You were sane. Definitely sane. At least your taste buds were. He had plenty of people tell him his food was good, but this made his face burn. He snorted, nodding at the floor. 

“Thank you.” He replied quietly. He should’ve cooked for you in college. You’d never end up with knock-off Carmen. 

“Oh, it's delicious.” Your publisher added. He was reminded they were there. 

“I loved the purple thing.” Your editor muttered. Carmen smiled politely at both of them. He turned back to you. 

“I have to go.” He whispered. You grinned. 

“Go.” You approved. Carmen didn’t waste time standing there, turning back towards the kitchen. He got two steps away before your publisher spoke to you. 

“You know him?” She whispered, trying to keep the conversation away from his ears. 

“Oh yeah. We go way back.” You answered. Carmen turned his head back, glancing at you one last time. You didn’t catch it, your eyes on your glass, but he still felt a surge of pride.

When he reached the kitchen again, Richie smacked his hands on his shoulders. Richie rocked him back and forth. 

“When’s the date?” Richie asked. Carmen smacked him away. 

“There is no date. I just said Hi. Mind your own business.” Carmen muttered, moving back to his station. Richie scoffed. 

“That was not Hi. That was way longer than Hi,” Richie countered. Carmen shook his head. 

“We-uh-” Carmen paused, thinking back to the way you grinned at him. He wanted to go back out there and press his lips to yours. Even after four dates, you hadn’t given him that. But he didn’t blame you. He waited years and years for it; a few more weeks would be okay. And he thought about how you handled Mikey. People usually said sorry, which made his eye twitch. Then he had to say no, no, don’t apologize. He thought of how you knew the words he wasn’t saying. He thought of how you didn’t force him into the awkward back and forth of goodbye. You just told him to leave. 

“We talked about zombies.” Carmen finished. Richie paused, glancing around at the curious eyes staring at him. 

“Zombies?” Tina repeated. Carmen nodded. He could hear the gas station lights buzzing over his head. He could feel your hand brushing against his arm as you piled another chip bag into his hands. He could smell the slushy on your breath. 

“Do we not have jobs? Fucking hell!” Carmen declared, turning his focus back onto his work. He called you after his shift to congratulate you on your publishing.

A week later, he was too busy to squeeze another date in. He called you before bed every day that entire week. But today was killing him. Everything was ruined. Everyone was pissed. The whole fucking thing was falling to bits. And despite how awful it was, your message made him huff a pathetic laugh. He sent a short response about how awful it was in the restaurant and made a promise to call you tomorrow. He was going to crash right into his bed tonight and not move until the morning. When every dish was sitting in the sink, and his apron was stained to hell and back, he finally let out a sigh. He needed a smoke. 

He was pulling a cigarette from its box by the time he pushed the back door open. Carmen dipped his head down, pressing the paper between his lips. The flame of his lighter burned the end. Carmen shoved the box back into his pocket and finally lifted his eyes from the ground. 

You were sitting on the end of one of the picnic tables, kicking your feet back and forth. You had a slushy in one of your hands, sipping on the straw. Next to you was another one. Carmen felt his chest seize. You raised a hand, giving him a small wave. Carmen turned, putting his cigarette out on the brick wall. He dropped the unsmoked thing to the ground, making quick work to get to you. You held up the other slushy, wiggling it at him. 

“What are you doing here?” Carmen breathed. You wiggled the slushy harder. Carmen took it from you. 

“You said you had a shit day. I wanted to make it better.” You said. Carmen pulled the straw to his mouth, grinning at the coconut and pineapple. You set your drink down. You kicked a leg out past his side. You curved it behind his knee, tugging him closer by your heel. Carmen glared at you as he stepped forward, his hips hitting your knees. 

“With shitty gas station slushies?” He mocked, raising a brow at you. You sat up straight. You looked at him with offense. 

“Uh no. I also brought you this.” You snarked. You raised your arm, slipping your hand behind his head. Carmen’s grin fell. He pulled his slushy closer to his chest. He made sure you had a clear path to him. You leaned forward. Your nose bumped against his cheek before you brushed your lips against his. He could hear his heart hammering in his ears. You started to pull back, your breath leaving his face. Carmen peeled his eyes open. He felt lightheaded. You leaned away from him, your hand dropping from his neck. Carmen sighed. 

For fucks sake. He wanted it so long. He thought about all the ways you could share your kiss, and it was earth-shattering. He thought of how you would taste, and sound, and smell. He thought it was unattainable, and then you actually went out with him. And that’s the kiss you give him? A whisper of your skin against his? 

Carmen set his drink next to yours, freeing his hands. His tongue darted out between his lips like he was worried he still had the taste of smoke on his mouth. 

“No,” Carmen said. Your shoulders dropped, your cheesy grin falling away. Carmen reached out, gently holding onto the back of your neck. 

“Try again.” He whispered. Your face twisted into a much softer look. Carmen tipped forward. He pulled you into him, firmly pressing your lips to his. You slotted them together this time, finally giving the kiss he wanted for years. You pulled your arms up, crossing them over his shoulders. Carmen hummed into your mouth. You moved in sync, your dreams pulling you in the direction you needed. You pressed your forehead to his and tore apart your kiss. You panted against his mouth, keeping your eyes closed in bliss. Carmen’s hands found your knees, pulling them apart. He stepped closer to you, digging his hands into your back. He pressed your hammering heart to his chest. Carmen tilted his head, brushing against your lips. More, please. 

You dropped your mouth back to his, licking at his bottom lip. Carmen groaned, parting his mouth. You pressed your tongue to his. Carmen licked into your mouth, tasting the colors on your tongue he had been dreaming about forever. You dug your fingers into his hair. A bursting feeling of joy bubbled in your chest. You liked the taste of slushy much more when it was coming from his mouth. 

“Hey! Cousin?” A loud voice yelled from behind Carmen. You pulled apart, making Carmen groan. His hands moved to cup your face, shielding you from the onlooker. You giggled in the darkness, rubbing your lips together to memorize the feeling of his spit. 

“What!” Carmen shouted. 

“Who is that? Who are you macking on?” Richie yelled. Carmen scoffed at him, glancing back at you to make sure your face was still covered. 

