Look At All Those Chickens

soldier boy’s behind you. he’s dressed like a civilian, which means jeans, a dark jacket despite the heat, and a baseball cap he’s complained about every few minutes since butcher handed it to him.

“take it off, then,” you mutter.

“whole point is not getting recognized.”

“then stop touching it like you’ve got lice.”

“looks fucking stupid.”

you glance back. “it’s a hat.”

“yeah. a stupid one.”

hughie makes the mistake of looking toward him.

“eyes on the building, hughie.”

“my eyes were on the building.”

“your whole head turned.”

frenchie lowers the newspaper by half an inch. “perhaps we should all speak less.”

you’re about to agree when someone says your name. not through the earpiece. not from across the street where the four of you have been watching a side entrance for long enough that you’ve started recognizing the employees by their cigarette habits. no… this comes from behind you.

your body turns before your brain catches up. for one strange second, all you see is a man standing outside the hardware store halfway down the block. worn work boots. faded gray shirt. a paper bag tucked beneath one arm. dark hair slightly longer than it used to be, curling where the heat’s made it damp near his temples.

then he smiles. “holy shit.”

the rest of the street disappears.

“luke?”

his smile breaks wider. “you’re alive.”

you laugh, already moving toward him. “last time i checked.”

“that was apparently a long fucking time ago.”

he meets you halfway and pulls you into a hug without hesitation. 

you don’t hesitate either. his arms close around you, warm and familiar, and for one second you’re standing behind the reception desk at the motel again. stale coffee burning in the machine. the bell over the office door sticking. luke coming in through the maintenance entrance with grease on his cheek and a complaint about room twelve’s toilet.

he lifts you just slightly off your feet. you laugh into his shoulder.

“you vanished. no call. no message. nothing. i thought the old bastard finally killed you and put you in one of the mattresses.”

“please. he would’ve charged guests extra to sleep on me.”

luke laughs warmly as he sets you down, but his hands stay around your upper arms as he looks you over. “you look good.”

there’s no performance in it. no exaggerated sweep of his eyes. just something warm and relieved.

you smile. “so do you.”

behind you, something creaks. you glance back. soldier boy has both hands in his jacket pockets. his face’s completely blank. hughie looks between the two of you, then quickly becomes fascinated by the building again. frenchie’s newspaper rises a little higher.

luke doesn’t follow your glance. if he notices the others at all, he gives no sign of it. “you still working nights?” he asks instead, eyes fixed on you.

“sometimes.”

that answer’s vague enough to contain several felonies. luke seems to notice, but he doesn’t push. he never used to push. that’d been part of why you liked him.

the motel hired luke to handle repairs, which meant he spent most of his shifts being summoned to fight air conditioners older than both of you combined. during quiet nights, he sat behind reception while you ate dinner, brought you coffee from the machine without asking, and invented increasingly ridiculous reasons to wander through the lobby whenever you were working.

something had nearly happened. several times. 

then butcher arrived with a bleeding man and a gun, and your life became something you couldn’t explain without sounding deranged.

luke snaps his fingers suddenly. “do you remember that night with—”

the memory catches before he finishes. your hand lands on his arm. “oh my god!”

he starts laughing. “with the—”

“window spray!” you say it at the same time.

luke bends forward, laughing harder, and you grab his forearm to steady yourself because the image’s returned in full: his face dripping blue cleaner, a stack of towels collapsing around his legs, the broken window slamming shut so violently that both of you thought it had cracked.

“you sprayed me directly in the mouth,” he says.

“you told me to spray the track!”

“the track, not my face.”

“you moved!”

“because the window tried to kill me!”

another laugh escapes you, bright enough that two people passing on the pavement glance over.

luke looks at you in the middle of it, and his expression softens. the laughter fades slowly. his thumb brushes once against your arm, easy and absentminded. “i missed that.”

something in your chest pulls. before you can decide what to do with it, frenchie clears his throat. loudly. you glance back. he smiles apologetically above the newspaper, then taps two fingers against the watch on his wrist. right. surveillance. possible criminals. butcher waiting to criticize everyone’s efficiency. normal life remains annoyingly inconsiderate.

“i have to go,” you tell luke.

“yeah…” he lets your arm go, though he doesn’t look particularly pleased about it. “of course.”

“it was really good seeing you.”

“you too.”

you begin to step away.

“wait—”

you stop.

luke reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “same number?”

“no.” you hold out your hand. “give it here.”

he unlocks it and passes it over. you type your number into a new contact while he watches. there’s a pressure at your back that you refuse to turn around and acknowledge.

“there,” you hand the phone back.

luke checks the screen and smiles. “don’t disappear again.”

“i’ll try.”

he hugs you again. shorter this time, but softer. his hand settles between your shoulder blades. yours presses against his side. you catch the clean smell of laundry detergent beneath the heat and faint sawdust clinging to his shirt.

when he releases you, he walks backward for two steps. “i’m serious,” he smiles. “answer me.”

“send something worth answering.”

“window spray.”

you laugh again. “terrible start.”

“worked, though.”

you watch him turn and continue down the street. only when he disappears around the corner do you return to the others. frenchie folds the newspaper carefully. hughie stares very hard at his phone. soldier boy looks across the street.

“sorry,” you say. “old coworker.”

nothing.

“we worked at the motel together.”

deadly nothing.

the rest of the stakeout passes in almost complete silence. soldier boy answers questions when he absolutely has to. one word at a time. sometimes not even that. when hughie asks whether the man leaving the building is their target, soldier boy looks through the binoculars for five seconds and hands them back without speaking.

“so,” hughie says carefully. “is it him?”

“no.”

“right. okay.”

ten minutes later, hughie tries again.

“the van’s moved.”

“saw.”

“do you think we should—”

“nope.”

frenchie keeps his attention on the building, but the corner of his mouth twitches once. 

soldier boy sees it. the twitch dies instantly. 

you assume he’s irritated about the stakeout, the heat, the hat. hughie breathing too loudly. any of the thirty-seven things that can offend him during a normal afternoon.

you don’t think about luke’s hand on your back. not much, anyway.

the safehouse is quiet when you return.

butcher disappears with frenchie to look through the photographs. hughie goes searching for annie. mm asks whether anyone was followed, accepts the answer, and returns to the kitchen table.

soldier boy goes to the living room.

you get yourself a glass of water and spend several minutes helping frenchie label times beneath blurry pictures of people entering and leaving the building. none of it leads anywhere useful. eventually, frenchie takes the laptop into the back room, leaving you alone at the table.

“so what about the window spray?”

you glance over your shoulder.

soldier boy sits on the couch with one arm stretched along the backrest and a beer on the coffee table. the stupid baseball cap’s gone. his hair’s flattened where it sat.

“what?”

“the window spray.”

you look toward the cleaning supplies beneath the kitchen sink. “do we need some?”

his stare hardens. “the thing with your boyfriend.”

“boyfriend?” you blink. “what—who? luke?”

something in his shoulders shifts. “looked like he wanted to be.”

you turn in your chair. “are you asking what happened?”

“asked a question.”

“you’ve apparently been thinking about it for hours.”

“answer it.”

you stare at him for a moment, then lean back in the chair, already smiling.

“god, okay—so the window in room fourteen kept getting stuck,” you say, a laugh slipping into your voice before you can stop it. “luke had it half taken apart, and i was supposed to be cleaning the track.”

“exciting.”

“and he’s like, ‘just spray the track,’ right? so i go to do it, and the stupid thing drops all at once—” you huff out a laugh, shaking your head at the memory. “—and i jump, and i just—i spray him directly in the face.”

soldier boy waits.

you’re already laughing now, one hand coming up to cover your mouth. “like, full blast. eyes, mouth, everything. and he just freezes for a second, completely soaked, and then he tries to step back and—” you break, laughing harder. “—and he trips over the housekeeping cart and goes down with all the towels.”

“that’s it?”

the disbelief in his voice only makes you laugh more. 

“you had to be there,” you manage.

“yeah,” he says. “i bet.”

you smile into your water, still a little breathless.

he doesn’t. “he always wears his shirts that tight?”

your head lifts slowly. “what?”

“guy looked vacuum-sealed.”

“it was a normal shirt.”

“no, it wasn’t.”

“you noticed luke’s shirt?”

“hard not to.”

you bite the inside of your cheek.

“he still work at that dump?”

“i don’t know.”

“useful guy?”

“very.”

“fix toilets?”

“among other things.”

“great.”

you study soldier boy across the room. his face gives you nothing. his beer remains untouched. one boot taps against the floor once before going still again.

“what’s happening right now?”

“nothing.”

“you’ve spent all afternoon acting like somebody shot your dog.”

“never had a dog.”

“somehow, that explains a lot.”

his mouth tightens. “you fuck him?”

the question lands so bluntly that you almost choke on your water. “excuse me?”

“at the motel. you two sneak into empty rooms between clogged drains?”

“no!”

his expression doesn’t change.

“but we almost went out,” you add.

his jaw shifts. “you almost went out? the fuck does that mean—almost?”

“something always came up. somebody called out. a guest flooded a bathroom. once the owner made luke spend six hours trying to remove a raccoon from the laundry room.”

“sounds committed.”

“and then butcher showed up…”

soldier boy goes quiet. you don’t have to explain the rest. butcher showed up. mm was bleeding. hughie looked terrified. a gun pointed at your face, and somehow that became the dividing line between the life you had and the life you have now. luke belongs to the other side of it.

“you gonna call him?” soldier boy asks.

“probably.”

“why?”

you stare at him. “because i liked him.”

“liked.”

“maybe i still like. i haven’t exactly had time to find out.”

his eyes settle on yours. the air changes. not dangerously. not the kind you measure by exits and distance. something smaller. meaner. the danger of realizing you’ve stepped into an argument that began several hours before you knew it existed mixed with the weight of the gym, the kisses, the bad idea.

“guy changes lightbulbs for a living.”

“you’re unemployed.”

“i’m soldier boy.”

“that’s not a job. it’s barely a personality.”

he narrows his eyes at the jab.

your phone buzzes on the table. both of you look at it. a message waits from an unknown number.

𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠? 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚒’𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜.

you smile before you can stop yourself.

“that him?”

you look up. “mmhm.”

“you smiled.”

“people do that sometimes.”

“not at their phones unless somebody’s saying something stupid.”

you read the message aloud. soldier boy scoffs.

“i thought it was cute.”

“course you did.”

you look at him properly now. the silence during the stakeout. the shirt. the questions. the sudden interest in motel maintenance and whether luke had ever touched you in an empty room. a laugh begins low in your chest.

soldier boy’s eyes narrow. “what?”

“are you jealous?”

he looks personally insulted. “of him?”

“yes.”

“the maintenance guy?”

“his name’s luke.”

“don’t care what his name is.”

“you seem pretty invested.”

“bullshit.”

“you noticed his shirt.”

“everybody noticed his shirt.”

“frenchie barely noticed he had a face.”

soldier boy leans forward, forearms resting against his thighs. “you gave some civilian your number in the middle of a job.”

“he already knew me.”

“doesn’t know you now.”

“you don’t know him at all.”

“know enough.”

“what exactly do you know?”

he stares at you. for a second, you think he’ll dismiss the whole thing. call you delusional. take his beer and leave the room like the question is too stupid to deserve an answer. instead, he says, “i know how he looked at you.”

your amusement softens around the edges. “and how did he look at me?”

“like he’d already decided you were going home with him.”

“i didn’t.”

“you wanted to.”

“maybe.”

his expression turns murderous. and suddenly you understand. not just the jealousy. the precise shape of it.

“you’re not jealous because he wanted me… you’re jealous i wanted him back.”

his eyes stay on yours. 

you purse your lips, fully entertained and begin typing on your phone.

“don’t answer him.”

your thumb stops. you look up. “and why not?”

he’s got nothing respectable to say. you see that too. 

“because i said so.”

“not good enough.” you return to your phone.

“you want coffee, i’ll get you coffee.”

your thumb stops again. “what?”

“coffee.”

you lower the phone slowly. “are you offering to take me for coffee?”

“i know what i said.”

“you said you’d get me coffee. that could mean you’re planning to rob a café.”

“jesus christ.”

you wait. he glares at you from the couch, every inch of him offended by the fact that you’re making this difficult when, as far as he’s concerned, he’s already made an extraordinarily generous offer.

you enjoy every second of it. “ask me properly.”

he stares at you like he might detonate from humiliation alone. “come have coffee with me.”

“instead of luke?”

“yeah.”

“because you’re jealous?”

“because his joke wasn’t funny.”

you smile.

“still not admitting it?”

“you coming or not?”

you pick up your glass and phone. “i’ll think about it.”

you make it three steps toward the hallway. your smile widens where he cannot see it when the outraged scoff leaves his mouth.

“what the fuck’s there to think about?”

But it never goes further than that. Not ever. One of you always stops it, usually you- pulling back and slumping against the mattress like it's not supposed to tear Dean apart the way he wants to keep going so bad. But he'll laugh, he'll grin and joke and pretend he's drunker than he is. And in the morning neither of you will mention it- why would you mention a thing like that? It's just a kiss.

He's staring at you across the small booth, lost in the way your eyes look in the dim light of the bar. He thinks you look beautiful, but he won't tell you that. It's not the sort of thing he says to you.

"-and then he actually went and knocked the whole top off!" You laugh, telling the end of a story Dean wasn't listening to.

Sam laughs next to him, clearly he was listening, "No way! How did the cop not see him?"

"Guess he had that magic touch!"

Both of you break into another fit of laughs. Dean feels guilty for not paying attention- he likes your stories. He picks at the label on his empty beer bottle, willing himself to pay attention to the words instead of the way your lips are moving.

You stand, grabbing the bottle out of his hand as you flash him a smile, "My round."

Dean doesn't watch you walk away. He's trying not to be obvious.

All the same, Sam knocks his knee under the table- a silent question.

Dean looks at him, "What?"

"You good?"

