i write poems to avoid facing my problems

You laugh. “Dean, I’ve already told you twice-”

“And I wanna hear it again. S’that a crime?”

He winks at you and tilts his chin up, taking a swig from the dark brown bottle in front of him. He switched to beer two rounds ago. 

You narrow your eyes at him but he meets you head-on, brazen grin plastered across his face. You sigh with no real exasperation.

“So I’m eleven years old and I’m on a hunt. I’m at the hospital and I’m told to walk in by myself and ask to see my mother-” You make air quotes around the word ‘mother’. Dean’s eyes droop down to your fingers before sliding lazily back to your mouth. “- in hospital. She’s in a coma. At this point we’re pretty sure this lady had been possessed by a demon and later exorcised so I’m being sent in just to look for signs, search through her belongings, check her injuries - that kinda thing.”

He is glowing with amusement. “So you’re brought into the room-” 

“So I’m brought into the room and I’m trying to do what I can while all the doctors and nurses are there giving me those sad eyes you give a kid whose mom might not make it. And y’know - I’m only eleven but I know what to look for and how to be subtle. Except five minutes in, the lady wakes up.”

He’s already smiling, teetering on the edge of a laugh. “And you-”

“And I panic. I have no idea what to do because this lady is looking at me like I’ve got four heads and all the doctors and nurses are waiting for a heartfelt moment. So I burst into tears, screaming ‘Mommy you’re awake’, hugging her, the works. Poor lady is horrified, thinking she has amnesia and forgot her own daughter.”

He laughs now - hearty and full breasted. His eyes are glistening, crinkled at the corners. He takes another swing of his beer when he catches his breath. “Can’t believe I’m hearing that one for the first time tonight. Fuckin’ gold. I can picture it too, y’know.”

“Yeah?” You smile, leaning in across the table.

“Yeah. Bet you had the same nervous, twitchy face you get when you’re panicked. Just on a little thing with pigtails.”

You laugh. “Nope. Didn’t exactly have my hair braided for me every morning. Wasn’t that kinda family dynamic.” You pause. “I’m not twitchy.”

“Yeah y’are. Sometimes.”

“You’re so full of shit. I’m more cool and collected than you and Sam put together.”

“The coolest,” he says, a hint sardonic.

You’re in rocky territory. Both of you leaned forward, elbows pressed to the sticky table in the booth. The way he’s grinning at you - heated and shameless, eyes tilted up through his long lashes - is warming your stomach. You’re trying to convince yourself it’s just the two drinks.

Sam dipped almost an hour ago to sit at the bar. Dropped some teasing line about not wanting to third-wheel anymore. You’ve stopped telling him off for it because it only makes him worse. You see him glance at the two of you over his shoulder every now and again.

Dean reaches an arm down to take up your drink - some red girly concoction with cranberry juice and vodka in it. His eyes don’t leave yours while he takes a sip, fingers clutching the glass by the rim. You wonder if his lips are touching the same spot that yours did.

“Shit, that’s good,” he says, sucking his teeth at the tartness. “Why the hell didn’t I order that?”

You laugh. “You just don’t wanna be seen with it. Not manly enough for a big, bad hunter.”

He smiles. “You’re drinkin’ it. You not a big, bad hunter?”

“C’mon, Dean,” you say, scoffing, but you can’t force the corners of your lips down. “Not trying to get on my soapbox here but it’s pretty hard to get people to respect you when you’re a woman hunter as it is. I’m not worried about people seeing me with a cocktail.”

He shrugs in a ‘fair enough’ fashion. He’s about to say something else.

“Hi, um.” You look up to see a pretty, tall girl around your own age or maybe a few years older. Dark curls frame her face. She brushes a strand behind her right ear in an almost theatrical show of shyness. “I’m sorry - this is so weird of me but, um.” She brushes her hair behind her left ear now. “Are you guys on a date?”

You pause briefly, feeling as though you’re coming out of some sort of daze, and then give her a smile. “No, we’re just friends.”

Her face lights up. She’s not looking at you - she’s looking at Dean. “Oh! Okay. That’s good, because, um, I just wanted to see if I could maybe give you my number or something?”

You don’t wait for Dean to respond. You slip out of the booth and wink, mouthing ‘have fun’ to him. You’re not too bothered about whether or not she sees you. She takes your place without so much as a word or even a glance in your direction, eyes only for Dean. You can’t find it in you to blame her.

He is gaping at you as you turn away - eyebrows scrunched together and mouth in a firm pout. Possibly - probably - because he thought tonight would be the night he would finally be able to bring you to bed. He might have been right until this girl came by and screwed everything up by reminding you of yourself.