“Macking? What are you, 98 years old?” Carmen hissed. Richie smacked his lips. 

“Are you a dickhead?” 

“Don’t you have a job, Richie?” Carmen snapped back. Richie let out a loud, annoyed groan and leaned backwards, screaming to the sky. Richie stood back up, flipping Carmen off before stepping back into the restaurant. Carmen turned back to you, slipping his hands away from your face. 

“What were we talking about?” Carmen whispered. You pulled at the bottom hem of his shirt, playing with the material. 

“I used to get your flavor when I missed you. I would sit on the steps of my university, and people watch. That’s how I got my ideas for my writing, especially after you were gone. The first few weeks I couldn’t write anything, and I was worried I never would. Like if you weren’t there, I wouldn’t have anyone to inspire me.” You confessed, pulling your eyes from his shirt. Carmen cradled the side of your head with his hand. He would forever be fascinated by how you could take strangers and write a full story from them. 

“I used to get yours,” Carmen muttered. You gasped loudly, your hands jumping to his sides. 

“You expanded your tastes?” You squealed. Carmen chuckled. 

“Yes, It’s awful. That thing is disgusting,” Carmen lied. You narrowed your eyes at him. 

“You liked it.” You muttered. Carmen frowned and shook his head. 

“Yes, you did.” You pressed him closer by his sides. 

“Awful,” Carmen complained. 

“Come on. Fess up.” You demanded, your hand slipping under the edge of his t-shirt. You pressed your palms against his bare skin, splaying over his stomach. 

“It was alright,” Carmen mumbled. You cheered, pressing a soft kiss to his lips again. 

You were finally introduced to Carmen’s family at Tiffany’s wedding. Which Carmen said was the best option because the attention would be elsewhere so your relationship could slip in easily. You were months in by then, and you were getting ready to move in together. You could tell because Carmen’s clothes were disappearing from half of his dresser drawers. He wasn’t as sneaky as he thought he was. Tiffany said it was fine for him to bring a plus one. 

Richie was the most excited. He started forcing people to cough up cash. He knew it was coming for a while, apparently. He got fifty dollars altogether, and he wouldn’t stop waving the money in Carmen’s face. Natalie gave you a hug that made you feel like you had been a part of the family for years. The Faks tried to get you to send them money for a 'very smart' crypto company. But you spent a good portion of the night swaying with Carmen on the dance floor. Richie pulled Carmen away from you at the beverage table, throwing his arm over his shoulders. 

You didn’t catch a word of it. When you tried to step closer, Richie waved you back. Carmen finally rejoined your side. 

“He said Mikey would be proud that I finally did something about it,” Carmen whispered as he brought his drink to his mouth. Your eyes widened. 

“You think so?” Carmen nodded. 

“He would’ve liked you. He liked what I told him. Which was everything.” Carmen answered. You pulled a cheese cube into your mouth. 

“I’m glad.” Carmen sighed through his nose. You were easy to breathe around. 

“What picture of me are you putting in your wallet?” You asked, handing him a strawberry. Carmen sank his teeth into the red flesh, chewing before answering. 

“Probably one of you in a hospital bed.” He replied. You grinned at him. Carmen took another bite as he fought down a smile. 

You moved into his apartment a few weeks after. You slipped into a routine very easily. You had finally let Carmen into your journal. He was reading every stupid line you wrote about him. You pressed the start button on the dishwasher, heading back into your shared bedroom. Carmen had a leg stretched out across his bed, the other bent up close to his chest. He had your worn journal pressed to his thigh, swirling the ribbon around his fingers. His eyes glanced up over the edge when you walked in. He looked back down at the page. 

“Your fingers slip past my teeth, stilling my tongue like a statue.” Carmen drawled out. He dramatized his voice, shaking his head around. You groaned, climbing onto the bed next to him. You rested your head against his shoulder, staring at your scrawling handwriting. 

“You don’t need to read it out loud.” You complained. Carmen scoffed. 

“Why would I not read out Shakespeare’s competition? Listen to this: Drip your spit into my mouth, up there, oh god, you look so Lordly. That’s just a fantasy I have of me and you.” He pulled his eyes from the journal, pressing a hand to his chest. 

“It’s just so touching. You were obsessed.” Carmen whispered, turning the page. You groaned, yanking the journal from his hands. You slammed it shut, hiding it behind your back. 

“Hey! I’m reading that.” Carmen scolded, trying to reach around you. 

“No more reading, focus on me.” You said, pressing your lips to his. Carmen shook his head, still pawing for the journal. 

“Uh, uh.” You murmured, pulling him into a kiss. Carmen lost his desire for your journal as your tongue prodded past his lips. He pressed his hands into your back, pulling you closer. You flung your arms over his neck. Carmen twisted to press you into the mattress, climbing over you. You pulled your arm back, flinging your journal across the room. Carmen pulled from your kiss, yanking at the hem of his shirt.   You woke up to the moon swirling through the curtains. Carmen’s arm was tossed over your waist, his breath puffing against the back of your neck. You turned under the blankets, tugging them back over your shoulder. You threw your arm over Carmen’s shoulder, hooking your elbow on his side. Carmen huffed in his sleep, digging his fingers into your back. You scooted closer to him, pressing your chest to his. Journal be damned, he made fantasies feel better than you could’ve imagined. The original Carmen was so much better than the knockoff. 

You were actually incredibly patient. You didn’t appreciate the rumor your boyfriend was floating around in your private texts. You could (and have) waited hours for your boyfriend to return home. Usually, a good movie and some popcorn could distract you from his absence. But today was different. Actually, the past three days had been different.

Your skin warmed when there was nothing to cause it. Your body grew tense. You felt like your legs were never stretched out all the way. You felt like your neck was tilted in the wrong direction. No position could make your body relax. You felt like a wave of heat was radiating between your legs. You were plenty capable of handling it yourself. But Tim was oh so much more fun. 

 The only issue was the waiting. You had to wait for him to come home. Then he’d probably want a shower to 'wash crime off' of him. And then he’d probably want to get into his silk pajamas. And then he’d finally join you in bed. You’d have more luck giving a fucking mouse a cookie. You’d been rolling around in the blankets of your bed for the past hour. No position made anything less tense, but at least they were entertaining for a few minutes. 