"Yeah- yeah course I am."

"You keep zoning out."

"I'm fine, just a weird hunt-" Twelve hours ago you were bleeding out in Dean's arms while Sam tried to fight off two ghouls, your blood soaking through his jeans as he kept you awake, "-nothing another beer won't fix."

"You and her-" Sam starts, not sure how he's going to finish.

Dean doesn't let him try, "I'm worried she's gonna rip those stitches if she keeps moving around."

"They're small, they'll stay." Sam assures him, then adds "That it?"

"That's it." Dean isn't willing to give in to the inevitable conversation.

"Just- you're getting real close recently-"

He practically rolls his eyes, "She's my best friend."

Sam feigns mock anger.

"You're my brother- I didn't get to pick you."

"But you picked her?" Sam raises an eyebrow.

"She's a friend. That's it. Drop it." Dean's tone doesn't allow room for question.

"You sure? Coz you're not looking at her like a friend." Sam questions anyway.

"I'm looking at her like a hunter. A hunter who's gonna tear her stitches." He lets out a sharp breath through his nose.

"All I'm saying is- if this is gonna get... messy-"

"It's not gonna get-"

"If it's gonna get messy, you need to give me a heads up. She's my friend too."

You cut them off as you walk back over, carelessly setting down three more beers on the table. You look at Sam, "Go get her, tiger!"

"What?" Sam laughs.

"The girl by the bar, talked you up to her- only thing is she thinks your name is Roosevelt."

"Roosevelt?"

"Same as her dog- it's like a fate thing."

Sam raises an eyebrow.

You laugh, "Just go with it! She's cute!"

Sam doesn't need convincing, he grabs his beer and slides out of the booth, giving Dean one more glance before he moves away.

You take your seat back opposite Dean, still grinning, "Now we've just gotta find a girl for you!"

Dean doesn't say what he wants to say. Instead, "I'm too fuckin' exhausted for that."

You laugh, "The Great Dean Winchester is too tired to get laid? Never thought I'd see the day!"

"Give me one decent night sleep and I'll be back to normal, I promise." he jokes.

"You're always coming up with excuses- what was it last time? Nowhere to buy a condom?"

"Hey- that's not an excuse, I take that shit seriously-"

"I don't remember the last time you even thought about taking a girl back. How long's it been, huh?"

Dean doesn't want you doing the math on how long he's gone without sex- the math on how desperate he's pretending not to be- "Speak for yourself- god knows how long it's been since you've been laid!"

Two months. Dean remembers the hickey that stayed on your neck for a week. The feeling he had seeing you walking around with a reminder of someone else on your skin. How sick he felt until it faded.

You blush slightly at his words, but take another sip of beer, "Find me a guy who's actually worth going home with and I'll find you my plans for the night."

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚ ☽ ˚｡⋆

When Sam strikes out three drinks later, Dean's thankful. He doesn't mean to be, but he's been watching you fidget with the glass bottle with a desperate hope you have the same feeling he has. That feeling that mistakes are ready to be made.

By the time you stagger back to the motel, Sam's drunker than the two of you put together. The walk should only take five minutes, but with him slumped over your shoulders it takes fifteen. He's already half asleep when Dean gets the door open for him, helping him past the threshold so he can collapse against the bed.

Then he looks back at you. You're still stood in the doorway, just watching him. He doesn't know if its an invitation- if you know what he wants- or if you're just being cautious. He never knows with you, he can't work you out. You're just a friend, a friend he never stops thinking about, a friend he pictures spending the rest of his life with, a friend he needs more than he's ever needed anything.

He raises an eyebrow, "I'll walk you back?"

You nod, a small smile spread across your face.

Dean trails you to your room. Sam wouldn't say anything even if he was sober, this isn't an unusual sight. Dean always complains about the way Sam snores, about how sleeping with you is just easier.

He watches the back of your head, the way your hair falls as you step into your room, throwing your things down onto the tiny wooden table. He steps up behind you slowly, you don't move, just relax your shoulders slightly as you feel his presence behind you.

"I missed you." Dean speaks quietly, like he's afraid he's gonna say something stupid.

"I've been here all night." You laugh, still not turning around.

"I missed you."

You finally turn, looking back up at him, your eyes still sparkling like they did at the bar.

He brushes his hand across your cheek, moving a hair out of your face as he stares down at you, "You have a good night?"

You smile, "Course I did, it's always fun watching Sam get drunk."

He feels his heart pounding in his chest as he looks at you, that tingling in his fingertips that tells him he's drunker than he feels. That's what he'll pin this on- the alcohol- like he always does. He's been good at lying to himself recently, good at pretending he doesn't feel anything more. Today was a fluke, a weird moment where he couldn't stop staring- but he'll be back to himself by tomorrow. Back to being able to ignore that ache in his gut only you can resolve.

He won't admit he wants more than this, not to you, not to himself. That he wants more than stupid drunken kisses and hesitant mistakes. But if that's what you want, that's what he'll give you. That's what he'll give you every damn time.

His hand moves down as he runs his knuckle across your jaw, thumb finding your bottom lip, sweeping across it as he allows himself one moment of truth, "You look beautiful. I always think you look beautiful."

You reach down the hem off your shirt, pulling it up off your body without another word. Dean wets his lips as he takes a small step back, letting his eyes gloss over you. He's seen you like this hundreds of times- only a few hours ago he saw the same thing when he stitched up your abdomen, but he doesn't look there now. He's too distracted by your chest, the way your bra hugs your tits, rising and falling as you take in a short breath.

He leans down slowly, until his lips are almost touching yours, his eyes still trained on you. He could stop here, he could make this easy for himself, he could let the night pass without the taste of you waking him in the morning.

But then you push yourself up, closing the gap, until your lips press softly together. Dean's heart stutters when he feels the way you relax into the kiss, like maybe you've been waiting to do this just as long as he has.

His hand finds your waist without him meaning to, fingers wrapping around your body to pull you closer. His other hand reaches up, moving to the crook of your neck, running his thumb along your jaw. He feels your own hand find his nape, your fingers threading through his hair. You smile against him, unmistakable.

He pushes you back slowly, carefully, until the back of your legs hit the bed. This is moving quicker than it should, messier than it should, but Dean needs this. There's a chance that this will be the night you'll let it go further, that you'll let him give you everything he can. He's not willing to waste a second.

You collapse against the bed, Dean doing his best to lower you slowly against the mattress, though you both fall with a clumsiness he'll pretend doesn't make his heart tight. He likes being clumsy with you, it feels safe, like you won't judge him for any mistakes he makes.

He pulls at his own T-shirt, dragging it over his head and throwing it to one side in a move designed to get his chest closer to yours. He can feel the heat from your skin instantly as he presses himself against you, his hands finding their places back on your body. He holds the kiss, his tongue darting out to drag along your lips, his fingers curling against your skin.

He moves, planting light kisses along your jaw, the hand on your waist trailing up your body until he's running his thumb along the bottom of your bra. He nips at your earlobe, making your lean into him, your back arching as your breasts push against his chest.

He speaks without deliberateness, "I've been thinking about you all day- everything I wanna do to you-"

He never normally talks, something about keeping it silent makes it feel like you could be anyone- but you're not anyone. Dean wants you to know it's him, and the way you react to his words- the way you lean into him, a small gasp escaping your lips- clearly you do too.

He fumbles out something else, just to feel you move again, "I wanna touch every part of you-"

You reward him by kissing across his temple, your own hands running down his back, pulling him into you, heated.

"I want to see what you look like without this bra- wanna see these gorgeous tits-" He starts to regret it as soon as he says it, like it's something too primitive, but you keep kissing him, your nails dig into his skin, and he realizes maybe that's what you want too. Maybe he can't have everything- the affection and tenderness- but maybe, at least, he can have this.

He pushes it further, testing how far you'll let him go as he spills his secrets in a whisper, "I want to make you come on my fingers, want to know what it sounds like when you're moaning my name-"

This has never been part of the deal, anything more than soft kisses and groping hands. But Dean means it, he's thought about it constantly- every night since the first time you made out in messy drunken heap on an old motel bed. He's thought about all of it, how he'd touch you, how you'd react. He's touched himself with the images flashing through his mind, felt guilty after when he remembers who you are.

But you're responding. You're here, right now, and you're actually responding. Not with words, but with your body, the way you start grinding up against him, the way you pull him in close, the way a small gasp escapes your lips.

"I wanna fuck you with my tongue."

God he means it. That's all he wants, all he's wanted for months.

He feels you pull back slightly, slumping back against the mattress as you angle your body to push him away from yours. He swallows hard, heart pounding, that drunken feeling filling his body again. He doesn't want this to stop. It can't.

It doesn't. He realizes you're reaching for the top of your pants, kicking them off your legs before Dean even knows what's happening. He doesn't question it, just follows suit, fumbling at his belt so he can throw his own jeans off next to yours.

Your knees collide, the biting pain making Dean feel real- tangible- every sensation suddenly amplified. The way the pads of his fingers feel against your skin, your breath against his body. He knows he's drunk, that's why he feels like this, but he doesn't regret a thing.

Especially not when you let out a small laugh, pulling your knee back as your face twists into a mixture of pain and amusement, "Goddamn-"

You've spoken, breaking the seal that Dean didn't even realize was there. It makes him realize how desperate he is to hear more, how much he needs your voice.

He moves back against your body, tangling his bare legs into yours, pushing a knee up between your thighs. You react instantly, letting out a small gasp, pulling him closer, your lips landing on his shoulder in messy confusion.

He speaks quietly, grinding his knee against you, "I want to make you come so many times you don't even remember your name, I want you sobbing into the sheets-"

You moan against him, "Dean-"

Jesus he thinks he's gone to heaven in that moment, just hearing you say his name sends his brain fuzzy. He grips your waist tighter, fingers curling against your skin with a hunger he can't explain.

You bite down on his shoulder- Dean can't tell if you're trying to push him over the edge or if you're just trying to keep yourself quiet. Either way, the soft sting makes his cock jump, his jaw tightening as he lets out a sharp grunt.

He knows he should keep it down, that tonight shouldn't happen like this, but he doesn't care. Sam won't hear through the thin wall. He's too drunk. Sam won't know and you won't say and this can be your little secret. Your secret that he never wants to end.

He lowers his face until his lips are resting on the shell of your ear, his breath caught, "I wanna fuck you raw- want you to feel me come inside you-"

This is it. He can feel it. Your hands are grabbing at him, lips against his collarbone, hips grinding up. This is everything he's been so desperate for- fuck this is actually happening.

He moves down fast, lips against you- your jaw, your neck, your tits. He drags his tongue down, the feeling running down his whole spine as he realizes how good you feel, your chest right there, your eyes on him. He looks up as he moves lower, keeping his gaze trained on your face, the way you bite your lip absentmindedly.

He settles between your thighs, then look back down at your underwear. He holds his breath as he takes you in, this sight he's been so desperate to see. He reaches up towards your waistband, running the tips of his fingers along it.

You lift your hips off the mattress, a soft desperation spilling from your lips.

He can't believe the way you're looking at him, like he's something so special, so beautiful. No- no he really can't believe it. That's not how you look at him- that's not how friends look at each other. He's pushed this too far, too quickly- what if this is something you'll regret? A mistake that festers and eats.

He glances up towards the gauze on your abdomen, the one he put there only hours before. There's a tiny patch of blood starting to seep through, bright red and striking against the white of the bandage. The exact thing Dean's been worried about all night, sitting in front of him like a slap in the face.

He can't stop himself, he looks back up at you, propping himself up slightly, "Your stitches-"

"I'm fine-" you laugh, lifting your hips towards him again.

You're not. He knows you're not. He pictures you bleeding out in his arms, how warm your body was against his legs, how your blood soaked under his nails.

He was distracted. That's why you got hurt today- because he was distracted, he wasn't thinking, he was an idiot. He's always distracted by you.

And this is only going to make it worse- knowing what you look like with your underwear off. How's he supposed to focus when he knows a thing like that? When he knows what you feel like? What you taste like?

He pulls back, staring up at you, "Sweetheart-"

You swallow, it's like you know what he's going to say. You fall silent, letting him finish.

He doesn't want to. He wants you to stop him. But you don't, "-we're too drunk for this."

You nod, a small smile, "Aren't we just drunk enough?"

Don't make this harder, he wants to say, please don't make this harder. "We can't."

You nod again, and Dean wonders if the look on your face is regret over his words or regret this ever happened. He keeps one finger tracing your waistband for just a moment more, and then pulls back completely, staring down at your body like he's trying to sear it into his mind.

For a moment you just gaze at him, and then you shift on the bed, moving to one side to make space for him to lay next to you.

He looks at the blank space, willing himself to move into it. He wants to feel you next to him, wants to feel the warmth from your body as he falls asleep. These days it's the only thing that can make him settle, the feeling of you right there. And you're looking at him like that's what you want too.

But he knows he can't. Not after everything he said. Not after everything he's done. He needs to forget tonight, forget all of his feelings for you. He needs to get as far away from you as possible. At least right now, while his mind's still swimming and his cock's still throbbing and his fingers are still tingling.

He stands, quickly, trying not to look at the way your face seems to fall into confusion and longing. He swallows, looking away from you, "I need to go-"

"You don't have to."

He looks back, then regrets it, he can't see you right now, not if he wants to lie to himself, "I- I should check on Sammy-"

"You can stay."

"I'll tell him I was snoring- you kicked me out coz I was being too loud-"

"Dean- I-"

"You-" he sighs, "-You need to sort your stitches out before they get worse-"

You don't reply, just give a small nod.

You were late. Again. Half your brain was on the grocery list and the other half on the neighbor’s house two doors down from yours, the one with the lights that flickered at three a.m. and the dog that wouldn’t cross the gate anymore. You told yourself it was wiring maybe old pipes. Even if you knew better.

Tomorrow was Halloween. The hallway smelled like tempera paint and orange slices. Little ghosts cut from coffee filters dangled from the ceiling on clear thread.

