Look At All Those Chickens

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.

It still surprises him every time he sees you in a state of undress. He’s not quite used to it, the way you’re so blasé about not wearing pants to bed or opening your door in a towel to let him in. You’re like him in that way. Comfortable in a hunter’s life, self-assured down to your bones. He knows it’s nothing, that it only means you’re comfortable with him. But he can’t help feeling like it’s special anyways. He participates too, sharing his skin with you like an offering. It makes him a little shy somewhere deep, deep down, but he does it anyway. He gets changed while you’re in the room, lets you clean him up after a hunt.

Your skin is warm where it touches his. Every brush of your ankle against his knee makes him a little giddy. The soft lines of your neck and shoulders moving as you talk to him. Your mouth around the rim of your cooler can. Having a crush like this, it’s boyish, he knows. 

“Yeah, you were wearing your big jacket and your little cowboy boots–”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He talks over you, smiling.

“I’m just saying, you looked so cool and stoic with Sam towering behind you. Look at you though, you’re a total gigglepuss.”

“Gigglepuss? I’m so stoic.” He grins around the words before trying to school his face into neutrality. He can’t help it though, it’s warm and the TV is glowing and you’re smiling behind your hand. 

Dean lets you laugh, loudly, because he knows you’d never be cruel to him. His head is dizzy from his drink but he doesn’t doubt that you’re making it worse. 

“I remember you too, from that day.” He offers.

“Oh yeah?” The look in your eyes is playful, and utterly arresting.

“Yeah, I do, actually. You uh, your hair was shorter and you looked really fucking intimidating. I remember you brought your journal and it looked so different from my dad’s. I remember the way you kept up with Sam’s nonsense and my nonsense too and– and your voice that day, the first time I heard it.” He pauses, his slowed brain suddenly racing to dial it back. “And you were wearing this god-awful trench coat, like you were some kind of Inspector Gadget wannabe.”

“Watch it, Winchester.” You’re smiling so big. “Your face is well within my kicking range.”

Dean takes a drink and averts his eyes. A game show is playing on the TV, interspersed with ads for travel agencies and men’s razors. This is a hunter’s domestic dream, he thinks. He doesn’t wish for a real living room or a kitchen with an oven or a backyard with a pool. Sam and Dean had been enough for each other since their dad died. Before then, even. If you have family, you have a home, and you feel loved. There’s something special about this though. About bringing someone into the fold. 

He’s thankful for the roadhouse and people there he’d call friends. He looks forward to calling Ellen or visiting Bobby, even just for work. He loves running into Jo on the road. It makes his world feel a little bigger. It makes his heart feel a little less small. Dean has no problem making friends, he really doesn’t. He’s kind and cool and, if he’s really being nice to himself, he might even say that he’s devilishly charming and rakishly handsome. Dean has connections, can put names to faces, can make calls and ask for favours. He knows you though. He knows lots of people and Sam knows you too, sure, but Dean knows you.

You were Sam’s friend first. Some research question had connected the two of you through Bobby. Dean hadn’t met you until much later, usually preferring to split up with Sam to cover more ground or so he could get his hands dirty quicker. Dean still feels like you’re not his in a way.

You are his though, in another way. It’s been forever since he used to pass questions for you through Sam. Dean has been talking with you, talking to you directly, for a long time. He calls you if he needs to or wants to, for research questions or directions or motel recommendations. He’s the one who knows where you are because he asks. He’s the one who knows how you are because he asks. He knows what your voice sounds like when you can’t sleep in southern summers. He knows what you look like when you’re about to figure something out, and how to read the shorthand in your hunting journal. He knows when to tell Sam he’s tired so you can retreat to your room without having to say anything. He knows what flavour slurpee to get you for a long drive, and how to make you laugh when you’re stuck in a sticky part of your brain.

God, your laugh. He thinks you know how self-satisfied it makes him when you laugh because of something he said. It makes him fucking incandescent.

“It’s not my fault you picked an ugly coat. You should thank me for getting rid of it for you.” His eyes slide back over to yours, now narrowed in betrayal.

“I loved that coat, you dick.” You didn’t. You both know you forgot it in a diner somewhere out west, and that it really had been the least nice of your very few coats.

One of your feet moves to kick his side but he catches your ankle in his hand. You gasp and wrestle it back, only to spill what was left of your almost empty can on yourself. Dean’s mouth tightens around a laugh as you blink, shocked at the wet spot on your shirt. When you look up at him, eyes wide and mouth a little open, he can’t stop it from escaping him. 

“Dean Winchester,” You toss the empty can down on the floor beside you and sit up on your knees to speak down to him, counting his offences on your fingers. “You are a traitor, a liar, an instigator and a bad friend.”

“Uh-huh,” He hums along affirmatively to every item on your list, a stupid smile fixed to his face. “Anything else?”

“A fucking pervert.” He lets you take the beer from his hand and steal a sip.

“Okay, that last one’s a stretch. Everything else is true though.”

