I’m currently on a committee to raise funds to build a much needed Skate & Arts Park in Blairstown, NJ. This won't just be a skate park, it will be a safe place for kids, teens, and adults to gather, move, and find community. All will be welcome no matter age, gender, orientation - we are about building a safe place for everyone. The skate park will also include a bandstand and a gallery space for young artists and musicians to flourish. There is currently no place in our area for local teens to gather and no safe place like this around. You can check out the design and more info at www.sk8blairstown.org
My family and I got involved in this project when my son Jonathan’s friend Cooper lost his life to suicide three years ago. Cooper was an avid skater and musician, and a great friend to Jon. He wanted this skate park to happen, so we’re involved not just for the community, but for Cooper.
I know times are tough for everyone, and not everyone (myself included) can make a huge donation, but that’s ok! Every single dollar helps us get closer to building this awesome place.
I’m offering my authorship to you in exchange for a donation to the Footbridge Skate + Arts Park Project. It’s a 501c3 charity, and none of the money you give is in any way going to me. In fact, you can donate it directly to our GiveButter here! Check out the menu below for my offerings and details…
I thank you so much for checking this out and spreading the word. Even a reblog helps!
::: Menu :::
Story Commissions - A custom story written to fulfill your heart’s desire
$5 - 200-500 Words
$10 - 500-1,000 Words
$15 - 1000+ Words
Other Things -
$20 - a voice call with me!
$25 - a video chat with me!
$40 - a signed copy of each of my published books (even those no longer in print) shipped to your continental U.S. address
$50 - a drunken video hangout night with me!
$60 - I’ll ghost write your smut!
$100 - We are now best friends and I will message you every single day and write you fun stories and we can chat whenever!
$2,000 - A weekend visit to my house (you pay travel)
$5,000 - We go on vacation together! (you pay travel)
$10,000 - You get everything above and my undying love
Every donation will receive a thank you and your name on our donor list at the next fundraising event- Footbridge Summerfest 2026 - a major music and arts festival Bill and I are working on for May 2026! (check back for deets if you’re in the tri-state area and you can come hang out with me in person!)
Ready?
Donate on my page here - GiveButter
You can sign your name or go anonymous… Type a little message or not… all good!
Screenshot your donation and DM me and we talk about your story or schedule your trip to my house!
Would you like a chance to win cool prizes while showing your love for Jensen? Not a writer or an artist, but want to join in the fun of a contest? The Storytellers Contest blog has just the challenge for you!
Our Aesthetic Contest is open to everyone!!
Including participants and judges of Storytellers Contest: The Jensen Ackles Chronicles, as this is separate from the writing contest. Voting will be via public opinion.
Choose from the list of prompts and characters below to create an aesthetic/moodboard. Multiple prompts may be used.
Since prizes are involved we will enforce the rules.
Post between February 22 and March 8
Use the tag #sctjac-aesthetic as one of the first five tags
AI is not allowed
Base templates from sites like Canva are allowed. Or you can create one of your own.
Only one submission per person.
Credit sources for any non Creative Common images.
A link to a voting form will be provided beginning March 9.
A master post will be created to help direct voters to fanworks. If you don’t see your work on the masterpost, please notify us as soon as possible.
Voting will close March 22, 2026
Winner will be announced March 27, 2026
Aesthetic Contest Prizes ~ One winner
A custom fanfic written by one of our hosts based on the aesthetic.
Blog Shout Outs
Badge
Prompts
Choose an element (fire, water, earth, air)
What Pantone color is your character?
Holiday
Sense (taste, touch, sight, smell)
Dark and Light
Pick a material (e.g.: iron, wood, copper, leather, stone, glass, velvet, etc.)
Characters that can be used for this contest. Jensen* RPF is also welcome.
Tom Hanniger (My Bloody Valentine)
Dean Winchester* (SPN/The Winchesters)
Jack Durfy (Buddy Games)
Soldier Boy/Ben (The Boys)
Beau Arlen (Big Sky)
Russell Shaw (Tracker)
Mark Meachum (Countdown)
*Jensen or his character should be over the age of thirty within the piece.
For questions, DM us on the main blog, @storytellers-contest.
Do you like when your fairy tales suddenly involve lots of sex, murder, angst, adventure, Magic, Supernatural Creatures, and Monster Fucking? Absolutely you do!
Check out the first installment of my new series under my other pen name Rachel Ashwood on Kindle -
A billion dollars can't buy you love... or can it? Can two very different people come together and look beyond past trauma, corporate drama, and glitz and glamor to find their very own happily ever after?
Whatever It Is is a fresh and emotionally charged retelling of the classic fake dating trope. Set in the present day in the big city, we follow along as our couple learns to let go of past issues and break through walls to find their own happily ever after.
Hadley Richards is a troubled thirty-two-year-old woman who recently called off her wedding to an emotionally abusive man. Ben Forrester was born with a diamond spoon in his mouth. The only son and youngest child of Forrester International’s founder and leader, Carver Forrester, Ben grew up in the lap of luxury, never wanting for anything.
Can two very different people come together and look beyond past trauma, corporate drama, and glitz and glamor to find their very own happily ever after?
Whatever It Is by Rebekah Jordan is out now on Amazon Kindle, Paperback, and Audible Audio Book!
New Episode Alert: Maturing in fandom | Interview with Storytellers Contest creators and FanFic authors Beka and Kym
Two special guests join Sandra and Kasey to discuss maturing in fandom and a contest geared for writers aging like fine wine.
Kym (aka @deanwinchesterswitch) and Beka (aka @impala-dreamer) are all SPN fanfic writers who’ve been around the fandom block a time or two.
Beka and Kym’s “Storytellers Contest - The Jensen Ackles Chronicles” (TJAC) recently opened up for author sign-ups. So, listen up to learn about this challenge that plans to showcase the talents of mature fans and stories involving older characters.
Buckle up, it’s a full backseat and lots of facts and opinions are shared!
Wanna learn more about TJAC contest? You can find all the details here! Sign-up for the contest through October 15, 2025!
Listen on Spotify
Watch on Youtube:
Chapter Timestamps
00:00:00 - Intro
00:01:51 - Storytellers Contest inception
00:04:45 - How long have Beka and Kym been in SPN Fandom
00:05:55 - The right time for a contest
00:06:57 - Combining strength and skills for the contest
00:11:31 - Why Jensen?
00:12:47 - Necessary thirst break
00:12:58 - A plethora of mature Jensen content
00:13:56 - The most important thing to nail in the contest
00:15:10 - Scoring the contest entries
00:16:22 - How you can tell when a writer gets a character
00:19:04 - Tangent | My Bloody Valentine and Friday the 13th
00:21:04 - Characterization isn’t the only judging criterion
00:23:31 - The judges and contest details
00:25:13 - Minimum age for a Jensen character in this contest
00:27:41 - Experiences that come with living
00:30:34 - Ageism in fandom and support from older creatives
00:35:37 - We’re thirsting again
00:37:08 - Word length categories for contest submission
00:41:53 - The prizes
00:47:04 - Spotlighting the winner
00:50:02 - Champion mature fans
00:55:59 - Fandom changes over the years
01:04:30 - Finding nuance and common joy in fanfic
01:09:33 - Judging responsibilities
01:12:00 - The judging panel
01:13:39 - The draw of prizes
01:16:12 - Handling the possibility of many entries
01:19:18 - A mid-point jolt
01:21:43 - Countdown plans with Kasey and Beka
01:32:29 - Hopes for the contest and some last-minute tangents
01:48:26 - Final thoughts and outro
Oh my gosh! Have I told you about @storytellers-contest yet?!
It's a really awesome writing competition solely for writers 30 and over to show off their skills, write some amazing stuff, reach a big audience, and win some awesome prizes (and street cred 😉).
First round is focused on Jensen Ackles and his awesome characters. I'm super excited about it, and I think you will be too. Sign up starts August 15th, but you can check out the blogs and follow along any time.
Go on over to @storytellers-contest-tjac and click the follow button.
~ When Dean’s bill comes due, Y/N is left behind to deal with his death. Sam’s no comfort, too lost in his own pain. Bobby is stuck in his grief, unable to help. Her only friends are self-destruction and fading memories. ~
Dean Winchester x Reader, Sam Winchester, Bobby Singer, Ruby, John Winchester (briefly)
7,600 Words
Warnings: NSFW, Major Character Death(s), Grief & Loss, Alcohol Abuse, Drug Use, Show Level Blood and Violence, Sexual Acts, Suicide, Set between Season Three Finale and Season Four Premiere.
For @jacklesversebingo “Letter Found In An Old Notebook”
Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist ~ Patreon ~ Published Works
They were still covered in his blood; their faces stained with dried salt and crimson. Their eyes were empty, souls exhausted, hands caked in earth.
Every beat of her broken heart reminded her of the clock striking midnight. Tick. Tick. Tick. If she could rip it out it would hurt less. If she could have stopped that clock, he might still be alive.
The rope burned her palms, ripping them raw as they lowered the simple wood coffin into the dirt. Bobby let out a grunt and his boot slipped. He lost his balance and the rope slid from his hand, opening a cut and catching them all off guard.
The foot of the box struck the hard ground and Y/N closed her eyes, horrified that he might be jostled inside, that the fall might hurt him.
No one said a word, they simply course-corrected and finished the work.
When the frayed cord left her hand, she started shaking. It was impossible to control her body, her tears, and the quickening of her breath. She bit her lip, balled her fists, and squeezed her eyes against the moonlight.
“We should say something,” Bobby said quietly. His voice was as unstable as her hands. He pulled the worn cap from his head and held it against his chest, looking down upon the casket. His son was inside. The boy he’d helped raise. The boy who he’d fought beside, the boy he’d been frustrated and proud of every second of his too-short life.
Sam sucked in a deep breath and slapped at his cheek, clearing away a new wave of tears. He cleared his throat and nodded. “Yeah…” He didn’t know what to say, couldn’t think of a damned thing. He hadn’t spoken much since they picked the spot to lay his brother down, hadn’t opened his mouth except to let out a whispered curse or a heavy, broken sigh.
“So say something,” Y/N replied, staring blankly at the box. It didn’t matter who spoke, she just knew it couldn’t be her. It didn’t feel right to commit his body to the dirt like this. He should be burned like the hero he was; consumed by cleansing fire and scattered to the wind. He’d have wanted it that way. It should be that way.
She bit her lip and shook her head. Fighting about it again was pointless. Sam had insisted and the deed was already done.
Sam opened his mouth but nothing came out.
Bobby clutched his hat, lost for words.
Y/N grit her teeth and took a step forward, her toes skirting the edge of the cliff they’d created. A patch of earth dislodged and pebbles cascaded down into the grave. They fell like rain on the coffin lid and her stomach dropped.
“Not like this,” she whispered to the wind, to the box, to herself. “We- we can’t bury him. We can’t.”
A thousand flashes of memory struck her all at once.
His bright smile. The way he tossed his head back when he laughed. The tightness of his arms as he held her; the glow of sunset in his green eyes.
“He can’t-”
Trembling, she stared down and tears fell with the dirt. Every drop hit the wood, a silent thud that she prayed would wake him. Maybe it was all just a horrible dream. Maybe…
“Sam- please.”
Sam wouldn’t meet her eye. His lip was near to bleeding as he dug his teeth in deep, holding back a scream.
The decision had been made by the only person who could make it. She wasn’t his family, she wasn’t anything really—just another stupid girl who had fallen for the pretty boy with a gun.
Bobby’s palm was bleeding freely and it caught her eye. She looked at him with pleading eyes but there was nothing left he could do. He had no words anymore—no comfort to extend to Y/N, to Sam, to himself.
She tried again, turning back to her friend. “Sam!”
This time he looked up. This time she felt his rage.
“Enough! I’m not burning my brother.”
His shout struck her in the chest and Y/N’s legs gave out. She crumbled. The ground accepted her, shifting around her knees, cradling her. Wide-eyed, she stared at the coffin, picturing his sleeping features beneath the wood. Thick lashes forever shut; pink lips gently parted. Big hands clasped upon his chest; bowed legs relaxed, chest frozen, forever empty.
She fell farther down, pressing her palms flat and digging her nails into the dirt.
She couldn’t leave him like this. Alone, buried in the middle of nowhere.
Finally finding some strength, Bobby cleared his throat. He gripped his cap tight and took a breath. “He was… he was a great kid.” His voice crackled around every word as he held back tears. “A great hunter.”
“The best,” Sam interjected.
Bobby nodded. “The best.”
Y/N’s throat tightened. The atmosphere was too thick, too wet. She couldn’t catch a full breath.
She couldn’t leave him like this. Trapped in a box without air.
“Smart as a whip, too.” Bobby smiled despite the pain. “Helped me rebuild a carburetor when he was eight. Could do it by himself a few months later. Hell of a mechanic.”
She clawed at the earth.
She couldn’t leave him like this. Alone. Trapped.
“Once when he was about- oh, ten, eleven- he found this old-”
She couldn’t leave him.
Face flooded with tears, lungs screaming for a deep breath, Y/N threw herself down into the pit, dragging a mess of dirt and rocks with her. She skirted the coffin and reached for the edge, ready to rip her fingers bloody to pull the nails from the wood and set him free.
She couldn’t leave him.
Bobby was shouting; Sam had already scrambled down into the grave.
Y/N wailed as Sam grabbed her arms, pulling her back from the coffin.
She tried to fight him off but grief overtook her and she fell into his arms, striking him with closed fists and screaming into his chest.
Bobby kept her plied with whiskey and silence. She drank until her stomach churned, until her tongue was numb and her head was pounding.
When she passed out, he propped a couch pillow beneath her head and tossed his mother’s ancient quilt over her shoulders. He kissed her forehead before walking away, leaving her lost in a troubled sleep.
“Let’s run.” She gripped his sleeve, fingers digging through the soft leather jacket and into the crook of his elbow. “Let’s just… fucking go. Run away. It’s not cowardice, it’s… self-preservation.”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. He was too tired to argue. “I can’t outrun this, Y/N/N. This isn’t something I can hide from.”
She refused to let him give up. They’d been through too much together to let this be the end. “We have a year to figure this out, OK? We can come up with a plan, find a spell or something. There has to be something.”
He licked his lips and opened his eyes, found a spot inside of her to stare into. “There’s nothing. This is one deal I can’t break.”
Her heart ached. He sounded so done, so accepting.
She couldn’t let him give up.
“Please…”
A heavy sigh lifted his broad shoulders and drew his hands up to her face. He cupped her cheeks and lifted her gently, forcing her to focus on his face. His smile was forced and tragically beautiful.
“How ‘bout we stop talking about this and go get wasted? Hmm?”
She had to look up and away to keep from blinking. If she blinked, the tears would fall. If they fell, they’d never stop until they drowned the town.
“You with me?” he asked, rubbing her cheek with his thumb.
Y/N let out a hard breath. “Yeah.”
“Tell me.”
She rolled her eyes. “You know I am. I always am.”
He grinned and pushed. “Say it…”
Even through the fear and frustration, he got her to smile.
“I’m with you.”
A true smile graced his lips and so did she, pushing up on her toes to kiss him. He hummed against her mouth and she relaxed for a moment.
When it was done, he turned and tossed his heavy arm over her shoulder, working with gravity to keep her feet on the ground.
“Now,” he teased, clearing his throat, “how about you buy a dead man a drink?”
When she got back, the house was dark. The front door creaked loudly on its old, dry hinges, and she didn’t bother to muffle it. She pushed it closed with her foot, and it slammed a bit louder than she had thought it would.
“Whoopsie.”
She laughed at the noise and tried to take another drink from her flask. The well was dry and she tipped her head back, shaking the cheap metal trying to free the last drop. It fell on her nose and she laughed again, louder.