Sam jolts a bit when you climb up next to him onto the red stool with its fabric torn and its guts spilling out. His head un-cranes itself from a book you recognise about Celtic fairies. He frowns, confused, and then looks behind him towards the booth where Dean is now engaged in conversation. The confused frown turns into a displeased one. He dog-ears a page and closes the book.

“He get ambushed again?” he says.

You huff a laugh. “The word ‘ambushed’ implies he’s not in his element.”

Sam frowns again and looks like he wants to say something - maybe object - but he doesn’t. You’re glad. There’s nothing he could say on this subject that you would want to hear. Instead, he tucks his books into his bag and fishes out a deck of cards from his jacket pocket. He deals them out silently but Dean has approached you before you can pick up your hand.

“Hit the road?” he asks, voice the slightest bit gruff.

You’re mildly surprised to see him again so soon. You had expected him to slip out the back with his company, but you’re just glad that the night is ending before he has enough drinks to start waxing poetic about how pretty you are and how he would kill any man for ‘just one chance with you’.

“Sure,” you say, standing up. Sam sighs and begins to scrape the cards back up from the grimy counter. 

You don’t want the answer, but - “You get her number?” 

You’re not sure if your voice comes across as teasing as you intend.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Dean gives you a sideways glance, almost perplexed. “Not my type.”

You’re not sure he has a type. The only prerequisite has always just been ‘pretty’, and he plays fast and loose with that rule too sometimes. You don’t say that, though. You don’t say anything.

The motel is far from the worst you’ve stayed in, but that doesn’t take the sting out of the broken shower. You get into a wrestle with it for a good thirty minutes, pulling the front cover off and fiddling around, before finally submitting.

You’re not sure that it’s an option to get front desk to call an electrician in. Not with salt scattered on the ground and pages of information about fairies and demons strewn across the room. So you end up outside Room 14 in your flip flops. 

Sam gets the door. He glances down at the towel in your hand and smiles with amusement, opening the door wider for you to step inside. Their room is like yours - small and hot, with bland aspen furniture and an overhead fan that does very little to stave off the sticky closeness. The only difference is the cluster of empty beer bottles and the two single-beds rather than one.

“This place is a dump, huh.”

“It sure ain’t the Ritz.” you say. “Where’s Dumber?”

Sam sits down into a small wooden chair. It’s always funny to see him do that. He’s so tall, it looks almost like he’s folding himself in half. “He’s getting that address we’re after. He should be back in a few. I’m gonna go check it out at the town recorder’s office.”

“Want a hand?”

“I got it,” he says. “You go take your shower.”

You could argue and he would probably fold and accept your help. But the truth is, you’re sweaty and tired and would really rather save your energy for something more important than poring over housing records. You nod and head into the bathroom, towel in-hand.

The shower you take is hot. You use whatever products are already out on the tray. They’re probably Sam’s, because Dean is most likely the sort of person to have a 4-in-1 shampoo-conditioner-body wash-shaving gel combo. Your hair feels a little dry afterwards - you’re not sure whether to attribute that to the hot water or Sam’s all-natural shampoo - but you’re clean. Your muscles are loose and you feel good.

You spend a bit of time in front of the mirror once you’re out of the shower, scraping your fingers through your hair, scrubbing your fingernails with a brush, and thinking. Thinking about the job you’re on and then - reluctantly - thinking about Dean. Thinking about how he looked in the bar last night. Thinking about how he left without working up some action with that girl. He has been doing that a lot lately.

More than just lately, if you really wanted to think about it. You couldn’t say you remember the last time he had picked someone up - that you had seen, anyway. He’s been keeping it all out of sight. Either he’s become a born-again Christian, or he’s got some angle here. You don’t like thinking about it. It makes some twisted, hurt thing curl in your stomach.

Even so, you feel good. You really do. Your hair is wet and soaking through your white t-shirt, but at least it’s clean. And you got a decent sleep last night too so it’s shaping up to be a good day.

The good feelings evaporate once you open up the bathroom door.

“Goddamnit, Jesus f-”

Sam is gone. It’s just Dean in the room now, naked as the day he was born. You avert your eyes, but not fast enough. He dives for the towel on the bed and holds it over his crotch while your face swims with heat.

“Christ, Dean,” you choke.

“You’re in my room, angel. Can’t a man get naked within the safety of his own four walls?”

“Yeah- um. That’s fair. Sorry.” You’re still looking away, uneasy.

He cocks a humorous eye at you. “What you doin’ in here? You miss me?”

“I- Shower. Mine’s broken.”

“That so?”

You look at him then - you don’t really have a choice, his slow drawl doesn’t give you one - and have to stop yourself from hissing in a breath. You have seen glimpses of his bare torso here and there, but never in a setting where there was enough time to admire. Always with something bleeding out or infected or cursed. You have enough time to admire it now - the muscle built from dirty work and necessity rather than vanity, the scars and scratches painted across his chest. There are a few there for which you could name the source.