 The scrape of keys against your door made you gasp. You rolled onto your side. You lounged across the end of the bed, watching the foyer through the bedroom door frame. Tim dipped through the door, his eyes on the floor. He toed his sneakers off, reaching behind himself to lock the door. He dropped his keys into the bowl. He set his large duffle bag by the door, stepping over it to get to the bedroom. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. 

 “Hey, babe.” You ignored him as you dug your eyes into his arms. Your mouth parted as he reached up, scratching at the collar of his shirt. The edge revealed one of the hickies you left him, the bruise fading out into his skin. You sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm yourself. It had to be hotter in here than earlier. 

 “Guess what I nicked from the Bat?” Tim chuckled, digging into his pocket. Your eyes dropped to his hand, staring dead center at his crotch. Tim pulled a Batarang from his pocket, holding it by his chest. You followed his fingers as he twirled it around. 

 “Batarang. Pretty sick, huh? Took it straight off his belt; he didn’t even notice.” Tim bragged, setting the metal on your dresser. 

 “Uh huh.” You murmured. Tim hummed in agreement, turning to the dresser. His back was pointed to you. He bent over, tugging open his drawer. Your eyes widened at his ass pointed straight towards you. Tim straightened up, bumping the dresser closed with his leg. He was holding his pajamas. 

 “Okay, I’ve got to get crime off me before I go to bed.” Tim declared, stepping towards the door. Your hands shot out, digging your fingers into the fabric of his sweatpants. 

 “Tim.” 

 “What?” Tim’s eyebrows furrowed at you. You lifted your eyes, pleading with him silently to join you in bed. Tim’s shoulders dropped in understanding. 

 “You cannot be serious-” Tim hissed. You jumped into action, clawing at his hips and dragging yourself closer to the edge of the bed. 

 “Please, Tim. Please. I missed you so much.” You complained, pressing your cheek into his stomach. Tim scoffed at you, his hands digging into your shoulders. 

 “You’re ridiculous!” Tim blurted. He leaned down, keeping you balanced with his hands. He met your eyes. You puffed your bottom lip out. Please work, please work. 

 “This is ridiculous, baby. You have to see that.” Tim whispered. You tipped forward, pressing your lips to his. Tim hummed. He dug his fingers into your cheek, pulling you closer. You tilted your head back just barely. You opened your mouth, running your tongue over his bottom lip. Tim pulled away from you. You held onto his arm, keeping him next to you. Tim turned himself, settling down on the edge of the bed. 

 “This is the fourth time this week and it's Wednesday,” Tim grumbled. His thumb started swiping back and forth under your eye. You scoffed. You pulled away from him, sitting up straight. Tim frowned. He leaned backwards, twisting himself to keep his eyes on you. 

 “Listen, if you don’t want to, that's fine. I can handle it myself. I have hands.” You stated, your tone hardening with all the seriousness you could muster. Tim shook his head, a grin pulling at his lips. He slipped his knees onto the bed, crawling closer to you. He pressed his hand behind your back, tugging you against him. Your body went slack. Your back curved into him, a sigh passing between your lips. Tim dropped his head down. His lips gently brushed against your neck. Your hips lifted and knocked into his. 

 “I didn’t say I didn’t want you,” Tim mumbled against your skin. You dropped your head back, closing your eyes in bliss. Having such a hot boyfriend really comes in handy sometimes. Tim dragged a hand down the front of your pajama shirt, easily popping the buttons. Tim tilted his head and pressed his nose to your neck. 

 “I’m just worried about your sexual health. I can’t imagine being this needy and impatient-” Tim started. You startled, snapping your head up. 

 “I am not impatient.” You scoffed. 

 “Yes, you are. You didn’t even let me finish my sentence.” Tim complained. You frowned. Tim waited for you to interrupt him again. You glared at him with your lips pressed together. Tim tilted his head, the appropriate time for you to speak passing. Tim finally took your silence as a sign and opened his mouth. 

 “I’m just worried-” 

 “You’re an ass.” You interrupted. Tim sighed, giving you a knowing look. You shrugged. Tim raised a brow. 

 “Are you done now?” Tim asked. 

 “Are you done now?” You pitched your voice to mock him. Tim stayed silent, giving you a dead look. You stared at his shirt, picking at the stray hair on his shoulder. 

 “I’m done now.” You stated. Tim hummed in approval.    “I’m just not sure this is healthy,” Tim grumbled. He dropped his head down and pecked your lips. He tried to soften the blow of his words. You rolled your eyes. 

 “First of all, it’s perfectly fine to have a high libido, you dick. Secondly, I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but you are disgustingly…” Your eyes dipped down to Tim’s muscles stretching the material of his shirt. You sighed through your nose, peeling your eyes back toward his face. Tim was giving you a knowing look, a cocky grin eating at his teeth. 

 “Stupid.” You finished. Tim glared at you.

“So, it’s really not my fault. It’s more your fault.” You jabbed your finger to Tim’s chest. Your attention dropped to it. You had somehow forgotten the extent of Tim’s rippling muscles in the time he pulled on a shirt this morning and right now. You pressed your palm to his chest, petting his shirt down. You could feel his muscles raising and lowering with each breath. His chest jerked as he flexed. Your hand bounced away from him, the memory that he was real and alive startling you out of your daydream. Tim snickered at your reaction. You snapped a glare up to his face. 

 “You’re a total asshole, Tim. I don’t like you anymore. You should go take your shower.” You crossed your arms over your half-unbuttoned shirt. You turned your nose up at Tim. Tim groaned. He tipped forward, pressing a kiss to your cheek. 

 “Come on. I’m just being silly with you. You don’t need to be embarrassed.” Tim whispered to your warming cheek. You shook your head.

 “Nope. You don’t like me anymore. You think I’m disgusting. You think I should move out because I’m so gross.” You scoffed, shaking your head in disappointment at him. Tim scoffed, pulling his mouth off your face. 

 “I do not.” 