“Time for a fill-up!”
The whiskey already swimming in her bloodstream gave her the idea to dance into the living room and swipe a bottle from Bobby’s desk. Sure, there were new bottles in the kitchen, but they suddenly seemed so far away.
She pirouetted down the hall and made a left, tripped on the upturned corner of the old rug, and caught herself on the edge of the desk.
“Watch where yer walkin’, Y/N/N!” she told herself rather loudly. When she tried to stand, her outstretched arm knocked a pile of books onto the floor.
They hit the hard wood with a thud and a light turned on upstairs, illuminating the hallway.
“Y/N?”
Bobby’s gruff, sleep-deepened voice echoed down the steps.
“What are you doing down there, girl?”
She rolled her eyes and went about finding his whiskey. “Nothing! Go back to sleep!”
The rug caught her toes again and she fell into Bobby’s chair to catch herself. The bottle was on the floor next to it, so she considered it a win.
Heavy footsteps approached as she tried to steady the bottle’s large mouth over the small flask opening. A swallow sloshed onto her arm and she gave up, licking that clean before closing her lips around the bottle.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The light switched on overhead and Y/N shielded her eyes. When they adjusted, she squinted at the old man in the archway. His face was ruddy from sleep, his hair mussed and his t-shirt crumpled. He glared.
“Um… having a nightcap?” She took a long drink from the bottle and then held it out to him. “Want one?”
“No.”
She shrugged and took another drink.
Bobby’s nostrils flared as he sucked in a deep breath. Avoiding the curled rug edge, he stormed over to the desk and yanked the whiskey out of her hands.
“Hey!”
“Hey yourself!” he growled, screwing the discarded cap in place. “It’s four in the goddamned mornin’. I should be in bed dreaming about Susan Summers and instead, I’ve gotta come down here and make sure you don’t kill yourself fallin’ over drunk.”
Y/N laughed. She couldn’t help it. “Susan Summers? Come on.” She pushed at the desk and the chair slid back enough to let her spin it from side to side. “Don’t be fooled- those Thigh Masters were a scam!”
One good push had her spinning fully around but Bobby stopped the second rotation. He gripped the arms of the chair and leaned down, getting right in her face.
“You have got to stop this nonsense, child. You are runnin’ down a dangerous road.”
There were few people on the planet that she respected as much as Bobby Singer, but in her current state of mind, she hated everything that came out of his mouth.
“Why don’t you fuck off, old man?” she muttered, unable to stop herself.
Bobby’s jaw clenched and he stood up straight. “Excuse me?”
Defiant and well beyond the legal limit, Y/N looked up at him and crossed her arms. “You heard me. Fuck off.”
For a moment, her drunken mind told her that she was about to get hit, but rationally, she knew that Bobby would never raise his hand against her. Still, she cringed.
Anger bloomed on his face like scarlet begonia and his hazel eyes burned.
“That’s enough!” His shoulders settled into an aggressive stance and he seemed taller than he was, towering over Y/N like the disappointed father figure he was. “I have let you carry on like this for far too long, girl.”
She wanted to protest, to bite back with something painful, but Bobby didn’t pause for long enough.
“All summer you have been running yourself into the ground looking for an answer that don’t exist! And when that don’t kill you, you come running back here to drink yourself half to death. I’m tired of picking you up. You need to get your shit together and quick!”
He was right but she couldn’t admit it. She’d spent the time since his death lingering in a burning emptiness that nothing could quell. When she was home, she’d drink herself into a multi-day coma, taking up his guest room or the couch. Then she’d disappear on a hunch for days, sometimes a week, driving around the country like a mad woman, searching for anything that could save him. She came back bloody and exhausted time after time only to start the cycle all over again. It was a tragic summer.
Y/N’s teeth dug into her tongue but it refused to stay still. She jumped up from the chair.
“My shit is together!”
“Oh really? Is that what you call drinking the country dry and making a fool of yourself?”
Her jaw dropped. “Are you really gonna lecture me about drinking? You’re the fucking town drunk, Bobby. Everybody talks about it behind your back. ‘Crazy old man with the junkyard. Always drunk and talking about ghosts’. No one fucking likes you. You’re a laughing stock. Useless old man.”
Lips pulling into a tight line, he shook his head. “I hope you remember everything you’re sayin’ when you sober up.”
“I fucking will and it won’t change shit.”
Bobby took a breath and closed his eyes. Anger faded to hurt and helplessness. “I tried,” he whispered.
“You tried?” She stepped closer, glaring at him. “You tried to what? I don’t see you out there trying to help him or looking through all your precious books for a spell or a-” Her head hurt, her stomach churned. “Whatever. You’re doing fuck-all. I’m out there grinding, hunting for… for…”
“Trying to help you, you stubborn girl!”
Bobby reached for her arms, but she pulled away, spinning around him and into the empty space in the middle of the room.
“I don’t need help! I need to fucking save him!”
“You don’t get it do you?” Bobby followed her but stayed far enough away so she didn’t run. “We can’t save him. We tried. We failed.”
Y/N grit her teeth. “You failed.”
“I’m failing right now.”
“Stop.”
She closed her eyes, refusing to look back at him. His words stung but the tone in his voice, the utter defeat burned worse.
She couldn’t hurt him anymore.
“I’m failing to save you the same way I failed to save him. And Sam.” He scrubbed a hand down his face and sighed. “Story of my life.”
It hadn't occurred to her that he was hurting too. They both lost something great, and they were both fighting the same black hole: grief.
“Bobby…”
“Get some sleep,” he muttered, turning away.
“Bobby, come on-”
He raised a hand and she fell silent.
She wouldn’t hurt him anymore.
Uncontrollable fear wrecked her system, causing every inch to tremble like an earthquake rocking the walls of her home. Flames licked at the old wallpaper and the pulsing heat teased her skin.
Only moments before, she’d awoken to the sound of her mother shrieking and the choking stench of smoke. Nothing made sense, nothing was right. She watched her mother fall, dead on her bedroom floor as a shadowed figure withdrew the blade from her chest.
Y/N ran, racing down the stairs into the billowing smog and growing fire. There was nowhere to go. The doors were bolted shut and the locks were red-hot, the windows were sealed shut by some unknown power.
A summer storm raged outside, illuminating the windows with cracks of lightning every few moments. With each flash, she saw the fiend more clearly as if the ghost was feeding on the electric static in the air. Blood dripped from the phantom’s face and blade, terrorizing Y/N as he came closer. She countered each menacing step with a stumble backward until there was only the locked door behind her and walls closing in on either side.
As the ghostly blade slashed through the air, Y/N threw herself to the side, avoiding the brunt of the attack. The metal sliced through her forearm and her scream fought the thunder.
The ghost turned slowly, its eyes suddenly glowing bright and she scrambled away, dragging herself across the floor while clutching her bloody arm.
She fell and flipped over, gaping in horror as the knife glinted in the flash of lightning.
She felt the air shift as the blade whipped through the smoke again and she closed her eyes, held her breath.
A crash pulled her eyes open and she screamed as the front door flew open. A burly man with dark hair and wild eyes burst inside, a shotgun pointed at the ghost. He pulled the trigger and she froze, unable to move or process what was happening as her attacker vanished.
The ghost was gone but the fire blazed on, moving closer as it ate through the plaster and lath.
Before she could move, the ghost was back, this time more fully formed. He rushed at the gunman who yelled over his shoulder.
“Get her outta here!”
Another man ran through the door and Y/N gasped as his big hand closed around her wrist, helping her to stand.
“Can you walk?” he asked, voice caring yet urgent.
She squinted at her savior and pure green eyes blazed in the darkness. She smiled despite the horrors around her.
“Yeah. I-I think so.”
He smiled back and tugged on her arm. “Good. Run.”
She hadn’t been back to Bobby’s in weeks, hadn’t talked to him, never answered his calls. The memory of what she said to him was painful. Her words were stabs of guilt whenever they echoed in her thoughts.
She drove the winding country roads with an open bottle between her thighs, taking a drink whenever the sun hit the windshield just right, or when a passing thought struck her broken heart. The radio was torture, constantly reminding her of late-night drives and off-key ballads, of stuffing quarters into old jukeboxes in crappy bars, of his raspy humming in the shower.
She hated every song but the silence was unbearable.
Twice, she’d almost hit the guardrail; desperately turning the wheel at the last second before metal crumpled and her soul escaped.
When the bottles were empty and her eyes were barely open, she’d pull off to the side of the road and sleep it off. Occasionally, she’d book a room in a shitty roadside motel, but money was running low.
Leads were almost as scarce as her funds. Demons refused to answer her summonings; witches ignored her pleas. The libraries were useless; the internet a maze of imagined bullshit without real answers. She was lost.
There was nothing she could do for him. No way to bring him back.
There was nothing she could do to ease the pain in her heart. No way to save him.
“Why you starin’ at me?” he asked, green eyes narrowing over the giant burger he held in his hands. His elbows were on the table; the sleeves of his gray henley rolled up.
Y/N smiled softly. “You’ve got mayo on your cheek.”
“Oh yeah?” Grinning, he took another, bigger bite and a glob of ketchup slopped down onto his chin.
“You’re so gross.”
He squeezed the buns and more mess sloshed out, covering his fingers, his mouth, and the table below.
“And you’re too clean,” he said, letting the burger fall onto the crinkled yellow wrapper between his elbows.
Worried, Y/N sat back and glared. “Don’t you dare.”
A playful spark lit his face and he jumped up, quickly rounding the table to her side.
She held up a hand in warning. “Don’t.”
He smirked, all charm and desire as he grabbed her arm, yanking Y/N from her chair.
“Do not!” she yelled, laughing while trying to twist herself away.
He countered her twist, spinning her into his arms and locking her against his chest. She cringed when he attacked, rubbing his filthy face against hers. The condiments squished between their cheeks and Y/N gagged, playfully disgusted.
“No!”
“Gotcha!” He nuzzled against her and the mess spread, coating her face, her throat, her lips.
His kiss was as warm as his arms and she melted into him, relaxing and breathing him in. When his grip loosened, she turned into him and fit her arms around his shoulders, tugging his face down to hers. She licked at the mayonnaise, kissed the ketchup away, laughing at his scrunched-up nose and the way her tongue tickled his jaw.
“You’re a mess,” he teased, staring at her as if she was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen.
Y/N sighed. “I guess we’ll have to go clean up then.” She pulled away, clasping his hand as she did and leading him to the small bathroom. “If you wanna…”
September arrived unexpectedly.
Y/N gave up on the highways and let Sam convince her to tag along for a while. She wasn’t happy about it, but she was never happy anymore.
There was no pleasure in the sweet, cool breeze or the changing colors. No joy in the golden sunsets that lingered over the horizon, no peace in the quiet, early autumn nights.
If she was broken, Sam was more so, just better at appearing to piece himself back together. He spent his time distracted by work and the demon bitch that had failed to save his brother.
Ruby was a constant presence, always whispering in Sam’s ear, offering comfort and strategy. Y/N watched them grow ever closer and kept one hand on her gun. She didn’t know what was going on, but she was sure it wasn’t good.
Not that she spent much time worrying about it.
When they weren’t chasing some monster, they were squatting in empty houses and wasting away in their grief.
Late at night while Sam found satisfaction in Ruby’s arms, Y/N would slip away and walk the dark streets. She invited danger and prayed for something to distract her, to make her feel alive again. The whiskey wasn’t doing it anymore. She couldn’t even feel the bitter sting when the first sip hit her tongue. She was numb through and through.
Some evenings, she’d flirt with old men at the bar for free drinks, letting them run their leathery hands up her thighs or let them stare at her tits while they jerked off in the bathroom. A few times she’d let the bartender fuck her in the stock room in exchange for a bottle to take home.
It didn’t matter. Nothing did. Things that used to disgust her were just things now. Letting men stare at her body, violate it, use it, it didn’t matter. Her heart had gone dark.
One night, she found herself in the brick-laid alley behind the bar on 4th and Main, feeling like a cliche from an early nineties HBO show. The ground was pot-marked and wet. Puddles reflected the street lights in oil-slick rainbows and passing cars shot streaks of light across her face as she followed a stranger into the shadows.
“You always conduct business in such squalid locations?” she asked.
The man scratched at the mop of greasy black hair atop his head and rolled his eyes. “Sorry. The carpet in my office is being cleaned.”
He stopped suddenly and turned to face Y/N, catching her off guard. He was terribly tall but sickly thin- she knew she could snap his arm if she needed to. But she wasn’t worried. This was purely a quick transaction, an exchange of goods.
Y/N tipped her head back as he came close. He stunk of cigarettes and body spray, both thick but failing to cover the other.
He grinned down at her. “You gonna tell me your name?”
Her jaw clenched. “Well, gee- I didn’t think I needed to bring my ID…”
He laughed, exposing the rotted yellow teeth that hung to his gums. She shuddered.
“Good point.”
Lights from a police car lit the alley, but neither took notice. They were too far in the dark to be seen and the threat of prison didn’t seem to touch either one.
The man dug in his jacket pocket for a moment and then held out his open hand. Y/N slapped a few bills down and scooped up the drugs.
His warm hand slid up her back and Y/N dropped down to capture his lips. His fingers tensed as her tongue slid into his mouth; his breath hitched as she rolled her hips.
There wasn’t much room in the backseat, but they made due.
When she sat up again, a bit of light from the radio glinted in her eyes and he sighed at the beauty of it, of her, of the moment.
“Somethin’ wrong?” she asked, settling back into place. His cock was buried deep inside and she felt more full, more whole than ever in her life.
“Not a single thing.” He smiled and raised his right hand, splaying his fingers apart.
Y/N rocked up and sank back down slowly, watching as the motion made his gaze soften and his lips part. She reached for him and threaded her fingers through his.
He closed his hand, locking her there.
It felt right.
“You feel that don’t you?” he asked, staring up at her with gem-like green eyes and kiss-swollen pink lips.
Her cheeks burned under his gaze. “What?”
He squeezed her hand. “That spark between us?”
She could feel his pulse in his palm and imagined it merging with hers.
“That’s somethin’ special…”
“Mhm.” Y/N bit her lip nervously as she nodded in agreement. “I…I kinda might feel like… maybe I… could really… really… like you.”
He laughed gently and tugged on her hand, pulling her down for another kiss. “Heh. Me too.”
Euphoria faded as she blinked into the harsh light.
Sprawled out on the ratty mattress, Y/N had been out for at least a few hours but she had no idea the number. Long enough, at least, for Sam and Ruby to show back up and put a stop to her sweet dreams.
Sam kicked at the frameless bed and Y/N groaned.
“Go away!”
Instinct raised her hand, eyes screaming from the bright overhead light.
Sam cast no physical shade over her but his disgust was evident.
“Are you serious, Y/N?” His tone was less than kind as he reached down and swatted the needle from her arm, afraid she’d stab herself as she squirmed. “Drugs?”
Y/N rolled onto her side and wiped the drool from her chin. “Uh… yeah, that’s what it was.” And it was amazing. The second the drugs hit her vein, it was like he was back. Superman had flown around the Earth and spun time back to where everything was alright. To where everyone was- well- moderately happy and safe, but he was alive.
She wanted to scream now that it was gone. Tears filled the corners of her blood-shot eyes but there was no time to linger. Sam was itching for a fight.
“You trying to kill yourself?” he asked, standing back up to full height and sneering down at her.
He had been working out a lot lately and his arms were huge, his chest swollen and unnaturally large. It was a little scary.
“What? No.” Carefully, she rolled onto her hands and knees and reached for his help.
His hand was as warm as hers was freezing.
She stumbled when he let go and he huffed heavily, nostrils flaring.