His muscles shift the slightest bit under your gaze and you realise you’ve forgotten what he’s asked you. “What?”

He laughs and the low sound sends a fresh wave of arousal flooding through you. Your thighs clench together tight. He’s watching you fight yourself, eyes dark. Your own eyes are currently fixed on his face but they’re a flight risk. “Y’know, I didn’t even know you were in there. A matter of five minutes and I could’ve been walkin’ in on you.”

Heat claws up your neck at the image. “I’m sorry. I figured Sam would have said something.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it. You’re welcome to take a shower here any time. In fact, f’you fancy another, I was just about to-”

“Shut up,” you groan. You try to look annoyed, but you’re truthfully relieved at the return to his usual cheeky forwardness. That’s easier to brush off.

But you do need to get the hell out of the room before you’re tempted into looking at anything but his face again. You bundle up your towel in your arms and tell him you’ll see him later. You don’t miss the disappointment that flashes there when you do.

“So ah…” Sam sucks in a breath, tucking the flashlight under his arm to slot little silver slugs into his gun. “What’s going on with you and Dean, huh?”

You’re tempted to act like you don’t know what he’s talking about, but it would just prolong the conversation.

“Sam,” you sigh. “Can we not?”

“What?” he laughs. “You don’t wanna talk about it?” He flicks his flashlight around the bedroom haphazardly - too fast to see very much of anything. You reach a hand out and clasp it over his to steady it.

“Not a good time.” 

“When is a good time? When we get back to the motel? You wanna do this in front of Dean?”

You give him a thin stare that you’re not sure he can see in the dark - irritation pricking at you.

Sam has known how to grave-dig in a time crunch since he was twelve years old, but somehow has really never known when to leave well enough alone. This is the third time he’s tested this subject in the last week - albeit never this straightforward. You’re still working out whether this is something you can worm your way out of.

“Why don’t you check this room out and I’ll go downst-”

“Hey,” he says, voice still amused. “You’re not getting out of this. I will bring it up in front of Dean if I need to.”

You study him for a second longer. 

He smiles. “Call my bluff, if you want. Your choice.”

You make an ugly noise that seems to start in your stomach, considering your words carefully for what feels like a long time. Little specks of dust float around in the beam of light leading from the flashlight to a little girl’s jewellery box. “There’s nothing going on with me and Dean.”

Sam barks a laugh - loud and seemingly involuntary. “Y’know, I really thought we weren’t gonna have to do the whole ‘playing dumb’ thing-”

“I’m not playing dumb.” You throw him a flat look, opening the jewellery box. You wind it up and some dainty, tinkling tune you don’t recognise begins to play. The ballerina in the box spins around jerkily and mechanically. “There’s nothing going on between the two of us.”

“He admitted it. Multiple times-”

“He was drunk.”

He scoffs, a harsh noise from the back of his throat. “I mean I’m sorry but that’s just bullshit. Even if he was drunk, I’ve got eyes.”

“And what do your eyes tell you, Sam?” you ask him shortly.

“That you guys are into each other. Very into each other.”

“He’s been trying to get me to sleep with him since I first met you guys in Louisiana. This isn’t breaking news.”

“But it’s different now than it ever was before. He’s been diff-”

“Stop.”

“I’m serious! He’s different. And so are you. You never used to give him the time of day before and now you look at him all starry-eyed. It’s been months of this.”

“And?”

He looks over at you from the child-sized vanity table where he has found a small oil lamp, the glass cracked. He takes a lighter out of his pocket and jerks his thumb over it three times until a weak flame bursts out. When a dim brightness swims into the room, you can clearly make out the childlike befuddlement on Sam’s features.

“And,” he stresses, “you’re clearly lying when you say there’s nothing there.”

“I didn’t say there’s nothing there.”

He frowns. “Yes you did-”

“I said there’s nothing going on.”

He rolls his eyes. “Okay, if you wanna be a stickler. There could be something going on.”

“No, there couldn’t.”

Sam turns to face you - the search paused for now. A twitch of uncharacteristic impatience flashes across his face, glowing with the illumination of the lamp. “Why are you talking in riddles-”

“Sam - I don’t know if there’s ‘something there’ between myself and Dean. I don’t know. You say we’re into each other. Okay. Say we are. I don’t know. What can you see happening between us? You think he’s gonna suddenly decide to settle down? That he’ll just- go the distance with one girl for the rest of his life? Be serious.”

He wasn’t expecting you to say that. His eyes dart around your face for a moment, then quickly away. You continue.