 “Exactly, you do not like me. You think I’m awful. You think I’m worse than Joker. You think I’m so ugly. You can’t even think about touching me.” You complained, dropping your head back on the bed. Tim glared down at you. Tim’s hands dipped to your shirt, pulling it out from under your crossed arms. 

 “I think about touching you all the time.” Tim countered, pushing one of your buttons through your shirt. You glanced down at his hands. You hummed and turned your nose up at him again. 

 “You think I’m the ugliest monster ever.” You muttered. Tim pushed another button out, getting closer and closer to the bottom. 

 “I think you’re the most stunning, funny, and smart person I know. Aside from myself.” Tim whispered. He lowered his head, pressing a soft kiss to the column of skin he was slowly revealing with your shirt. 

 “You think me needing you is so disgusting I need to contact my doctor.” You scoffed, uncrossing your arms. Tim didn’t pick up his head. His hands found the second-to-last button. He trailed his mouth down, kissing the space above it. 

 “I want you to be as healthy as possible so you can always feel good,” Tim argued. He pushed the button through. He poked his tongue out, drawing a wet line down to your last button. 

 “You don’t even like me anymore.” You whispered. You didn’t care at all what words were coming out of your mouth. All you could focus on was Tim’s tongue on your body. 

 “I love you so much I can’t go a minute without thinking about you. I’m always dreaming about you.” Tim found your last button. He kissed at the space under your belly button. He lifted his head. He looked at your face as he pushed your shirt off your shoulders. You closed your eyes at the cold of the room hitting your chest. You pulled yourself from the mattress, meeting his lips. Tim pressed his tongue past your lips. His hands pulled at the back of your shirt, slipping it off your arms. You hummed in approval. You dropped your head down, breaking your kiss. Tim huffed for air as you brought your mouth to his neck. 

 “Not mad at me anymore?” Tim asked. You could hear his cocky grin even as you pulled away from the hickey you were refreshing. 

 “Would you just shut your mouth and get to fucking me?” You grumbled. Tim nodded, pulling your leg from the sheets. He dug his fingers into the band of your pajama pants. 

 “I think I can manage that.” 

The first thing you felt was small lines pressing into your scalp. Your brows furrowed. You dug your arms under your pillow, burying your face further into it. You inhaled deeply. The flowery perfume of roses yanked you from your sleep. You couldn’t place your finger on it, but you swore every other morning you’d smelled something else. You peeled your eyes open, staring ahead of you. 

 A pale pink carpet stared at you. It was so bright but equally muted at the same time. You couldn’t quite place if it was more pink or purple. You lifted your eyes, finding the wall covered in a floral wallpaper. Small pink roses were tilting this way and that. On your nightstand was a circular clock, also pink. A large rectangle was cut into the wall, opening into a small closet. It was packed full with tea-length dresses, all different shades of pink. You slowly raised your head, glancing around the room. 

 It was odd. The colors seemed to pull both familiarity and…where the hell am I? 

 You twisted in the bed, sitting up in the pink sheets. The bed was made on one half, not yours. The top cover was a fluffy comforter with even more flowers. There were two dressers across from the bed, both made of polished wood. One had cologne and a dark blue dish. The other was covered in perfumes and makeup and a large pink shoe box. A large standing mirror was next to the pink dresser, pointed towards your nightstand. You couldn’t see anything out of it. There was a window on the other side of the bed, the floral curtains still pressed together tightly.    You yanked at the covers, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. You looked down at the carpet to find two light pink slippers waiting for you. You stepped over them, fumbling out of bed. You stood up straight, kicking at the slippers. They slid against the carpet and retreated under the bed. You looked up, freezing at the sight of you in the mirror. You were dressed in a pink nightgown, the fabric dropping to your ankles. Your hair was curled into rollers and wrapped with a pink silk scarf. You gasped, clapping your hands to your face. Never in a million years- a bright flash of light caught on your left hand. You yanked it from your face, staring down at it. A giant diamond was perched on top of your ring finger. You grimaced, yanking at it. It took some twisting, but you were able to pull it off. You dropped the gold band onto your nightstand. 

 You rushed to the edge of the bedroom. You grabbed onto the curtains. They flew open, revealing the side of a bright pink house. A white picket fence separated you. You backed up, fumbling over the edge of the bed. You scrambled over the top of the covers. You dropped yourself off the bed, heading straight for the bedroom door. There was something wrong. This is all very different. These surroundings were not the usual for you. You were missing a certain smell and a certain look. You wrenched open the bedroom door. You stood frozen in the doorway when you were met with more pink wallpaper. This was a different pattern, no flowers, only stripes. 

 You edged forward, looking both directions. The right led to one door at the end of the hallway. It was wide open, showing a bright pink bathroom with shining tiles. Even the toilet was pink. 

 “What the fuck.” You jumped at the voice, looking around for the perky wife it came from. You froze when you found yourself alone. You pressed a hand to your mouth. 

 “Is that-” Your stomach dropped when your lips moved with the bright voice. You did not sound like that. You especially did not sound like that right out of bed. Or, you thought you didn’t. It sounded like you took daily walking-on-sunshine pills. Like if you threw up whole cupcakes and rainbows would come out. You turned your head to the right. There were two more doors lined up next to yours, and then the hallway spit out into an open room. 

 You didn’t bother with the other doors; you just needed the exit. You surged forward, rushing against the pink carpet. You gripped onto the corner edge of the hallway, staring at the pristine furniture. Pink couches and a pink box sitting on a small pink table. You grimaced at it, tilting your head to stare at the odd little thing. What on earth? 

 It was very small. It was more in the shape of a square than a rectangle. The front of it was a dark shade of gray, shining in the light.    Fucks sake, is that a TV? Why does it look so small and rounded? You yanked your attention from it, finding an arched doorway on one of the pink walls. It opened into a warm orange light. The arch framed the shoulders of a man. He was sitting in a wooden chair, the edge of a newspaper peeking over his shoulders. You could only see him through the door. The floor under him was a dusty pink tile. A white button-up was stretched over his shoulders. He turned his head to the side as he flipped the page of his newspaper. You straightened up at the sight of his side profile. He turned his head again, pointing the back of it to you again. 