“Then you should probably cut this shit out,” he hissed. “I’m not always going to be around to hold your hair back while you choke on your own vomit.”
It wasn’t funny, but his audacity was.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Sam?” she laughed, a little too loudly. Her voice echoed in the empty, abandoned room they stood in. “First off, that’s not how it fucking works. And secondly-”
“Does there need to be a secondly, Y/N? You’re shooting up in a freaking crack house!”
Laughter died and twisted into contempt. “Yeah? And what are you doing in this crack house, Sam?”
He spun away, ravaged by guilt. She kept at it.
“What are you and Ruby doing all night? Havin’ tea parties?”
Sam’s shoulders tensed up nearly to his ears.
“Yeah. I’ve seen you two.” She crept up behind him, sizzling with accusatory superiority. “Wanna tell me what’s in those tea cups, Sammy Boy? Cuz it ain’t tea!”
Fists clenched, Sam turned. Heat was coming off of him in waves as if a nuclear generator was lodged in the center of his chest.
“Shut up!”
Y/N tried to match his stance but he was far too intimidating and she shrank back a pace. Her body wanted to fly, but her mind wanted to fight.
“No! Tell me what you’re doing besides fucking that demon bitch!”
Hazel eyes went wide and his upper lip twitched. Y/N hadn’t seen him so angry since- well, she never had. But it didn’t matter. What was he going to do? Hit her? He could try, but the way she was feeling, he’d take some damage too.
“I said, shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
Y/N scoffed. “I know what you’re doing,” she whispered. “I’ve seen her blood on your lips.”
His breath stopped. His face went slack, pale.
“What I don’t know is why.”
Sam spun away and ran his hands through his hair, thinking, reacting, figuring out a lie. She waited silently, praying he had an explanation for what she’d seen but knowing he didn’t.
When he turned back, he was calmer but his world was painted gray. Sadness crept into his features, mirroring her own.
He was drinking blood.
She was struggling to feel.
The reasons didn’t need to be spoken out loud, because they were the same.
They were mourning him, and they were drowning.
“You should have let me come,” she whispered, still lamenting being left behind.
He sighed and sat back in the creaky chair. The motel room was old and stale, desperately in need of renovation. But, it was the best they could do for now.
“The only thing that would have changed is I’d have been worried about you getting hurt.”
She glared at the gash on his forehead. “And what do you call this?”
“Eh.” He shrugged. “This is what happens when you crack a tombstone. With your face.”
Y/N took a deep breath and bit her tongue. There was more she had to say, more reasons to yell at him, but she didn’t want to make things worse. Instead, she carried the small bowl of warm water to the table and set it down beside him. She dipped the questionably clean washcloth into the water and then lifted it to his face, gently dabbing away the layers of blood that had caked his face. The cut was long, but it wasn’t too deep. There’d barely be a scar.
He watched her face while she worked. He knew there were words behind her focused eyes, knew a fight was brewing.
“Say it.”
She let out a breath and rang out the cloth. “Say what?”
“You know. So just say it.”
Y/N shrugged him off and pressed the edge of the cloth to his cut. He hissed at the sting and grabbed her wrist, pulling her arm down.
“Y/N…”
She tensed up and twisted free. “Don’t.”
She turned away and he knew she knew. He could feel it hanging around them like a chemical fog, creeping closer, threatening to choke them both.
He stared at the back of her head. Hating himself.
“Just talk to me!”
She flinched. “About what?” She spun around before he could answer and hit him in the chest with her words. “About the fact that you sold your soul to a fucking demon? That you’ve got twelve goddamned months to live? You really wanna talk about that? You wanna tell me how you could do that? How you could just… kill yourself like that?”
He swallowed hard. Squeezed his eyes shut. Prayed. “I didn’t- it’s not- It wasn’t about me, Y/N.”
“Sure as fuck is! It’s your life! It’s your soul that’s gonna burn in Hell- no one else’s.”
“Exactly!” He shot up from the chair, nearly knocking it over. “It’s my ass going in the fire and not Sam’s!”
Despite how hard she was trying, the tears fell. She clenched her jaw and looked away.
“It was me or him, and I swear to God, I’ll choose me every time.”
“You choose to die. That’s what you choose?”
Frustrated anger tore at his chest. “Goddamn it, Y/N, I had to! I couldn’t just let him die! I had to bring him back, so I did the only thing I could do and I don’t need you making me feel fucking worse about it!”
She trembled. Head to toe, everything inside of her shook. When she took a breath it was ragged, when she tried to speak, it was a weak gasp.
“What?” He leaned in, turning his ear toward her.
She cleared her throat and tried again. “What about the rest of us? What about everyone who needs you? Loves you?”
He shook his head and a single tear fell from his emerald eye. “He needed me… And I did what I had to do.”
“I… I can’t lose you.”
He took a step and then another, moving across the battlefield to wipe the tears from her cheek. “I’m sorry…”
Sorry for how it affected her, for her tears, for her broken heart. Not for what he did. She covered his hand with her own and closed her eyes.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to help you outta this.”
He smiled sadly and took one last step. He bent to kiss her lips and she relaxed against him, giving up.
There was nothing they could do but exist in the terrible before and wait for the clock to strike midnight.
It was pouring outside and the rain was beating at the shotty windows and sneaking through the cracks in the roof.
Y/N woke from her stupor and swatted an invading raindrop from her face. Her body begged for more sleep, but sounds from downstairs hit her ears like firecrackers. Slowly, she crept down the steps and lingered on the landing.
They were fighting. It was hard to make out Ruby’s shrill words, but Y/N was sure she heard her name rolling off of the demon bitch’s lips more than once. Sam was barely defending her, shooing Ruby’s comments away with a wave of his giant arm.
“She needs to go, Sam. She’s just in the way,” Ruby insisted, sliding close to Sam and pouting. “She’s going to ruin everything.”
Sam sighed, his shoulders drooping and his eyes closing. “Fine.”
Y/N’s throat tightened. “Fine?”
Immediately, Sam spun around, guilt painting his face when he saw Y/N standing there.
Ruby’s lips curled in a victorious smirk.
“You kicking me out, Sam?”
His eyes flitted about the room, but there were no answers hiding. “No…”
Ruby stepped up. “Yes. He is.”
Y/N shot a look at the tiny beast. “Didn’t ask you, bitch.”
Sam flinched. “Y/N, we can talk about this-”
She sucked in a deep breath and stormed forward, closing the gap between them save for a few feet. “I don’t think we need to talk, Sam. Seems like you guys have it all figured out.”
“It’s not like that,” he insisted. “It’s just-”
Again, Ruby stuck her nose in. “No, Sam, it is like that.” Her evil gaze fell on Y/N. “You need to go. Sam has to move on with his life and you are stifling him with your constant neediness.”
Her tone was so matter-of-fact, so calm and serious that it felt like a knife stabbing Y/N in the heart.
Sam’s silence twisted the blade.
Y/N stared up at him, silently pleading. He was really all she had left. “Sam?”
He dropped his head, said not a word.
“Fine.” Y/N nodded, looking back and forth between her friend and the demon on his shoulder. “Fine. I’ll go. Fine. That’s fine.”
In a rush, she moved to the table by the window and reached for her keys. The only thing she needed was her car. It was packed already, always ready to go. She looked back over her shoulder as she dragged the keys across the scratched wood, hoping Sam would snap out of it and stop her.
In her haste, she knocked over John’s leather journal and it hit the floor with a thud. The cover fell open and exposed a sheet of paper, folded neatly in half, with her name written on the back in big block letters.
His letters.
His handwriting.
Confused, Y/N stooped to grab it, just as Sam came crashing forward, trying to tear it from her hands.
“Whoa!” Clutching the paper, Y/N jolted back and away. “What the fuck is this?”
Sam stammered. “It’s… he-”
Her heart sank as she stared down at her name. “When did he give you this?” she asked, looking back up with tear-soaked eyes.
Sam shook his head, bit his lip.
Y/N raged. “Sam!”
“Right before we went to Indiana.”
Months. For months it had been sitting right there, tucked away without her knowing.
“Why-” She shuddered, clinging to the paper so tightly she nearly ripped it. “Why didn’t you give this to me?”
Sam softened. “How could I? Have you seen yourself?” He shook his head. “I didn’t want to make things worse.”
“Worse?” Y/N’s lip trembled. “Did you read it?”
“I did.”
Fire rose in her cheeks, pain churned in her gut. She balled the letter in her fist and sneered. “Fuck you, Sam Winchester.”
If he called to her, she couldn’t hear him over the blood pounding in her ears and the thunder raging above. She ran into the night and drove off into the dark.
When she could breathe again, she pulled off to the side of the road and flipped on the overhead light.
Block letters. Traced twice in blue ink.
Hotel room paper. Crumbled by her hand.
She could hear him in every word. Reading the letter was like feeling his breath on the back of her neck, drowning in his whispers in the dark.
He didn’t go on too long, didn’t drag things out. It was a goodbye, plain and simple. The dying man’s last words to the girl he’d let into his heart.
…I knew I was never going to have a normal life but something about you made me think maybe it was possible. And I thought if I could have a future, I’d want it to be with you. And all I know is- if there’s a hell, there’s a heaven and I’ll fight my way out of hell to meet you there someday.
I promise.
Lightning lit the sky but she couldn’t see it. Rain beat down on her face like icy sheets but she couldn’t feel it.
There was nothing left inside of her. Nothing ahead, only behind.
“I knew I’d see you again,” he said, kicking off of the dirty brick wall and smirking as she came close. “Can’t stay away, can ya?”
Y/N let out a breath and licked her cracked lips. There would be no flirting this time, no quick quips in the alleyway. She needed what he had, and that was that.
“You have the stuff I asked for?” she asked, looking down at the backpack by his feet.
He shrugged. “Maybe I do. You got my money?”
Y/N pulled a wad of cash from her back pocket and handed it over: a thick stack of twenties left over from the last time she’d bartended.
He flipped through it and frowned. “Where’s the rest?”
“What?”
“The rest of my money. It wasn’t easy to get all this shit and you owe me a bit more.”
Y/N bit the tip of her tongue to try and stay calm. “That’s all I have.”
“Well…” He fanned the cash out and looked it over, finding it wanting. “Sorry. No dice.”
She wanted to fight. To scream. To kick the living shit out of him until he lay bloody and broken at her feet.
But it wasn’t worth it. She’d find what she needed elsewhere.
“Although…” The drug dealer stuffed the cash in his pocket and leaned back against the wall. “If you really need the stuff now… I guess you could do something for me.” He bucked his hips subtly and licked his lips.
She held her breath, sick to her stomach.
…If I could have a future, I’d want it to be with you…
Y/N exhaled fully and went to him, falling quickly to her knees in the shadows.
…If there’s a hell, there’s a heaven…
It wasn’t easy to choke them all down.
The vodka was warm and stung her tongue, made her chest heave with a cough after each handful was swallowed.
She started with the red ones, then the orange, then the colors all started to mix together in her eyes.
At first, she counted out of habit. It was like walking down a long flight of stairs, forever counting the steps and then forgetting at the bottom. It didn’t matter how many there were, she just needed to get down to the end.
When the pills were gone she forced down the rest of the booze. When that was gone, she turned to the needle, forcing her shaking hand to work the plunger and send happiness into her veins.
She laid the car seat back and blinked at the drops of rain that trailed down the windshield. The rain was letting up. The sky was clearing.
She smiled.
…I’ll fight my way out of hell to meet you there someday…
His lungs were burning, his atrophied muscles screaming in pain as he clawed his way through the dirt.
There was no sense of up or down in the earth, no light to guide the way.
He pushed harder through the mess, holding his breath against the dust and rocks that threatened to drown him. He gave himself one last push with his toes on the solid coffin floor and then there was nothing. He was suspended in the dirt, swimming without water, fighting for his life.
Each second was a struggle and the slowing of his heart told him to hurry. He needed the air, he needed to be free.
Finally, his fingers broke through the hard ground and the earth shifted around them. He forced his way up, kicking and squirming against the tightness until he felt the sun on his face.
He took a breath and feeling returned to his body.
He grabbed at the weeds and grass around him and pulled, finally escaping the impacted dirt.
Panting, he collapsed and rolled onto his back. He blinked into the harsh sunlight, green eyes sparkling as if Heaven’s light were inside of him.
He relaxed slowly. He breathed deeply.
Dean Winchester was saved.
…I know you’re gonna want to do something stupid, Y/N, but you can’t. You gotta be strong for Sam, for Bobby. They’re gonna need you. Just like I’ve always needed you. You gotta do this for me. Be there for them. Keep them going. Keep yourself going.
I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you. You just promise me you’re gonna be safe. Be happy. Live a big life for me, OK?
And someday, a long fucking time from now, I’ll meet you up in heaven. I know that sounds cheesy. I don’t do the whole romantic movie schtick, but… since I won’t be around for you to make fun of me, here it is:
I knew I was never going to have a normal life but something about you made me think maybe it was possible. And I thought if I could have a future, I’d want it to be with you. And all I know is- if there’s a hell, there’s a heaven and I’ll fight my way out of hell to meet you there someday.
Dean’s a pretty simple man. He likes the things he likes and you can rarely get him to change his mind about it.
He loves classic rock. Epic guitar solos that pour from the speakers and carry you away. Deep, pulsing, intricate bass lines that rock you to your core. Drums that block everything out. Lyrics that paint a picture so clear you can see it with your eyes closed. He rarely voluntarily listens to any music made after 1984, but will tolerate it if you’re driving - those are the rules, after all. And good luck getting him to admit he wiped away a tear listening to that Taylor Swift song you blasted from your room the other night. It won’t happen. Ever.
Dean loves a home-cooked meal, especially if it ends with pie. He doesn’t hate cake, but he finds the frosting too obtrusively sweet. He likes apple pie because it’s warm and tart with just a hint of sweetness hiding behind the biting cinnamon. He likes a rich, flakey crust that you can only get by using real, full-fat butter. Low-fat and calorie-free are not words he is familiar with and actively avoids when roaming the aisles at the grocery store. If he’s gonna eat, he’s gonna enjoy it, cholesterol be damned. He’d happily take a greasy double bacon cheeseburger over even the fanciest offering at a steakhouse and prefers his fries shoestring and deep-fried-orange, thank you very much. He picks his whiskey based on dollar amount not years aged. He’ll eat pizza cold and right off the floor if he has to. He’s not picky, but he likes what he likes.
He pretends not to care about looks, but he’s been known to mess with his hair in the mirror for way longer than necessary, and he’s once or twice been caught with whitening strips clogging up his mouth. He prefers comfort over fashion but he damned sure knows how to find a tee that’s just a little too tight in all the right places, a pair of jeans that hugs his ass just so. He’s well aware how that deep burgundy flannel shirt brings out the freckles on his cheek and the green of his irises. He’s no fool. He knows he’s handsome; knows when he grins just so his dimples could ignite a fire in a thousand hearts.
He loves kids but he tries not to think about it too much. Sure, whenever a stroller passes, he sneaks a peek at the tyke inside and wonders what it would be like if your DNA and his got squished into a little human, but he lets it go. As he tells himself: “Mars ain’t the kinda place to raise a kid”, and neither is the Bunker or the life he leads.
He finds comfort in small touches- fingers grazing over the backs of knuckles, hugs lingering a moment too long. He falls asleep now to the sound of your breath, the slowing, gentle rise and fall as you run around in dreamland beside him. The warmth you emit under the blankets is enough to sustain him through tomorrow and the next day, and he wonders how he survived all those years sleeping alone.
He’ll never tell you that, though.
He loves you deeply but he’ll never say the words.