“Oh yeah? What colour are my panties?”

He feels his neck flush and the base of his jaw get hot. Blue.

“How should I know?”

“Liar.” You put his beer down too and lean over him, occupying the space between his legs. “You know exactly what colour they are.”

Dean knows you’re trying to provoke him, but to what end he’s not exactly sure. You’ve both been here before. It’s like a game, almost. The way you push his buttons to get him to fluster. It could mean nothing, he thinks. Friends tease each other. Friends flirt and banter and play chicken by bringing their mouths so close together they may as well be kissing. It could mean nothing. It could. 

It doesn’t.

To his credit, Dean can give as good as he gets. He reaches for your waist and firmly guides you onto his lap.

“If you wanted to show me all you had to do was say so, sweetheart.”

You’re so fucking warm. Your thighs across his hips and the heat through your panties. He’s so hard.

Your hands press against his chest, pretending as if the millimeter of space between you would really hold you back. This close he can see exactly how much vampire blood you got misted with. You smell like copper and animal. Under that, he can smell your skin, like lavender soap and sweet musk. He can tell you’re tired, there’s a tension that never leaves your brow. He feels you relax against him and under his hands the longer you sit together, motel room blurring beyond your bodies. He’s not so much dizzy now as he is fizzing. You breathe each other’s air, your fingers light on the skin between his neck and shoulders.

He wades in, slowly, desire overcoming his usual preference for tension. He loves playing this game with you, he really does. But if he doesn’t kiss you now he might die.

It’s just one, and it’s wet and tender. 

There’s something in your eyes afterwards that looks so familiar. So bright. It should scare him, and it does. But mostly it just makes him desperate. You’re breathing with him, chests rising and falling in tandem, like it’s natural. Like you take up the same space, like you’re both made of the same matter.

“I’m going to take a shower.” Your voice is low and syrupy. You look back down at his mouth and he watches you stop yourself from kissing him again.

“Okay, sweetheart.” His nose brushes, just barely, against yours.

You move but the spell doesn’t break. Your hands slide down and away from his shoulders, lingering until he’s too far to touch. His hands stay on your waist, your hips, your thighs until you surpass the limits of his reach.

When the shower finally turns on, Dean exhales and palms his cock roughly. He’s fucked. He’s so fucked.

Under the hot water you press on your clit harder than you need to. Fucked. You’re so fucked.

He thinks he wakes, but he's not sure. Maybe it's his own mumbling that wakes him. Through barely opened eyelids he sees the shapes of the room around him. There's no one there.

He falls asleep again, and has another dream. A very different one.

Soft thighs pressed against his sides. A weight on top of him, but not the bad kind. Gentle, rhythmic rocking. He feels sharp, warm pressure deep inside him. His tongue goes out, wets his bottom lip and he's sure it's about to touch something else, something prickled and hardened and perfect. Sure that his hands are about to find skin, warm and willing, and–

He wakes softly, which, even these days, doesn't happen often. What also doesn't happen often is that he feels a considerable pressure in his pants.

He grins to himself, eyes still closed. Hands wander down his body. He wants to stay here, stay in the dream, where it's warm and soft and good. He can just so tell the sun’s gone up, and he doesn't remember the last time he slept in like that. A full night's sleep and morning wood? He might be mistaken for a young man if someone didn't look too closely.

His right hand finds his crotch and he squeezes himself from the outside, his breathing picking up. He can't remember the face of whoever he dreamed about, but he remembers soft sounds, lips on lips, lips on neck, lips on other parts.

He's gonna take it slow. He deserves that. He should get some oil from the kitchen, warmed by his hands, all slippery and smooth. But he doesn't want to get up, doesn't want to leave the warmth his body has created where he's lying. He knows the rest of the room gets cold this time of year. No, he's gonna make do, he thinks as his fingers find the button of his jeans.

He rips his eyes open and feels his heart jump into his throat when he hears the toilet flush upstairs.

He pulls his hand back, holds his breath. There's some minor movement, creaking of the floor and then the bathroom door is opened. Softly, carefully, but the steps that follow are awkward and shuffling. Right, you were nearly cut in half. He remembers now.

He hears the bedroom door open, then close. All quietly, likely for his benefit. He moves his head, looks around. Keys still on the table. No nightly joyrides for you. Except the one he dreamed about.

He lets out a long breath, not even aware he held it. Relaxes his tensed body. Little Dean gives a dying twitch. Of course he's denied this simple pleasure. 

He sits up with a groan, walks toward the kitchen counter. Gets some coffee started, then gurgles some water, spits into the sink. He opens the door to the outside, stands there while the coffee finishes. Nothing exciting to see, except his car, the blue truck. The land he owns, a small wooden cross at the far end of the property where the woods begin. Mountains. It’s beautiful. 

He pours coffee into a cup, black. He doesn't have cream or sugar, so he hopes  you're not one of those latte-matcha-whatever the fuck girls. Takes it upstairs.