 “Dean?” You mumbled, stepping a bare foot onto the plush carpet. He turned his head, meeting your eyes. Dean raised a brow at you as you slowly advanced towards him. 

 “Where have you been?” He asked. His tone was harsh. You pulled back. That felt out of the norm too. You felt the image of Dean’s shoulders hunched over and covered in a brown jacket pull behind your eyes. You could see him turning his head and a grin the size of Saturn passing over his face. You squinted as his face was washed over with a bright shine of sunlight. 

 “Bed.” You answered. Dean glared at you, turning back to his newspaper. 

 “Well, I guess we’re getting a late breakfast today.” He grumbled. You stepped through the doorway. You froze at the sight of children sitting at the table. One was a little boy who didn’t look much older than five. He was twirling a fork around his fingers. The other was a small girl who looked about three, smacking her hands against the table top. You rounded to the other side of the kitchen table, staring at the three pairs of green eyes. 

 “Who’s fucking kids are these?” You asked, pointing your finger at them. Dean sucked in a breath, snapping his eyes up at you.

 “A good wife would not curse in front of her children,” Dean stated, anger flaring in his nostrils. You swallowed hard. You traced over every inch of Dean’s face. You felt your stomach settle at the look of him. You felt your brain swirling, but your stomach cooing at you. It was like your brain was telling you to run, but clearly this was a man you trusted deeply. You brought your hands to your face, rubbing at your eyes. 

 “Sorry, Dean. I don’t know, I’m just really groggy today. I must’ve taken something last night; I don’t know.” You confessed, feeling like you were losing your mind. Everything felt unfamiliar. Everything smelled weird. There was a hint of bleach and roses in every room; it was driving you crazy. Dean clicked his tongue. 

 “Where’s your ring? Don’t tell me you lost it again.” Dean asked. You dropped your hands from your face, staring at your finger. You rubbed at the spot. It felt like your skin needed to be soothed from missing the gold. 

 “No, it-” You paused as you tried to think of a winning lie. You let out a little giggle, holding it up to your face. “It kept getting caught in my hair when I was doing my curlers last night. I’ll put it back on once I’m done with breakfast.” Dean’s face split into a smile, a small chuckle slipping out again. You sighed, tilting your head to the side. You turned back to the unfamiliar kitchen.

  You started with the sink, turning on the pink faucet. You dipped your hands under the water, pumping soap into the palm of your hand. You sighed. A small part of you was leading you through this kitchen. Your body knew where things were. You must’ve had some crazy dream last night; you were still stuck in it. You were at home and safe. You glanced over your shoulder at your family. Recognition finally pulled at you. Johnny and Mary, after Dean’s loving parents.

It was such a tragedy when they died in a car crash. Leaving 17-year-old Dean to take care of 13-year-old Sammy. You grinned. Gosh, what was wrong with you? You loved your babies. Johnny was in soccer, and he was doing well. You were teaching Mary to sew so she can- I should teach her to hold a gun. She needs to protect herself from what’s out there. You scoffed at yourself, rolling your eyes. 

 There’s nothing out there. Except maybe Russian spies. You giggled to yourself. You were so silly. You turned back to the sink. Your stomach dropped. You felt ice running through your heart at the sight of watered-down blood coating your hands. You ducked them back under the water, scrubbing roughly at it. The red was swirling around the pink drain.

You blinked and it was gone again. You twisted your hands in different directions, checking each inch of your skin. You let out a gasping sigh, drying your hands off on the pink towel hung under the cabinet. You turned off the water. You felt yourself slinking back behind your skin, letting your body move on its own. You thought back to the blood. Maybe you were starting to see things. 

 You dipped your head into the fridge, pulling out the carton of eggs. You didn’t think about the fragile shells as you smacked them against the edge of the counter. You were losing it. Did you have a fever? You dropped the sloppy eggs into a pink bowl, pressing the back of your free hand to your forehead. No. You shook it off, taking a deep sigh. You looked to Dean; his eyes were still on the newspaper. You felt a memory of him laughing at something you said, but his face was covered in dirt. You furrowed your brows. You stared at the eggs as you whisked a fork through them. Why would a financial advisor be covered in dirt? 

You went to a picnic, and you guys rolled around, you guess. You dripped the eggs into the pan, sizzling on the stove.  Dean hummed from the table.   “Eisenhower says he will seek a second term.” Dean quoted from the paper. You glanced up. What did he look like? Why couldn’t you remember the president’s face? 

“Oh.” You replied. You pitched your voice up, like a mother coddling a child who showed them a pasta frame. Dean hummed again, the sound of the newspaper turning following it. 

“So glad he’s going for another one. I’m not sure I could handle someone who wasn’t as smart as him in the chair.” Dean praised, reaching forward to sip from his coffee. 

“Smart?” You whispered to the pan. You felt your shoulders stiffen at the sound of Dean humming in question. 

“I didn’t realize you liked the president so much.” You mumbled. Dean scoffed at you. 

“Like? I love him. He’s finally fixing our country.” Dean raised his voice like he was cheering at a concert. You let out a small giggle. Right. You felt breath brush your ear. You stared at the pan as the eggs sizzled. 

"Fuck those stupid fucking fat cats in the Oval. All those assholes are lining their pockets. They don’t care about The People. They are the exact opposite of what America stands for. Every politician is a liar." You bristle at the sound of Dean whispering to your ear. You closed your eyes, letting his voice wash over you. You could smell copper and gunpowder. You felt Dean’s hand holding the back of your head. 

"There’s a reason why they say charming liars would make good politicians. It’s all a facade. They want oil. They invade countries just for the cash. But they’ll be damned before they fight their own battles. They’re all immature toddlers in a sandbox. Who ends up paying for their tantrums?" Dean whispered. You felt your head turn to him. 

“The dead children in military costumes.” You replied. Dean nodded and grinned at you. His hand left your head, patting your cheek as he left. You turned your head from him, catching sight of a bed covered in dusty brown sheets. It reminded you of the- “What?” Dean asked. Your eyes snapped open, finally catching the smell of burnt eggs. You gasped, yanking them from the oven. You dropped them onto a glass plate, grimacing at the brown color. 