He’ll prove it to you in a thousand different ways. In tender kisses and dreamy smiles. In whispered secrets and unwavering trust. He’ll protect you with his last breath. Give up his very soul to make you happy. But don’t ask him to admit it. Don’t force him to say the words out loud. It’s too much for him to handle. He’s battled monsters since he was a child, saved the world more times than he can remember, but the idea that you might not love him back, say the words in return… It’s too much, too terrifying a thought for him to risk. So he’ll tell you in the little ways. The simple ways.
He’s rough but sweet. His hands are big but warm and gentle. He’s a killer. He’s a genius. He’s stubborn. He’s ridiculous. He’s unfunny. He’s adorable. He’s beautiful. He’s kind. He’s miraculous. He’s inspiring. He is a holy unnatural, amazingly flawed, perfectly damaged, horribly broken man.
He’s Dean Winchester.
And you wouldn’t want him any other way.
For @deanwinchesterswitch and all the true Dean Girls out there.
From Austin Macauley Publishers, available in paperback and ebook at Amazon and Barnes & Noble
Jason emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, his tanned body damp and shining from the water, hair slicked back and dark. A white towel hung low on his hips and he held it together with one lazy fist. He stepped into the room and Nora’s heart beat a little faster. He turned and went towards his suitcase and she lost track of the world around her as she focused on the flex of his muscular arms reaching for a shirt.
She moaned under her breath.
Jason’s head turned quickly and he caught her staring. “See something you like?”
Startled, Nora scrambled to pick the pen up from her lap and got back to her list. “Gross. No.”
Jason licked his juicy bottom lip and eyed her suggestively. “Gross?” he teased. “Come on, Nora. No reason to be a prude.” He turned towards her, smooth chest fully on display, and slowly lifted the white tee over his head, posing for her.
She scoffed and tried not to watch his abs tense as he moved. “I’m not a prude,” she snit. “I just…” Her mouth ran dry, all of the wetness inside of her body collecting between her thighs. She shook herself and cleared her throat. “Don’t flirt with me, OK? I’m not a bimbo from the gym or wherever you pick them up.”
Jason’s jaw dropped and he pushed his head through the shirt, popping back out with his hair a beautiful disaster. “I don’t pick up bimbos.”
Nora hummed in mock agreement. “Sure you don’t.”
He pulled the shirt down over his still-damp body, and it clung to his shoulders, showing off every line, dip, and muscle. “I don’t!” he defended. “The last chick I dated was the adjunct professor of English Literature at Georgetown.” He crossed his arms and cocked an eyebrow, waiting to be vindicated.
Nora didn’t buy it for a second. “You made that up.”
He laughed. “I did.”
His smile made her heart jump. He was too handsome, too naked, too… there. Nora blushed as he stared at her, waiting. She bit her tongue to try and stay calm. “So, what did she actually do?”
“I don’t know, I think she was a barista?”
It was Nora’s turn to laugh. “You think?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”
Unsurprised, she set her notebook down and scooted towards him, creeping slowly over the bed. She leaned over her crossed legs and narrowed her eyes at him, glaring. “So... how is that dating?”
Trying to hide a smile, he pursed his lips, making deep dimples pop on either side of his upper lip. “I say date,” he explained cautiously, “but I mean-”
“Fucked and left?”
His jaw dropped and green eyes went wide. “You’re awfully judgemental, Ms. Hammond. When’s the last time you got any?”
She stammered to answer, cheeks burning, pulse racing. “It’s… it’s been a while.”
Long legs carried him to the foot of the bed and she could smell the heat beating off of him.
“A long while,” he said, voice dropping to a deep whisper.
She swallowed hard as he leaned down, terror and arousal flooding her system. She held her breath, afraid yet praying that he would drop down and grab her, lift her up into his arms, and fold her over as his tongue pressed into her mouth. “You’re so rude,” she breathed, unable to put any force behind it.
He chuckled smugly. “Hey, you started this…” Dark lashes closed slowly, brushing over his freckled cheek. He bent down, set his hands on the mattress, took a breath-
A loud crash from outside broke the moment, and both agents jumped to their feet, rushing over to the window.
Jason reached the camera first and zoomed in, checking on the rooms across the way. “Nothing,” he said finally, “just a dog.”
Nora noted the time in the log and turned her back to the window, crossing her arms and ankles as she perched on the edge of the desk, annoyed. “This is so fucking boring.”
Leaning over, Jason shot her a wink that could turn a desert into a rainforest. “I know a way to make it less boring…” His eyes trailed down to her mouth and his tongue shot out to lick at his cracked lips.
Nora exhaled loudly and growled. “Put that tongue away, sir,” she warned, “or I’ll shoot it off.”
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~ While working as a PA for Vought, Y/N has made one promise to herself: to stay the fuck away from Soldier Boy. Some promises are too easily broken…~
Soldier Boy x F!Reader
2,434 Words
NSFW. Snark. Cursing. Assholery. Fucking.
For @jacklesversebingo “You couldn’t handle me even if I came with instructions”
JacklesBingo Masterlist
Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist ~ Patreon ~ Published Works
He was terrifying up close.
It wasn’t just the knowledge that he could rip her apart with a simple flick of his wrist, or shove her so hard she’d splatter against the wall like a bug on a windshield. It was much worse than all that. It was the fact that he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. His green eyes behind that mask were piercing… the way his muscles pulsed beneath the suit was mesmerizing… the way he walked with that bow-legged swagger was sexy as hell. Being attracted to the epic piece of shit was way more dangerous than the threat of death.
When Y/N got the job at Vought Studios, she made a promise to her diary and herself. In no way would she get so close to him as to give away the fact that her innocent pussy dripped whenever he was around. She would ignore him entirely. Besides, his behavior was reprehensible. His attitude toward women was disgusting. His ass was so perky and tight and… No. She was going to be strong. She was going to steer clear of all that nonsense.
Not that he’d ever pay attention to someone like her. The key aspect of her job was to be neither seen nor heard; just a person waiting in the wings to hand off a prop, run and get coffee, and clean up the dressing rooms. It would be easy to stay in the shadows, completely off his radar.
Soldier Boy was pissed.
He may have actually been pissed as well as just angry: he stank of rye and stale cigarettes, and fumbled over his lines more than a few times.
For over an hour, he held the crew hostage while attempting to film his required Anti-Drug PSA. Vought was trying to score some points with the public by helping out D.A.R.E. by pimping out their celebrity supes for commercial spots. Soldier Boy was next in line and very unhappy about it.
After the twentieth take, he demanded caffeine and production halted until Y/N returned with a styrofoam cup full of black coffee.
Y/N held her breath and tried to walk away without really looking at him, but Soldier Boy flipped. He sniffed the drink and sneered.
“Is this hot?”
Y/N stepped back as he stared into her eyes, daring her to say something. A wave of arousing fear washed over her as he slammed the cup to the floor. It splintered like rotted wood and the hot liquid went everywhere.
“Iced!”
She jumped.
He raged on.
“Iced coffee!” he screamed. “It’s not hard!”
Nerves ran down her spine and Y/N moved to grab a rag from the craft table.
“It’s fucking unprofessional!”
A knot formed in her chest and instead of shying away, she felt a surge of defiance.
“You’re fucking unprofessional,” she ripped under her breath.
Soldier Boy’s head cocked to the side. She felt his eyes on the back of her neck, digging in.
“Excuse me?”
Y/N turned back with the cleaning rag in hand. “Hmm?”
His jaw clenched and his upper lip twitched. “The fuck did you say to me?”
Batting her eyes innocently, Y/N shrugged and bent down to mop up the spill. “I didn’t say anything.”
His anger followed her down, watching as she dabbed at the floor. Leaning close, he whispered a warning. “I have super hearing, you know.”
Y/N hummed as if she found him boring even though she was screaming inside. “That must be fun for you.”
Again, his teeth gnashed together and she swore she could feel the air around them grow hotter. A deep growl rumbled in the back of his throat and Y/N met his gaze, unfazed but terrified. He was taken aback by her bravery and somewhat impressed by her attitude.
“You know-”
The director called for attention and Soldier Boy sat back up, getting ready while keeping one eye on the mouthy PA.
“OK! Let’s run again!”
If he got through two lines in a row, it was shocking. More than once, he stopped just to glare at Y/N. She couldn’t tell if he was contemplating snapping her neck or undressing her with his eyes, so she kept her arms crossed and her expression cool.
“If taking drugs is uncool,” he mumbled, laughing at himself, “then I’m the most uncool motherfucker on the planet…”
Some of the crew laughed along, but Y/N sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. “You really are,” she muttered.
His laugh died away instantly and he threw daggers with his eyes. “Fuck you.”
Y/N cocked a brow. “Like I’d let you,” she laughed.
Soldier Boy straightened up, surprised. His annoyance turned to interest and he licked his lips. “Oh, I think you’d let me.”
She tongued her cheek and popped a hip. “You think?”
“I know.”
“Pfft.” Y/N rolled her eyes. “You couldn’t handle me even if I came with instructions.”
His smile faded and she turned away, giving him a literal cold shoulder.
The air shifted and her heart stopped when his big hand wrapped around her upper arm, jerking her back a step.
His lips grazed her ear. “You wanna rethink that last statement, sweetheart?”
Y/N tried to wrench her arm away but his grip was absolute. She spun around to face him and nearly lost her footing. He was impossibly close and regrettably gorgeous. She gasped.
“Get off me.”
He blinked slowly and looked her over. He could hear her heart pounding, see the blood rush to her cheeks, smell her arousal. “You’re so… interesting.”
She swallowed hard. “W-What?”
“Defiant and bitchy, but oh so hot for me.”
“Fuck you, no I’m not.” Again, she twisted her arm to break free but it was no use.
His fingers tightened, bruising her flesh. “You are,” he grinned. “I can smell it.”
“You’re disgusting,” she spat.
Behind them, the director tried to regain control.
“Um- let’s uh- if we could just go one more time-”
Soldier Boy shook his head. “No. We got it.”
“We really didn’t,” the man pleaded. “I really think we should go again from the top.”
“No,” he repeated, dragging his eyes down her trembling body. “That’s a wrap!”
She wasn’t sure if he was carrying her or if they were simply moving too fast for her brain to register her feet on the ground.
Soldier Boy broke the lock on a random office door and shoved Y/N inside. He flipped on the lights and kicked the door shut as he turned to smirk at her.
“Now, where were we?”
Y/N backed away, internally battling her desire and aversion. “I believe I was telling you what a piece of shit you are.”
He laughed at her daring words. “You’re something else, you know that?”
She shrugged, playing it cool. “It’s been said.”
“Yeah, but not by me.” With a smug smile, he pulled the mask from his face and ran a hand through his hair.
Y/N felt her defenses crack. Her vision blurred for a second. “Um… I… really don’t care what you think, actually.”
He clicked his tongue and took a step closer. “I think you do, actually.”
Her heart skipped two beats in a row and then struggled to catch up. “Actually, you can fuck off.”
“Maybe.” Soldier Boy grinned and closed the space between them. “Or…” He reached for her throat and her body tensed. Instead of a death grip, he slipped his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her close. He was gentle, but she could feel the strength pulsing underneath his touch. “I can fuck you.”
She couldn’t think of a protest that would even remotely come off as true but it didn’t matter anyway. Before she could speak, his lips were on her and her mind melted. He slid his tongue between her lips and her breath stopped. He ran his left hand across her tits and her legs went weak.
When he pulled back, she swayed forward, caught in his pull and utterly on fire for him.
His laugh was smug. His lips were wet and plump.
“Knew you couldn’t resist me,” he teased. “But it was a nice try.”
Every bit of resistance faded into his grin and Y/N dove at him, grabbing a fistful of the fabric collar loose around his throat. He laughed into her hungry kiss and set his hands on her hips. He lifted her as if she weighed no more than a feather, and slammed her down onto the desk like she was simply a toy for his amusement.
He rocked into her and Y/N moaned loudly. His cock was hard and she reached down, rubbing him through the spandex tights.
“How- how do these come off?” she whimpered, tugging at his bottoms.
Another deep kiss blew her mind and Soldier Boy held her chin in two fingers, stretching her throat and setting her face where he wanted. She held the pose while he backed away and stripped for her. Layer after layer of forest green and woody brown fell away and Y/N clenched her thighs tight as more muscle was revealed.
“Fuck… you’re gorgeous,” she breathed.
He smirked and spread his feet apart. “I know.” Grabbing his dick, he stroked himself slowly and nodded at her. “Now you.”
Y/N shivered and hopped down from the desk. Nervously, she tugged at the hem of her oversized periwinkle sweater and yanked it up.
Soldier Boy sucked his teeth. “No. Slowly.”
She took a breath and started again, this time lifting away the soft polyester slowly and deliberately. Next came her jeans and he hummed in lustful admiration as she tugged the acid-washed denim down her thighs.
“Very nice.”
Embolden, Y/N turned and shook her ass for him as she unhooked her bra.
“Go on…”
She tossed the garment over her shoulder.
“Keep going.”
Aching with anticipation, she slid her hands into her panties and inched them down, bending at the hips and showing him everything.
“Fucking hell…”
He was on her in a second; big hands tight on her hips, hard cock snug between her thighs. He settled there for a moment, letting her juices drip down onto his throbbing shaft. She leaned back and he scratched his fingers up her sides and scooped her tits into his warm palms.
“Fuck… your hands are so big,” she mewed.
He jerked his hips and the tip of his cock slid against her clit.
“Just my hands?”
Y/N bit her lip and wiggled against him. “Let’s find out.”
He flipped her over like it was nothing and threw her down on the edge of the desk. She spread her legs wide and he set up camp between them.
“You ready?” he asked, already lining up.
She nodded breathlessly and arched her back off the desk, begging. “Do it. Please!”
It was almost painful the way he snapped his hips into her. His thick cock spread her apart and her flesh burned at the pull. She bit back a scream when he pressed all the way in; dropped her jaw when he tugged her hips down off the desk. His blunt nails sunk into her soft curves, nearly drawing blood. She held her breath. He thrust his cock deeper inside. She lost her mind.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” It was all she could say and it amused him like nothing else.
With a grunt, Soldier Boy lifted her legs high and pushed forward, bending her in half. The new angle pushed him in so deep Y/N thought she could feel his cock tap against the base of her throat. She gagged and her eyes rolled. He laughed and dipped down to lick at her lips.
“What a good little bitch,” he teased. “Taking my cock so good.”
She moaned with each hard thrust and her tongue rolled out of her mouth. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. There was nothing but mindless, pounding pleasure and his bright green eyes.
He ran his tongue up hers and hummed. “That’s a good idea.”
In a flash, she was on her knees, swaying side to side as he stroked his cock. His fist was a blur, her eyes were white.
“Open wide.”
Y/N dropped her jaw and he slid inside.
“Suck.”
Her lips clamped down and she took a deep breath, pulling at his velvety skin. Her tongue undulated against the pulsing vein of his big cock and Soldier Boy fit his giant hand on the back of her head. He held her in place and bucked his hips, jabbing his cock down her throat. She choked on him, moaning in bliss and protest as spit spilled from the corners of her mouth and coated her tits.
“Fucking perfect,” he grit, throwing his head back and enjoying her desperate whimpers and the tightness of her throat.
Her eyes began to water and he could hear her lungs screaming for air. He set her free.
“Fuck!” Y/N wobbled on her weak knees and nearly fell to the floor.
Soldier Boy caught her quickly and set her back on her feet, bent over on the desk. Her tits smashed against the wood and he kicked her legs apart.
“You’re one hell of a PA,” he praised.
Her cunt pulsed as he ran the tip of his cock across its lips. “It’s… my… job…”
He grinned. “Sure is.” He pushed inside. “Gotta give the talent your full attention.” He slapped her ass hard. “Give them anything they want.” He grabbed the back of her neck and lifted her off of the desk, arching her spine awkwardly. “Isn’t that right?”
