Hi I'm J and this is my master list of stories.
I have only written several and I focus my posting mainly on Ao3 but fret not. All stories there will be posted here. :) If you don't have an Ao3 account, you can find my works here too.
I am a big fan of Dramione, Bucky Barnes, Marvel BOTH Comics and Cinematic Universe and Eddie Munson. I write with a reader insert and if I'm writing for a couple like Dramione or Romanogers; I usually put myself in the story. The girl, who is asian, five feet flat and an introvert and has a name that starts with J. That would be me written in the story.
Here is the list below. Categorized by the Character I write. This will be updated from time to time. :)
I mainly post on Ao3 with my series but my one shots will be posted here in my tumblr first. :)
CREDITS TO ALL THE OWNERS OF THE PICTURE I AM USING AS BANNERS. (Source: pinterest)
FOR TAGLIST: Please make sure to follow me and message me through my ASK if you want to be included. :D Thankieee!
Legends:
🤗 - Fluff
💔 - Angst
🖤 - Dark Themes Involved
🌶 - Smut/Lemon
Warnings: My story is for 18+ readers. I have the tendency to be dark and I'm a bit graphic with violence, mentions of blood, rape or other dark themes. Please be warned.
😍JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES / BUCKY BARNES
🎸 EDDIE MUNSON
➡ Same Old Hawkins, Or Not? (Eddie Munson x Harrington!F!reader) 🤗💔🖤 [COMPLETE; Undergoing Editing]
Summary: After a series of unfortunate events in Utah that she would rather forget which she moved to from Hawkins. Reader moves back to her old hometown just in time for her senior year. She half expected it to be the same old boring Hawkins as she remembered back at middle school.
She was wrong. Apparently, Hawkins is now home to the monsters she thought only existed in D&D and now she is in the middle of an impending doom on her beloved hometown. Really, she was just passing through and now she might have a reason to stay.
Yeah, it’s nothing to do with her small crush on a certain fellow senior. A metal head who is always up to no good. It’s really about saving the town she is starting to love again, yes?
➡ Here We Go Again (Sequel to Same Old Hawkins, Or Not?) 🤗💔🖤 [COMPLETED]
Summary: The Summer of '85 is on the roll. Reader has started her job as a printing personnel in the Hawkins Post with the help of Nancy and Jonathan who are both in their internship as a writer and photographer respectively. Eddie on the other hand is working as a part time mechanic at Jaeger’s Auto shop while Steve continues to work at Scoop’s Ahoy with Robin alongside him.
The kids, well, they are enjoying their summer with the mall in full operation and the upcoming fair that is being planned by the Mayor. Really, as long as all of the upside down remains quiet, everything will be great.
Unfortunately, their plans are going to be in ruins when one Billy Hargrove starts to take interest in the reader. Though, it was much better if it was just some misguided infatuation but apparently there is much more into it than meets the eye.
Reader was really happy not to deal with the upside down and would face a million Billy Hargrove, in fact the rest of them would be happy not to deal with it at all. Apparently, its not done yet. It is just getting started.
➡ Magnetic Attraction (Werewolf!Eddie x Human!Reader) 🌶🤗💔
In Progress.... [Writing parts]
👮♂️LEE BODECKER
➡ Mind Palace : Lee Bodecker 🖤💔
In Progress... [Set in a Universe called Mind Palace. It will have Eddie and Bucky soon and other characters I can write on. Lee is the first one to enter]
💑DRACO MALFOY / HERMIONE GRANGER
➡Untitled Dramione 🤗💔
In Progress... [Set still in HP Universe but altered. Already four parts in.]
Pairing: Trailer Park!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: You're ready to start over, and your neighbor makes a lasting impression.
Word Count: Over 3.7k
Warnings: Flirting, swearing, dirty talk, tension, sexual chemistry, world building, asshole ex, Alpine appearance, Bucky Barnes (he's very forward and a warning, okay?)
A/N: Here we are! My trailer park!Bucky intro. We're calling this AU Diamond in the Rough. Thanks to the nonnies and everyone who has asked about him. He's here, @ellethespaceunicorn, @targaryenvampireslayer, @vunblr, @vesearlee, @startcarvingdarling, @thezombieprostitute, @buckybarnesfic (sorry to anyone I missed)!❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411 , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Your life went up in flames recently all thanks to the match you struck. If people asked your parents, your friends, your old boss, or your now ex-boyfriend, they’d likely say it was a mid-life crisis or form of rebellion to get some sort of attention. The truth was that the fuel had spread for years, daring you to light it all on fire, and you did when you finally had enough. You wouldn’t say the old you was dead and that you were reborn, but you weren’t who you were yesterday either.
This was the start of a different, and hopefully happier, version of you.
Staring at the worn down trailer in front of you, you hadn't made your way inside just yet. While your place with your ex had been large and open and new, this place had seen better days. It needed a fresh coat of paint to start, a new door and windows. It was sinking in that this was really going to be your new home, and it made you happy.