“I said-um-” Dead children in military costumes. What did that have to do with the smell of blood and gunpowder? A brown bed. Dean looked different. 

“It smells weird here.” You mumbled. 

“Well, it smells like that because you burnt the eggs,” Dean grumbled. You shook your head. 

“No. I don't-” You lifted the armband of your nightgown, tilting your head down. Roses. 

“I don’t smell like this.” You declared, taking a step back from the oven. Dean set his paper down, raising a brow at you. 

“Then put on perfume,” Dean said. 

“What’s our anniversary?” You asked, glancing around the kitchen. Dean sucked his teeth. 

“We’ve talked about you trying to do these weird tests on me,” Dean complained. You shook your head. You couldn’t remember your wedding. When did it happen? You can’t even begin to picture it. Was it Summer? Or winter? Who came? 

You felt a warm hand grasp at yours. You tilted your head back, staring at Sam. He gave you a gentle smile. 

"We’ve got you. Stick close and keep your chin up." He whispered, squeezing your hand once before dropping it. You dropped your head back down, staring at a machete. 

“Where is Sam?” You sputtered. Dean stood from his chair, his eyes widening. 

“Sam?” Dean asked. You felt anger surge inside of you. 

“Your fucking brother, Dean! Your dumbass baby brother! Bitch! Jerk!” You yelled, shaking your hands about. Dean gaped at you. 

“Sam has been dead for years. You know this. You went to his funeral.” Dean gently pressed you, like you were a rabid animal trying to bite at him. 

“When was our wedding?” You asked. Dean frowned at you. 

“Maybe we need to call Doc. Do you want me to call Bobby?” Dean asked, reaching out for you. He gently cradled your hands in his. 

“Bobby.” You whispered. Dean nodded. 

“Yes. Doctor Robert Singer, he can get you fixed up.” Dean mumbled. He pulled you to his chest, petting down the back of your rollers. 

“He can get you all the pills you need. He’ll fix that pretty head of yours up in no time.” You closed your eyes and tried to picture Bobby’s face. You smelt alcohol. Whiskey. And the smell of pie. You furrowed your brows as you drifted into another memory. 

"You idjits really piss me off, you know that?" He grumbled. You snickered, pulling another bite of your apple pie to your mouth. 

"Yes, yes, we love you too." You joked. Bobby glared at you, but under his beard was a small smile. You knew he was kidding. Dean set his cleared plate on the coffee table, turning his head to face you. His eyes dipped to your plate before bouncing back to you. You snatched your plate away from him. Dean laughed, reaching forward. He wrapped an arm around your waist, yanking you back down onto the couch.

You felt Dean tighten his arm around you. You jerked away from him, shoving your hands against his chest. Dean stumbled back a step. 

“Bobby’s not a doctor. Sam’s not dead. We’re not married. You’re fucking crazy.” You mumbled, taking a step to the side. You pressed yourself against the kitchen counter, edging out of the kitchen. 

“But Mommy, we love you!” Johnny cheered from the table.   “I am not your mother. John was an awful parent.” You said, finally reaching the doorway. Dean lunged for you, pouncing out of his spot in the kitchen. Your feet moved before your brain did. You swung through the house, slipping past corners and through doors. It was all so unfamiliar, but you knew where to step. You cried at the sound of Dean’s shoes chasing after you. You glanced over your shoulder, finding him skidding through the living room. Your chest slammed against the front door. You yanked it open, keeping your eyes on Dean as you ran out of it. You felt sun on your face as you stepped out into the front yard. 

Every house around you was a copy of each other. The white picket fences, the same paint job, the same garden. A red-headed woman stood in front of the neighbor's house. She was dressed in a pink polka dot dress, the waist cinched in. The bottom flared out in a triangle. She was frozen in place, holding a pie to her chest. 

“Oh, what the hell.” You whispered, rushing past her. Your feet froze when she yelled your name. She stepped out of the driveway, standing straight in the center of the road. 

“Aren’t you happy here?” She asked, puffing her bottom lip out. 

“Doesn’t he make you happy?” You stared at her face, your mouth parting. You took a shuddering breath, slowly stepping backwards. 

“I thought you loved him.” A new voice piped up. You spun around, finding a blonde woman with her hair piled into a bun. She was in the same dress, holding a pie. You tilted your head to the side. 

“Jo?” you asked. You glanced at the redhead, recognition finally hitting you. 

“Charlie?” You furrowed your brows. Dean rushed out of the house, stopping at the end of the driveway. He raised his hand, waving you towards the house. The women dropped their pies, the pink ceramic dishes shattering next to your feet. They dipped their free hands under your arms, lifting you from your feet. You kicked, trying to make them lose their grip. It was like they were made from steel. Their faces twisted into wide grins. Their cheeks were turning red with all their cheer. You let out a pathetic whimper, dropping your head back. 

You woke to the pinching of your rollers under your head. You peeled open your eyes, finding the pink ceiling. You lifted your left hand, pointing the back towards your face. You found the big rock glaring at you. You sighed, flipping onto your side. You stared at the flower wallpaper in defeat. 

Something was wrong with you. You were getting visions- delusions. They weren’t memories as you thought. You were the wife to Dean and the mother to Johnny and Mary. Named after Dean’s parents who died in a car crash when Dean was 13, and Sam was 17. Or…

 See, you couldn’t even remember your own husband's brother. When was your wedding? You felt the vague memory of Sam squeezing your hand in comfort before the doors opened to the church. Church? You thought it was a barn; you could’ve sworn you remembered the smell of hay in that memory. You remembered looking down at your wedding bouquet. It had white lilies. Or were they red roses? No, it was both. 

You hope Bobby could fix you. It couldn’t be much fun with a wife like this. You thought for sure Bobby handed you a gun once. You could feel the metal in your hands and his calluses. You definitely could feel his hand pointing yours toward glass bottles. Or... did he hand you a medication bottle? 

You thought you met Jo in a bar. But maybe it was a church. No, there was the smell of cigarette smoke. And smoking was banned in- well, no. Smoking wasn’t banned. God, the whole thing was twisted around. You deeply inhaled, trying to let the roses wash over you. Roses and bleach. 