“What’s far more likely is that something happens one night and everything gets awkward and I have to find new hunting partners which would really suck. Or worse, we try to make it work and it fails after two weeks, because we both know he’s not exactly a one-woman kinda guy. And I might not exactly be a traditionalist in most senses, but I-” You surprise yourself by choking on your words slightly, throat closing up. “But I still can’t share him. I’d rather not have him at all.”

You probably didn’t need to say that much. Sam is looking around the room like a guilty puppy, face flushed. You can still read a sliver of doubt there, like he is tempted to argue. He decides against it.

“Can we drop it now?” you ask. Your own voice echoes in your skull - weak and defeated. He nods, finally looking back at you with an apologetic smile.

You return it but you know it’s wavering. “I’ll check downstairs.”

You reckon you can spot the signs before anyone else does. It’s always somewhere with a relatively young population - doesn’t have to be a city, but it’s never an ageing, rural town where the only bar regulars are older men with beer bellies and shotguns.

It starts with a group of girls that look a bit too young to be there. They never approach, but their eyes flicker over far too often to be considered the standard ‘checking out a hottie’ once-over. Then it’s the barmen who give your table cold, assessing glances. And then it’s the attention of any and all single women in the bar - the way they size you up, the way they monitor every single arm movement, every twitch of your face to see whether you’re the lucky girl who has managed to take someone like Dean - handsome, mysterious, new - off the market.

Those are the signs that there is about to be a gold rush. And you’d really rather not be there to see it, but there aren’t many exit options when Sam is across the booth from yourself and Dean with a map open, dragging his pointer finger along it while he expounds on the folklore of the area in excruciating detail.

“-but obviously these fairies are different. And it didn’t make sense until I saw this. Look - the tree was in the exact location of the Stewart family home. My best guess is that the Stewarts cut it down to build their home. That’s what they’re avenging.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Dean interjects. “What about the other families? if it’s just about the tree, why wouldn’t they just quit after the Stewarts?”

“That’s the thing - I think the cutting down of the tree unlocked something. I think the tree was their home. And now their only motive now is chaos.”

“Well shit,” you sigh. “That makes it a lot more difficult.”

“How?” Dean says.

You frown at the apathy in his voice. “Well we can’t exactly exterminate them for that, right? I mean, they lost their home. They might not have anywhere else to go.” 

“They’re destroying people’s homes.”

“But they haven’t killed anyone-”

“Yet.”

You sigh. “And who’s to say they will? You can’t punish them for stuff they haven’t done.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “What- you wanna buy a condo for them? Put them up in a fairy hotel?”

You try to look vexed. “Don’t piss me off.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, angel.”

Your smile breaks but you change course quickly because Sam is starting to look like he is proving a point. “I just think- Maybe if we figured out whether we could get them to inhabit another tree, it would be better for everyone.”

Sam shrugs. “Worth a try. I’ll look into it.”

You give him a grateful smile. 

Dean nudges you with an elbow. “Soft touch.”

You scoff. “C’mon, you can’t tell me you don’t see where they’re coming from. I’d be pretty pissed off if someone flattened my home with no warning.”

“Good thing you’ve been on the road since you were ten then-”

“Low blow.”

He’s giving you that fucking lopsided smile again, wrinkles appearing beside his lips and eyes. He’s gone all hazy and lovelorn again, and this time he hasn’t even had half of his drink. And you’ve been trying really fucking hard not to picture him naked like you had seen him in the motel just yesterday but you’re failing. He leans in, opening his mouth to speak, but-

“Excuse me.”

This girl is more confident than the last and even prettier too. She’s in all-black with brunette hair that falls to her waist. She purses her lips into a shrewd smile, eyes laser focused on Dean. “I just wanted to see if you’re single?”

You know your cue when you see it. You’re halfway out the booth when Dean’s strong arm over your shoulder pulls you back. He tucks you in close under his arm, body pressed against his, your thigh finding its way over his own inadvertently. You look up at him, questioning, but he doesn’t look back.

Instead, he shoots a tight smile to the girl standing at the booth. “No. Sorry.”

Sam’s head snaps up from his book. A beat passes.

To give her credit, she takes it in her stride. She nods, smiles a bit uncomfortably at the two of you and makes her way back to her own table where her friends are pretending not to be looking over. You’ve gone stiff under Dean’s arm and there’s a sticky sort of dryness sitting in your throat, but he doesn’t release you. You wonder if it’s the kind of night where he gets too drunk and tells you how bad he wants you to be his while yourself and Sam jostle him back to the motel. 

You want to hate him. You really want to hate him for doing this to you. And if you can’t hate him, you would settle for just feeling indifferent or just feeling friendly things towards him. But you don’t know how when he has you tucked under his arm like this, smile on his pretty face like he won some goddamn prize. You don’t know how to not want this all the time. 

You don’t want to look at Sam, but you do. He’s got a surprised amusement playing on his face, coupled with a very distinct ‘I’m-trying-not-to-look-too-satisfied’ smile. You speak only because it seems like nobody else is about to. 