You rubbed at the tired spot between your eyebrows and reached for the clipboard, already forming the apology you’d give for being late, again. A man leaned over the desk, saying something low to Ms. Rivera that made her laugh in a way she didn’t for anyone else at pickup.

“…could leave my number”, he was saying, tapping the pen against the margin instead of writing. “You know, in case any of the kids mentioned noises across the street. Strange hours. Flickering lights”.

Ms. Rivera tucked a curl behind her ear. “Right. The neighbors”. Her voice brightened, like you’d just walked into a commercial for toothpaste. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but—sure, why not”.

You signed your name where it always went, thinking about canned pumpkin and whether you had enough sugar, about salt and doorways and windows that didn’t latch right. You were in your list, your little ordinary raft, when the man at the desk gave a soft laugh, and something in your chest stuttered.

It took a second. Of course it did. You’d trained yourself not to hear that sound. Still you glanced up. On reflex.

Dean’s gaze stayed on Ms. Rivera, the smile turned down just enough to look sincere. Your heart stopped anyway. That laugh, stupid, impossible, stitched into you like a scar you had learned to dress around. You told yourself it was coincidence. You told yourself a hundred men in a hundred bars had laughed like that. You told yourself anything that wasn’t his name.

“Mommy!”.

Delilah—Lilah—came at you like a small hurricane in light-up sneakers (the sweetest, clumsiest whirlwind there ever was), paper-plate craft flapping in one fist, a smudge of orange paint on her cheek. You bent without thinking, arms opening in the exact shape of her. The world righted itself around the weight of her. Play dates, park snack bags, cartoon theme songs at 6 a.m., all of it, your anchor.

“Look what I made!”, she declared, thrusting a construction-paper bat into your face. The googly eyes were crooked and perfect.

“It’s amazing”, you said, and your voice steadied on the easy truth. “Museum quality”.

Ms. Rivera cooed appropriately. “Oh, that is museum quality, Lilah. I love her little fangs”.

“Her name is Midnight”, Lilah announced, still brandishing the bat like a parade flag.

A shift in the air told you he’d finally turned. You didn’t look right away. You fixed the corner of the bat, smoothed your daughter’s hair, checked the time on the wall clock as if any of that mattered. Then you lifted your head.

He looked exactly like your memory and not at all like it. Older around the eyes, the jacket broken in deeper, the mouth still fighting not to soften. The sight of him didn’t knock you back so much as tilt the floor, just enough that you had to plant your feet.

Dean’s gaze finally met yours. It held. He looked at you like he was trying to line up two transparencies, who you’d been and who you were now, and the longer he stared, the more the room thinned to the quiet between two heartbeats. It went on long enough that you felt Lilah’s weight lean into your leg, her patience in short supply. “Do you like her?”, she piped up, tilting the paper plate so the bat’s crooked smile faced him. “My bat. Her name is Midnight”.

The sound broke the spell. Dean’s eyes cut to her, then back to you, then to her again, like a pendulum that couldn’t decide where true was. The movement was small, precise, the way he’d always measured rooms for exits. Only now the exit seemed to be you, and the door he couldn’t quite bring himself to touch was a four-year-old with glue on her knuckles.

“She’s… awesome”, he managed, voice softened down to something careful. “Midnight’s a tough name to live up to”.

Lilah’s whole face lit. “She can fly. But not inside. Mommy says nothing´s around to fly inside”.

“Mommy’s smart”, he said, and on that word his gaze snapped back to you, pinned there a breath too long before it slid to Lilah again. The green of her eyes caught the struggling light and threw it back at him. That was when he faltered. Not much. A stutter in breath, a shift in his jaw, a tighten-and-release of his fingers at his sides, but you felt it like a temperature drop. His eyes stayed on your daughter, then flicked to you, then back as if testing the same answer three times.

“How old are you, kiddo?”, he asked, too quickly to be casual, the question pushed out on instinct, suspicion, hope - whatever ugly, holy mix lived in the space behind his ribs.

“Four", Lilah announced, very proud, holding up too many fingers and then fixing it with serious concentration. “Four”.

The number seemed to echo. You heard it bounce off the cinderblock walls, off the paper ghosts and the cup of dull pencils; you felt it land in him like a stone dropped in deep water. He looked at you, sharp, then back to her, and you could see the math drawing itself across the back of his eyes. Counting backward. Counting forward. Counting all the places where he hadn’t been.

“C’mon, baby, we need to go”, you said, scooping Lilah onto your hip. It was to her, but it was for him. An end to a conversation he hadn’t started yet and you weren’t going to have in a hallway full of paper ghosts.

Ms. Rivera’s smile faltered as her gaze bounced from Dean’s eyes to Lilah’s and back again. You watched the recognition click into place behind her professional cheer. She pressed a folder toward you like a shield. “I’ll—um—finish the attendance”, she murmured, already retreating. “See you both tomorrow”. And then she disappeared, shoes squeaking a polite escape.

“Wait”. Dean’s hand lifted, palm out, stopping short of your sleeve like he’d hit an invisible fence. “Can we—”.

“Not here”, you said, low. Lilah’s arm looped around your neck, her bat bumping your shoulder with each breath. “Not now”.

His jaw worked. Four years collapsed into the space between heartbeat and regret. “I didn’t—”. He shut his mouth, swallowed the excuse. “You’re right”. A beat. “But… can you give me a minute?”.

You angled past him toward the door. “You had a year”, you said, even, for the sake of the kid whose ear was pressed to your collarbone. “Then you had four”.

He took it, the hit and the history. “You’re angry”.

“You think?”. The edges of your voice were sanded for little ears, but the shape of the word was still sharp. “We’re done”.

Lilah patted your cheek, oblivious diplomat. “Mommy, can Midnight have sprinkles, too?”.

“Midnight can bathe in sprinkles”, you said, and kissed her temple because it helped.

Dean shifted, blocking the door just enough that you had to look at him. He didn’t touch you, or crowd. He just stood there with his questions bleeding through the seams.

He was always so much taller than you. The hallway lights caught on the slope of his shoulders, and you hated that your body remembered what it felt like to stand under his shadow.

“Dean”. You made your voice calm and flat. “Get out of my way”.

His jaw clenched, green eyes flicking down at you like he was trying to peel back every layer you’d built since he left. “Just… a minute. That’s all I’m asking”.

“You already long enough”, you snapped, low enough that Lilah wouldn’t hear it as more than a hum in your chest.

He flinched but didn’t move. “I just—look, we could grab a coffee. Sit down. Talk like adults”. His voice dropped, softer, trying for gentler. “Catch up”.

You laughed once, sharp and bitter. “Catch up? Like we lost touch after high school? You ghosted me, Dean. Vanished. And now you want coffee?”.

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing like the words cost him. “I had reasons”.

“Yeah? So did I”. You shifted Lilah higher on your hip. “Mine wore diapers”.

His eyes dropped, just for a second, to the girl nestled against you. Then they snapped back to your face, as if he wasn’t allowed to stare too long, as if staring too long would break something he didn’t know how to fix. Still, you the loop his gaze kept making: Lilah’s lashes, your mouth, Lilah’s hands, your eyes. Back and forth, like a man trying to solve a puzzle without touching the pieces.

“She’s beautiful”, he said, quiet, reverent. “She’s… she’s got your smile”.

The lie hung there, soft and heavy. You didn’t correct him. You didn’t need to. His gaze gave him away, lingering on the green in her eyes, the stubborn lift of her chin, the way her curls bounced when she fidgeted. He didn’t say the words, but the question was in every breath he took.

“She likes loud cars”, you said flatly, because if he wanted clues, you’d toss them like knives.

He blinked, the corner of his mouth twitching in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Figures”. He exhaled, almost shaky. “So she’s—”.

“Don’t finish that sentence”.

His hands flexed at his sides, the fight in him trying to crawl out, but he held it down. “I just… I need to know if—”. He caught himself, scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “If you’re okay. If you both are”.

You met his eyes, steady. “We are. Without you”.

The words landed, and he didn’t even try to dodge them. He nodded once, slow, like he deserved every bit of it. Still, he didn’t move. “Coffee”, he said again, quieter, like maybe if he whispered it you’d hear something else in it. “Just half an hour. No excuses or vanishing. Just… me and you. Please”.

You stood there in the too-bright hallway with paper pumpkins rustling and Lilah humming against your shoulder, and you hated that a part of you wanted to believe him.

“Get out of my way, Dean”, you said again, softer this time, but no less certain.

His throat worked. For a moment, you thought he might argue. Then, finally, he shifted sideways, giving you space. But his eyes followed you, asking all the things he couldn’t say out loud, burning with a truth he was too much of a coward, or too much of a Winchester, to name.

And you walked past, Lilah in your arms, every step steady even though your chest was on fire.

Later, in the bathroom that smelled like bubble soap and wet towels, with steam fogging the mirror, you rolled your sleeves up, kneeling on the bathmat with one hand steady on Lilah’s back as she splashed and hummed, glue peeling off her little fingers in gummy strings.

“Don’t eat it”, you warned, pulling the sticky wad away before she could test her luck.

“I wasn’t!”, she giggled, then immediately changed the subject, because that’s what four-year-olds did. “Mommy, did you see the black car? The loud one?”.

Your chest tightened. You reached for the shampoo bottle, forcing your voice into its calm, bedtime cadence. “Yeah, I saw it”.

“It was shiny”, she said dreamily, tilting her head back so you could lather her curls. “And so big. Not like ours. Ours is… ours is squeaky”.

“Our car gets us where we need to go”, you said, rinsing her hair with the plastic cup, watching the suds slide down her shoulders.

“But the black one was like—vroom!”. She made the noise with her whole body, water sloshing over the side of the tub. “Can we get one like that?”.

You swallowed hard, focusing on rinsing the last of the shampoo from her curls as she splashed and squealed about engines and vrooms.

“Can we get one?”, she asked again, stubborn in the way only Dean Winchester’s child could be.

You wrapped the towel around her small, slippery body and lifted her out, settling her onto the bathmat. She giggled as you rubbed her hair dry, soap bubbles popping under your palms.

And all you could think about was the Impala. That night.

Rain pelting down hard enough to blur the motel sign across the lot. Cold air spilling in every time the passenger door opened and slammed shut. Sam’s tall shadow moving inside, muttering something about giving you two five minutes, which had stretched into thirty.

You remembered the creak of leather under you, the way Dean had dragged you into his lap, his hands gripping your thighs like he couldn’t believe you were real and alive after what you’d just faced. You remembered how the windows fogged faster than you could wipe them clear, how his mouth moved against your jaw, your neck, your chest like he was starving.

And the way the world had gone quiet in that front seat, with the hunt behind you, the storm outside and his body warm and solid beneath yours. That night had left more than memory. It had left your little girl.

You cleared your throat, willing the memory back into its box, sealing it tight before it could leak out where she might see it on your face.

“Someday, maybe”, you murmured, kissing the top of her damp curls. It was easier than saying never, easier than explaining that the car she was dreaming about had already given her all it was ever going to give.

She giggled when you spread the towel wide, then squealed as you wrapped her up tight, tucking every corner in until she was nothing but a squirming little burrito with green eyes peeking out from the folds.

“Mommy! I’m stuck!”.

“That’s the point”, you teased, securing the last corner. “No escape for the burrito”.

She wriggled delighted. “Burrito with sprinkles!”.

You laughed, the sound breaking something loose in your chest, and lifted her against your hip, towel trailing like a cape. She pressed her wet cheek against your neck, and for a moment, just a moment, the memories dulled, the Impala faded, the storm quieted.

This was what you had now: sprinkles, towels, bedtime stories. Not the growl of an engine in the night. Not the man who drove it.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

The problem wasn't the wave.

It was how long it lasted.

A second too long. A smile a little too knowing. A pause that shouldn't have meant anything - but did.

And now your life was spiralling because of it.

------------------

The first time you noticed something was wrong, it was trending.

Not your name.

Not even The Seven.

Just:

'HER + SOLDIER BOY???'

You stared at your phone like it had personally offended you.

"No," you muttered, scrolling faster. "No no no, absolutely not."

But the internet had already decided.

Clips were everywhere - slowed down, zoomed in, overanalysed like it was the Zapruder film. You and him, standing across the stage during the live broadcast, cameras flashing, crowds cheering.

And then it happened.

You waved.

He waved.

You smiled.

He smiled.

End of interaction.

Apparently... not the end of the story.

---------------------

"PR is losing their minds," Starlight said, dropping into the chair across from you in the tower lounge.

"They always are," you replied, still scrolling.

"No, like... extra losing it. There are edits."

"There are always edits."

"With music."

You paused.

"...What kind of music?"

She hesitated. "Romantic."

You dropped your phone onto the table like it burned you. "I'm going to need everyone to collectively calm down."

"They won't," she said sympathetically. "It's already a thing."

A thing.

Of course it was.

-------------------

By noon, it had a ship name.

By two, there were 'compilation videos'.

By three, someone had written a full relationship timeline... based entirely on a one-second clip and pure delusion.

You didn't even know him.

Okay, technically you did - but only in the way toy 'knew' any volatile, recently-unfrozen, walking PR nightmare Vought was trying to rebrand.

You'd spoken to him exactly once.

"Nice work out there," you'd said backstage after the broadcast.

"Yeah," he'd replied, looking you over with that unreadable half-smile. "You too."

That was it.

That was the entirety of your relationship.

And yet-

-------------------

"You're trending again."

You groaned, dragging a hand over your face. "Of this is about-"

"It is," your manager confirmed. "Engagement metrics are through the roof."

"I don't care about metrics, I care about my sanity."

"They want to lean into it."

You sat up straight. "Absolutely not."

"It's good press."

"He's a walking lawsuit."

"He's popular."

"He's unstable."

"He's-"

Your phone buzzed.

A text.

Unknown number.

You seeing this shit?

You frowned.