You stayed frozen in your bed as your children and husband meandered about it. Johnny would bring you a jar to open only to grumble on his way out when your eyes wouldn’t focus on him. Mary would shake her juice cup at you, whining for apples. She’d burst into tears when you couldn’t tear your eyes from the wallpaper. Dean would squat down in front of you, scolding you. Over and over and over again. Bad wife this, bad mother that. Proper women do this. You couldn’t hear any of it well enough to actually listen to it. You could feel a foggy memory pull at the base of your neck. 

The smell of mildew and old spray paint. 

When you blinked, on the back of your eyelids was an image of bright graffiti tarnished by dirt and age. But you couldn’t make any of it out. Once you opened your eyes again, all you smelled was flowers. You weren’t sure how long you’d been lying there. Maybe days. You could vaguely remember Dean tucking into bed behind you twice. But you couldn’t place if that was all the times he had, or if they were something you imagined. You had very little energy. You only seemed to have enough to roll around on your half of the bed. You could flop onto your back when Johnny begged for your attention. You could twist your back to Mary when she smacked her cup to your side table. 

You would care, if you were sure they were real. As far as you could tell, they were another vision. Or delusion. Maybe the real Johnny was sitting in his room. Or maybe the Real Johnny wasn’t even in the house. Or maybe he was in front of you. All you knew was that you couldn’t help them. Your body had become useless, no more than a prison. You always woke up on your side staring at the wallpaper. You always fell asleep smothered in your flowered sheets. 

Mary waved her empty pink bowl in your face. You blinked slowly, smelling mildew again. When you opened them, Mary threw her dish at the floor. The pink shattered across the carpet. You didn’t move or react. Why would you care? If it was real, it wasn’t like you were walking there. If it wasn’t real, you had nothing to clean. Mary groaned and stormed out of the room. You blinked again, fighting to peel your eyes open. Spraypaint. 

Dean crouched in front of you. You could hear his voice rumbling, but you couldn’t make out the words. You knew what he was saying. Bad wife. Bad mother. You pressed your eyes shut, turning over onto your other side. You saw the graffiti move, showing you a gray and dirty ceiling before you opened your eyes and stared at the other side of your bedroom. The pink flowers started to bob on the walls. Like they could hear a song you couldn’t. You felt your head press into your pillow harder than before and realized you were bobbing. Dean’s hands were pressed into your shoulders, trying to wake you up. You didn’t react. Bad wife. Whatever. 

A different face popped down to your level, breaking your line to the wallpaper. Your eyes stayed glazed over before a hand snapped in front of your eyes. You could hear mumblings of talking. You couldn’t make out a word. You closed your eyes to protect them from the hand, slowly opening them again. Mildew. Your eyes focused on the face in front of you. Your eyes narrowed in on the mouth as it rapidly fired. A bead of sweat slipped from the corner of his nose, slicing through his lips. You trailed your eyes up the sweat, finding his eyelashes. He shook his head back, knocking his hair away from his face. Your eyes caught on the movement, finally finding his whole face. 

You thought of a machete in a barn. You furrowed your brows. 

“Sam?” You whispered. He froze. He looked out of place in all the pink. He was wearing brown and plaid. He wasn’t in a suit. And he was alive. Which was new. 

“Yes.” You caught. You sighed. So, you finally died. You were finally let loose from the Bad Wife Bad Mother life. Mary and Johnny could get a new mommy. You wouldn’t smell roses anymore. 

“Is this heaven or hell?” You asked. Sam paused, reaching out for your face. He smacked your cheek lightly like he was trying to keep your attention. 

“Worse,” Sam muttered. His hand slipped under your arms, lifting you from the mattress. His hand pressed into your back as he pulled you onto your feet. He dipped his head down as he swung your arm over his shoulders. Your feet were cold as he set them against the pink carpet. 

“Where are Mary and Johnny?” You mumbled to the floor. You were starting to feel bad about the dish Mary broke. Sam stiffened under you. It made his shoulder higher, entirely out of your reach. Your arm slid from his neck, your balance swaying. You tipped to the side. Sam quickly caught you before you hit the cold carpet. He tugged you up, pressing your chest to his. Your head dropped back, catching sight of your bed upside down. 

Only the sheets weren’t pink. It was a rotten twin mattress set to a rusted bed frame. There were no sheets. There were no roses. Where was your wallpaper? You caught sight of handcuffs locked to the bed frame. You could only twist and turn because you weren’t in a rosy queen bed; you were in a twin with your hands locked in place. Sam straightened you up, tipping your vision back up. 

“Where am I?” You asked. Your eyes slipped over the sides of Sam’s shoulders, finding tall concrete walls graffitied. You suck in a deep breath. 

“It smells like mildew.” You muttered pathetically. You felt tears pulling at your eyes. Sam grumbled and pulled you back to his side, stumbling away from the bed. You could hardly keep your focus on what was happening. All you knew was that you were moving where Sam took you. You didn’t see any children. 

“Almost there,” Sam whispered to you. You huffed, dropping your head to your shoulder. This was tiring. You just hoped when he set you down, you weren’t back in the pink sheets. Loud boots stomped toward you. They echoed on the concrete walls. You lifted your eyes, catching sight of Dean’s face. His eyes were blown wide, his eyebrows furrowed. You could remember the look he gave you when you burned his eggs. You whined and hid your face in the sleeve of Sam’s shirt. 

“Not a bad wife.” You whispered to the fabric. 

“Dude?” Dean’s voice said. It was different, a little rougher. You pressed your nose to Sam’s shirt. You inhaled. Cologne and gunpowder. Like a night after the fourth of July being masked with cheap 4-dollar spritz. 

“I don’t know, just hold the door,” Sam replied. 

“Good mother.” You thought of Mary’s little eyes filling with tears when you couldn’t give her the attention she needed. 

“Good wife.” You could hear the squealing of Johnny’s laughter. Sunlight hit your skin. You lifted your head, leaning into the warmth. Sweltering summer heat washed over you, but you didn’t mind it. You could smell trees and grass. You could see the Impala waiting for you. Dean rushed forward, swinging open the side door. You heard Johnny’s laughter in the hinges. Dean pressed the passenger’s seat down, giving you an empty path to the backseat. Sam leaned down, herding you into the back. You slid in clumsily, dropping your head to the leather seat. 