“Never thought I’d see the day Dean Winchester opts out of a hook-up,” you laugh. It falls flat. Sam stays silent. Dean only frowns down at you for a split-second before his eyes dart away again. His expression is hard to read, but he doesn’t seem pleased.

You can’t help but feel you made a misstep - like that was the wrong thing to say. Thirty seconds go by and then a full minute. Sam is back to poring over the journal. Dean doesn’t say anything. You clear your throat, as if planning to speak, but you can’t think of much to say. You feel a helpless sort of trepidation. It’s all very pointless and stupid.

“I’m, um, I’m gonna get a drink,” you say, unweaving yourself from Dean. Your glass is far from being empty and you see Dean glance at it for just a second. “Anyone want anything?”

Dean still says nothing, but Sam taps his empty bottle twice with a smile. You’re relieved to find that you’re not deliberately being given the silent treatment. You nod at him and make your way up to the bar.

There aren’t many people waiting to be served, but you don’t immediately try to make eye contact with the barman. You’d rather have a moment away from whatever the hell that atmosphere was anyway.

Word must have gotten around, or maybe everyone had been watching Dean’s arm curling itself over your shoulder in response to the pretty girl who had approached, because nobody else goes up to the table. The gold rush is over.

Dean and Sam are deep in conversation, leaned forward and speaking intensely. It’s hard to get a read on either of them - they’re doing that push-and-pull thing they always do - but you have the distinct impression that they’re talking about you. You’re glad that you can’t hear what they’re saying.

You build the image of Dean in your mind again, when you joked about him uncharacteristically rejecting a hook up. His brows pulled low, a slight pout on his lips. Had you offended him? Or is he starting to get frustrated at your unwavering commitment to not sleeping with him? 

You can admit that you have been giving him mixed signals. It’s not an intentional thing. But he looks at you with his bright green eyes and it's alluring and tender and it feels like it’s just for you. And you can’t help yourself. Your stomach goes warm and your lips get loose and all you can focus on is keeping that look on his face for as long as possible. So maybe you are to blame for all of this.

“Can I get you a drink?”

You almost sigh in response, turning around to look at the man who has lodged himself against the bar to your right. He has his elbow perched on the bar, leaned against it in a way that could look casual and cool if he were a little bit shorter. But he’s stretching himself awkwardly to reach it. He’s got black hair, slicked back but is otherwise fairly nondescript. Just another face. Just like anyone else.

“I’m ok, thanks. I’m buying two.”

He smiles, shrugging. “Let me buy you two.”

You look at him closer now, suspiciously. You raise an eyebrow and he smiles wider. “What you wanna do that for?”

“Call it an act of kindness.”

You huff a laugh. “I’m not in the habit of accepting those. Doesn’t tend to work out well in my line of work.”

“What’s your line of work?”

You don’t answer, finally catching the eye of the barman instead. You give him your order and the guy to your right makes a gesture for him to put it on his tab.

“You here with anyone?”

You point to the booth behind you where Sam and Dean are seated without looking away from the barman fixing your drink. He looks behind him and then back.

“Either of them your boyfriend?”

You hesitate, an uncomfortable feeling clawing its way around your gut. “Yes.”

You’re not always averse to flirting. Any other day you might even give this guy the time of day. He’s no Dean but he’s not bad looking. He’s dressed pretty well, in a crisp white shirt and a well-fitting pair of vintage Levis. You just don’t see any point in it right now. Not when Dean is unoccupied and you can take up some more of his attention. Not when you can feed that ugly, cruel thing in your brain and stomach. You’re doing a terrible job of shaking off this sickness.

“Which one?”

“Blonde.”

“Damn,” he smiles. “Well if you get tired of him…”

“I’m good,” you say with a tight smile, grabbing the glass and bottle the barman had placed in front of you. “Thanks for the drinks.”

It’s only when you turn to walk back to the table that you notice that Sam and Dean have seemingly finished their conversation. All of their focus is now on you.

Sam thanks you when you put the bottle down in front of him. You slide in beside Dean once again, but keep a safe foot or so of space between you.

“I swear all these honky tonk bars have the same damn playlist or jukebox or whatever,” Sam says. “If I have to hear Sweet Caroline one more time I’m gonna-”

“Have fun up there?” Dean interrupts with a cutting look at you. Sam licks his lips and heaves a tired sigh, like he knew this was coming.

“Not particularly…” you start slowly.

“No? Sure looked like it.”

You should probably feel a bit defensive at his tone, but you’re mostly just fascinated. Dean’s eyes are bulging - the way they bulge when he’s feeling really frantic while on a job. His face has gone fire-engine red. You look him over, then at Sam, questioningly.