Another message followed immediately.

Didn't realise we were a thing. You move fast.

You stared at the screen.

"...You have got to be kidding me."

---------------------

You shouldn't have replied.

You knew that.

Every instinct screamed don't engage.

But-

I waved at you. That's not a relationship.

Three dots appeared instently.

Felt like more than a wave.

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.

It wasn't.

Pause.

Then-

Kinda funny though.

You hesitated.

...Okay, maybe a little.

---------------------

The next time you saw him in person, it was at the tower.

Of course it was.

Because apparently the universe had a sense of humour.

He was leaning against the wall outside the meeting room, arms crossed, looking entirely too relaxed for someone currently being shipped across the internet like a limited-edition collectible.

His eyes flicked to you the second you approached.

And there it was again.

That same look.

That same almost-smile.

"You gonna wave at me again," he said, "or was that a one-time thing?"

You stopped in front of him, unimpressed.

"Don't start."

"Too late. We're already in a committed relationship, didn't you hear?"

You exhaled slowly. "I hate this."

He chuckled - low, amused, entirely too entertained by your suffering.

"Relax," he said. "Could be worse."

"How."

"We could actually be dating."

You blinked.

"...That's worse."

He grinned.

And damn it, that was the problem.

Because now you understood why people were losing this minds.

-----------------------

"Don't."

He raised a brow. "Don't what?"

You pointed between the two of you. "Whatever this is. Don't do it."

"Do what?"

"That," you said, gesturing vaguely. "The... banter. The chemistry. The thing people are clearly hallucinating but will absolutely run with if we give them even a crumb more."

He studied you for a second.

Then-

"...You worried about what people think?"

"No. I'm worried about what Vought will do with what people think."

That wiped the smirk off his face, just a little.

"Yeah," he admitted. "Fair."

A beat passed.

Then, quieter-

"...Still kinda funny though."

You huffed, trying not to smile.

Failed.

----------------------

And that was the real problem.

Not the edits.

Not the ship name.

Not the PR nightmare waiting to happen.

It was that tiny, inconvenient, undeniable spark that shouldn't have been there...

But was.

Born from a single, stupid wave-

And now?

Because Soldier Boy didn’t see a student when he looked at you.

And you certainly didn’t see a mentor when you looked back.

The first time he called you sweetheart in front of a room full of executives, heat rushed straight to your face. The first time he tugged you into his lap after a photoshoot like it was the most natural thing in the world, you nearly forgot there were other people still watching.

He was Soldier Boy.

America’s greatest hero. A living monument. A man twice your age with medals of honor and enough fame to blot out the sun.

And he couldn’t keep his hands off you.

How were you supposed to be ashamed of that? To care about propriety?

Let handlers cough awkwardly when you slipped out of his dressing room fixing your hair. Let publicists panic when he kissed your cheek on live television and laughed at the scandalized silence that followed. Let teammates roll their eyes when he called you baby in meetings and sat you beside him at the head of the table.

They all thought you were being taken advantage of.

If only they knew how often you climbed willingly into his lap.

He liked to leave you ruined in ways no camera could fully capture. Kiss-swollen lips carefully repainted before interviews. The ache of his hands branded high on your thighs beneath immaculate costumes. Lipstick smeared and hastily fixed while he sat back watching you gather yourself with that slow, smug grin. Thighs pressed tightly together beneath conference tables while he carried on through meetings, knowing exactly why you couldn’t quite meet anyone’s eye.

Your pulse would still be racing under stage lights because minutes earlier he’d had you pinned against the unlocked door of his dressing room, hand over your mouth to contain every needy sound you made while he took his time reminding you who you belonged to. Then he’d tug your skirt back into place, smooth your hair flat, thumb once over your lower lip, and walk you out, a guiding hand at the small of your back, beside him like nothing had happened at all. Sometimes he’d rest a heavy, gloved hand on your knee just out of frame, fingers stroking slow enough circles to make your breath hitch while reporters asked stupid, harmless questions.

Soldier Boy liked things he wasn’t supposed to have. You learned that pretty damn fast. The thrill for him was in the taking—the way your breath caught when he touched you somewhere public enough to be reckless, the way you still came when he summoned you despite having every reason not to. He liked having something young and beautiful at his side, something admired by everyone else but touched only by him.

And you, ambitious little thing that you are, like exactly what came with letting him.

The fame.

The access.

The way rooms shifted when he walked in with his hand at your waist. It wasn’t love that kept you there. It was hunger. His for control, yours for everything his name could give you.

You liked the looks. The whispers. The way respectable people pretended not to stare when his hand rested under your skirt at charity dinners. You liked the jealous glances from starlets and socialites who’d wanted him first. Liked hearing your name in his low voice meant only for you.

Most of all, you liked what it meant.

Out of every woman in America, Soldier Boy picked you.

And if it was inappropriate, if it was shameless, if it made board members sweat and reporters scramble and mothers clutch their pearls—

Well.

That was half the appeal.

GEN TAGLIST @spxideyver @tendertulip @n-o-p-e-never @fandomchik @tinas111 @0ccvltism @cupidzbunny @losers-clvb @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @thatg8rl @angelically-yours @dina-winchester @ilikw @lupinslibraries @mochminnie @spookyysinsanity @mindfulmesses @paristheonewhoreads @prettywhenipanic @mostlymarvelgirl @shortcyclicalstoner @dead-sirens @boba-is-a-soup @l3tholog1ca @allthingswickedpodcast @musesfromashes @mollymal @sh1a10 @castielscaplan

He didn’t notice you over by the bar, about fifteen feet to his left until you were right on top of him. His head was turned the opposite direction as he saw a blur of movement and felt your arms wrap around his waist, pulling him in tight, lips crashing into his. His eyebrows raised in surprise but he immediately let his eyes drift closed with a small groan of approval. He let his big strong arms come up to pull you in even closer, pressing you into his chest. You tensed slightly in his arms and he figured it was just from feeling his strength. It could be intimidating to a lot of women.

You were kissing him, but it was Ben who deepened it, thrusting his tongue into your mouth and tangling his tongue with yours. You let out a small whimper that flowed right into his mouth; almost a surprised sound. Ben could hear your heart racing but he mistook it for the encounter, assuming you knew who he was. 

He raised one of his hands to the back of your head, letting his fingers tangle in your silky hair. He pushed his lips harder against yours, holding your head in place. After a moment, you pulled back and turned your head, eyes darting nervously around the large, loud room. When you turned back to him, your eyes were wide and then he saw it, the recognition. 

“Well, doll, I’ve seen eager but that… that was just downright bold. I like it.”

Your mouth opened but no words came out at first. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were standing near the bar when you saw him. Brad was here. Your good-for-nothing, abusive ex. You had dressed tonight to feel powerful, to feel like the version of yourself Brad hadn't broken, but the second you saw him, the leather skirt and halter top felt like thin armor. Panic took hold and you nervously looked around for an exit. He was between you and both exits. Your heart rate spiked and the familiar old fear took over. He was getting closer and he hadn’t spotted you yet but he was looking. His eyes took in the dance floor, searching. He wasn’t there by mistake. He was there for you. How the hell did he know I would be here?!

You glanced around for the biggest guy you could find who wasn’t with a woman. There! Off to the side. He was huge and alone. You didn’t think, you just reacted, rushing over to him, you pushed yourself into his arms and pressed your lips to his, praying he wouldn’t push you away and blow your cover. 

He didn’t. But you also weren’t prepared for him to kiss you back like he wasn’t surprised or as if he’d done it a thousand times. You let out a little whimper when he did. If you hadn’t been terrified you might have even enjoyed it.  

You pulled back and immediately looked around for Brad. You didn’t see him. Before you could worry about that you turned back to the massive stranger, who was looking down at you with a smug grin and an arched brow. That’s when it hit you—who you had just jumped in the arms of—Solider Boy. Your eyes went even wider than they already were. Shock mingling with the fear of your ex. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

“Well, doll, I’ve seen eager but that… that was just downright bold. I like it,” he said, voice low and smooth as velvet and sin. 

You opened your mouth but you couldn’t get the words out. Not a thank you, not a sorry, not an explanation for throwing yourself at him. Throwing yourself at America’s hero. The original supe. Your face flushed bright pink as you gaped up at him. 

“Don’t be shy now, sweetheart,” he mocked. His hand which was resting on your hip, tightened slightly, fingers flexing. 

You looked down to where he still held you, unsure of what to do next. 

“I, um, I’ve gotta go. Sorry..” you said, starting to pull away. His hand shot out and caught your wrist, not too tight; not a demand but a request. 

“Wait,” his deep voice rumbled over the music. “You can’t just kiss a fella like that and then run away. I don’t even know your name.”

“I’m sorry, Soldier Boy, but I really have to–” Your words trailed off as you turned and came face to face with Brad. His eyes were intense and boring into your very soul. He looked at you and then at Ben, clearly not recognizing him as you had. 

Brad’s face twisted into that familiar, ugly sneer—the one that usually preceded a lecture or a host of bruises. He didn't see the legend standing in front of him; he just saw another guy in a bar, and Brad had always been too arrogant for his own good.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding?” Brad spat, stepping into your personal space, completely ignoring the massive silhouette towering behind you. “Running off to some loud-ass club to throw yourself at the first piece of trash you see? Get over here.”

He reached out to grab your other arm, his fingers clawing for a grip, but he never made contact.

Ben’s hand, still wrapped firmly around your wrist, didn't move, but his entire demeanor shifted. The smug, playful grin vanished, replaced by a cold, stony mask of boredom that was somehow more terrifying. With a casual, almost lazy flick of his arm, he pulled you behind him, putting his broad shoulders between you and the threat.

“You’re interrupting a conversation, junior,” Ben said. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the thumping bass of the club like a blade.

Brad blinked, his bravado flickering for a split second as he actually looked up—and kept looking up—at the wall of muscle in the black button-down. “I don't know who the hell you think you are, pal, but this is between me and my girl. Back off.”

Ben let out a short, dry bark of a laugh, tilting his head back slightly. He looked down at Brad with the kind of pity someone might show an insect they were about to crush.

“Your girl?” Ben repeated, the words rolling out with a dangerous edge. He took a single step forward, forcing Brad to stumble back a step. “Funny. She didn't look like yours when she was tasting like strawberry lip gloss and desperation five seconds ago.”

Ben took a slow, deliberate sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving Brad’s. “And ‘back off’ isn't really a phrase I’m familiar with. Now, you’ve got about three seconds to turn around and vanish before I decide to see how far you can bounce off that bar top. One…”

Brad looked like he wanted to swing, his face turning a furious red, but then he caught the look in Ben’s eyes—the absolute, unwavering certainty of a man who had killed things much bigger than him.

“Two…” Ben drawled, his hand on your waist tightening just a fraction, a silent promise of protection that felt as solid as a lead pipe.

Brad took another step back, then another, his eyes darting toward the exit. He muttered something under his breath—a weak attempt at saving face—before turning and disappearing into the crowd near the dance floor.

Ben didn't watch him go. He turned back to you, his expression softening back into that practiced, charming smirk, though his eyes remained sharp.

“Well,” he rumbled, looking you up and down again. “Now that the trash has been taken out... you want to tell me why you're really shaking, doll? Because I have a feeling it wasn't just my good looks.”

Your pulse was still drumming a frantic rhythm against your ribs, and Ben could clearly feel it through the hand anchored on your waist. He didn't pull away. If anything, he adjusted his hold, pulling you a fraction closer as he scanned the crowd one last time to ensure Brad was truly gone.

“He's gone, sweetheart. Ran off like a kicked pup,” Ben rumbled, his voice dropping below the roar of the music. He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. “But you’re still trembling. And I don’t think it’s because you’re starstruck anymore.”

He tilted his head, searching your eyes with a look that was surprisingly perceptive for a man who usually only cared about his own reflection. The smugness was still there, but it was tempered by a dark curiosity.

“That prick... he's the reason you jumped me, isn't he?”

You tried to find your voice, your throat feeling like it was lined with cottonballs. “I—I’m sorry. I didn't know who you were, I just... I needed to hide. I was hoping he wouldn’t see me if I was with someone.”

Ben’s eyes darkened, a flash of something dangerous and ancient flickering in the emerald. He didn't like the idea of being used as a shield, but he seemed to like the idea of what Brad had done to you even less. It offended his distorted sense of chivalry.

“Hide?” He repeated the word like it was a foreign concept. He let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Well, you certainly picked the right shadow to crawl into, doll.”

He took the final pull of his drink and set the empty glass on a passing server's tray without breaking eye contact. The air between you was charged now—less about the fear of your ex and more about the sheer, overwhelming proximity of the man holding you.

“Tell you what,” he said, his fingers flexing against your hip. “I’m bored with this noise, and I’m definitely bored with my company over at the bar. Why don't we get out of here? You can tell me your name, and I can make sure that little mistake of a man stays a memory.”

He didn't wait for an answer, already beginning to steer you toward the VIP exit with a possessive authority that left very little room for argument. “Unless, of course, you've got somewhere more important to be?”

Brad was still out there. And now he was furious. Soldier Boy felt like a safer option than leaving alone and he had protected you. You felt safe with him. You nodded and let him lead you out of the club. 

You said your name in a voice that was smaller than you intended, your body still trembling slightly.  “You can call me Ben,” he replied. “Afterall, you did just have your tongue down my throat,” he said, with a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“I think you’ve got that backwards, Ben,” you shot back, before realizing again who you were talking to. You flushed slightly. 

He just chuckled. “Maybe. But you didn’t seem to mind.”

The cool night air hit you like a physical weight, a sharp relief after the suffocating heat and neon haze of the club. Ben didn't lead you toward the sidewalk where the commoners were hailing cabs; he steered you toward a sleek, dark SUV idling at the curb, its windows tinted deep enough to hide a thousand sins.

He didn't let go of your waist until he had opened the heavy door, gesturing for you to slide in with a mock-polite sweep of his hand.