He knocks carefully. Maybe you've gone back to sleep, but then he hears your voice on the other side.

“Yes?” you say, and he gently pushes the door open, slow so that if you want to, you can still tell him to stop.

You’re back on the bed. Almost sitting up. The sheets are pulled up to your thighs, just enough for Dean to see that along with the shirt of his he laid out last night for you, you are also wearing a pair of his boxers that he keeps in the dresser as well. There’s a bandage high on your thigh, for the gash on your leg, and his eyes go there, unintentionally, but it throws him back into his dream so violently for a second that he twitches.

“Sorry,” he says, not sure for what, in the same moment you say it too. He looks at your face, presses his lips together, then walks forward, coffee cup held out before him.

“Hope you take it black,” he says, his voice sounding coarse. You extend your hand as far as you can from where you’re sitting without bending your upper body too much, take it from him. Dean takes a step back. You raise the cup in his direction.

“That’s really nice, thank you,” you say, then bring it to your lips, inhale the aroma before taking a small sip. Dean crosses his arms over his chest, stands in place, looking around the room.

“Were you able to get some sleep?” he asks, looking at you again. You nod, then put the cup down on the bedside table with a small wince, right next to the whiskey bottle that Dean left there, which seems no more empty than it did last night. 

“A little,” you say with a nod, let your hands drop in your lap. You look down at them, motion to the boxer shorts. “I hope it’s okay that I–”

“Yeah, of course,” Dean replies, nodding, “shoulda thought of that.” You shrug a little, as if to say it’s no big deal. Both of you are quiet for a moment.

“I used some of your soap and deodorant,” you say then, and Dean sees the way you’re looking at his chest rather than his face, like you’re embarrassed. “Hope that’s okay. And I had to pee standing up, cause I couldn’t… I was scared I wasn’t gonna be able to get up again.” You clear your throat and Dean raises his chin. He felt so awkward yesterday, and selfishly he feels a little better about you seeming to be out of your depth as well.

“Not sure why I told you that,” you mumble, frowning. Dean huffs, and it makes you look up at him, expression soft in a way that makes him feel funny for a second.

“Not a problem,” he says, putting on a jokey tone. “That’s how we do it in this house.”

He’s sure the joke didn’t land for a second, but then you smile. He hasn’t seen you smile yet. It’s good. Unsure, but genuine. He shifts around. Stands there, while neither of you says anything. Some birds scream outside. He gets ravens out here sometimes. They get loud as hell.

“Are you going to burn Merle today?” you ask, voice small, and Dean looks back at you from where he was looking out the window. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly.

“That’s the plan,” he says. He drops his hands, pushes them into the pockets of his jeans. He wants to change his clothes, brush his teeth. Scrub his face with water. Have his cup of coffee in peace on the porch but he’s thinking that’s not happening today. You chew on your lip before you continue.

“I wanna come with you,” you say. Dean tilts his head.

“Not happening,” he says, and your eyebrows go down, mouth becomes a thin line, all that earlier softness gone.

“What?” you say. “The hell it’s not, I’m–”

“You’re a liability,” shoots out of him without his brain being consulted first. He sees the hurt on your face immediately, the small crack of it, but you hide it well the next second.

“You don’t know the first thing about me,” you bite back, and it is a bite - sharp and quick, snap of a jaw that locks in place. “You saying this cause I’m a woman?” Dean raises his head, looks at the ceiling.

“Oh, Jesus,” he mutters, putting all the annoyance he can into the two words. He looks down, then at you again, and you’re positively snarling. “I’m saying this cause you can barely walk.” He sees you clench your jaw. 

He’s pretty sure he’s not saying it because you’re a woman. He’s saying it cause you’re hurt. He’d say the same thing to Sam if he was in this situation. Or Merle… actually, maybe he wouldn’t say it to Merle, would know he couldn’t be stopped anyway. No need to waste breath like that.

“You don’t…” you start, then stop, blinking. “I need to do this, okay?” But Dean’s already shaking his head.

“What you need to do,” he says, “is not tear your stitches. You need rest, and the best place you’re gonna get that is in some nice cozy motel room, which is where I’m gonna take you, okay?”

“I’m not gonna sit in some motel room while you do all that,” you say, attempting to make your voice sound final, Dean can tell, and that might work on some other chump, but not him. He takes his hands out of his pockets, crosses his arms again, chin lowered, hoping it drives his point home. It seems it doesn’t. “I’m not!”

“That thing could still be out there,” he shoots back. “What, you want me to take you back so it can chase you around a little more? Slash you up again? You got a death wish? I’m doing this on my own.”

“That’s so stupid,” you reply, face a grimace of disdain. “If it’s still there that’s even more reason not to go alone. You need someone to back you up, and I–”

“Back me up?” Dean interrupts you, scoffs, and it has the intended effect when he sees you narrow your eyes. “You shoot a shotgun in the state you’re in, it’ll knock you out. Can’t knife it. How are you gonna help?” 