She moaned. “Yes!”
“Correct.”
He let her go and she fell back down, just a ragdoll for him to fuck to his satisfaction.
When he was done he slapped her ass, leaving a welt behind as a souvenir.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, already forgetting about her as he tugged his suit back on and fixed his hair.
Y/N crumbled to the floor, her legs spread wide, her back against the desk. She sat there for a long while, feeling his palm print burn on her bottom and his cum leak from her cunt. He didn’t look back as he left, didn’t even shut the door.
Soldier Boy disappeared down the hall and Y/N shook herself, wondering how the hell she’d broken her promise and let him get to her.
~ When Rebekah is asked to write with Jensen on his first solo album, the chemistry extends past the page and bleeds into real life. Both happily married, they tried to fight the spark between them, but some things aren’t so easy to ignore… ~
Jensen Ackles x Rebekah Jordan
6,211 Words
Romance, Angst, Infidelity, Sex and Love and Heartache
Inspired by the song of the same name by The 1975. Written for @jacklesversebingo “Bad Decisions Were Made” was my prompt. I was also challenged to put myself into a fic, so here we are!
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Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist ~ Patreon ~ Published Works
He kept a guitar pick in his pocket.
It wasn’t just any pick. It was the blue one with her teeth marks dented into the top. She’d stolen it from him that night on the beach when the wind was gently lifting her long hair and the fire lit the gold in her eyes. Bare toes dug into the warm sand, they spent the evening writing songs and drinking too much wine. The wine was cheap but the lyrics were good. Her voice was soft and blended almost too perfectly with his. It was magical the way she matched his harmonies, beautiful the way her soft lips danced around his words. The flames transfixed them both and he fell deep into her that night.
He never left home without that pick in his pocket, never let it out of his sight. It was a secret bit of her that he’d stolen, a tangible memory of the feelings she’d sparked within him.
Maybe it kept him grounded, maybe it kept him from making the same mistakes again. He didn’t really know why, but the reasons didn’t matter. Whenever he felt the prickling hand of anxiety curl around the back of his neck, a touch of that pick was all he needed to push it away. If the stress of home was growing too strong or another woman turned his head, he’d run his thumb across the pick, feel her phantom marks, and remember the beauty and pain of loving her.
It was hard to keep it a secret, but happy was easy to fake. He smiled for the cameras; laughed when he needed to. He turned up the charm so those around him couldn’t tell he was shattered inside.
There was sand on the sheets and salt on their skin.
Jensen pushed up on his strong arms and hovered over her, staring into her eyes and making her blush for the thousandth time.
Rebekah bit her lip and shied away, unable to stand the way he looked into her heart so deeply, so contentedly.
“Don’t do that,” she whispered, turning her head.
Jensen chased her gaze. “Why not?”
“Because you’re freaking me out.”
He grinned and drew his pink tongue across his plump bottom lip. “Why’s that?”
Beka’s throat tightened and her eyes burned. Emotions were too high, she was too drunk, and he was too beautiful. “You’re like… digging into my soul. It’s strange. No one looks at me like that.”
He sighed gently and sat back on his ankles between her knees. “They should,” he answered. “They’re missing out.”
Embarrassed, she tried to hide her face in her hands, but he wouldn’t let her. Tender fingers wrapped around each wrist as he lowered her hands and set them down on her hips.
“Don’t…”
Jensen dipped his chin and let his gaze sweep over her nakedness. It was dark in the room but the moon sent streaks of pale silver through the sheer curtains, highlighting every soft curve. “You’re beautiful.”
Her body tensed. She tried to squirm from his grip and grab the sheet, bury her face, and hide herself away. “Stop it.”
“No.” He released her wrists but held on, slowly sliding his big hands up her arms. “You are. I’m sorry no one tells you that.”
His hands went higher and her chest grew tighter. She blinked a tear away but he never closed his eyes, watching every flinch, every breath.
“You should hear it every fucking day.”
“Jensen-”
When his palms settled on her cheeks, her protests fell aside. Transfixed by his gaze and the song of his voice, Beka melted into his touch and invited his kiss with a shy smile that drove him wild.
“We really shouldn’t be here,” she whispered before his lips found their target.
“I know, but…” He closed his eyes and his lashes brushed across the apple of her cheeks. His hands pushed through her black hair, holding her close. “Just one night. Please.”
She always turned off the light.
It felt safer in the dark. She pretended to believe that if she couldn’t see him then it wasn’t really happening and if it wasn’t really happening, no one would get hurt. No vows were being broken, no hearts would shatter.
She wished she’d kept the lights on.
Wished she had kept her eyes open, memorized every line on his face, every hair out of place, every tiny smile. She should have studied him closely, tucked away his image in her mind, and savored his taste on her tongue. She should have stayed focused and pushed away the mind-numbing pleasure and the time blindness that adrenaline brings. She should have tried harder to remember every second with him.
“This just isn’t fucking working!”
Jensen ripped the headphones from his head and tossed them across the room. They hit the wall with a crackling thud and Beka watched the black plastic pop off the band and shatter.
He spun away from the microphone and raked a hand through his hair, aggravated at himself and the time they were wasting. His face was red, his jaw tense, eyes wild.
Beka leaned on her guitar and watched him pace. He could spend hours like this, running his mind through every tiny mistake, desperate to perfect each note. She sighed.
“It’s not as bad as you think,” she told him.
Jensen laughed bitterly as he kicked at the broken headphones. “Yeah. Right. Did you go deaf in the last ten minutes?”
She could tell they wouldn’t get anywhere with him throwing a fit. She huffed her cheeks up and let the air out in a half whistle. “Jack?” She waved at the sound engineer watching them through the big glass window. “Wanna take five?”
A thumbs up appeared and Jack left them alone.
Carefully, she set her guitar on the stand and hopped down from the stool. Barefoot, she padded over the worn Oriental rug to the door and turned the big dial next to it. The overhead lights dimmed and Jensen froze in place.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m giving you a break.”
He balled his fists and rolled his shoulders. His body was tense; his blood pressure was high. “I don’t need a break,” he growled. “I need this fucking song to be done!”
Rebekah wet her lips and crossed her arms over her chest, waiting.
“It sounds like shit! Everything I fucking do sounds like shit!”
She kicked her right foot back and leaned against the door, watching.
“Fifteen fucking takes and it’s still wrong! The whole fucking thing is wrong!” He threw a punch at nothing, expending a surge of rageful energy that had collected in his bicep. “This is pointless!”
“I don’t think it’s pointless.” She kicked off the door and took a step into the room. “I think it sounds great so far.”
Jensen looked up at the dark ceiling and sighed. He waved her away, annoyed. “You don’t get it.”
“I don’t get what? That you’re a perfectionist and it’s giving you an ulcer?”
His jaw twitched. Green eyes pierced through her like daggers. “You don’t understand what kind of pressure I’m under all the fucking time! It has to be perfect! I have to be perfect!”
His voice echoed through the studio but did not escape the expertly crafted walls. It simply bounced back and slapped him in the face.
Beka sucked her teeth and took another step closer. “You’re right.”
He balked; eyes narrowing at her.
“I don’t understand what it’s like,” she went on. “I don't know what it’s like to spend every day working my ass off and every weekend being talked at, screamed at, and touched by strangers.”
Jensen sighed heavily and shook his head, annoyed. “That’s not-”
She kept going. “I don’t know what it’s like to absorb a million camera flashes or hear my name said over and over.”
“I don’t mean it like that-”
“I don’t understand what you go through, Jensen.”
He softened. His shoulders dropped, his hands unclenched, his breath slowed. He closed his eyes.
“But I do understand what I hear in your voice.” She finished closing the space between them, standing only inches away. “I understand what I feel when I read your words.”
He shook his head, still unbelieving and frustrated.
Her voice dropped low. “I know what I know when I’m with you.”
Jensen opened his eyes and met her gaze.
“And what I know is that you are… amazing and talented and truly… incredible.” She smiled and he dropped his head, too tired to fight and needing every word. “You awe me every day, Jensen. Every part of you is simply incredible.” She lifted her hand to his chin and drew his face up to hers. “And if you want to spend the next… forty years getting these songs out of your beautiful mind… Spend a decade recording them over and over again until they’re painfully perfect, I’ll be here at your side until you’re satisfied.”
A peaceful warmth washed over him and she could see it in his eyes. He grinned. “Until I’m satisfied?”
She rolled her eyes at his teasing joke. “I should really choose my words better.”
Jensen reached for her. “I think you chose them perfectly…” His big hand wrapped around the nape of her neck and he pulled her close.
His lips were cracked and dry but his tongue was hot, wet; hungry. She sighed into him and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, digging her fingers into the soft black cotton.
“You’re fucking amazing,” she whispered as he walked her backward; his long strides forcing her to keep up until her back was flush against the wall. “So fucking amazing.”
He licked into her mouth, dragged his hand down her body; rocked his hips against hers. She tugged at his hair and gasped as his teeth scraped over her pulse.
“We shouldn’t do this here…”
“I know…” Jensen sucked a mark behind her ear.
She shivered at the hard pull of his lips. “Maybe… just a quick break…”
He never slept much.
The hours just before dawn were the worst. He’d lay awake staring at the clock on his phone, begging the minutes to pass or the kiss of sleep to return. Too early to move, too anxious to rest. He still craved those midnight masses in her arms, those nights when nothing mattered but her breath on his skin and her lips at his ear. Her sacred whispers too blasphemous to repeat but too beautiful to forget.
Some nights he would wash his face in the blue light of his screen, scroll until he saw her face, and then hug the phone to his chest. Could she feel him across the miles? Did she know she was on his mind?
A gentle buzz woke her, the vibration of her nightstand made her move.
Blinking into two a.m. darkness, Rebekah grabbed her cell and swiped quickly to shut off the alert. Her husband snored beside her, halfway across the world in their king-sized bed.
The light burned her eyes but the message soothed them instantly.
‘You up?’
Jensen. She smiled and rolled onto her side with the phone clutched tight.
‘Kinda. why are you? Can’t sleep?’
‘My head’s too busy. Can I call?’
She closed her eyes and took a breath. Hubby shifted in his sleep.
‘Yeah. lemme go outside’
‘Meet you there.’
Carefully, Jensen slipped out of bed and crept down the hall. He avoided the creaky spots on the floor and held his breath when he passed the twins’ bedroom.
The night air was warm and he sat on the patio, staring at the moon’s reflection on the surface of the swimming pool, wondering how cold the water was. He thought to stick his toes in, but before he could move, his phone vibrated.
“Hey.”
Beka exhaled a sweet breath into the phone. All nerves and worry faded when she heard his voice. It was always like a blanket around her, warm and safe. “Hey, Jen.” She sat on the back deck under the stars, a bit chilly but it felt good. “What’s got your brain running around?”
“Oh, you know. Work. Life. Wife.”
She laughed softly. “Yeah, I get that.”
The quiet between them was never hard, the distance never awkward. Just hearing her breathing was enough for him. His gentle hums made her smile.
“Wrote a new song this morning,” he told her. “One of those ‘in the shower’ moments.”
“I don’t think you can put out a song about jerking off in the shower, sir.”
He laughed. She could see it in her head: that brilliant smile, his head tipping back, his shoulders quaking.
“Not like that!”
“Yeah, yeah. Dirty old man…”
“So what, you never jerk off in the shower?”
Her cheeks burned. “I’ve been known to rub one… or two… out in the shower, yeah.”
He licked his lips, intrigued. “And what do you think about when you do?”
“You.”
Jensen shifted, unconsciously spreading his bowed legs. “Oh yeah?”
“Generally, yeah.”
“What are you wearing right now?”
She chewed her lip and slid down in her chair. “PJs.”
He laughed. “Tell me.”
“Um… burgundy tank top…”
“Nice… and? Shorts?”
“Nope.”
“Those cute lacy panties I like?”
She clenched her thighs. “Perhaps…”
He hummed in lustful approval.
Beka ran a hand slowly down her body. “And you?”
“Boxers. Blue stripes.”
“Nothing else?”
He laughed quietly. “It’s warm here.”
She moaned. “I wish it was warm here.” Her fingertips grazed her nipple. “I wish you were here.”
Jensen sighed. “Me too, Bek…”
They watched the sky slowly lighten. He caught the rays first and then a few moments later they hit her face. The hour had come to tear them apart, but neither wanted to move. It was too easy to keep talking, too perfect to give up.
“The man will be up soon,” Beka said finally. She let out a heavy exhale and sat up, pushing her bare feet onto the old wooden planks. “I should go.”
“Not yet…”
Jensen closed his eyes against the light and pictured himself next to her. The pink sunrise glowing on her pale skin, the June breeze lifting her long hair. He wanted to be with her. He wanted to sweep the hair off her shoulder and kiss her there, to pull her close and spend the morning in her arms.
“Jen- you gotta go, too. She’ll be up any minute.”
He swallowed down the fantasy and huffed. “Yeah… I know.”
“I’ll see you soon.”
He smiled sadly. “Not soon enough…”
His wife was still out cold when he laid back down. Jensen closed his eyes and scrubbed a hand down his face. Calls weren’t enough. Texts were pointless. He needed to see her, needed to feel that rush again.
Beka rolled toward the middle of the bed and tucked her phone beneath the pillow. None-the-wiser, her husband breathed deeply and woke, stretching his left arm out to catch a hug. She curled into him and won a kiss atop her head.
“Morning, Princess.”
She breathed back a tear. “Morning.”
She always loved the little bottles of alcohol they hand out on airplanes. A few sips of vodka did wonders on a flight from coast to coast. A mini bottle of Jameson masked turbulence enough for the clouds to rattle through the plane without invoking any fear. A nip of Bacardi helped lull her to sleep when the cabin was freezing and her neighbor sat too close.
Tiny bottles of magic. Magic that made long journeys seem a little shorter, a little easier. They helped lessen the guilt that struggled to hold her back, the pain of wanting, and the fear of the eternal end.
The carpet was thin but her ass was numb. She sat on the floor, leaning against his hotel room door, lamenting her choices and hating her circumstances.
There hadn’t been nearly enough booze on the flight to Chicago to erase the sins graffitied on her heart, but there had been a liquor store.
She took a long drink straight from the bottle and hummed as the sweet honey glaze of the whiskey coated her tongue. The sting was long gone. She swallowed hard as the elevator door opened and looked up.
Through the drunken blur, she saw him. Boots first. The brown ones with two-inch heels, muted gold rivets, and tan laces. The cuffs of his dark jeans were turned up at the ankle and she followed them up his bowed legs. She’d know those legs anywhere. He was so perfectly imperfect that it made her want to cry. Everything about him was wrong in some little way, but it all came together in a heavenly masterpiece. Crooked nose, rocket-fin ears, bowed legs- he was beautiful.
Tears welled at the thought and Beka wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.
Jensen stopped a few feet away, eclipsing the light above and casting a shadowy figure over her face. “Waiting for someone?”
She laughed despite the tears and cleared her throat, trying to hide the emotions running rampant. “Well, I was supposed to meet this guy for dinner but apparently his photo ops ran long and he didn’t feel the need to call and tell me…”
“Fuck. I’m sorry.” He hung his head and sucked at his bottom lip. “Things were crazy today; everything was off schedule. A light popped during solos and the rig almost fell over and crushed Chris and-”
Beka was staring up at him with disappointment written on her face. He sighed.
“I’m sorry.”
She took another drink and shrugged. “Shit happens.” The bottle, half empty, found a nest in the carpet fibers as she dropped it beside her thigh. “What can ya do?”
“You drink all that yourself?” he asked, crouching down to catch it before it tipped over.
“Well… yeah.” She sat forward and leaned close. “Ain’t nobody else here, is there?”