“I didn't,” you admitted quietly, sliding onto the leather seat. It was a half-truth; you had been too terrified to mind in the moment, but now that the adrenaline was fading, the memory of his mouth on yours was starting to burn a hole in your focus.

Ben climbed in beside you, the vehicle dipping slightly under his weight. He didn't sit in the center, but he took up so much space that the cabin suddenly felt very small. He looked at the driver—a man who looked like he was paid very well to see nothing and hear less—and gave a short nod.

“Just drive,” Ben ordered. “Away from the noise.”

As the car pulled into the slick New York streets, Ben leaned back, stretching his arm out along the top of the seat behind your head. He wasn't touching you anymore, but the heat radiating from him was a constant reminder of how close he was.

“You've got a bit of a bite for a girl who was just shaking in her boots,” he said, turning his head to look at you. The passing streetlights flickered over his features, highlighting the heavy line of his jaw. “I like that. Most people start stuttering the second they realize who I am. Or they start asking for an autograph. It’s all so boring.”

He reached into a small console and pulled out a fresh bottle of scotch and two glasses. “But you... you just used me as a human ‘no vacancy’ sign. That's a new one.”

“I’m stronger than tonight would suggest. It’s just… something about him takes that away. Even after all this time,” you said, voice slightly unsteady, thinking about him.

He poured a finger of the amber liquid into a glass and held it out to you. “Drink it. It'll stop the shaking better than that ‘hero’ nonsense the public believes in.”

You took the glass, your fingers brushing his. The contact sent a fresh jolt through you, one that had nothing to do with Brad.

“So,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before meeting your eyes again. “Tell me about this Brad guy. Because if I’m going to be your boyfriend for the evening, I should probably know if I need to go back there and actually break something.”

The mention of Brad made your grip tighten on the glass. You took a sip, the scotch burning a trail down your throat and settling like a warm weight in your chest.

“He's an ex,” you said, the word feeling like tar in your mouth. “One who doesn't understand the meaning of the word 'no' or 'over.' He thinks he owns people. He thinks he owns me.”

Ben’s expression didn't change, but you noticed the way his jaw set, a small muscle leaping in his cheek. He’d lived his whole life in a world of power and possession, but there was a specific brand of cowardice in a man like Brad that clearly grated on him.

“Owning people,” Ben repeated, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. “That’s a heavy word for a little man to be throwing around.”

He took a slow drink of his own, his eyes never leaving yours. The car swerved around a corner, the movement shifting you closer to him. He didn't move away. Instead, he let his arm drop from the back of the seat, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder. His thumb made a slow, rhythmic circle against your skin—a gesture that was surprisingly grounding.

“You said he takes your strength away,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to the pulse point in your neck. “Men like that... they don't actually take anything. They just make you forget where you put it. But I’ve got a feeling you’re starting to remember.”

He leaned in just a fraction, the scent of expensive tobacco and leather surrounding you.

“If he shows his face again tonight, he’s not going to be dealing with you,” Ben promised, his thumb stopping its movement as he tilted your chin up to look at him. “He’s going to be dealing with me. And I don’t forget. I don't let people take things that don't belong to them.”

He let that hang in the air for a moment, the silence in the SUV heavy with an unspoken question.

“So, where to, sweetheart? I can take you home and walk you to your door, or…” He paused, a slow, predatory smirk returning to his lips. “We could find somewhere else to spend the rest of the night. Somewhere Brad wouldn't dream of looking.”

“Actually, I’m starving. Any interest in Maggie’s?”

Ben let out a short, dry huff of a laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a look that was more mocking than friendly.

“Maggie’s Diner?” He repeated the name like it was a punchline. “Goddamn, doll. I figured you for something a little more... upscale.”

He took a slow, deliberate sip of his scotch, surveying you over the rim of the glass. “But you know what? I’ve spent the last several weeks eating whatever those pussies back at the safehouse call nutrition. A burger that actually tastes like cow sounds like the first good idea I've heard all night.”

He leaned forward, rapping his knuckles sharply against the partition behind the driver’s head.

“Turn this thing around, buddy,” Ben barked, his voice carrying that effortless authority of a man who’d spent decades giving orders on a battlefield. “We’re going back toward the club. Maggie’s Diner. And don’t take the scenic route; I’m hungry.”

He settled back into the leather seat, his arm returning to its place behind your head. He looked out the window as the SUV swung into a wide U-turn, his thumb absentmindedly grazing the hair at the nape of your neck. Your heart fluttered in your chest. 

“If the service is as bad as the neon sign looks, you’re buying the next round,” he rumbled, that smug, velvet-and-sin smirk returning to his face. “But if the burgers are actually worth a damn, I might just decide to keep you around for more than just a quick exit.”

Half an hour later, Ben pushed his empty plate away from him, a satisfied expression on his face. “Well, sweetheart, I’ll give it to ya. That was better than I thought.” He reached out and brushed his fingers over the back of your hand which was resting on the table. 

You smiled back at him. “Never underestimate Maggie’s,” you said but then your face dropped, eyes locked on something over his shoulder. You went pale as a ghost. 

Ben didn’t flinch. He didn’t turn around or let out a sigh. He simply continued looking at you. “That fuckin’ pussy back?”

You couldn’t speak but you gave a nod that was so tiny he almost didn’t catch it. 

“Fucking figures,” Ben said, voice flat and bored. 

Ben took a final, slow sip of his Coke, his hand still covering yours on the table. He didn't even give Brad the satisfaction of looking at him.

“You really don't know when to quit, do you, son?” Ben’s voice was a low, dangerous rumble that seemed to vibrate the salt shakers.

“Get away from her!” Brad’s voice cracked, high-pitched and frantic. The sound of a chair scraping harshly against the linoleum echoed through the quiet diner. “I saw you leave together. I followed you. You think you can just take what's mine?”

You watched in horror as Brad reached into his jacket and pulled out a switchblade. The blade snapped open with a metallic click that felt like a gunshot in the small space. The waitress behind the counter, gasped and reached for the phone.

Ben finally turned his head, just enough to look at Brad over his shoulder. He didn't look scared. He looked deeply, profoundly insulted.

“A knife?” Ben asked, a dark, mocking grin spreading across his face. “You brought a toothpick to a war zone. That’s adorable, kid.”

Brad took a step forward, the blade trembling in his hand. “I mean it! Back off or I'll gut you!”

Ben stood up then, and the sheer scale of him seemed to swallow the light in the booth. He moved with a terrifying, predatory grace—no wasted motion. He didn't rush. He just walked toward the blade like it didn't exist.

“You see this?” Ben pointed a thick finger at his own chest, right over his heart. “I’ve had bayonets snapped off in my ribs. I've had krauts try to skin me alive. I’ve been tortured by the goddamn commies for decades. And you’re standing there shaking like a leaf with a piece of sharpened tin.”

He stopped inches from the point of the knife, his presence looming over Brad like a tank.

“Now,” Ben drawled, his voice dropping to a whisper that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. “You’re gonna put that toy away, or I’m gonna show you exactly what happens to people who interrupt my dinner.”

Brad lunged—a desperate, clumsy thrust—and in a blur of motion too fast for your eyes to follow, Ben’s hand shot out. There was the sickening sound of snapping bone, a choked scream from Brad, and the knife clattered uselessly to the floor.

Ben didn't even break a sweat. He stood over him, looking down with a cold, detached sort of boredom as Brad collapsed.

Brad was now on the floor, cradling his shattered wrist against his chest, his face pale and slick with a cold sweat. He was making a high, thin sound—half-whimper, half-sob—looking up at Ben with eyes that finally held the right amount of terror.

Ben didn't even look at the man sobbing on the floor. He just turned back to the counter, casually reaching into his back pocket. “Check, doll,” he called out to the waitress, as if he’d just stepped on a bug. 

“Yes, Soldier Boy!”

Brad heard the name and looked up at Ben with disbelief scrawled across his face. Ben didn’t notice or care. He turned back to you, the smirk returning. “You ready to go, sweetheart? I think the atmosphere in here just went south.”

Stunned, you looked up at Ben, then dropped your eyes to Brad still whimpering on the floor, then back to Ben. You must be out of your damned mind because you didn’t fear Ben even after what he just did. You felt safe with him. 

I don’t even know this guy. Why do I trust him so much? 

You didn’t have time to dwell on that thought, Ben had paid and reached out to help you up out of the booth. As you both walked past Brad who was trying to pull himself up with his good hand, you looked down at him. With Ben at your side, you found a little of your courage, “Don’t ever come near me again,” you said, voice low and even. 

Ben had a smirk on his face. “Ever. Or I won’t be so nice next time,” he added. 

As you both climbed back into the waiting SUV, Ben’s hand landed on your thigh, his grip firm and possessive. He gave you a slow, approving nod.

“Atta girl,” he rumbled, that low hum in his chest vibrating through the seat. “Told that pussy off. Felt good, didn't it? Better than hiding, anyway.”

Your heart was racing and the adrenaline pumping through you from telling Brad to stay away and watching Ben take him down was overwhelming. You looked over at Ben– his handsome face, emerald green eyes catching the streetlights and his large muscular frame which made the backseat seem impossibly small. The feeling of his hand on your thigh was sending lightning currents through your body. 

You didn’t answer with words, you surged up and crashed your lips into his for the second time tonight. Ben growled against your lips and pulled you into his lap roughly, his hand gripping your waist. The kiss was messy; teeth scraping and tongues fighting for dominance. 

You were sitting sideways in his lap. He broke the kiss and started kissing down your jaw to your neck. You tilted your head back to give him better access as he kissed down your plunging v-neckline of your halter top and placed a wet kiss right between your breasts, smirking against your skin as a little sound escaped your lips. Working his way back up to your neck, he nipped gently at your collarbone, as his big, warm hand came down and slid between your thighs just below where the hem of your black leather mini skirt stopped. Ben let out a small groan as he squeezed your inner thigh gently, while he licked his way up to your ear, pulling a soft moan from you, your hand tangling in his hair at the nape of his neck. 

“Doll, you keep this up, and we’re not gonna make it to the next red light,” he rasped against your skin, his voice thick with a hunger that made your stomach flip. 

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb hooked under your chin to force your gaze to meet his. Up close, he was even more overwhelming—the scent of scotch, leather, and pure, raw power. His eyes were dark, tracking the way your breath was hitching in your chest.

“You’ve got a hell of a lot of fire in you for someone who was trying to disappear an hour ago,” he murmured. His hand moved from your waist, his palm sliding up your side until it rested over your heart, feeling the frantic, hammering rhythm of it. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face. “I like it. I like it a lot.”

He shifted, his muscular thighs solid beneath you, and you could feel the dangerous tension coiled in his frame. He wasn't a man who did anything halfway, and the way he was looking at you made it clear he was done playing the role of the knight in shining armor. In the dim light of the cab, he looked a hell of a lot more like a wolf than a gentleman. 

“Now,” he rumbled, his hand sliding back down to grip your hip, pulling you flush against his chest. “Are we going to keep testing the suspension on this car, or am I taking you back to my place so I can see what else you’re hiding under that shy act?”

He didn't wait for the answer. He leaned back into the leather, watching you with a predatory heat that told you exactly what was in store if you said yes.

“Driver,” he barked, not breaking eye contact with you for a second. “Change of plans. Take us to the safehouse. And don’t spare the horses.” The driver immediately obeyed, the engine of the SUV rumbling as the speed increased.

Ben’s hand moved from your hip, his fingers trailing slowly up your spine until they tangled in the hair at the nape of your neck, tugging just enough to make you look up at him. The streetlights outside were a blur of gold and white, casting moving shadows across the rugged, sharp lines of his face.

“The safehouse?” you managed to whisper, your voice still a little breathless.

“The team’s there,” he rumbled, a dismissive flicker in his eyes as he thought of Butcher and the others. “But it’s a big house. Thick walls. They know better than to knock on my door when I’ve got company.”

He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours for a brief, heavy second. The vibration of the moving car and the heat of his body made the rest of the world feel like it was fading into a dull hum.

“You're quiet again, sweetheart,” he noted, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a surprisingly steady touch. “Regretting the invite? Or just thinking about what happens when we get behind a door that locks?”

He didn't sound like he was giving you an out; he sounded like he was enjoying the anticipation. He was a man who lived for the conquest, and right now, the way you were looking at him was clearly more satisfying to him than any medal or parade.

“I'm not regretting anything,” you said, your voice finding a new edge of confidence.

Ben’s smirk widened, turning into something dark and genuinely impressed. “Good. Because I'm not a patient man, and I've spent enough time waiting around for things to happen lately. Tonight, I'm taking what I want.”

The SUV slowed as it approached a set of heavy iron gates, the gravel crunching under the tires. Ben didn't move to get out yet. He just sat there in the dim light of the house, watching you with that intense, emerald gaze, waiting for the driver to round the car.

Ben stepped out of the car as the driver opened the door, you still in his arms. He swung you around so that you were facing him, legs coming up to wrap around his waist instinctively, skirt riding up. 

As he stepped onto the front porch he looked at you again. “Last chance to change your mind,” he mocked softly, though his grip on your neck told a completely different story. “Once we go inside, I'm not letting you go until I'm finished with you.”

You leaned in a couple inches and kissed his neck. He let out a satisfied grunt and he strode through the front door, you wrapped around him, his movements heavy and steady. 

“Prove it,” you said, voice steady, eyes locked on his. 

“Oi! Nice of you to join us, mate,” Butcher sneered. “And who is this then?”

Ben completely ignored him. Walking straight towards his room. 

Hughie was standing across from Butcher. “Uh, hey, man. Are–”

Ben cut him off, not stopping, “Fuck off, dickbag.” You buried your face in the crook of Ben’s neck, trying to ignore the sneers from the living room. Between the short hem of your leather skirt and the way his massive arm was hiked under your thighs to keep you pinned to his chest, you were fairly certain half your ass was on display for the room. Ben didn't seem to notice—or if he did, he didn't give a damn. He just tightened his grip and kept walking.