Sam looks between the two of you. “I think maybe it’s time we turn in-”

“Not ready yet,” Dean says punchily. “Knock yourself out.”

Sam gives you a look - an offer to go with him - and you hesitate. It’s probably the better idea to go back to the motel with Sam. Let Dean blow off some steam with whatever girl is morally ok with banging some guy that, as far as she’s concerned, has a girlfriend. But the idea of it doesn’t sit right with you. 

You shake your head and Sam nods. You can’t help but feel that it’s the kind of nod that indicates you made the right decision. Whatever the hell that might mean. He picks up his jacket and mutters something about getting one of the cabs nearby.

Dean takes up Sam’s untouched drink. He still isn’t looking at you. 

You’re not stupid. You know that Dean’s sudden bad mood likely has something to do with the guy chatting you up unsuccessfully at the bar. His chances of getting laid were under threat. He probably wouldn't have reacted half as bad if he hadn’t turned down a pretty girl a few minutes prior.

And you don’t really have anyone that you can blame for this except yourself. Because you’re the one who set those expectations, even if you didn’t mean to. You’re the one who is dragging this on longer than it has any business being, because you’re selfish and you know that the minute you make those clarifications, he will accept defeat. He will change his behaviour out of respect for your decision, which should be a good thing.

But those little bits of him that you can clasp onto - the flirty back-and-forth, the not-so-accidental touches, the longing stares - are things that would hurt to lose. They’re things that your day would be much greyer without. You’ve prioritised them over your friendship with Dean, your job, your sanity. But it’s coming to a head now and you’re not sure how much longer you can wait before things start to collapse around you.

Dean clears his throat awkwardly, eyes still straight ahead. “Sorry.”

You blink. “That’s okay. Do you wanna…”

“Talk about it?” he asks sardonically. “I’m good.”

You nod, a short pause settling between the two of you. You tap on the glass of your drink just to fill the silence with something, but your mind is still on Dean.

He huffs a breathy laugh. “What’d I say? Twitchy. S’how I can tell you’re thinking.”

“Not twitchy. And of course I’m thinking.”

“‘Bout what?”

“Thought you said you didn’t wanna talk.”

“Yeah, I don’t wanna talk. Never said I didn’t want you to.”

You giggle and his mouth breaks into a smile. “Well, that’s just too bad. I’m not in the monologuing kinda mood.”

“C’mon, sweetheart. Help me out here.”

You frown. Dean just keeps on looking ahead. It had seemed like a good idea to talk about everything a few moments ago but somehow the idea of vocalising your thoughts is a little repulsive now. “You first.”

He sighs and it’s more than exasperation or any leftover frustration from the man at the bar. He sounds tired. “I was thinkin’ about you.”

You hesitate. “Oh?”

“Yeah.”

You’re ready for a bite of sarcasm or teasing or some ridiculously, outlandishly flirty remark but it doesn’t come. Just a long, thoughtful pause. You’re terrified and fascinated but you don’t bother wondering what he’s going to say. You need to give up wondering about things. There’s no point in it anymore. It just makes your head spin.

“I’d like to give you what you want,” he says finally. “I just don’t know what that is.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, even though you’re pretty sure you know exactly what he means.

“I can’t tell if you’d like me to leave you alone or if you want…” he trails off.

“I don’t want you to leave me alone,” you say, nervously. “I’d never want that.”

He looks at you now, eyes half-lidded and sleepy. He is wearing some beaten down expression. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“But you don’t… want me.”

It’s not quite put as a question, but it’s more uncertain than a statement - somewhere in between. You look at him with your mouth just slightly open for one very still, silent moment, before a loud click from the pool table makes you jump.

“I…”

You’re hoping that he’ll make this easier for you by brushing it off, but he is not letting you escape this. His eyes are soft and open, almost pained, but his mouth is set in a resolute line.

You could lie. You could tell him you don’t want him. You could keep it all to yourself - how you want him in every way possible, how you wake up every morning with his voice in your ears and his face in your eye-line, even when he’s not there. It doesn’t seem fair, but you entertain the possibility for just a moment. It would be awkward, but Dean’s a big boy and he has gotten over rejection before. You’ve seen it.

But you’d have to be stronger to do that. You’d have to be able to stop looking at him like he has sunshine pouring out of the pores on his skin. You’d have to stop taking his side in every debate with Sam and you’d have to stop sniffing around like a dog for scraps of his attention. It’s not something you could do. It’s selfish, but you’d rather put the responsibility on Dean of severing whatever the hell you have going on. He would know how to do it much better than you ever would.

“That’s not true,” you choke, just as you see the light beginning to die in Dean’s hopeful gaze. Something flashes there now, brighter than ever. “It’s not that I don’t- That’s not it.”

“Then what?”