He grabbed the neck and she grabbed his wrist, wrapping her fingers around tight. Her bottom lip trembled and a dimple in the center of her chin appeared. She pulled in a deep breath.
“I really wanted to see you tonight,” she whispered.
“I’m right here.”
“You know what I mean!”
He closed his eyes for a moment as her anger dissipated. She was never mad at him for too long but she needed to let him know she felt slighted.
“I’m sorry.”
She nodded. “I know. I am too.”
Carefully, he took her other hand. He rocked back on his heels and stood up, dragging her with him. She stumbled on a sleeping left foot and fell against him.
“Oops.” She laughed and wrapped her hand around his neck; nuzzled her lips against his ear. “You caught me… my hero.”
His laugh tickled her cheek. “You’re very drunk.”
“No shit.”
Jensen stepped toward the door and shifted her in his arms while trying to dig the key from his back pocket. Beka held on as if the floor would open up and swallow her whole if she let go.
“Oh! I got you a present,” she said, remembering the tiny plastic bottle in her pocket. “Lady on the plane gave me gin.”
“You hate gin.”
The lock clicked and he opened the door.
“I know. That’s why I saved it for you and your stupid negronis.” She let him lead her into the dark room and stood still while he flipped on the light. “I know you like those things. I don’t know why. They taste like shit and-”
His hands were on her in an instant, knocking the words from her mind as he spun her around.
“Please shut up and kiss me,” he begged. “I miss you.”
“But I’m drunk,” she reminded him, smiling in his arms as his fingertips brushed the bangs out of her eyes.
Green eyes lured her in, plump lips sealed the deal.
“I don’t care.”
Sometimes he had trouble remembering.
One moment, he would be flooded with memory- the taste of cold coffee and stale cigarettes in the diner that first week; the feel of the old, ratty air conditioner blasting down on the back of his neck. The accidental touch of her knuckles as he reached across the table to steal her pen. He’d smile, breathe deep, and linger in the phantom feelings. Then it would all fade. He’d struggle to bring back the taste of her skin, the sound of her humming harmony to his melody. She was slowly fading and he hated it.
He kept her words in his wallet: a worn slip of paper from the register covered in her handwriting. The first song they’d written together seemed to come so easily in that little diner in the middle of the night. Words and a feeling. Rhymes and a shy smile.
He missed every part of it.
The brewery was buzzing with excitement. The crowd was grooving; the band was on fire.
Jensen clung to the mic stand as if it were the only thing keeping him standing. His knuckles were pale, his cheeks burned bright red.
Rebekah kept her eyes glued to him, ignoring the crowd and the friendly faces that stood out. She watched his stage fright slowly subside as the audience accepted his new songs; saw his shoulders relax and his smile soften. His voice grew stronger and his confidence soared.
When he looked over his shoulder, she was there just like she had promised. He smiled when their gaze met, so ready to sink into the rich brown of her eyes, the warmth of her body, the taste and smell of her. She blushed and hit a wrong note, her fingers sliding off the strings, distracted by his freckled beauty.
He had his brewery ballcap on backward and she wanted to reach out and whack the bill, flip it off his head, and let his long hair cascade into his face. She wanted to grab him by the collar and tug his lips down to hers. To crush her guitar between their bodies and lick deep into his mouth, suck gently on his plump lips, take his breath away.
Applause broke her fantasy and she ended the song with a dramatic sweep over the strings.
Jensen gave the crowd a little wave and a humble nod. “Thanks so much, guys. Thank you!” He paused and took in the room. The energy was high and so was he, drunk on beer and the moment. He sighed heavily and happily. “Thank you so much for coming out tonight and helping me launch this album. I’m really proud of it and I hope you like it.”
A pop filled the room and he bit his lip at the adulation.
Beka was close to tears as she watched him. Incredibly proud. Perfectly amazed.
“So, uh, I want to just take a second to thank my writing partner…” He turned and waved at Beka who winked in return. “Rebekah Jordan, everybody! Doing everything behind the scenes- writing, singing harmonies, playing drums… badly.”
“Hey! I told you I wasn’t a drummer!” she shouted back.
“Yeah, but you didn’t tell me you were so bad!”
She shot up two middle fingers and Jensen smirked. A spark of clear arousal struck them both and he quickly looked away, back to the crowd.
He cleared his throat. “And- my beautiful wife! Thank you for all the support and inspiration.” He gestured to the back of the room where she stood behind the bar. Arms crossed in obvious displeasure, she simply nodded at her husband.
“Anyway- this is another new one. Hope you like it…”
Four simple chords rippled through the air and Jensen closed his eyes. He held the mic in both hands and let his voice float like honey, covering every person there until the audience was swaying in time with the band.
“So long gone, too far away,
Spent my life on the road.
Whipping wind and freezin’ rain,
Crossing the river as it overflowed…”
Jensen looked back at her, singing their words and missing her touch.
She lifted her head to find the microphone, ready to sing behind him, but she caught his eye and gasped. He was too beautiful. He was staring too hard.
“But ever since I met you I’ve been home.
Doesn’t matter where on earth I roam.
All I have to do is reach out for your hand and I’m
Right back where I’m meant to be…”
She kept his bandana. Even though she couldn’t look at it, couldn’t touch it without breaking down, it held too much of their time together to get rid of.
The black fabric was soft from years of use, the white design dingy and nearly see-through. It had collected his sweat and wiped away her tears, even staunched the blood when she’d scraped her knee outside of that bar in Pittsburgh. He kept it tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, ready to dab barbeque sauce from his lip or dry a spot for her to sit after a rainstorm.
It lived forever in a box hidden in the back of her closet somewhere between her winter boots and pants that fit two sizes ago.
She never took it out, but she knew it was there.
Ten shows under their belts. Ten small stages knew their chemistry; heard their voices mixing like cream and sugar. Perfectly blended, perfectly in sync, perfectly unable to keep their smiles casual or their eyes from lingering.
When they sang together it was like there was no one else in the room. Jensen would lose himself in the melody, letting her voice wrap around his mind and heart. She’d be stuck staring at his hands so tightly wound around the mic stand, or the way he leaned back to hit a high note. They were too comfortable with each other, too obviously connected.
For an hour and a half each night, they were in their own little world.
For hours after they’d lay in each other’s arms, watch the sun come up over a different city, and share their dreams.
One Saturday night after a show Rebekah was lingering around backstage, feeling a little out of place around the actors there for the convention. She knew them all from afar but never dared to mingle. It felt strange to insert herself into his life in that way. She was only there for the music, only there for Jensen.
He was off talking to a short blonde, laughing and enjoying the buzz from being on stage all night. Now and then, he’d catch a glimpse of Beka on the sidelines and smile that secret smile he saved only for her. Every time, it made her heart swell and her cheeks burn. She’d wink back and look away, embarrassed by her girly reaction.
“Great job out there.”
She turned to find a shirtless Matt Cohen redressing in front of her as if to impress her. She clicked her tongue and looked around him back at the group.
“You too.”
He grinned and followed her line of sight back to Jensen. A knowing smirk turned his lips.
“You and Ackles are really getting along, huh?” He moved to stand beside her, his back to the wall, mirroring her stance.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yeah, I guess. He’s a great guy.”
“The album is really good,” he went on. “That one song- what is it? Something about the beach?”
“‘The Salt on Your Skin’?”
He nodded and kicked a foot back against the cement wall. “Yeah. That one. Really nice.”
“Thanks.”
“Very romantic.”
He looked over at her. His green eyes were pale but intrusive. She shivered.
“I suppose,” she replied, trying to hide the nerves growing in her gut. “It is a love song, so…”
Matt tongued his cheek. “Very… personal, I think…” His eyes flew to Jensen and back again.
Rebekah tensed up and took a step away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do. We all do.” He shrugged and pushed off the wall. “But whatever. Have fun just- be careful.”
Her stomach dropped as he walked away. His warning wasn’t a surprise; she’d been getting looks for weeks, but hearing it out loud, knowing that people knew- she couldn’t stop the dark shadow of guilt from creeping over her face.
When Jensen finally broke free of the conversation, she was gone.
The back of the building was quiet and empty. Fans spilled out around the front, milling about and filling the bright walkways with laughter and excitement.
Rebekah stood in the dark.
She closed her ears to the distant noise, replaying Matt’s condemning words and hating herself. If he knew, then everyone knew.
Everyone.
Since they’d debuted the album, fans had been whispering online, sharing theories and conspiracies, pointing to lyrics and photographs, spinning a web of fantasy around her and Jensen. Mostly, they’d been wild, elaborate stories about a house at the beach, messy divorces, and a secret love child.
She barely paid attention, but there was a hint of truth in every speculation, and she knew what had to be done before things got out of hand.
Lifting her face to the pale half-moon, Rebekah let a tear slip and she closed her eyes. She saw her husband’s face in her mind, heard his voice, and felt his touch. She saw his wife’s hateful stare, her accusing gestures, her utter avoidance.
Things had gone too far.
“Bek?”
She sighed. “Yeah?”
The security door shut behind him. “You OK?”
She shrugged.
He moved to her side. “What happened? You just left.”
“I don’t know. I just… needed some air.”
Jensen reached for her hand and she flinched away.
“Did something happen? Cohen say something to you?” The worry in his voice made her turn to face him. His brow was creased, his lips tight.
“He did,” she confessed, “but it doesn’t matter. It’s…” Her throat grew tight, her eyes stung.
“Tell me.”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t want to do this right now. Not here.”
Jensen leaned in. Worry warped his face, thickened his voice. “Do what? Beka- what happened?”
Her heart ached. “We happened.”
The meaning struck him in the chest but he refused to give it attention.
“What are you talking about?”
Rebekah spun away and hid her face.
“Hey, come on-”
“Us! Jensen. Us. We happened.” She dropped her hands and took a shaky breath. “We happened and everyone fucking knows.”
Stunned into silence, Jensen dropped his hands to his sides and stared at the light post across the alley.
“We have to stop,” she whispered, praying the wind would carry the words away and he wouldn’t hear it.
He heard it. He felt it.
“No.”
She turned back, brown eyes flooded with tears, pale skin glowing under the moon. “We have to. It’s gone too far and if… if some random soap actor who doesn’t even know me can tell… then everyone can. Everyone.”
Jensen refused her logic. “No. No one knows. No one’s said anything-”
“Matt did. And who would say something to you? ‘Hey, Jensen, long time no see! I hear you’re fucking your writing partner. How’s that going?’”
He sighed. His shoulders dropping as reality crushed down on him. “OK, so… maybe some people know but that doesn’t mean we have to stop. I don’t want to.”
A deep breath calmed her tears. “Jensen…” She stepped up to him and stared into the green eyes she dreamt of every night. “If this continues, there will be consequences. Real fucking problems. Your career, our families… it will all fall apart.”
He shook his head. Silent. Unyielding.
“If we keep going… if we…” She knew what she had to do even though it would rip her in half. “Everyone is gonna get hurt if we fall in love.”
He winced.
She swallowed hard.
He opened his eyes. “If?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “If.”
His jaw clenched and he held back a tear. “And if… I’m already in love?”
It felt as if her heart would stop right there and she’d fall dead at his feet. She cleared her throat, pushing all the pain aside. It had to be done and he wasn’t going to do it.
“Then this will hurt even more.”
His tears fell and she held her breath. Everything inside told her to shut up, to take it back, to ignore everything and hold on to him.
“I love you,” he breathed. “Don’t do this.”
She dug her nails into her right palm, a bit of pain to keep her on track. She shook herself and put on a mask of indifference.
“Come on, Jensen. This was never going to be anything more than a dalliance.”
He stiffened. “A dalliance?”
“A mistake.”
“You are not a mistake.” Anger lifted his voice. “This was not a mistake.” He pointed at her and then clutched his chest. “Not you and me. Never.”
Unable to think of anything else, any way to get him to understand, she turned away and wave him off.
“Go home to your wife.”
Desperate, Jensen rushed at her, grabbed her upper arm, and swung her around. Her long hair whipped around them both and she nearly lost her grip.
“Tell me that you don’t love me,” he said.
“Jensen, stop it.”
“No!” His fingers tightened. “Tell me you don’t love me and I’ll walk away right now.”
Her jaw dropped but the words refused to come.
“See? You can’t say it because it’s not true! You love me. You do.” He was insistent and breaking, so close to losing it all.
“Jensen…”
He grit his teeth, refusing to let her go. “You do. Say it. Tell me you’re in love with me, Beka.”
Shaking, she held his gaze and exhaled a deep breath.
“I don’t love you.”
It crackled through the air like lightning and she thought for sure they’d both be struck down.
His hand fell from her arm. He could see the lie written on her face, feel the pain pulsing off of her skin. “I don’t believe you.”
Slowly, Rebekah pushed up on her toes and pressed her lips to his cheek. She held them there for longer than she should have, breathing in one last breath, savoring one last taste of him.
Without another word, she turned to leave, ready to step into the darkness and leave him alone to pick himself up off of the ground.
Jensen dragged his hands through his hair as he spun around, confused, hurt, and on the edge of insanity. After everything they’d been through, all the love they shared, all the promises they whispered in the night, he couldn’t let it go. He couldn’t watch her leave without a fight.
“Fuck you.”
The words cut right through her and she froze on the spot.
“Fuck you for doing this!” His shout rang out and shook her to the core. “You’re breaking us. You’re breaking me!”
She tried to stay strong, appeal to his logical brain. “You’ll be fine,” she said calmly. “Your wife loves you. Your family loves you. You’ll be fine.”
He took a step forward but held himself back from rushing at her and demanding she stay. His voice softened. The tears fell heavy down his face.
“Please don’t do this.”
She turned back and her heart shattered. “Jensen, please-”
“Don’t end this,” he begged. “You bring something out of me. Something I haven’t felt in so long. Maybe ever. You can’t tell me that you don’t feel the same. I know you do. We’re better together.”
It took everything in her to stay standing. She wanted to run into his arms and scream her apology, take every word back and shove them into the depths of their forgotten memory, never to resurface.
“I do,” she said softly. “But it’s… It can’t go on. I’m sorry.”
His weight shifted. He started to go to her.
“What am I going to do without you?”
She met him halfway.
“Write me a song.” She smiled sadly. “Write me a song, just for me. And whenever you play it, I’ll know you’re thinking about me.” Her shoulders shook. “And… that will have to be enough. For both of us.”
The distance between them faded and Jensen lifted her chin with two tender fingers; kissed her lips with undying passion. She lay her hand on the nape of his neck and held on, saying ‘I love you’, saying goodbye.
He pressed his forehead against hers and clutched her hand between them, locking it to his heart.
“Every word I ever write will be for you,” he whispered. “Every song I sing… will be yours.”
It was never a mistake, not to him.
It never felt wrong when he was with her.
When the days were long and he felt like crumbling he’d pull out that old guitar pick and run his fingers over the dents her teeth had made. When the work was hard and his mind was a mess, he’d read her words and remember the way they were then.
A Supernatural Dean x Reader Series Told Backwards
~Y/N has been by Dean’s side through his worst days, always there if he needs her, forever just a call away. Love is impossible to fight and more impossible to live with. Just a side character in his epic life, Y/N would give anything just to give Dean a moment’s peace.~
Please see MASTERLIST for full info/warnings/chapter links.
Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist ~ Patreon ~ Published Works ~ Get A Custom Story
How To Lose Friends and Knock on Death’s Door
She hadn’t been far when he called, which was always strange. Strange to think that out of the entire country, they’d accidentally ended up in almost the exact same place at the same time.
Y/N had just cleaned up a little ghost situation in Absecon, New Jersey and decided to treat herself to a little glitz and glamor down in Atlantic City. Sadly, she found none, but she did find a few really good margaritas which led her to relieve her wallet of a few bucks in Bally’s.