The door to Ben’s room hit the wall with a heavy thud before he kicked it shut, the click of the lock echoing like a finality. He didn't bother turning on the lights; the moonlight filtering through the heavy curtains was enough to illuminate the sharp, hungry lines of his face.

He didn't put you down immediately. Instead, he pressed you back against the solid wood of the door, his weight pinning you there. The air in the room was cooler than the car, but the heat coming off him was intense, almost suffocating in the best way.

“You like to play with fire, don't you?” he rasped, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly hum that made your knees weak even with your legs locked around him. “Telling me to 'prove it' in front of those fucksticks.”

He tilted his head, his nose brushing against yours. The smirk was gone, replaced by a raw, unyielding focus. He looked like a man who had finally found something worth winning.

“Butcher and the rest of 'em... they think they know me. They think I'm just a weapon they can point at a target,” he murmured, his hand shifting from your neck to cup the back of your head, his fingers threading deep into your hair. “But you... you're the first thing in a long time that isn't a mission. And you don’t look at me like most people do.”

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his emerald gaze dark and possessive. “I told you I wasn't letting you go. I meant it.”

“So don’t,” you challenged.

His grip tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against the hard planes of his chest. You could feel the steady, powerful thrum of his heart—a soldier’s heart, hardened by decades of war but currently beating harder for the woman in his arms.

“You’re fuckin’ dangerous, woman,” he whispered, his lips ghosting over yours. 

He didn’t wait for a response. He captured your lips in a bruising kiss, one hand anchoring the back of your head while the other stayed locked on your waist. He hiked you up higher against the door, grinding his hips firmly into yours. The friction was a promise, his hard cock pressing right against you, leaving no doubt about exactly how much he wanted to prove it. 

You grabbed a fistfull of his hair and pulled his head back, breaking the kiss. “Ben,” you breathed out, raggedly. His eyes were blown wide and fixed on yours. He swung you around and threw you onto the bed. You bounced with a squeak. 

His massive frame was on top of you instantly, grinding himself down into your core. He worked with a soldier's efficiency—halter top undone and skirt discarded before you could even draw a breath. You laid on the bed in nothing but a thong as his eyes raked over you hungrily. 

“Fuckin’ gorgeous, doll,” he said, his voice a few octaves lower than five minutes ago. 

You flushed slightly under the intensity of his gaze, suddenly feeling a little less confident. He noticed. Of course he did. Ben grabbed your chin roughly and tilted your face up to meet his eyes. “Don’t you fucking dare think you’re anything less than perfect. Got it?” he growled. “Show me that woman who told me to ‘prove it’.”

You bit your lip and nodded. Get your shit together. Soldier Boy just called you gorgeous. Act like it!  You took a deep breath and got out of your own head, allowing you to lose yourself in his green eyes that were shining in the moonlight. You reached up and ran your hands over his rock hard abs under his shirt. 

Now on your knees, your confidence back and feeling bolder, you ripped his shirt open, buttons popping off and scattering across the room. Ben’s eyes darkened and he let out an animalistic growl, surging down and pinning you to the mattress with his weight. His dick straining against his pants, ground down into your core. You let out a gasp that was cutoff by his mouth on yours. Ben’s tongue was demanding. Your fingers found his hair again, threading through it as his mouth claimed yours roughly. 

Ben pulled back and shed his remaining clothes quickly. With a grunt that was all for show, he ripped your thong and slid the shreds off of you tossing it behind him. Again, he paused taking in your glistening curves. 

“Fuck, sweetheart. You’re soaked. It’s already dripping down your thighs for me.” You didn’t have a chance to respond before his mouth was attached to your pussy, working you like a man starved for it. You arched off the bed, a gasp flying out of your mouth as he sucked your clit into his mouth. Hard. He took it between his teeth and began flicking it with the tip of his tongue at an unnatural speed, sending you into an orgasm faster than you’d ever experienced before. Your walls clenched around nothing and you were moaning his name. Ben worked you through it, not letting up until you came down and were practically panting. 

Ben pulled back just slightly, still hovering between your thighs, with your arousal glistening on his lips and in his beard. “Damn, doll. That was fast. Those little pussies you’ve been dealing with don’t know how to take care of a woman, huh?” You could see the pride in his grin. 

You didn’t have a chance to catch your breath. Ben was back above you, settling between your thighs. You reached down, your fingers curling around him, and your eyes widened. You looked down, taking him in—he was massive; long, so fucking long and thick.

Fuck. He’s going to split me in half! 

Ben caught the sliver of apprehension in your eyes. His grin widened, smug as hell. “Don’t worry, doll. I won’t break you. Unless you want me to.”

Your eyes snapped back up to his. “That’s not funny, Ben.”

He chuckled. “Hold on tight, baby,” he warned as he pushed the thick head into your drenched entrance. “Fuck,” he breathed out. “So goddamn tight. Jesus.” His brow furrowed as he struggled not to just push all the way in. As he sank in, inch by inch, a low groan left his lips. He closed his eyes and dropped his head to your shoulder.  

You shivered as he finally bottomed out. He stayed still for a moment, hot breath fanning your shoulder. “Ben. Move. Please,” you said in a half whine. 

He lifted his head and pressed a kiss to your lips, a jagged breath escaping him. He pulled out slowly and sank back in, watching your face. Once he knew you could take him he picked up the pace. It wasn’t long before he was pounding into you. 

Ben brought one large hand up to pin your wrists above your head. Your moans were so loud, you turned your face into your arm to quiet them. He tightened his grip on your wrists, his thumb pushing into the soft flesh. “Don’t. I want to hear every single sound, doll,” you opened your eyes and his piercing green eyes were boring into yours. 

He pulled out and flipped you around without warning. Ben had you on all fours, his hands grasping your hips as his own hips snapped into you. The sound of skin slapping skin was echoing in the room. “Ben…ohh…shit…” you moaned, your head tossing back as the heavy, rhythmic friction of his hips crashed against you again and again. He was driving so deep that his balls rhythmically slapped against your clit. 

Ben shifted his hips and expertly hit your g-spot. His thick head was grinding against it with each thrust. There was no build-up, your orgasm slammed into you without warning. You screamed his name, muffling it in the sheets. Ben fisted his hand in your hair and pulled your head back. “Ah ah. Let me hear it,” he drawled, breath coming in bursts, still thrusting into you hard and fast. Your walls clamped down on his cock and he let out a low, long groan. “Shit, sweetheart.” As your walls fluttered around him tightly, Ben lost control. His thrusts were erratic and he followed you over the edge, spilling hot spurts of cum deep into your throbbing pussy. 

You collapsed forward onto your stomach. Ben pulled out and laid back against the pillows, propped up near the headboard, one hand behind his head and one hand resting on your ass cheek. He gave it a sharp slap, jolting you briefly in surprise. 

Rolling onto your side, you looked up at Ben whose chest was covered in sweat and heaving. His ragged breaths matching your own. 

Ben didn't look tired; he looked revitalized, like he’d just walked off a battlefield he’d thoroughly conquered. He turned his head slightly, those green eyes catching the moonlight as he watched you try to find your breath.

“Well,” he rumbled, his voice even rougher than before, the sound vibrating through the mattress. He gave your hip a final, possessive squeeze. “Safe to say I proved it?”

You let out a weak, shaky laugh, tucking a stray hair behind your ear as you looked at him—sweat-slicked, smug, and looking every bit the dangerous man you'd finally stopped running from.

“You’re a real asshole, Ben,” you breathed out, though there was no heat in it.

The smirk he gave you was sharp enough to cut glass. “Maybe. But I’m the asshole currently keeping your bed warm. And I don’t hear you complaining.”

He reached over, snagging the edge of the heavy quilt and dragging it up over both of you, not with gentleness, but with a sudden, protective gruffness. He settled back against the pillows, his large frame taking up most of the bed, and waited. It wasn't an invitation; it was an expectation.

For a second you forgot where you were. That heavy, hollow second between sleep and reality where there were no horsemen, no apocalypse, no stupid plans involving archangels and cages haf you. You felt just warmth.

Then your eyes blinked open to the ceiling of Bobby Singer’s guest room and the weight came crashing back.

Today. Detroit. Lucifer.

You let out a breath and stared at the water stain over your head. Your hand slid instinctively to your stomach, under the worn T-shirt that wasn’t yours. It was Dean’s, stolen from the laundry basket weeks ago because it smelled like… well, him.

It barely showed, not really. Just a slight unfamiliar curve, a dull ache now and then. The doctor in that tiny ER two towns over had said eight weeks, maybe nine. You didn’t really hear the rest of her speech, because all you could hear was your own blood rushing in your ears and Dean’s voice looping in your head from that one night.

"You want this?".

You swallowed hard and pushed yourself up. No time for that now. No time for replaying the way his mouth had felt on your skin, the way you’d both pretended afterwards that it was nothing more than stress and whiskey and a bad idea in yet another motel.

Except it hadn’t been nothing. Not for you. And if the way Dean had refused to meet your eyes lately meant anything, it hadn’t been nothing for him either.

Floorboards creaked in the hallway. You heard Bobby grumble something at someone (probably Dean) and then the murmur of a low reply. You knew his voice without catching the words. It threaded under your skin so familiar and dangerous all at once.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment, toes curling against the cold floor, hand still on your stomach. It wasn’t just about you anymore.

You had told yourself you’d wait. That you’d find the perfect time, the perfect words, that you’d sit Sam down and explain everything calmly. But there was no perfect time when the world was ending and Sam Winchester was planning to let the devil in.

You had today. That was it.

You stood and pulled on your jeans, shrugging into a flannel. Your heart banged too fast in your chest, nerves spiking every time you imagined how this conversation might go.

Sam, I’m pregnant. Sam, I’m pregnant and you can’t do this. Sam, I’m pregnant and it’s your brother’s.

You weren’t even sure you’d get that last part out. One step at a time.

Downstairs, Sam was standing at the counter, staring into a mug of coffee like it might answer all his questions. Morning light slanted through the window, catching in his hair, turning the ends into a messy copper halo. The leather straps of the duffel were already looped over one broad shoulder. He looked older than he had three years ago when you’d first met him on that ghoul hunt in Nebraska. Tired in ways that had nothing to do with sleep.

“Hey”, you said softly.

Sam looked up. For a second his expression eased. “Hey. You sleep at all?”.

“A bit”. You hovered in the doorway, fingers curling over the chipped wood of the frame. “You?”.

“Not really". He tried for a smile and missed. “Dean’s outside messing with the car. Bobby’s pretending he’s not worried. Same old”-

You nodded, throat suddenly dry. You’d imagined this moment a dozen ways and somehow every script you’d rehearsed vanished.

Sam’s eyes narrowed just a fraction, that quiet, observant part of him kicking in. “You okay?”.

No. Not even close.

“Can we talk?”, you asked. “Just us?”.

Unease flickered in his gaze, but he nodded and set the mug down. “Sure”.

You gestured toward the small room off the kitchen, the one Bobby called his “junk room” even though it had turned into a second study over the years. Books and weapon parts covered the table and salt bags were stacked in the corner. It was the closest thing you had to privacy in this house.

Sam followed you in, ducking his head through the doorway, and closed the door behind him. “Now I’m worried”, he said lightly, trying to cut the tension. “What’s up?”.

You forced yourself to meet his eyes. Brown and steady, too damn kind for the fate he thought he deserved.

“Whatever you’re about to say”, he went on, “if it’s about Detroit—my mind’s made up. You’re not gonna—”.

“It’s not about Detroit”, you cut in, maybe a little sharper than you meant to.

He fell silent. The air between you seemed to thicken. You took a breath. Then another. Your hands were trembling, so you clasped them in front of you, fingers digging into your own knuckles.

“Sam”, you said, and your voice sounded strange, too small in your ears. “I’m pregnant”. The word hung there so heavy, like you’d just dropped a live grenade between you.

Sam froze. His eyes widened, darting down and back up to your face, to your hands, to your stomach, as if something would suddenly make sense if he just looked hard enough. Color drained from his cheeks. “You’re… what?”, he asked, very quietly.

“Pregnant”, you repeated, because there was no softer synonym. “I found out a few days ago. I—I didn’t know how to tell you. There was never a good time and then everything went to hell even more than usual and—”.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”. His voice was still low, but there was a sharp edge to it now, carved out of fear. “We’ve been planning this for days, you just— you just sat there—”.

“I know”, you cut in, guilt punching you in the gut. “I know, and I’m sorry. I just… I didn’t want it to be some… weapon. Or some reason you thought you had to stay. I wanted you to know because you’re my family. Because you deserve to know. But now you’re about to go throw yourself under the bus and I can’t—”. Your voice cracked. “I can’t just let you do that without knowing there’s… there’s something else. Someone else”.

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face. He stepped away from the table, then back again, like he couldn’t decide whether to run or sit or scream. “How far are you?”, he asked eventually.

“Two months. Maybe a little more”.

You watched it click in his head, the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes shifted, calculating. You saw the exact moment he counted back weeks to that night in the motel, when you’d stumbled in soaked from the rain, shaking with adrenaline after the hunt and Dean had already had a bottle open. Sam was smart. Too smart. His gaze flicked to the window, toward where you knew Dean was out front. Then back to you. There was understanding there, and something else that hurt to look at: a quiet, resigned acceptance, like he’d been waiting for this revelation without realizing it. “You tell him?”, he asked.

You looked down, cheeks burning. “No”, you said, and hated how small it sounded. “He… I don’t know, maybe he figured it out. But we haven’t talked about it. About that night. About any of it. We’ve just… avoided it”.

Sam’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Of course you have”, he muttered. There was no heat in it, just tired affection and a flicker of exasperation. “You two are impossible”.

Your chest ached. “Sam…”.

He shook his head, cutting you off. “You’re keeping it?”.