You open your mouth, then close it. Look down at the bedding, jaw moving but you don’t say anything. Dean bobs his head, sure he’s won, is about to apply some kindness like balm to a burn, when you suddenly speak again.

“He saved my life,” you nearly whisper, and Dean almost misses it. He freezes, stares at you. You sound different, even more in pain than you did the day before when he was sewing you up. 

“Merle?” he asks. You don’t respond for a second, then look up at him. 

There’s tears in your eyes, but you keep his gaze, something stoic and brave there. Fuck. 

“Dean, right?” you ask. His name coming from you is like a sharp slap, the way you apply it. Surgical. He nods.

“Yeah,” he says, and he hates that he takes the bait, even if he’s not sure it actually is bait or if you’re maybe really being this genuine. But pushing back now would make him feel like too much of an asshole.

“I need to do this,” you say, keeping his gaze despite the way your eyelashes flutter all Bambi-like. “He died saving my life. I owe him this.”

Dean holds out for exactly two more seconds. He feels his throat tighten, then he looks down, away from your wet eyes and soft features, but he’s already done for. He understands that feeling that must be causing your outburst. The feeling of needing to do something, anything, to return the world to its axis. He lets you stew for another second before he finally looks up at you again. 

“I’m gonna check the place out first,” he says, voice deep, and he sees the barely contained relief on your face. He hates how good it makes him feel about himself. He did that. “Make sure it’s clean.”

The truth is, he’d prefer to have Merle off that ceiling, wrapped in a blanket on a pyre before you see him. If the old man’s death affected you like this, you don’t need to see his guts all outside. Your nostrils flare with the intensity of your emotions as you nod slowly, accepting his condition.

“Thank you, Dean,” you say, sounding just a little breathless. He nods, your gratitude making a mix of discomfort and pleasurable tension go through him.

“And I’m getting your stuff from the motel first,” he says, nodding at you, and you look down your body, at his clothes on you. “Cause you sure as shit can’t go like this.”

You give him the key to your room. Or rather, you let Dean take it from the pocket of your ruined, bloody jeans that lie discarded on the floor. There’s also a thin wallet in there that he puts on the dresser. You thank him again. He just nods.

He changes clothes - hiding in the bathroom - gets himself ready for the day. He thinks about going in and saying goodbye, but then cringes at the idea. 

“Do you want help coming downstairs?” he says through the door instead. No reply for a second.

“I’m good,” you say. He nods.

“Okay,” he says, then turns and leaves.

Merle first, he decides. If Dean gets ripped apart by that thing out there, at least nobody will wonder why he had the belongings of a young woman in his car. With the fact that he handcuffed you to the bed yesterday, it seems a little too serial killer-y even for his taste.

He knows immediately that whatever haunted the steel mill yesterday is gone today.

There’s birds chirping, a general lighter atmosphere about the place that the previous day, and Dean can’t really explain that. Call it hunter instincts, call it ESP. He still takes his gun and his knife, but there’s no prickling of his skin, nothing drawing his eye.

When he walks into the ruined building, sees Merle’s body’s fallen to the floor, even more mangled than before, he stops. Looks around again, listens. Could be gravity. Could be someone having a snack. Merle’s starting to smell, and he’s not sure if–

Dean freezes. He could smell Merle yesterday. Was wondering how he had started stinking so bad so quickly, within only an hour or less. Except of course now he knows it wasn’t Merle that was making the air thick and vile.

Dean looks around again. He was being watched. But it didn’t attack him. Why?

He finds the answer about fifteen feet past Merle’s body. A large patch of blood. He kneels, picks some up with his middle finger, needs to scratch at it. It’s far enough from Merle’s body that it could be someone else’s. Maybe Merle wounded it.

He stands again, looks around. So the two of you, you and Merle, got here, and the thing was already waiting. He makes a note to ask you how you tracked it here, but that’s something for later. 

Whatever it is, it attacked you and, he assumes, Merle managed to lead it away. Probably got cornered here and paid the price.

Dean walks back to the car, gets the large blanket he brought out. He wraps Merle up in it, then starts building the pyre. Just another day on the job. 

He’s thinking about breakfast by the time he makes it to the motel. He needs to buy groceries, but he doesn’t feel like cooking. There’s a diner in town that makes good food, so maybe he’ll pick up something there.

He lets himself into your room. Lets the door drop closed behind him, stands there, takes it all in.

It’s a little messy. Do not disturb sign on the door handle outside, and you didn’t so much as straighten the bedsheets or pillows. Dean has a weird moment where he wonders if you shared the room with Merle. If that was what was going on. For a second, he imagines it. The old man over you, you spread out and naked under him. He clears his throat, looks away from the bed. Gets to work.

A charging cable from the bedside table. Two books off the table that he thinks are lore first, then realizes are horror novels. He scoffs. Not like there isn’t enough horror in this life. Something Sam would say. He quickly thinks of something else.