That night, she hung out on the boardwalk, boots thumping gently on the slatted wood. She took her time, nowhere to go, nothing really to do. The moon was bright and its glow reflected on the ocean like a million diamonds sparkling in the swells.
The November wind was slow but cruel and she tugged her jacket around her a little tighter.
Someday, she wanted to come back in the summer. To bring a book and sit on the beach under a rented umbrella and feel the sun burn her legs. To dodge the crowds on the boardwalk, walk through the casinos for a little air conditioning. Maybe she’d bring a friend. Maybe she’d bring Dean. She laughed at the thought of Dean lying next to her on the beach; his back red from the sun, his legs too long for the blanket, toes digging into the sand.
Dean.
She sighed and leaned against the wooden railing, staring off at the water. Her nose was freezing and she rubbed at it, deciding it was time to go.
As she turned, her phone buzzed and she smiled. His ears must have been ringing. Maybe she could get him to come out right now. Despite the late autumn cold, New Jersey was beautiful.
“I was just thinking about you,” she answered with a light laugh.
“Y/N/N…” His voice was panicked and rough.
Her heart sank. Another tragic call, another night of talking him off the ledge. Pushing away her smile and disappointment, Y/N squared her shoulders and focused.
“What’s going on? Are you hurt?”
“No.” He stumbled as if his tongue wasn’t quite sure how to form the words. “You- it’s- Y/N/N, you gotta come here. Now.”
“OK.” His panic drifted through the phone into her. “Tell me what’s going on. Where are you?”
Heavy breathing, a choked back sob.
“It’s Bobby…”
Thirty-one miles wasn’t very far, but she felt every bump in the road like she was running barefoot on broken glass. Her stomach ached; her muscles tensed. Twice, she’d had to slow down in fear of retching, but she grit her teeth, gripped the wheel, and pushed on.
The trauma rooms were on the main floor behind Emergency, and they were hesitant to let her in.
“Please… He’s my father,” she lied, but not really. Bobby had been more of a father to her in those early years after her mother and sister died than her own had been. He was the only one she would listen to when reprimanded or given advice; his house buried in the junkyard was the only place she could truly call home. “Please.”
The tears were real even if the genetics weren’t and they let her in; a short nurse pointing the way to the room in the corner.
Doctors ran in and out, white coats and blue scrubs blurring as tears filled her eyes.
She stood in the middle of the walkway, staring at the body in the bed, refusing to believe that it was Bobby.
The patterned gown was too big, hanging off his shoulders and tucked under in weird places. Plastic tubes came out of his mouth, his chest, his arms. Bright blood leaked through the white gauze on his head.
Someone called her name, but she couldn’t hear it over the monitors beeping or the racing of her heart.
“Y/N…”
Sam touched her shoulder and she jumped back and away, hunter’s instincts taking over.
“Whoa-” He held up his giant hands in surrender and leaned away. “It’s me. Sorry.”
She sucked in a quick breath and looked up into his worried eyes. His hair was a bit longer than she’d last seen; his sideburns a ridiculous mess. He opened his arms and she fell into them, grabbing the front of his green jacket and twisting it in her fists.
“What the fuck happened?” It came out in a wet sob, but the words were formed well enough.
Sam was shaking and braced himself by wrapping his arms around her. “He… we were…”
Confusion choked her. “Who did this?”
He couldn’t answer, he just squeezed a little tighter.
“What happened? What- I- Sam!”
She pulled back and looked up. His face was creased with pain, his gaze sad and empty with shock.
“Sam!”
Hazel eyes flit from her face to Bobby and back again. Unable to speak, he shook his head.
She tore at his jacket, tugging him closer. Her body burned with anger, not at Sam, but he was the only one around that she could beat up on and not end up in cuffs.
“Sam!”
“I’m-” He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “It just… happened. I don’t-”
Y/N could tell how hard he was trying, how strong he was being. The simple act of standing there seemed to almost break him down, but he held himself together. She pushed aside her anger and pressed her hand to his chest in a calming gesture.
He looked down with the tiniest ghost of a smile.
She softened her voice. “Has a doctor talked to you yet?”
Sam nodded. “Just now.”
“What did they say?”
“He’s um… They have to wait for the swelling to come down and then-”
He shrugged, it was all he could do.
Y/N’s head was pounding, her arms felt like lead. She turned to look back at the bed, at the old man lying unconscious surrounded by machines. He looked pale, cold. The thin hospital blanket wasn’t enough. She wanted to run to her car and grab another, cover him up, hold him close, but her feet wouldn’t move. She was stuck in place, looking through the glass doors as Bobby clung to life.
Her whole world was shattering and autopilot took over. There were no more words, no more questions, there was only the eerie quiet between them and the constant mechanical beeping.
At some point, she and Sam found chairs and they sat stoically sharing their pain. He clung to her and she covered him the best she could with much smaller hands.
“He’s gonna die,” she whispered. She was staring, unblinking at the base of the hospital bed, wondering what all the different pedals and levers did. “He’s gonna die.”
Sam sucked in a shuddering breath. “Yeah. I think so.”
“He ain’t dyin’. Not today.”
Dean startled them both with his refusal to admit the truth and his sudden appearance. He towered over them and Y/N tore her eyes from Bobby and looked up at Dean.
His eyes were wide and bloodshot, the skin dark beneath. He was trembling slightly but doing his best to hide it behind a clenched jaw and tight fists.
She wanted to yell at him, to force him to see reality, but she was distracted by a drop of blood. It fell from his hand and struck the top of his boot, splashing like a raindrop onto pavement.
“You’re bleeding.”
He looked down and flexed his fingers. His knuckles were torn and bleeding.
“It’s fine.”
Y/N stood up and grabbed his hand, looking it over. “It’s gonna get infected,” she sighed. “Come on…”
They found an empty room down the hall that seemed unused. Most of the lights were off and the ones that were on were old and dim. They snuck in and Y/N forced Dean to sit on the edge of the bed. He was quiet but she could feel the anger pushing off of him. She could see it in his eyes; feel it in the tension of his fingers.
“What’d you do, punch a wall?”
Dean huffed and cleared his throat. “A- uh- glass window thing.”
Y/N sighed as she dug through a cabinet, plucking out alcohol swabs and gauze. “You think that was wise?”
Dean tipped his head back and closed his eyes. He was exhausted, scared, and running from defeat.
“Was that or the guy’s face.”
She pulled up a stool and steel tray, laid out her instruments and sat across from him.
“Then I guess you did the right thing.”
He let her examine his cuts, winced as she pulled a piece of glass from the middle knuckle, hissed when the alcohol hit his open flesh.
Y/N scoffed and hit him again with the cold fluid. “Baby.”
He cocked his head and looked at her. “You know I love it when you call me that.”
She met his eye and pursed her lips. “Of all the times, Dean. Now is not a good one.”
He shrugged and offered half a smile in apology.
“I’m glad you called.” She wrapped his hand up carefully, sure to make it tight but not too tight. “Thank you.”
Dean licked his lips and dropped his head, staring at the old tiles covering the floor. They were dingy and the glaze was cracked. Just like him.
“Thought you’d wanna be here,” he replied.
“I do. Thanks.” She smiled sadly and patted his arm. “All done.”
“You’re a hell of a nurse, Y/N/N.”
“Don’t you know it.”
She moved to stand, but Dean grabbed her. He pulled at her arms and tugged the stool forward until she was between his legs. She looked up in surprise and then blinked back a fresh swarm of tears.
“Don’t do that,” he whispered, cupping her cheeks in his warm hands and brushing away a tear with his thumb. “You do that and I’ll do that and then where will we be?”
“Crying in an ancient hospital room,” she teased.
He laughed.
She sighed.
He’d be OK.
“Dean, I-”
His kiss was slow but desperate. He held her face, kept her locked to him as his lips pressed tight against her mouth. She was surprised but not really. This is what he did. He called when he needed her, kissed her when he felt hopeless, let his hands roam when he needed to feel alive and connected.
It didn’t matter why, it just mattered that it happened.
Y/N melted against him, parting her lips for his tongue, and breathed him in. He smelled like cheap cologne and smoke, like whiskey and three days without a shower. He stank. He was filthy. His stubble burned her lips. He felt like heaven.
Dean seemed to find his breath again within her and he sucked at her lips, kissed across her jaw, sank his teeth gently into the crook of her neck. Y/N’s eyes were rolling, her skin burning, heart racing.
“Dean, we shouldn’t-”
He sat back, green eyes dark and wide as he looked her over. He ran his fingertips across the hem of her shirt, followed her collarbone across on each side. He was there but not; a mechanical body moving because it had to, but his mind was elsewhere. His mind was back in that room with Bobby.
“Dean…”
As much as she wanted his hands to move down a little further, to sneak up beneath her shirt, rip her clothing away, she knew she couldn’t do it. She placed her hands on his wrists and pulled them gently off of her shoulders.
He startled, shoved back into himself. He blinked quickly and then stood up, pushing her back on the rolling stool.
“I- I’m sorry, Y/N/N-”
Shaking his head, he wrenched the door open and escaped, leaving her alone in the dim light, surrounded by the ghost of a moment and bloody wrappings.
She wasn’t sure how long she sat there picking at her cuticles and absorbing the night. She wanted to break down, to run away and scream as loud as she could until she couldn’t anymore, but that wasn’t her. She was the bedrock, the warm blanket, the calm in a stormy sea. If she wasn’t that, she wasn’t anything.
After some time, she managed to stand. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and his kiss from her lips.
She gathered up the mess she’d made and tossed it all in the bin.
She shut the lights and walked back down the hall.
A white coat flew past her, bumping her shoulder. She turned into the hit and watched the young doctor run towards an incoming trauma.
Outside, sirens were blaring and nurses were shouting, but inside there was a steady ringing. A long buzz that Y/N slowly realized had replaced the beeping.
She looked towards Bobby’s room, her vision blurred and her movements slow.
Dean was at the foot of the bed, his hands on his head as he spun away. Sam was doubled over off to the side, slowly sliding to the floor.
It didn’t make any sense.
A nurse in bright blue scrubs and a white knitted sweater reached over the bed and shut off a monitor. The buzzing stopped.
Bobby was dead.
Anguish pumped through her system and Y/N broke into a run, screaming for help as she reached the room.
“Please! Help him!”
Dean tried to grab her, but she slipped through his arms.
“Please! Why won’t you do something!”
Her hands waved over his body, unsure where to land, unsure what to do. Tears stung her eyes and she let them fall, crashing down like a tidal wave onto the thin blanket. She pushed at his shoulders, trying to get him to move, but there was no response.
“Please!”
She cupped her hands over his heart and tried to push down with all of her strength, to force his heart to start again, but it was no use.
“Bobby, please!”
She climbed up onto the bed and beat on his chest; her cries growing more desperate, more pitiful.
“Bobby-”
When he couldn’t stand it any longer, Dean grabbed her by the waist and yanked her off of the bed.
“Get off of me!”
She struggled against his hold, kicking at him to get back to the bed, but his arms were too solid, his grip too strong.
“Y/N, stop!”
She hissed and slapped at the arm around her middle, but Dean wouldn’t let go.
“Dean! Let! Go!”
She clawed at his hands and Dean pulled her closer. He dropped his head and pressed it against hers. His eyes fell closed.
“Y/N/N, he’s gone. He’s gone.”
Dean’s voice bounded off of every corner of her mind, echoed into the deepest parts of her. She stopped fighting and collapsed, legs giving out and sending them both to the cold floor. Dean fell with her and wrapped his arms around her, curling her into his chest.
“He can’t go,” she sobbed, fingers climbing up his chest to find something to hold on to. “He can’t. He can’t. He can’t…”
Dean cradled her head, rocked them both gently. “Shh… I’ve got you.”
“He can’t go, Dean… He can’t.”
He shivered against her and pressed his lips to her forehead. “I’ve got you.”
She ran. As soon as the sun rose and she could see clear enough to drive, she was gone. She was broken and devastated and the worst part was, he hadn’t asked her to stay.
Quentin was trembling. Eliot could feel him shake as he ran his hands slowly up Quentin's back. His pale skin flushed and goosebumps broke out beneath the pads of Eliot's fingertips.
“Are you OK?”
Q's brows twisted and a nervous pang hit his gut. “Um- yeah. Fine. I think.”
Eliot laughed softly. “That's your problem. You think too much.” Carefully, he traced an invisible line across Quentin's shoulders. “Gotta turn that brain off.”
Swallowing hard, Q did his best to relax, to melt into the warm pool of Eliot's chestnut eyes. “Yeah,” he eeked out in a shaking breath. “Yeah. No thinking.”
It was easier said than done, they both knew, but Eliot wouldn't let him back away.
He smiled. “Just trust me, OK?”
Quentin sighed, finally releasing everybody of tension in his mind and body. He cupped his hand against Eliot's cheek and grinned gently. “I always do…
A Supernatural Dean x Reader Series Told Backwards
~Y/N has been by Dean’s side through his worst days, always there if he needs her, forever just a call away. Love is impossible to fight and more impossible to live with. Just a side character in his epic life, Y/N would give anything just to give Dean a moment’s peace.~
Please see MASTERLIST for full info/warnings/chapter links.
Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist ~ Patreon ~ Published Works
The Things She Carried
She hadn’t seen him in years.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to. God, she wanted to so badly. She wanted to run into his arms, bury her face in his chest and fall asleep. She wanted to wake up next to him, count each freckle in the golden light of dawn. She wanted it all, she wanted him.
But she couldn’t. She couldn’t bring herself to track him down, drive across the miles and land at his doorstep. She couldn’t imagine facing him after so long away, couldn’t bear the thought that he’d cast her away like some old trinket destined for the bin.
She couldn’t risk it. She was road-weary and drained to the point of constant pain. Every muscle ached; every bone felt hollow and brittle. She was exhausted in her soul. She was done.
Late at night she would lie awake and stare at whatever ceiling was overhead replaying her life, her choices good and bad.
Maybe things would be different if she had run away with him when they were kids. Maybe she should have crossed the little stream sooner, hidden with him in the tall grass until they could escape and disappear forever. Would life be so different? Would they be together? Alive? Would the world still be turning if not for the sacrifices he’d made?
What about the sacrifices she’d made? What about all the days she spent alone, holding herself as blood seeped through her fingers? All the times she dropped everything to be there for him, all the days she spent worrying, all the nights she spent giving him whatever he needed whenever he needed it. Would anyone even remember her when she was gone? Would he?
Fuck him. He ruined one of the most important moments in her life. He stole her chance to say goodbye. While she reeled from his kiss, tried to make sense of his affection, the only other man she had ever loved had died.
He died and she wasn’t there. He died knowing she wasn’t around.
Fuck him for that. Fuck him for sleepless nights on the phone calming him down, listening to every trial and tribulation of his life. Fuck him for miles spent rushing to his side to wrap her heart around his wounds, staunch the flow.
Fuck him for every kiss.
Fuck him for every touch.
For every fucking moment.
The boy with the green eyes.
Roswell, New Mexico, 2015.
A string of murders of suspicious nature led older residents to announce that the aliens had returned to take revenge on the naysayers and folks there only to make a buck on the sacred landing spot.
Y/N hadn’t been able to resist such a ridiculous scene and spent a week there investigating.
In the end, they were just regular old murders committed by a regular old crazy person. No demons, no ghosts, and certainly no aliens were to be found.
With nowhere else to be, she hung around the desert for a few more days, enjoying the sun and the dry air.
She almost didn’t answer the phone when it rang, but curiosity had brought her to New Mexico in the first place, so there was no reason to deny its hold.
Luckily, it wasn’t him.
It was Sam.