“It’s just that I wouldn’t only want that. I would want more.”

His face shifts, mouth downturned. “You- uh, you not into the whole monogamy thing?”

You hiss in a breath. “No! That’s not what I mean-”

“It’s- uh. I mean, I-”

“Dean.” You give him a flat look before turning away. “That’s not what I meant.”

He sighs after a brief, silent suspension. “Sweetheart, I’m no good at riddles. That’s more Sammy’s thing.”

You look back at him with a sort of forced gravity when all you feel is desperation. “I don’t think you know what you’re asking for. Because I don’t just want-” you sigh. “I am into the whole monogamy thing. That’s the problem.”

“Why’s that gotta be a problem?” The way he’s speaking is almost indecently gentle.

“Because I love you.” You force yourself not to look at him when you say it, staring directly ahead at the old jukebox in the corner. “Which is a problem in itself. But you don’t need to- I mean, I’m not expecting-”

Why is this so fucking hard? You’re bumbling around with your words and you might be on the verge of tears. 

“You’re not expecting what?”

“For it to mean anything.”

“Why wouldn’t it mean anything?” He sounds urgent now, almost desperate.

“Because it’s not realistic. C’mon Dean, you’re you.”

The silence stretches between you. When it hits a certain point, you hazard a look at his face. He’s like a hurt animal. Like you had just torn open a wound.

“And what the hell does me being me have anything to do with it? I could do it. The whole thing, I could do it with you.” He’s giving you a controlled look but his jaw is clenching and his voice is trembling.

“Dean-”

“I love you too, angel.”

It hits you like a bullet, but you try not to let it show. It would be so easy to forego all your reasonable doubts, let yourself fall into the childish fantasy that Dean could love you and it might actually end well. He’s still looking at you with wide, hurt eyes. It would be so easy, when you know that one word from you could wipe the look from his face

You shake your head, ignoring the way he grabs your hand. Ignoring how it feels in your own, rough fingers brushing over your knuckles. “It’s not going to work.”

“Why not?”

“The women, Dean-”

“No women. There’s no women.”

You smile but there’s nothing behind it. “There’s always women.”

“Not for a damn long time.” 

You look at him steadily. “That’s not true,” you say, but you don’t say it well. You sound weak and uncertain. It only occurs to you after saying it that you might also feel that way.

His eyes are blazing now and you feel a bit like an insect, trapped under a glass. He’s watching you try to wiggle your way out.

“You really haven’t noticed? Sweetheart, I haven’t touched a woman in months. My balls look like a Smurf’s.”

Your mouth goes dry. “How many months?”

“I dunno. Since before Tulsa.”

It has been many months since then. Many, many months. “Wh-what happened in Tulsa?”

“You started lookin’ at me different. Like, all smiley and cute. Made me think I had a chance so I got my ass on the straight and narrow.”

You look at him. You’re trying to figure out if he’s fucking with you. You can’t tell, but you also don’t think Dean would lie to you about this. Maybe a lie to protect you, or maybe a white lie about why you can’t use his laptop right now because he has to ‘um, send an email first’… but not a lie about this. And his eyes are so soft on yours. He can’t be lying. 

And if you want to think about it - you really hadn’t seen him take anyone home in a very long time. You had just assumed he was. You think back to the girl who approached the table earlier. And then about the one from two days ago. And then the one from the last town over. And the one that looked like a damn supermodel a month or two ago. All were turned away by Dean and you had thought that was strange at the time - you just didn’t know it was because of you.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I did.”

You roll your eyes. “Sober.”

He breathes in. “You look at me sometimes like you want me but whenever I try to do somethin’ about it, you get all twitchy and clear off before I can blink.”

You pout, but a smile is threatening to break. “I’m not-”

“Yeah y’are,” he say, looking at you with so much affection that it warms your skin. He smiles as if he just gave you a compliment. “I didn’t know what you wanted. I still don’t.”

You look back at him, nervous, hesitant. “I want you. But only if I never have to share you with anyone.”

Sun spills out of his smile. He puts a gentle hand over your jaw and brings your face to his. You spend a few short seconds waiting, breathing each other’s air. “Angel. That won’t be a problem.”

Dean kisses you.

“What were you thinkin’, huh?”

You don’t have enough breath in your lungs to reply. You make a strained noise at the back of your throat instead. Dean shifts above you, pressing in harder, and you gasp. Your fingers grip his bare shoulders, trying to get some sort of leverage. The skin is damp with sweat under your touch.

“You’re crazy for thinkin’ I want any other pussy but this one for the rest of my damn life. Fuck- sweetheart, knew you’d feel this good.”

“You thought about this?” It comes out a bit too breathy to be teasing, but you are smiling up at him and he huffs a soft laugh back. He thrusts in hard, tip of his cock hitting a soft, pleasurable spot inside you, and you gasp at the overwhelming fullness of him. 