Bathroom next. There’s a toiletry kit sitting on the edge of the sink, and he drops everything standing on the small shelf under the mirror into it - toothbrush and paste, deodorant, dental floss. A small thing of perfume that he’s tempted to smell. Some lip balm. A hairbrush. 

He walks back into the bedroom. Your bag is on the floor, and he hoists it up on the table, throws everything he’s found so far into it. There’s a shirt slung over the back of a chair that he tosses in, then takes out again, does the most minimal job of folding it. He sees the cup of a bra peek out when he pushes the shirt deeper into the bag. His hand stills as he looks at it. Black, with just a little bit of lace detail. Shakes his head.

“Stop being a fucking creep,” he mutters to himself. Zips the bag closed and leaves.

It’s just the effect of having someone in his space when he hasn’t for so long. He used to live on top of Sam and, way back when, his dad. Never enough room to breathe, but somehow it felt worse when they were gone. He’s lived with such minimal contact to anyone for so long now. Yeah, he used to go and visits Sam and Eileen and the kids, but he hasn’t in longer than he likes to think about, or sometimes a hunter he knows will be in the area, come by and they’ll have a beer. He drives into town, shops. Liked, at the beginning still, how the women would check him out, ask him if he’s new in town. But now it’s become…

Well, what it’s become is habit. He’s gotten so used to being alone, having anyone around him for longer periods of time makes it feel like someone’s screaming in his ears. He scratches at the thickening stubble on his jaw as he pulls back up to the cabin.

He grabs the bag of food from the diner from the passenger seat, your duffel from the trunk. Shoulders his way in.

He freezes and blinks when he sees you sitting at his dining table. You look up, a coffee cup in your hand. Some of his case notes are in front of you - cold cases, stuff that never got solved. 

“Hey,” you say, looking at your bag, then up at Dean again. He nods at you.

“Managed to make it downstairs?” he says, walking closer before setting the bag with the food on the table. You look at it, the smell of grease filling the air, one corner of your mouth twitching, before you look up at him again.

“Only took me about half an hour,” you say. Dean huffs, raises your duffel a little before putting it down on the floor. 

“Should eat,” he says, walking around the table over to the kitchen. “Before it gets cold.” He grabs two forks and knives each, a few sheets of paper towels. He comes back, lays them out in front of you. You watch him, nod your thanks. He reaches into the bag, takes out the two styrofoam containers. 

“Hope you like pancakes,” he says, opening the first of them, revealing its contents. “The other one’s a sandwich, you can have that too, it has b–”

You drag the container closer before he can finish the sentence. You reach for the little thing with the syrup, pour it out over the pancakes, and the blink of an eye later your fork and knife are in your hand and you’re digging in. Dean raises his eyebrows as he watches you shove a big bite into your mouth, eyes falling shut as you chew. He can’t help but chuckle as he walks around you, drops in the other chair, pulling the second container towards him.

“Guess you like pancakes,” he says, and you open your eyes, look at him. Your hand goes up as you wipe some syrup out of the corner of your mouth, hold your hand before your mouth.

“Sorry,” you say, “just really fucking hungry.” 

Dean raises his hands, telling you it’s no problem. You cut off another piece while he unwraps his sandwich. It’s quiet for a moment, Dean’s eyes roaming the table as he actively tries not to look at you. The way you attack your breakfast feels a little too familiar, and it makes him feel self-conscious about doing the same to his. That’s when his gaze falls on the notes you were going through again. He nods at them as he swallows.

“You always just go through people’s personal stuff?” It sounds a little meaner than he means for it. He was going for teasing, but with the lack of familiarity between you two it falls short. It seems, however, that you don’t mind. You shrug your shoulders.

“You took a long time and I was bored,” you say, and Dean can’t help but raise his eyebrows at you. You look down at your pancakes, then at him again. “Hey, do you have any hot sauce?”

Part of him wants to shake his head at you. Instead he sighs, gets up. Walks to his fridge, takes out his hot sauce. He’s running low. He makes a mental note to put it on the shopping list. When he puts it down on the table, you reach for it immediately. Squirt a good helping onto your food, then continue shoveling it in. Dean feels a grin tug at the corners of his mouth that he doesn’t totally understand the source of. He’s used to eating alone. Maybe it’s some animal instinct that makes him want to have someone else around. He takes a bite off his sandwich, chews.

“So,” you drag him out of his thoughts and he looks at you, “you wanna know what I found?” Dean frowns.

“Found?” he asks. You nod at the notes, drop your fork and knife. Lick some syrup off your thumb which Dean only tries a little to remember for later, then reach for the notes on top of the little pile

“This one?” you ask, still chewing before you swallow. “Werewolf last year in Raleigh? Not a werewolf.” You drop the embarrassingly skinny folder closer to Dean, pick up your cutlery again. Go back to eating.

Dean presses his tongue against his teeth, digging some bacon out of there, but really, it’s just to give him some time to decide how to react to this. He could tell you not to touch his stuff. But he feels something inside himself. Something excited.