“Well, if it isn’t baby boy Winchester.” She laid back on the hood of her car and kicked up a knee.
“Hey, Y/N.”
He sounded terrible. Lack of sleep or too much stress, she couldn’t tell. She didn’t know Sam as well. Hadn’t studied him as closely, hadn’t learned every tick of speech, the meaning behind every subtle sigh.
Still, he didn’t sound great.
“What’s going on, Sam?”
He hesitated, swallowed hard, shifted the phone to his other ear. “I hate to ask you, I know you’re… Well, you’ve got your own thing going on, but-”
Her eyes closed, her stomach churned.
“Is he OK?” She couldn’t stop the tremble in her voice and she hated it.
Sam cleared his throat. “No. No, I don’t think so.”
“Shit.”
Last she’d heard through the grapevine, Dean had died, again, and come back as a demon. She didn’t get a call back then, so for Sam to ask for help now- it was bad.
“I think he’d, uh… really like to see you.”
The eleven-hour drive seemed endless, but it gave her time to think.
No matter what she did, he would always be a part of her. No matter how far she ran, tried to hide, he would always win out in the end. It was useless to fight it, stupid to even try.
Sam had given her directions to their place and Y/N stood outside of what looked to be an industrial hobbit hole.
She leaned on her car and stared at the hill. There was still time to turn tail and hit the highway. He’d never even know she had been there.
She fiddled with the chain around her neck, sucked on the metal pendant. It was warmed from her body heat though she always believed it got hotter when he was close.
“Damn it, Y/N/N, just go in…” She groaned and turned away, too scared to go inside. Scared or mad, she didn’t know which.
Just as she put one foot in the car, the big doors opened and Sam appeared.
He was tall and tired, with a shadow on his jaw and worry in his eyes. She wondered vaguely if she had ever seen Sam without that crease in his aura, if he’d ever been truly calm and happy.
“You gonna come in or-”
She sighed and shut the door. “How’d you know I was here?”
He shrugged and gave her a mischievous look. “I may have been tracking your phone.”
“What! Sam…”
He smiled and then pushed at the door, holding it open for her.
“You coming?”
“Well, it’d be stupid to run away now.”
She followed him into the hobbit hole and through another, heavier door. The first room was basically a dark hallway, four steps down from the outer doors and a few paces to the next. The walls were old concrete and the light was dim. She held no hope for nicer things to come.
She was very wrong.
Her little gasp echoed when she walked through the second door. The cave-like entry gave way to an expansive room that took her breath away. A wrought iron balcony met intricate stairs that wound down forever. The room below was set up with a large, map-covered table that glowed, antique computers and machines that looked as if they were sourced from a 1950’s horror movie.
Clasping the rail, Y/N leaned over a bit, trying to comprehend the size of everything but her head hurt. She looked back at Sam and shook her head, eyes wide with awe.
“You live here?”
Sam nodded and shrugged. He smiled at her wild wonder and stood beside her at the railing. “There’s more. It’s, uh- it’s a really big place.”
“Tell me you have a bowling alley or an arcade hiding somewhere in here.”
He laughed. “No, but we do have a tv. Well, I do. In my room.”
Y/N whistled, mockingly impressed. “Wow. Real rockin’ bachelor pad, Sam.”
He licked his lips and looked down at his hands. His knuckles were pale, fingers cold against the metal. “Yeah, well, we don’t get many visitors.”
She covered his hand with hers and squeezed gently. “Wanna show me the rest?”
The Men of Letters Bunker was just as impressive as he made it sound. They toured the halls while Sam explained how they came to be there, speaking candidly about his grandfather’s reappearance and how strange it was to finally have a real place to call home.
She listened to every word, now and then offering a kind word or an interested hum. Her mind was reeling at the enormity of the Bunker. She ran her fingers over the dips between the tiles on the walls, listened carefully to how Sam’s voice echoed off of the cathedral ceilings and back again. She counted their steps, tried to construct a map in her mind so that she could find her way back to the front door, but the path was full of turns and every corridor looked the same as the last. The numbers on the doors changed, however, but they weren’t in any order that she could define.
They stopped in front of door number eleven, and Sam shoved his hands into his pockets. His gaze narrowed on the gap between the door and the jam. The light inside was on, but he knew Dean wasn’t there.
“This is his room?” she asked, wanting to push her way inside but afraid to pry.
Sam cleared his throat. “Yeah.”
She placed her hand on the door and closed her eyes. She wanted to go in and wait for him, be laid out on the bed like some porn star when he walked in, but she knew better.
The kitchen was impressive in an old restaurant that had never been upgraded kinda way, but the pantry was pitiful. Thankfully, there were a few eggs in the fridge and a half of a loaf of white bread on the shelf. Sam left her to it and she got to work making an utter mess of the counter and stove.
She didn’t expect him back soon and he hadn’t expected to see her at all.
“Y/N?”
Her entire being tensed when she heard his voice and she took a breath, closed her eyes, and turned around. Spatula dripping in her hand, she screwed up a smile.
“Surprise.”
Every emotion imaginable flowed over his freckled face and Y/N waited for him to process before saying another word. Green eyes worked her over, lingering on the smudge on her cheek and the mess on her shirt.
Finally, he smiled.
“Nice surprise.”
Her body relaxed. “Is it?”
“Of course.”
Dean rushed forward, rounding the giant stainless steel island, and scooped her up into a hug.
Relief trickled down her spine and she wrapped her arms around him, pushed her face into the crook of his neck. He smelled like whiskey and sleepless nights.
“Fuck, I’ve missed you.” He whispered into her shoulder and held on a little tighter.
He was big and strong, solid and safe. She melted into him; listened for the comforting, steady beat of his heart.
The necklace burned into her chest and she smiled.
After a minute, she pushed at his shoulders but he refused to let her go.
“You’re gonna make me burn your toast!”
He stood up straight and held her arms. “Toast? You’re making a real big mess for toast.”
She squirmed out of his grip and turned back to the stove. “It’s French.”
They sat at the little table in the corner and drowned the snack in maple syrup and butter.
Y/N couldn’t stop staring at him. His face was thin; his beard slowly sneaking out of captivity. His eyes were dark, lined with red, and he held himself differently, as if every second was painful, as if he was having trouble sitting still.
He was staring just as hard, shocked that she was there after being gone for so long.
“Your hair’s different,” he said around a mouthful of French toast.
She cocked her head and ran a hand through her locks. “I guess,” she laughed. “It’s been a while since I cut it. Probably should.”
Dean shook his head gently. “Nah. I like it.”
It wasn’t even really a compliment but she took it as one. Her stomach flipped and she hated herself for enjoying such a tiny amount of attention. She was older now, wiser, stronger. She didn’t need his approval or his affection.
“Thanks.”
“This is…nice. Thank you for cooking.”
Y/N laughed and choked down a corner. “It’s terrible and you know it.”
Dean shrugged and took another forkful to his lips. “It ain’t that bad.” He shoveled it in and then cringed, plucked a crunchy bit from his tongue. “I… think there’s shell in this one.”
She grinned. “I’m surprised there’s not more, actually. You know I’m a shitty cook.”
He laughed. “Always have been.”
“It’s kinda my thing.”
A strange moment passed between them like an autumn breeze. The air was warm but the wind was too harsh, chilling their cheeks. Y/N looked away, crossing her arms and rubbing her hands up the sides. Dean swallowed and sat back; knife and fork in his fists beside the plate.
“So, how ya been?”
Y/N looked around, pretending to inspect the kitchen walls, but only trying to buy herself time to think up an answer.
“Oh, you know me, Dean. Another day, another highway, another monster to kill.”
He licked a drop of syrup from his lip. “Musta been busy.”
She nodded. “Yeah, pretty busy.”
“Too busy to answer a text? Pick up the phone now and then?”
Her guts churned. “Dean, it’s not like that…”
He slumped forward, set his forearms on the table. “Oh, it’s like that. You vanished, Y/N/N.”
His tone was biting and she shivered.
“Dean-”
“You just took off. No goodbye, nothing.”
Anger was brewing inside and her leg bounced uncontrollably under the table. “Dean.”
“We burned him. Without you.”
Something inside of her shattered. The words cut through her like a scythe; his tone burned like salt in the sliced flesh. She clenched her jaw, closed her eyes, and tried to push it all aside.
“You left,” he seethed, upper lip trembling and exposing his tiny canine teeth. She always thought they looked like fangs, always loved the way they scraped across her throat. “We burned him and you weren’t there. I- we needed you and you left. You ran away to God knows where and that was it. We needed you, Y/N. I… I needed you.”
With fists balled, she stood up, spun away from the table. She bit her tongue so hard she was sure her mouth would fill with blood.
Dean laughed sarcastically. “Yeah. Walk away again. That’s awesome.”
Her spine twitched. Nails dug into her palms.
She tasted blood.
“So fucking good at walking away when people need you.”
She snapped.
“Excuse me?”
Her spin around was so fast, her hands slammed onto the table so hard that Dean startled and dropped his utensils. Unconsciously, he sat back, putting as much distance between him and the lioness he’d just unleashed.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Her words curled but there was no question. She was giving him a speck of a chance to apologize before she truly exploded. “Well… are you?”
Dean sucked his teeth, crossed his arms, sat forward. He met her gaze head on. His nostrils flared.
“You left,” he said again, slowly, venomously.
Y/N pulled in a deep breath but instead of calming her, it only added to the fire. “You didn’t ask me to stay, Dean.”
He shook his head, confused. “Huh?”
“You didn’t ask me to stay, Dean,” she said again, injecting as much slashing accusation into her voice as she could. “You never do. You expect me to show up whenever you want me, drop whatever I’m doing to come meet you somewhere so you can fuck your frustrations out on me then kick me out of bed in the morning. Do you know how many bruises I have from tripping over the curb when you drive away? How many nights I’ve stayed awake worrying about you? Praying for you? Not to mention all the nights I had to stay on the phone with you while you blubbered on about this and that, and your brother, and your angel, and your destiny. Do you know how much of my life I’ve spent waiting on a fucking phone call from you? How many days I’ve wasted just hoping you’d ask to see me? You can’t imagine it. You wouldn’t. Because you don’t care.”
Anger and guilt flooded his face. He swung his legs around from under the table and stood up, towering over her with a puffed chest and searing eyes.
“You think I don’t care about you?” He hunched his shoulders, leaning down to let it all sink in. “Is that really what you think?”
She took a step closer. She wouldn’t back down no matter his size or the angry fire pulsing off of him. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“Yeah, Dean,” she said sharply. “It is. Because it’s fucking true. You don’t give a shit about me, you never have. I’m just a goddamned Band-Aid for you. Something you put on when you’ve got a booboo and then rip off and toss away. And the one time I needed you. The one fucking time…”
Dean was seeing red; his blood was boiling and brightening his pallid face.
“When? When the fuck did you need me so badly!”
She grit her teeth, showed her fangs for once. “He was my father, Dean.”
He scoffed. “No. He wasn’t.”
“Fuck you for saying that! He was my father the same as, if not more so than he was yours and he died while I was in the dark wondering how I could help you. You! You fucked me up in that hospital room and then you left me alone to deal with it. And he died while I was in there! He died and I wasn’t there because I was dealing with you!”
Dean straightened, but he didn’t move to speak. He only absorbed her ire and let it burn inside of him.
“Always dealing with you! My whole goddamned life revolves around Dean Winchester! And you know what I got for all the care and time and worry I poured into you? Nothing. I get fucking nothing. I have never been so lost as when he died and you… You didn’t ask me to stay. Didn’t… didn’t check on me. The only calls I got were from you begging me to help with Sam and to meet you in Oswego for a fucking booty call. That’s all I am to you. I’m your fucking whore.”
He huffed, chewed his lip. “That is not true!”
She wouldn’t stop, couldn’t. The simple act of raising her voice, of confronting him after everything had opened a tap that she couldn’t close.
“And you spent a whole goddamned fucking year with her. A year! I didn’t even know if you were alive, dead, nothing. You promised to call me. You swore. And nothing. You went to her. You- did you even think of me? Did you even think, ‘oh, maybe I’ll go be with Y/N for a while’? Well? Did you?”
His eyes closed. “No, Y/N. I didn’t.”
“I have given you years of my life and you’ve just… Fuck, I don’t even know if you take me for granted or if you don’t even notice if I’m around or not. I honestly don’t know.”
She turned away, exhausted and aching.
She couldn’t see the way he rubbed at the curse on his arm, didn’t notice the rage glowing in his eyes. She didn’t feel the danger because she never felt it around him. She could scream all she wanted, but she knew Dean wouldn’t hurt her.
“If you hate me so goddamn much, why are you even here? Huh? What, did Sammy call you? Tell you I wasn’t doin’ so well?”
Each word snapped at her like kitchen shears and Y/N spun back around.
“Fuck you, Dean.”
As tears fell, she raised her right hand, ready to slap him hard; show him she wasn’t fooling around.
The Mark swelled on his arm and shot demonic power into his veins.
Dean grabbed her wrist before she made contact with his cheek and took two steps forward, forcing her backwards into the wall. He slammed her hand onto the plaster and followed suit with her left hand. She gasped, scared but daring him, and he sneered down at her.
“Don’t. Fucking. Ever. Hit me.”
The Mark glowed beside her head and she looked from it to him, stuck and devastated.
“Do you hear me!”
Strength pulsed through him and Dean lifted her away from the wall only to crush her back into it.
Her eyes blurred, her head ached; her ears rang.
“Dean-”
“You think you know anything about me? You don’t know what I’ve been through! You haven’t been around!”
His grip tightened on her wrists and she felt the bone in the right twist.
“Dean! You’re hurting me!”
It seemed he couldn’t stop, wouldn’t let the anger dim. His breath came out in heavy pants through tight lips and clenched teeth; his eyes were like lasers targeting her arteries and setting him up for the kill.
“Dean!”
Another tear trekked down her cheek and it caught his attention.
Dean blinked quickly, clearing his head, and then backed away. He dropped her hands and covered his face, turned his back on her.
Y/N couldn’t move.
Silence filled the room and their heads. Guilt ravaged their bodies.
Her knees gave out and she slid down the wall, slumped to the floor.
When she could finally speak, her voice was small and pathetic and she hated herself even more.
“I… I’m sorry, Dean.”
Calmer now, Dean turned to find her in a heap on the floor and sank down as well. “Don’t be sorry, Y/N/N. I… fuck. Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head and sat up straight, kicked her knees up to her chest.
He crawled to her, tried to lay a hand on her knee, but she flinched away.
“Shit,” he hissed. “I’m so sorry.”
Y/N let out a hard breath and let her shoulders fall. She trusted him. She didn’t trust that thing on his arm.
She nodded toward it. “Is it really bad?”
He rolled up his sleeve and showed off his brand. Curious and horrified, she unfurled herself and leaned in, running a careful finger across the Mark. The flesh was hot, the skin raised and rough. She covered it with her hand and looked up into his face.
“I can’t take it much more,” he whispered. “It’s gonna take over and I don’t wanna go back there.”
Her heart hurt. “You don’t have to let it take you. You’re strong. You’re so fucking strong, Dean. So brave. So good.”
He smiled softly and bent over; kissed her hand.
“I’m so sorry I hurt you.”
She sniffed back the tears and reached for him.
“I coulda just kept my mouth shut,” she confessed.
Dean lay his head on her shoulder and tugged her close. “No. You shouldn’t have to. I’ll be better, I promise.”
“You don’t have to be better, Dean.” She turned inwards and pressed her lips to his ear. “You just have to be you.”
His arms closed a little tighter, he breathed a little slower.
I know how this entire thing plays out already and it doesn’t change how beautifully written this entire piece is, or how emotionally charged it is. Highly recommend 😍😍