“Shit, angel,” he grunts. “Haven’t thought about anything else since I met you. Can’t get your pretty face outta my damn head. Drives me up the fuckin’ wall every single day when you go to another room, knowing I’m not gonna be able to fuck you like I want to. Or when you stretch out all cute in the backseat and I’m just- shit, I’m hard as a fuckin’ rock, waiting to get back to the motel or to some service station toilet so I can rub one out.”

Your voice catches in your throat. Tears prickle behind your eyes. “Thought about you too.”

“Yeah?” You see his eyes shining above you. His movements are hard and slow - you’re sure it’s at least in some part down to the fact that he’s trying to stave off his own orgasm after months of no action - but it makes it much more intense. Your heart is aching pleasantly in your chest.

“Yeah.” You nod. “All the time. Wanted you so bad, Dean, but I didn’t-“

“Y’didn’t think I was serious,” he finishes. You nod.

He leans down to give you a filthy kiss, hips still rolling into your own. His mouth is hungry against your own - one hand perched beside your head to hold him up and the other clasping your jaw. “Sweetheart, I’m dead fuckin’ serious.” Your body arches into his when he hits particularly deep, tits pressing up against his chest. “Never gonna get enough of you. So fuckin’ gorgeous. Feel so good around my cock. Finally lettin’ me give you what you deserve.”

You sigh, bliss spilling into every inch of your body. Dean backs up, putting both hands under your knees and pulling your legs up, hitting an unfamiliar spot. The muscles in your legs quiver at the foreign sensation - the immense pleasure of it. Dean’s eyes droop down to them and he smiles lazily. “Twitchy.”

You’re about to say something sarcastic, but he starts driving his hips forward and any cohesive thought you might have previously had evaporates. He’s so much deeper like this. You moan, eyes rolling back into your head.

“Fuck. That’s right baby, lemme feel it,” he grunts. “Tight cunt pullin’ me in. S’like I belong in here, huh.”

You nod at him, face twisted up and body squirming around him.

He breathes a light laugh which you can only assume is aimed at your fucked-out expression. “Can’t believe you’ve been keepin’ this away from me, sweetheart. Should be fuckin’ illegal. S’okay though, I’ll make up for it. Gonna fuck you six ways to Sunday. Just keep lookin’ at me like that, sweet girl.”

You should have known that Dean would be like this in bed. It’s not enough that he’s the funniest, most charismatic person you know. Or that he’s the love of your life, whose face you had tried and failed to evict from its residence in your brain for almost a year - more, if you want to be completely honest with yourself. No - he has to have a stupidly big cock and a filthy mouth too. You’ve never in your life been this wet, but then you’ve never in your life been eaten out and fucked by Dean Winchester.

“Fuck me-” he chokes out. “You’re so gorgeous, sweetheart. Y’look so beautiful like this. All pretty and ruined for me while I pound that tight, wet fucking pussy. Gonna bust early. You gonna let me come inside?”

You should probably should be ashamed of the fact that you don’t even think about it. One of Dean’s hands leaves your leg to rub against your clit - already swollen from his tongue earlier. The tight ball of need is growing in your lower stomach again. “Please, Dean-” you whine. “Need it. Need to feel you, please. I love you.”

He kisses you again - hot and deep. “Knew you’d let me fill you up, sweetheart. Such an angel, y’know that? My good girl lettin’ me fill her up and make her mine. I love you too, baby. Love you so much it makes me crazy.”

A whimper breaks out of your lips when you lock eyes. His gaze is locked on you intensely and you’re not sure how you never saw it before - all the soft love and awe and devotion written there. His breath has gone short, eyes boring into your own. It almost feels silly now. How could Dean ever want anyone else when he looks at you like that?

You flutter around him, the tight ball in your stomach beginning to loosen.

“Give it to me, baby - I got you,” Dean grunts, face pinched in a sort of pained bliss, eyes half-lidded.

You clench down on him as you become undone and he moans at the sensation, beginning to spill himself inside. The idea of him filling you up makes you crash harder.

“Got you, angel. Fuck, so good to me, lettin’ me give you all my cum. I love you. My best girl.” Dean talks you through it, body going tense around you, movements dogged and rough, eventually pattering out into shallow thrusts.

His eyes are bleary and confused when he finally stops spilling his load into you. He drops down beside you, pulling you onto your side with one hand so he does not immediately have to pull out of you. You end up with one leg over his hip - positioned in a way that is awkward but not uncomfortable. He presses kisses around your face lazily, holding your body close against his own. 

Your body begins to twitch tiredly from exertion, legs quivering. “Don’t,” you grunt. He laughs and your body vibrates with the force of it.

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