“Okay, Jessica Fletcher,” he says, leaning back a little to survey you. “What is it if not a werewolf?”

“They’re preter-lyconthropes, or that might be their name if they had an official one and weren’t, you know, technically extinct.” Dean doesn’t miss the smartass look on your face, how self-satisfied you look, at least until you frown instead. “Who’s Jessica Fletcher?”

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it.

“What’s pre– you don’t know Murder, She Wrote?” he asks, veering towards the more pressing topic halfway through. You shrug.

“I think I’ve watched it,” you say. “Not sure.” Dean scratches at his face, swallows down any further commentary. He looks at the notes again.

He remembers the case. Five dead before the murders stopped. The victims had been turned inside out, hearts and all the other organs shredded to shit, but the way they had been hurt, slashed, and all around the full moon, made it difficult to imagine any other alternative. And they did stop, suddenly, without anyone really doing anything. He thinks he had Ronny on it, or maybe that quiet guy whose name he doesn’t remember, the one with the hook nose and glasseye.

“So,” Dean finally says. “This… preter… thing? How is it murdering people if it’s extinct?” You nod at the question, then put down the knife and fork again. Half of your pancakes are gone.

“Well,” you say, “like I said, they’re supposedly extinct. But I think they’re not. At least one of them isn’t.” Dean raises his eyebrows, signaling for you to continue.

“The thing that attacked me?” you ask, gaze careful. “The one that killed Merle? I think it’s one of them.” Dean narrows his yes.

“And you just happen to be the only person to know about them?” he asks, tone suspicious. You look into his eyes, then away, up at the map he has on his wall. Dean follows your gaze.

“Blue is unsolved cases that look like werewolves but don’t quite fit, right?” you ask, referring to the blue tacks that sporadically appear on the map. Dean nods slowly, looking at you again. “You’re probably thinking some pack that moves around?” 

Dean swallows. He’s mildly impressed, because, yes, that is his theory, but the murders are so random, so unconnected to each other in a way. It’s only him having stared at the evidence he has over and over that has made him seem the faintest of patterns. A pattern he couldn’t prove to anyone and hasn’t tried to. 

“Well, it’s not a werewolf,” you say, looking back at him. “And it’s not a pack. It’s one guy.” Dean shakes his head.

“How the hell do you know this?” he asks. He sees you swallow, before you look down at your food.

“I’ll tell you,” you say, “but first we should take care of Merle.”

Dean’s halfway to telling you no, that you will tell him what he wants to know. He’s not sure why he doesn’t. Why he accepts your condition. What he knows is that talking about this, even those few sentences, discussing a case, felt like someone laying a warm hand over the back of his head. Soothing, familiar. Good.

“Alright,” he says, keeping your gaze, and you keep his in turn. He sees the slight surprise at him not pushing, the way it makes your features slacken in a way. “I’m gonna put your stuff in the bedroom so you can change.” He stands, suddenly feeling awkward in the moment. You look up at him, then look around.

“I can sleep down here,” you say, and it’ll take until the two of you are on the road back to the mill for Dean to realize this is the moment you decide to stay, because up until then, he was absolutely planning to drop you off somewhere, be rid of you. But instead, for some reason inexplicable to him, or maybe, more likely, just something he doesn't want to look at, he shakes his head. Not at you staying, but at the suggestion of you taking the couch.

“Nah,” he says. “It’s alright.” You blink.

“You don’t sleep upstairs?” you ask, and Dean’s expression must carry the answer. “Why not?” He shrugs, pulls the corners of his mouth down.

“Just don’t like it,” he says, unwilling to dive deeper into the topic. You nod.

“Yeah,” you say. “My grandpa had the same thing. Didn’t like sleeping on the first floor cause his dog was getting old and couldn’t take the stairs anymore, and honestly, I think neither could he. So he slept in his armchair.” Dean huffs, stares at you.

“Nice,” he says, completely lost for what to say. “That’s real nice, comparing me to… anyway.” 

“Just saying,” you shrug. “You seem like the kind of guy who would have a dog.” Dean opens his mouth. Almost says: I used to, and now there’s a wooden cross in the yard. But he doesn’t.

“Nice save,” he says instead, one eyebrow raised.

He just so sees the grin on your face before you look down at your food, pick up your cutlery again. He scoffs before he grabs your bag and carries it upstairs.

You insist on walking up the stairs on your own, but Dean sees how pitifully slow you are, so he finally follows you, grabs your arm around the wrist and lays it over his shoulder. You make a protesting noise but then he wraps his arm around your waist, helps drag you up to the next step and you quiet.

There’s a slight odor about you, and Dean notices you trying to get your arm closer to your body, like you’re trying to close off your armpits. He knows you washed on that first night, as much as you could, maybe did some more while he was out, but he’s pretty sure you haven’t showered. 