It wasn’t an accusation, just a question. Still, your hand moved to your stomach again, protective without thinking. “Yes”, you said, and there was no hesitation this time. “I know it’s insane. The world’s ending and I’m thinking about diapers and baby names like that’s ever going to be our reality, but… yeah. I’m keeping it”.

Sam exhaled slowly. His shoulders slumped, some of the tension leaking out of him, leaving only the exhaustion behind. “Okay”, he said.

You blinked. “Okay?”.

“Yeah”. He spread his hands a little. “What am I gonna say? ‘No, don’t?’ It’s your choice. And you’ve never exactly been reckless about that stuff, so if you made the call…”. He trailed off, then added, softer, “I trust you”.

Your throat tightened. You stared at him, at this man who was planning to damn himself to save people who would never know his name, and you wanted to shake him and hug him and lock him in Bobby’s panic room forever. “You know… There’s… there’s a kid in this, now. Your niece or nephew”.

The word felt strange in your mouth, but it lit something in his eyes.

“Sam, one day they’re gonna ask what happened to you. What am I supposed to tell them? That you just handed yourself over to Lucifer because you decided you didn’t get to want anything?”.

He looked wrecked. “That’s not what this is”, he said, but it sounded tired instead of sure.

“Feels like it”, you whispered.

Silence stretched. You could hear your own heart pounding, could almost hear the house breathing around you, Bobby muttering somewhere, the distant thump of music from Dean’s phone out by the car.

Sam braced his hands on the edge of the table, knuckles white. “If this works”, he said, staring at the scarred wood, “Lucifer goes back in the cage. World keeps turning. People get to live their stupid, normal lives. That’s the point”.

“And you don’t get one”, you shot back. “Not even a chance at one”.

His jaw clenched. “I don’t get to want that. Not after… everything. After the demon blood, after starting this whole thing. This is how I fix it”.

You hated how familiar that sounded. Dean’s voice lived in those words too, twisted into a different shape.

“You really think dying fixes it?”, you asked. “’Cause that didn’t exactly work out the last time Dean tried”.

That landed. His shoulders sagged. For a second, Sam didn’t look like the guy about to let the devil in. He just looked like a kid who’d screwed up and never stopped paying for it.

You stepped closer, fingers brushing his wrist before you really thought about it. “You don’t have to spend the rest of your life paying for one mistake”, you said. “You’re allowed to want things, Sam. You’re allowed to be happy. You’re allowed to—”.

His hand turned under yours, big palm wrapping around your fingers like he needed the contact just to stay upright. “Yeah?”, he asked, voice rough. “What do you want, then? If this all magically goes away. What do you want?”.

You opened your mouth, some half-formed image flashing behind your eyes. A small house, too many books, the Impala in the driveway, Dean’s laughter in the kitchen, a kid with green eyes tugging at your sleeve—

But then the door creaked. You dropped Sam’s hand like it burned you.

Dean filled the doorway, one shoulder braced against the frame, car keys swinging from his finger. The look on his face lasted less than a heartbeat (something sharp and unguarded, like you’d just punched him in the gut) before it smoothed into that easy, infuriating smirk. “Well”, he drawled, eyebrows lifting, “am I interrupting date night or what?”.

Heat rushed to your face. “We were talking”.

“Uh-huh”. His gaze flicked pointedly from your flushed cheeks to Sam’s still-outstretched hand, then back. “Looked real… heartfelt. Should I give you two a minute? Light some candles? Put on some Barry White?”.

Sam huffed, half exasperated, half guilty. “Dean—”.

“No, hey, it’s fine”, Dean cut in, hands going up in mock surrender. His voice was light, almost bored; you could hear the strain underneath if you knew where to listen. “You wanna have a big emotional chick-flick moment before we go tango with Lucifer, knock yourselves out. Just figured maybe we’d do the whole ‘save the world’ thing before the group therapy”.

“You’re the one who hates chick-flick moments”, you muttered.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t know I was missing out on the premium package”. His eyes met yours then, something tight and brittle flickering behind the green. “Next time you wanna get all up in my brother’s personal space, maybe slap a sock on the door, huh?”.

It hit you then, what he thought he’d walked in on. You and Sam, too close, talking too low, hands tangled. The idea that there might be something between you and his brother, and not him. Your stomach twisted. “Dean, it’s not—”, you started.

He was already moving, pacing over to the table to grab Sam’s duffel like the conversation bored him. “Look, lovers’ quarrel or whatever this is? Rain check. We’re on the clock”. He clapped a hand onto Sam’s shoulder, too hard to be casual. “You ready, Romeo, or you need a few more minutes to whisper sweet nothings?”.

Sam winced. “Dude”.

“What?”, Dean asked, all wide-eyed innocence. “I’m just saying, if you two got something you need to tell me before we head out, now’s the time. Gonna be a little awkward if I find out mid-apocalypse you’re planning joint Christmas cards”.

“Dean”. There was steel in Sam’s voice now. “Drop it”.

Dean’s jaw flexed. For a second the mask slipped again, and there was the hurt, raw and ugly, sitting under the sarcasm like an open wound. Then he blinked and it was gone, replaced by a crooked grin. “Relax, Sammy. I’m just yanking your chain”. He hoisted the duffel onto his shoulder. “Besides, your taste is way too good for him, sweetheart. You can do better”.

Your chest clenched. “Better how?”.

For the briefest moment, something honest flashed across his face. Then he shrugged it off, glancing away. “Some guy with less hair product and more sense”, he said. “Now c’mon. Road trip”. He turned and strode out before you could answer.

You stood there, heart pounding, the air in the room suddenly too thin. Sam watched the doorway, then looked back at you. There was understanding in his eyes, and something like apology. “He’s an idiot”, he said quietly.

“So are you”, you said, because your throat was too tight for anything gentler.

He gave a little huff of laughter. “Yeah. Guess we are”.

You squared your shoulders, forcing your feet to move. Whatever Dean thought he’d seen, whatever it had just done to him, you’d deal with it later. If there was a later. Right now, there was Detroit, and Lucifer, and a promise hanging in the air between you and Sam like a loaded gun.

-

For a long time, you floated in the dark, somewhere between the memory of Sam’s scream and the crack of bone, between the blinding white heat that tore through you and… nothing.

You didn’t feel the mattress under you. You didn’t feel the rough sheet against your skin or the weight of the blanket Bobby had thrown over you. You didn’t feel the ache in your ribs or the dull throb in your skull. You didn’t feel the hand wrapped around yours.

Dean did. He sat in the rickety chair beside your bed like he’d grown into it, shoulders hunched, elbows on his knees. The room smelled like antiseptic and whiskey and you. He stared at your face like he could will your eyes open if he just glared hard enough.

Two weeks since the cemetery. Since the roar of wings and the crunch of gravel under his boots. Since Lucifer in Sam’s skin had smiled at him with someone else’s eyes. Two weeks since you’d died.

Well. Technically.

Downstairs, a book slammed closed. Bobby’s muttered curse floated up through the floorboards, followed by the shuffle of his boots as he went hunting for another volume. He’d been doing that for days. Grabbing lore and ripping through it like the right combination of Latin and desperation might crack open a cage in Hell. Cas had told them there wasn’t a way. Not yet. Bobby didn’t listen. Dean didn’t argue, because it meant he didn’t have to.

He looked at your hand in his again, thumb tracing absent circles over your knuckles. Your skin was warm now. It hadn’t been when he first held you on that field, limp and bloody. He could still smell the dust and blood and burned ozone if he let himself go back there. He did it anyway. Because buried in all that horror was the last real moment he’d had with Sam.

You didn’t see it. You’d been behind him somewhere, shouting his name. Or maybe that had been in his head. Time had gone weird on that field.

He remembered the grave, the stupid busted-up Impala, the way Lucifer’s face had twisted when he saw the car. He remembered the punches and the taste of blood in his mouth.

And he remembered Sam—real Sam—surfacing for a heartbeat.

Dean had been on his knees, fingers scrabbling at the grass. Lucifer had gone still above him, eyes gone far away, distracted by something only he could see.

“Dean”.

His name, in Sam’s voice. Really Sam’s. He’d looked up. Sam’s eyes were wet and clear and terrified. His hands were shaking where they gripped Dean’s jacket, hauling him closer.

“Sammy”, Dean had choked out. “Hey. Hey, I’m here. I’m—”.

“Listen”, Sam had said, breath coming fast. He didn’t seem to hear Dean. “There’s not much time. I—I can feel him pushing back, so just— just shut up and listen”.

Dean’s heart had slammed against his ribs. “What, you think I’m gonna let you—”.

“Promise me”, Sam hissed, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “You hear me? Promise me you’ll do this”.

“Do what?”, he snapped. “Let you swan dive into Hell all on your own? No—”.

“Take her”. Sam’s grip had tightened. “Get her out of this. Away from hunting. Away from all of it”.

Dean had blinked, thrown. “What—who—”.

“Her”, Sam had bitten out. “Y/N. You take her and you go live that apple pie life you never shut up about. You give her that, Dean”.

Dean’s stomach had dropped. “Sam, what are you—”.

“She’s pregnant”, Sam had blurted, the words tumbling over each other in his rush. “With your kid. And don’t you dare pretend you didn’t know”.

Dean had stared at him, the world narrowing to a buzzing ring in his ears. You. Pregnant. His.

“I—”, he’d started, but Sam had barreled over him.

“You listen to me. You get her out. You give that kid a chance at something better than this. You swear it”.

Dean had shaken his head, too hard, like he could rattle the words out of existence. “Sam, stop. Don’t—don’t say it like you’re not coming back. We’re gonna—”.

“Promise me”, Sam had snarled, desperate and furious and so heartbreakingly Sam. “Dean, please. I need to know you’ll have something. That she’ll have something. That it wasn’t all—”. His voice had broken on the last word.

Dean’s throat had burned. His hands had come up, fisting in Sam’s shirt like if he held on tight enough he could anchor him in place. “We’ll do it together”, he’d said hoarsely. “We’ll figure it out. You, me, her—”.

“There’s no together this time”, Sam had whispered, and Dean hated how sure he’d sounded. “This is it”. Behind his eyes, Lucifer tried t claw himself back. “Please, Dean”, Sam had said, and that had done it. That tone. That look. The one he’d seen a hundred times when they were kids and Sam needed him to be the big brother, no matter how badly Dean wanted to say no. He’d swallowed hard, bile rising. “Fine”, he’d forced out. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll… I’ll take care of her. I’ll take care of the kid. We’ll… we’ll get out”.

Sam’s expression had gone soft and wrecked, relief and grief tangled together. “Swear it”.

“I swear”, Dean had said, because he always did. “I swear, Sammy”.

Sam’s grip had eased. For a split second, he’d smiled. So small and sad and so full of love it hurt to look at. “Thank you”, he’d whispered.

Then something had yanked him backward, hard, eyes flaring wide as Lucifer surged up, furious and bright. Dean had shouted his name as Sam was torn away, as the moment shattered.

Everything after that was noise. Blood and light and the sound of your body hitting the ground when the angel blew apart, Bobby’s choked gasp, the smell of burned trench coat. The shock of your weight in his arms, limp and wrong.

He’d screamed himself hoarse over your body and Sam’s open grave. Didn’t remember every word, just the hollow ache his lungs left behind.

And then Cas had appeared, whole and impossible, and touched your forehead with two fingers. Grace had burned through the air, and you’d gasped once before going limp again. Alive, heartbeat fluttering under Dean’s shaking hand, but unconscious.

You hadn’t opened your eyes since.

Now, in the soft light of Bobby’s guest room, Dean dragged himself out of the memory and back to the present.

Your face was turned slightly toward him on the pillow, lashes casting faint shadows on your cheeks. There was a thin white line along your hairline where the skin had split and healed too fast under angelic grace. Your lips were chapped.

His gaze drifted lower, to where the blanket rose and fell with your slow, steady breaths. The curve there was still small, barely noticeable unless you knew to look. He knew now.

His hand left yours and moved, hesitating for a second over your stomach before settling there, fingers spread. “Hey, kid”, he murmured with a voice barely audible in the still room. “It’s your… uh”. He grimaced. “Wow. I am not saying ‘daddy’ out loud. That’s not happening”. He huffed a humorless laugh at himself. “It’s Dean”, he amended. “I guess you’ll figure out the rest”. He sat in silence for a moment, thumb pressing gently against the blanket, like he could feel something. There was nothing, of course, too early for that. Just warmth. “You picked a hell of a time to show up, you know that?”, he said softly. “World ending, devil out, angels going nuclear. And you’re just… in there. Doing your… cell-dividing thing. Oblivious”. His voice cracked on the last word. He cleared his throat. “Sam would’ve liked you”, he went on. “He was a pain in my ass, but he was good with kids. Would’ve spoiled you rotten. Read you a bunch of boring books and taught you how to do your homework right the first time”. His mouth twisted. “He wanted this for you. For her. For us”. The word felt foreign. Us.

Downstairs, a door slammed. Bobby swore at some invisible thing. Dean didn’t move.

“You know he made me promise?”, he asked, eyes fixed on the curve under his fingers. “Right before he… went. Grabbed me and told me you existed and that I had to get you two out”. He swallowed hard. “He was scared he wouldn’t have enough time to say it. That I’d never know”. He let out a slow breath. “Thing is… I kind of did”, he admitted and looked up at you. “Not for sure. But I’m not an idiot either. You think I didn’t notice you throwing up for two weeks and pretending it was a stomach bug? You think I didn’t see you flinch every time somebody offered you a beer?”. His lips twitched. “I just… I don’t know. I guess I figured if I tried to make you say it, it’d make it real. And I didn’t know if we were gonna get a future to be real in”.

He leaned back in the chair, the wood creaking under his weight, but he didn’t move his hand from your stomach.