The voices of Sam and Dean drifted away as you settled into the warm sunlight spewing in from the back window. You sucked in a deep breath, feeling the leather reach all the way down to your lungs. 

"We’re up to three missing, Dean." Sam snapped from the front seat. Dean scoffed behind the wheel. 

"Well, there’s not much I can do about that when I don’t know what this damn thing is!" Dean hissed. He turned the wheel as you rode into the diner parking lot. You watched the 'I' in 'Pizza' flicker as Dean parked. 

"But we can research right now if we just go back to the Motel!" Sam grunted, pulling his laptop bag from the floor. Dean groaned loudly, filling the car cabin with his annoyance. He turned his head to you, his face softening. 

"Babe, are you hungry?" He whispered. Sam rolled his eyes, dropping his head back in annoyance. 

"Yes." You answered. Dean snapped his head back towards Sam. 

"All the more reason we need to eat now. Not later. Get out of the car, Sammy." Dean declared, pushing at Sam’s shoulder. 

Your head fell to the side, your foggy eyes turning to the driver’s seat. Dean was staring at you with the same pursed eyebrows and blown eyes. Anger- you furrowed your brows. Dean frowned at you, tilting his head to the side in-

Concern. He was worried. 

“What’s your name?” He asked. You mumbled your name. You turned your head, finding Sam looking over the edge of the seat at you with the same look of concern. 

“Who’s the president?” Sam asked. Dean snapped at him, slapping his arm. 

“Eisenhower?” You tried, cringing at it as it left your mouth. Dean looked at you, his mouth falling open. 

“No, It’s that fascist asshole T-” Dean started. 

“What’s 2 plus 2?” Sam cut off. You lifted your head. 

“Do I have children?” You glanced over their shoulders out the windshield like your children might be jumping on the hood. Sam scoffed. 

“God, I hope not. One of you is annoying as is.” Sam mumbled. 

“We sure can practice making ‘em, though,” Dean answered. You dropped your head back in relief. 

“And, just to be clear, we’re not married?” You pointed your eyes at Dean. He let out a chuckle. 

“No, we can practice our honeymoon, though.” Dean giggled. He reached over the back of the seat, smacking your knee. Sam groaned. 

“You’re disgusting.” Sam mumbled. You nodded. 

“And unfunny,” you added, looking up at the car hood. You let out a sigh at the sound of your voice. 

“I sound normal again.” You muttered, closing your eyes in appreciation. 

“I’m not crazy.” You raised your left hand, opening your eyes. Your hand was bare. Thank god. 

“Oh, you’re definitely crazy, babe,” Dean replied, slamming the driver's door shut. Sam kept his focus on you as Dean pulled out from the abandoned warehouse. 

“A Djinn took you. This was one of those that loves the taste of fear. He’s toast now; the poison should wear off eventually. You can clean up once we get to the Motel. We’ll head out in the morning.” Sam explained. You nodded as he spoke. You looked to the road, glad to see more colors than one. Sam turned back towards the front. 

“Glad you’re not dead, I guess.” Sam grumbled. You scoffed a laugh. 

“Yeah, whatever,” you grumbled back. You inhaled again, loving the smell of anything other than roses. Dean glanced back at you. 

“Yeah, no more wandering off on your own. I’m blowing my fucking lid if you get kidnapped again.” Dean scolded. But this was different. You weren’t bad, like the other one would’ve said. He was giving you a grin while he did it. It was play, but he meant it. He wanted you safe. You gave him a small smile, finally letting the pink world wash away from you. Dean looked back to the road. 

After a shower at the motel, you lifted the sleeve of your shirt, pressing your nose to it. You sighed at the smell of copper and gunpowder. 

“And you loved Eisenhower." You added. Dean laughed loudly from the motel bed, scribbling down onto the free notepad. 

“This is hilarious,” Sam noted from the small table pressed against the wall. You shook your head. 

“Oh! And you were a financial advisor. You only wore suits and white button-ups.” You added. You shoved your tarnished and torn clothes into your duffle bag. You planned to throw them away once you found a trashcan bigger than the wastebasket in this hotel. Likely at the next gas station. Sam chuckled at that, pressing his hands to his mouth. The thought of Dean in a suit was the funniest thing he heard all week. Dean nodded at you, writing down what he could. He’d have to log this in his hunting journal, but he was laughing too hard to use legible handwriting. 

“Oh, and Sam was dead.” You tacked on. That killed the mood, their laughter dying down. Sam frowned at the table, more upset he didn’t get a funny job than him being dead. 

“And Mary and John died in a car crash when you were seventeen. And you named our two children after them, Mary and Johnny. And everything was pink.” You finished. You were pretty sure that was it. Dean pulled his eyes from the notepad. The humor from his face had fallen. You sucked in a breath. 

“And my wedding ring had a huge diamond on it.” You hoped it would break the sour mood up a little. Sam huffed a flat laugh. 

“Dean affording a diamond is pretty funny,” Sam muttered. Dean snapped his head at Sam. 

“Hey! I could totally get wedding rings!” Dean hissed. Sam raised a brow. 

“But could you buy them?” Sam pointed out. Dean deflated. 

“Nightmare Dean could. Think about that.” You joked. You pouted your bottom lip out, mocking a sympathetic look. Dean scoffed at you. 

“Nightmare Dean was a pussy. He was a total fascist republican; he’s the worst kind of American. Nightmare Dean couldn’t possibly begin to understand the complexities of classism.” Dean stood from the bed, dropping his pen and pad to the brown sheets. He advanced towards you, dipping his hand behind your head. 

 “And he was a dick to you, which in my, not Nightmare Dean, book, means he should be shot dead,” Dean whispered, tilting his head down to catch your lips. You grinned into his mouth, pecking at his lips. You dug your fingers into the soft cotton of his plaid shirt. Dean pulled you closer, breaking your smile. He properly pressed his lips to yours. You hummed to him. Sam groaned from the other side of the motel room. 

“We have to start getting separate rooms.”  Sam grumbled.