He should offer to help you. If you get undressed, then wrap yourself up in a towel he can help you climb in without seeing any bits he’s not supposed to see. And afterwards, your skin and hair wet, smelling like whatever you use to wash yourself, he’d help you out, you needing to cling to him, getting his clothes wet. Or, he could help you. Jump into the shower with you. Probably better that you don’t have to scrub yourself and stretch so much with the stitches still fresh.

He could soap up your back. Wash your hair. Have you lean against him for support. He wouldn’t try anything. Not until you turn to him, eyes big, your hand going to his slick chest, biting your lip.

The two of you reach the top of the stairs, and Dean carefully lets go of you, and then, in a second of momentary insanity, pats your back in the most unsexual way he can muster. You give him a tight-lipped smile, then hobble off to the bedroom. 

Dean stands on the landing for a second, unsure what to do before he walks back downstairs. Waits until he hears you at the top of the stairs again and helps you down, this time with less protest from your side. 

You’ve put on perfume.

When the two of you walk outside, your eyes widen when you see the Impala.

“That yours?” you ask, looking at Dean. He nods, trying to hide his grin at you admiring his car, the pride. 

“Yeah, but we should take the truck,” he replies, motioning over there. “Getting you in there is gonna fold you in half.” You purse your lips, look between the two cars, then back at Dean. Eyes narrowed. 

“Can I pick?” you ask. He smacks his lips.

“Your fleshwound,” he says and you chuckle.

You wince when he helps you lower yourself into the passenger seat of the Impala. You sigh when your ass meets the leather, grimace on your face. This was a mistake, but you insisted. Dean gets in as well, throws you a cautionary look. You raise your hand immediately,

“I’m good,” you say, as if reading his thoughts. 

“Alright,” Dean replies, one hand going to the steering wheel, the other to the keys. He sees the slight glee on your face when the motor roars to life. He doesn’t understand why it makes him so happy.

He drives off the property, onto the country road. There’s fog down in the valley. Usually it disappears by late morning, but not today. It stays there, like cotton candy on sticks of dark firs. 

The two of you drive in silence for a while. You watch the outside passing by and Dean definitely, absolutely isn’t watching you. It’s just when he looks to the side when taking a curve, or at a sign on the right side of the road, that his eyes land on you. Briefly. Just to make sure you’re not passing out or something.

“You mind if we put on some music?” you say after a while. Dean nods, reaches his hand out, turns on whatever he’s got in the tape deck. Hot Blooded comes on and Dean starts tapping his finger against the wheel. It’s not the kind of music anyone should be driving to a funeral with, but what is he gonna do?

He notices your gaze on him after a minute, has been quietly moving his lips to the lyrics. He turns, looks at you. You look amused. Eyebrows high, one side of your mouth perked up.

“What?” he asks with a frown. 

“Nothing,” you say. “Just… wow.”

“Wow?” Dean asks, voice annoyed. He looks at the road, then back at you. You shrug.

“The car, the dad rock,” you reply. “It’s all very…” You raise your hands, motion, and Dean has no idea what you mean.

“Oh yeah?” he says, chuckling. “Let me guess, you don’t listen to anything from before 2010?” You make a buzzer noise.

“Eh, wrong,” you say. “I like classic rock.”

“Tell me one band you like,” he says. You look at him, then bring your arm up, elbow landing on the window sill, challenge on your face, and he’s sure you’re not gonna have a reply when you speak.

“Blondie,” you say. Dean feels a smile spread on his face.

“Not classic rock,” he says. “But not horrible.” 

You scoff, look out the front. The two of you are quiet again, the song continuing. At the lines, Tell me, are you hot, mama? You sure look that way to me. Are you old enough?, you turn your head to the side with a snort, and when Dean looks at you again, your shoulders are actually shaking from your laughter. You turn to him, and Dean raises his hands off the steering wheel, in a gesture that means to say: what are ya gonna do?

“It was the 70s,” he explains, and you lay your head back.

“Yeah, cause that totally wouldn’t fly anymore today,” you say, voice sarcastic, and Dean looks over, sees how the way you’re sitting pushes out your breasts, eyes briefly catching, before he tears himself away.

“Yeah,” he says, not sure what he means, as you drop your head forward again.

“I guess it’s nice, always getting to listen to whatever you want to listen to,” you say. “Good music’s not always good music, you know? So I get it.” 

Dean blinks. A sudden memory of Sam sitting where you are now flashing through his mind. Making fun of his tapes, the ones that used to be his dad’s, and sometimes, singing along. He clears his throat.

“Didn’t always used to be that way,” he says, looking out the front. Not sure why he says it, but he likes the warmth inside the car, the way your teasing flowed. He looks over at you, and you’re watching him, eyes slightly narrowed.

“My little brother,” he continues, eyes out the front again, hoping that if he doesn’t see any indication that you’re not interested in what he has to say on your face, he won’t feel it either. Of course, that’s not always a guarantee. “Yeah, he used to love giving me shit about it. He listened to all those 90’s alt bands. But we had a rule: driver picks the music.”