“I don’t know how to do this”, he said, and that was the rawest truth of all. “I know how to shoot stuff. How to stitch up a wound. How to drive. How to piss off every celestial being within a hundred-mile radius. But a house? PTA meetings? Baby crap?”. He huffed out a breath. “I don’t even know what crib to buy, and your uncle Sam’s down there in a cage and I’m up here googling diapers on Bobby’s dinosaur computer”.

His throat burned.

“Part of me wants to start packing the second you wake up”, he admitted. “Grab you, grab whatever junk we can fit in the car, and just… drive. Find some crappy little town where nobody knows our names, get a job changing oil or flipping burgers or whatever the hell normal people do. Give you that safe life he wanted”.

The other part of him was still kneeling at that open grave, screaming Sam’s name into a sky that refused to answer.

“But how am I supposed to walk away?”, he whispered. “How am I supposed to sit in some nice quiet suburb while my baby brother rots downstairs?”. His hand curled slightly, careful not to press too hard. “How am I supposed to look at you and not see him? Think about what he gave up so you could be here?”. The room stayed silent. You didn’t stir.

Dean stared at your face, willing your eyes to open, for you to call him an idiot and tell him what to do, like you always did when he pretended he didn’t know his own mind.

“I promised him”, he said again, a little harder, like maybe saying it twice would convince both of you. “I promised I’d take care of you. Take care of the kid. That I’d try for… something better. So I’m gonna. I don’t know how, and I’m probably gonna screw it up six ways from Sunday, but I’m gonna try”. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the back of your hand, his other palm still warm over your stomach. “So any time now”, he murmured, eyes closing, “you wanna wake up and yell at me about it? That’d be great”.

You didn’t hear any of it. But somewhere in the quiet between one breath and the next, the darkness you were floating in flickered at the edges. A sound filtered through. The rumble of a familiar voice, broken in ways you’d never heard before. You turned toward it, reaching without hands, without words.

“C’mon, sweetheart”, Dean whispered, not knowing you were already trying. “I can’t do this if you’re not here”.

Your fingers twitched in his. Just barely. He froze. “Y/N?”. He lifted his head, heart slamming against his ribs, eyes locked on your face.

Another flicker in the dark. A pinprick of light somewhere far away. You chased it, that rough voice pulling you along.

“Do that again”, he begged, breathless. “Please”.

Your brow creased the tiniest bit. Your lips parted on a shallow breath. Your fingers curled, weak but deliberate, squeezing his hand. You swam toward the surface, the light getting brighter, the weight of your own body tugging at you like gravity finally remembered you existed. When your eyes finally blinked open, the first thing you saw was Dean’s face. Too close, eyes red, jaw clenched so tight you were amazed his teeth didn’t crack.

“Hey”, he said, voice breaking on the single syllable. “Hey. There you are”.

-

A faded wooden sign at the edge of the road said “Welcome to Millford – Pop. 4,203”, like it had been lying for years and nobody cared enough to fix it. There was one main street, two traffic lights, three bars, a church and a strip of businesses that all closed by eight. It was the kind of place you would have blown through in fifteen minutes on a case and never thought about again. Now you lived there. One month.

One month since the cemetery. One month since Sam’s fingers had slipped from Dean’s jacket. One month since you’d woken up to Dean’s wrecked face hovering over you, his hand pressed to your stomach.

You rented a tiny two-bedroom over a laundromat. The floorboards creaked, the heater wheezed and the whole place smelled faintly like detergent and dust. It was the most stable roof you’d had in years.

Your belly barely showed. Just a small, stubborn curve that made your jeans tighter and your T-shirts sit weird. Under the right layers, nobody noticed. Which was exactly how you and Dean seemed to want it.

You worked mornings at Mabel’s Diner, a narrow little place on the corner with sticky menus and the best pancakes you’d ever tasted. The owner had taken one look at your harried smile and “willing to do anything” attitude and handed you an apron.

Dean had landed a job at the garage down the street in about three seconds flat. One look under a hood, one snarky comment about whoever had last touched the engine and the owner had hired him on the spot.

You fell into a routine.

You woke up to the smell of coffee and the sound of Dean moving around the apartment. Shower running, boots thumping, classic rock humming low from the tiny radio on the counter. You’d drag yourself out of bed, nausea mostly gone now but exhaustion clinging to your bones and he’d slide a mug toward you without comment.

Sometimes his fingers brushed yours. Sometimes they didn’t. You’d both pretend not to notice which it was.

“How late you on today?”, he’d ask, eyes on the cereal he was shoveling into his mouth.

“Till two”, you’d answer, buttering toast you weren’t sure you actually wanted. “Mabel’s niece comes in for the afternoon shift”.

He’d nod. “Garage closes at five. I’ll swing by the store after. We’re low on… something". He’d wave one hand vaguely toward the cupboards.

You’d almost say we’re low on prenatal vitamins and bite it back at the last second. “Milk”, you’d say instead. “And coffee”.

He’d snort. “Pretty sure Bobby’s main regret in life is teaching you how to drink that swill”.

“Pretty sure Bobby’s main regret in life is meeting you”, you’d shoot back, because it was easier to lean on old jokes than to step into the new, fragile thing growing between you.

You didn’t talk about Sam over breakfast. You didn’t talk about the baby at all.

At work, it was easier. You poured coffee, wiped down tables, balanced plates up your arm the way Mabel had shown you. You learned the regulars’ orders by heart: the sheriff who liked extra bacon, the high school teacher who always asked for “the usual” and the older ladies who hogged the corner booth and gossiped about everyone in town. “You’re new”, one of them said one slow Tuesday, peering at you over her glasses as you refilled her cup. “You and that tall fella renting Carl Jenkins’ old place?”.

You froze for half a second, then forced a smile. “Yeah. That’s us”.

“He’s the mechanic, right?”, her friend chimed in. “Saw him changing a tire for Mrs. Donnelly in the rain last week. Didn’t even complain. That one’s a keeper”.

Your cheeks warmed. “He likes cars”.

“Mm-hm”, the first woman said, clearly filing that away. Her gaze drifted down, sharp in a way you hadn’t expected. “You from around here?”.

“No”, you said. “Just… needed a change of scenery, I guess”.

“A fresh start”, she said, like she knew exactly what that meant.

Your hand drifted, unconscious, toward your stomach. You caught the motion halfway and grabbed the coffee pot with both hands instead.

“Well”, the woman said, unbothered by your awkwardness. “You let us know if anyone gives you trouble, honey. Millford can be small-minded, but we’re not cruel”.

You nodded, throat suddenly tight and headed back behind the counter before she could ask any more questions.

No one at the diner knew you were pregnant. You wore loose shirts and thick aprons and kept your jacket zipped when it was chilly. You told yourself you’d say something when there was actually something to see. When you had a due date. When you and Dean had… whatever conversation you were supposed to have.

For now, you existed in a strange half-life. Not a hunter, not really a civilian, not visibly pregnant, not exactly not. Just… suspended.

And what was worse, the ache never really left.

Sometimes it was heavy, like a song on the radio that Sam used to hum under his breath, a customer ordering a salad the way he always had, a tall guy ducking into the garage that made your heart lurch before you realized it wasn’t him. Sometimes it was dull and constant, like an old injury that flared when the weather changed. You and Dean carried it around like matching ghosts.

At night, you heard him thrashing sometimes in the room next to yours, muffled curses slipping through the thin wall. Once, you woke up with your own heart pounding, Sam’s voice echoing in your ears, and heard a matching gasp from the other side, like your nightmares had synchronized.

Neither of you knocked on the other’s door.

You didn’t talk about the dream where you saw Sam clawing bloody fingers against some unseen wall, calling your name. He didn’t talk about the way he still woke up feeling the weight of Sam’s hands fisted in his jacket.

You barely talked about the day Cas had appeared in Bobby’s living room, dirt on his coat and shadows under his eyes, and said he couldn’t pull Sam out. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Bobby still called every few days. Always from the same old landline, always late at night.

“Any luck?”, Dean would ask, phone pressed to his ear, shoulders tense.

“Working on it”, Bobby would say. Or, “Cas has a lead”. Or, “Nothing yet, idjit, stop asking like I ain’t trying”.

He never said, “No”.

That seemed to be enough to keep Dean from throwing a duffel in the Impala and driving back into the war zone.

On Tuesdays, you had your checkups at the little clinic two towns over. You went alone. You didn’t tell Dean that you’d scheduled the first one. You told yourself you didn’t want to drag him away from work, that you didn’t want to make it a thing, that you didn’t even know if he wanted to be there. The truth was, you were terrified he’d look at the grainy black-and-white smear on the screen and see a chain instead of a miracle.

“Everything looks good”, the doctor said on your second visit, clicking buttons as the machines hummed. She was middle-aged, brisk but kind, with a wedding ring that flashed under the fluorescent light. “Heart rate is strong. Size is right on target. About twelve, maybe thirteen weeks”.

You stared at the blinking dot on the monitor, the little pulse of life on the screen. That was your kid. Yours and Dean’s. Real and undeniable and right there. Your eyes stung.

“You said the father’s… not local?”, the doctor asked casually, tapping something into your chart.

“Yeah”, you said quickly. “He—uh—he’s around. He’s just… busy”.

The doctor gave you a look that said she’d heard every version of that story, but she nodded. “Well, whenever he’s not busy, you can bring him along. Some guys like to hear the heartbeat. Makes it real”.

You swallowed. “It is real”.

“I know”, she said gently. “I meant for him”.

You left with a small printout of the ultrasound folded carefully into your bag. And you didn’t show it to Dean.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

“You keep staring,” you say without looking up from the weapons table.

He doesn’t deny it. “You keep breathing,” he replies lazily from where he leans against the wall.

You roll your eyes. But your pulse ticks a little faster. He notices. He always notices. He pushes off the wall and prowls closer — slow, deliberate steps like he’s circling prey. “You nervous?” he murmurs.

“No.”

“Liar.” His shadow falls over you. Warm. Heavy.

You look up at him. Big mistake. Because his expression isn’t cocky. It’s studying. Calculating. Like he’s trying to figure out how to take you without breaking you.

He doesn’t flirt like normal men. He challenges. “You think I’m a monster,” he says one night.

You shrug. “I think you enjoy pretending you don’t care about anyone.”

His mouth twitches. “And you think you’re gonna fix me?”

“No.”

That answer makes something flicker in his eyes. “Good.” He steps closer.

“So what do you want from me?” You meet his gaze without blinking.

“Nothing.”

That’s when he smiles. Because now he wants to prove you wrong.

He starts hovering. Finding reasons to stand too close. Brushing your arm “accidentally.” Watching anyone else who gets near you with something sharp and territorial in his expression.

It isn’t sweet. It isn’t romantic. It’s greedy.

One night, you laugh at something another teammate says.

Ben goes quiet. Too quiet.

Later, he corners you in the hallway.

“You having fun?” he asks casually.

“Yes.”

“With Butcher?” The jealousy is ugly. Bare. Unfiltered.

You cross your arms. “What is this?”

His jaw tightens. “Nothing.”

“Then back up.” Instead, he steps forward. “You think I don’t see the way he looks at you?”

“And what if he does?”

His hand slams against the wall beside your head. Not touching you. But caging you in. “Then he’s braver than he should be.”

Your heart pounds. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“I get to decide a lot of things.” His voice drops. “Just not you.” And there it is. The one thing he can’t control. You.

The first time he admits he wants you, it isn’t soft. It’s angry.

“You’re in my head,” he snaps after a brutal mission. “You happy?”

“I didn’t ask to be.”

“Well, you are.” His chest rises and falls hard. “I’ve wanted plenty of things,” he continues. “Women. Fame. Power. Never lost sleep over any of it.” He steps closer. “But you?” His hand wraps around your wrist — firm but not painful. “You make me hesitate.”

You swallow. “That’s not a bad thing.”

“For me?” He lets out a humorless laugh. “It is.” Because hesitation gets people killed. Hesitation is weakness. And he has built his entire identity on being unstoppable.

You touch his chest gently. Right over his heart. “You’re not used to wanting something you can’t dominate.” 

His eyes darken. “Careful.”

“Why?” you whisper. “You gonna take me too?”

Silence. Heavy. Tempted.

His thumb brushes over your pulse. “I don’t want to take you,” he says slowly. The words cost him. “I want you to choose me.”

And that? That terrifies him more than any battlefield ever has.

But Soldier Boy is greedy. And greed doesn’t disappear just because something feels sacred. It twists. It clings. It demands.

The next time someone flirts with you, he doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t threaten. He just watches. With a look that promises violence.

Later, when you confront him, he doesn’t deny it.

“I don’t share,” he says bluntly.

“I’m not yours.”

He steps into your space. “Not yet.”

Your breath catches. “You can’t claim me like a trophy.”

His hand slides to your waist. “Good. Because trophies don’t look back at me the way you do.”

Your resolve cracks. Just a little.

He notices. Of course he does. “See?” he murmurs. “You feel it too.”

“We’re a bad idea,” you whisper.

“Yeah.” He leans closer. “Since when has that stopped me?”

The breaking point isn’t explosive. It’s quiet. You find him sitting alone after a mission — bottle in hand, blood drying on his knuckles.

He looks tired. Not physically. Emotionally.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He scoffs. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not.” You sit beside him anyway.

For a while, neither of you speak. Then: “I’ve spent my whole life taking,” he says lowly. “Taking orders. Taking praise. Taking whatever I wanted because I could.” He looks at you. “And none of it ever felt like enough.”

You don’t interrupt.

He sets the bottle down. “But when you look at me?” His voice roughens. “It feels like I’m being given something.”

Your chest tightens. “That’s new.”

He swallows. “And I don’t know how to not ruin it.”

You reach for his hand. He freezes. Like touch, when it isn’t about control or sex or violence, is foreign. “You don’t have to take me,” you say quietly.

His eyes flick to yours. 

“You can earn me.”

A long silence. Then, almost reverent—

“You’d let me try?”

Your lips brush his. Soft. Intentional.

“I’m not salvation,” you whisper against his mouth.