He looks at you again, to gauge your reaction, but also because he’s realizing he likes looking at you. The curve of your nose, the color of your eyes. The way you so intensely meet his gaze. Something clear about you.

“I’m sorry,” you say. Dean frowns, looks at the road.

“Why?” he asks. He looks at you again, no cars to look out for, straight driving, and you’re moving your lips like you’re trying to find the words you want to say.

“Well,” you say, sounding awkward, out of your depth, “it sounds like, I guess…” You stop there, don’t continue, and Dean feels a grin spread on his face.

“He’s not dead,” he says, looks at you with a smile, and sees you raise your chin. “He’s, uh, out of the life, as they say. But not out of life.” He chuckles. It’s a dumb joke, but you reward it with a small smile.

“So you two hunted together?” you ask. Dean nods.

“Yep, for most of our lives,” he says, taking a wide curve. “He’s married, got a couple of kids. What he always wanted.” You don’t respond. Maybe this is too personal, maybe he shouldn’t have shared. He feels embarrassment start to crawl up his neck, needs to shift how he sits, and when he finally builds up the courage to look at you again, you look contemplative.

“What?” he asks again. He hates being put into the position where he needs to ask, but also he’s too curious about what you’re thinking not to.

“Nothing,” you say, “just… must suck. Him leaving after all that time, doing his own thing.” Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. Swallows. Frowns out the front.

“I’m happy for him,” he says, and he’s not sure why he sounds like he’s not. “He deserves it. Deserves to be out.”

“Of course,” you say. “Just… never mind.” Dean’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. The nice, easy feeling he just had is lost to him. Instead he feels tense. He is happy for Sam. He really is. Knowing Sam’s out, can’t be hurt, is getting everything he wants is a cause for happiness and pride. But yeah, sure, he always assumed that if they got out, they’d do it together. And that if Dean wasn’t able to, maybe Sam would stay. Only one of them doing it… shit, he used to think that was the way it was supposed to be - Sam married and happy, Dean dead in the ground where he belonged. But when it actually happened, it felt more like betrayal than freedom.

He clears his throat, scratches at his stubble. He needs to trim it, and he makes a note to do that once the two of you are back at the cabin.

He doesn’t want to think about why he imagines that you’ll return with him.

Dean helps you out of the car, then tells you to stay put while he goes to the trunk, gets fire accelerant. When he comes back, you have your arms wrapped around you, are staring ahead at the old mill, looming there like some kind of castle of evil and doom.

Yeah, so maybe this was a bad idea. 

But there’s birds singing, no stench. There’s even some sunlight breaking through the clouds. And you’re here now. He doubts you’ll let him take you back without seeing this through.

Without saying anything more, the two of you begin walking. He’s built the pyre near where he found you. It’s closer to the woods, a large expanse of dying grass. Made it easier to collect the wood he needed, but also, it just seems a little bit more peaceful here.

You slow when you see the pyre. Dean watches you, wonders if you’ll freak out. Maybe Merle is the first person you’re ever seen die like that. But then you raise your chin, straighten, and start walking again. Slow, careful step. But all on your own.

When you get to it, Dean opens the accelerant, sprays it all over Merle’s body and the wood underneath. Then he takes a matchbook out of his pocket, looks down at it while he fingers it for a second, before extending his arm to you and holding it out.

“You wanna do it?” he asks. You blink, look away from the pyre. At the offering and then at Dean. You take the matchbook with a nod. Hold on to it for a minute, then light it. Toss it onto the pile of wood and human and it goes up quickly.

Both of you stare into the flames. These are supposed to be moments of introspection, of closing the door on the grief. Dean turns to you.

“You wanna say something?” he asks. “About how he saved your life, or–”

“He didn’t save my life.”

You’re still looking ahead, not at Dean. Your gaze is pinned. He notices the cut on your jaw isn’t looking too bad. You’ve been good at not picking at it. The understanding of what you’ve just said comes to him a moment later.

“What?” he asks. He sees you swallow.

“Merle didn’t save my life,” you say. “The moment we were attacked, when it got to me, he ran away. Like a fucking coward.” Your voice is hard, your face stoic. Jaw clenched and Dean is trying to make sense of what you’re saying.

“Last thing I saw of him,” you say, chin nodding at the burning corpse, “was his back. So fuck him.”

Dean looks at the flames again. His brain feels like it’s rattling, trying to understand what the hell just happened. You told him Merle saved you. Lied to him, and for what?

“Then why the hell did you want to be here for this?” he asks, looking at you again. He can feel anger and something else build in him. The zing at being made a fool. You shake your head a little.

“Because he’s dead, and I’m not,” you say. You turn your head, look at Dean. It might be the heat or smoke of the fire, but there’s tears in your eyes. Except of course now Dean knows not to trust them. “And that has to count for something.”

Dean keeps looking at you until you look away, stare at the flames again. He wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead he stares at the fire as well. Tries to make sense of it all and desperately fails.