“I’ll bring you back to life,” you whispered, determined to give this place the TLC that it deserved. If you poured yourself into this, maybe it would fix something inside you, too. You certainly didn’t need your ex or anyone else to help.
You looked over at your car, your beautiful Mustang, which had everything you thought to pack. Your bed and other furniture wouldn't get delivered until later, but that was okay. It hurt to think so much of your life, what defined you, could be boiled down to material possessions, but weren't you fortunate since so many had much less? Maybe unpacking as much as you could today would occupy your time and thoughts.
Like finding a new job, something you truly wanted to do and not what was expected of you.
Your phone went off and you hesitated to look at the message, not sure who it would be from. It was funny how for years no one went out of their way to talk to you unless they needed something. Now that you were gone they suddenly cared? The thought left a hollow feeling in your chest, one you didn’t want to examine today.
“I have a bet on how long it’ll take you to come crawling back to me. Can’t wait to see you on your knees with those pretty tears when you beg for forgiveness, Pumpkin. And let’s face it, on your knees is where you belong because you’re nothing without me.”
A surge of anger flooded your veins as you reread it. Even now he expected you’d come back with your tail between your legs where he could look down on you. He had another thing coming. “Trust fund prick,” you muttered, your finger hovering only for a moment before you blocked him. You should’ve done that the moment you dumped him, but doing it now in front of your new home, it felt more right.
Your eyes burned when you put your phone away and an empty feeling began to consume you. Why were you close to tears? Because of him? You knew from the beginning what kind of man he was and you lied to yourself to maintain the facade that everyone else wanted. You were tired of living for other people’s expectations. This was your life, you didn’t need a man, and-
“You lost?”
You turned at the sound of the deep voice just feet behind you, trembling ever so slightly when you saw the man that husky voice belonged to. The sight knocked the very breath from your lungs. You were used to being surrounded by guys who paraded themselves as men, but they were little boys playing dress up. But the man in front of you? He was all man.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
He stood tall and proud, but relaxed and at ease in his element. Blue eyes like an ocean, yet he was the calm of the storm. The short dark brown hair matched his thick goatee and you wished you could feel it against your skin so you knew if it was soft or scratchy. The white tank top showed off his muscles and tattoos and the chain around his neck dipped beneath the neckline. The low hanging jeans hid what you knew was an amazing package. He was something out of a wet dream, the kind of man who looked like trouble.
The kind of man you should stay away from, but wanted to chase after you.
He slowly licked his bottom lip before he asked, “Cat got your tongue, Sweet Cheeks?”
Your face felt like it would go up in flames. Being attracted to what you believed was a new neighbor wasn’t going to happen. It couldn’t. “No, and I’m not lost,” you replied, gesturing to what was now your home. “I live here now.”
You could see why he thought you were lost since it was obvious you weren’t from around there. When you looked for a new place, you purposely picked an area far from your old place. If you had stayed close, it wouldn’t have severed the ties enough. It would’ve made your leash longer and that wouldn’t do.
“Is that right?” He looked you over from head to toe and your mouth went dry when he smirked, the kind that likely disintegrated panties. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
The ruggedly handsome man held his hand out for you, and you only just realized he was wearing rings. What would it feel like if they dug into your skin? And, yes, you may have glanced at his left hand to see if he was wearing a wedding ring, which he wasn’t. “Thanks for the welcome,” you said, taking his hand.
Electricity crackled between you, feeling the crackle from head to toe. The intensity shook you to your core when he locked his eyes with yours and brought your hand to his lips and kissed it instead of shaking it. You let out a breath when his goatee tickled your skin, his eyes locked with yours. Well, that answered your question- both soft and scruffy, the kind that would leave a delicious burn between your thighs.
Jesus, you needed to keep your libido under control. You just got out of a relationship. Weren’t you just thinking moments ago how you didn’t need a man?
“I’m Bucky,” he said against your skin, reluctantly releasing your hand. “You wanna tell me your name, or should I just keep calling you ‘Sweet Cheeks’?”
You told him your name, the sound barely above a whisper. He hummed and repeated it. Never once did you think your name sounded sexy until he said it.
“Why are you calling me Sweet Cheeks?” you asked. Did he call every pretty woman that? Not that you were full of yourself and thought you were drop-dead gorgeous, but you had some confidence in your looks.
He chuckled, a throaty sound that made you want to hear it again. “Well, I hope you don't mind me being forward, but…” he began.
You tensed up a little and looked down at yourself. Was he going to make a comment that you didn't belong there? That you stood out like a sore thumb? You were dressed down, but still looked pristine as you always did, a habit instilled in you that you had to look put together no matter if you were crumbling inside. Appearance meant everything to your family, and you needed to let that expectation go.
“Your ass looks incredible in those jeans. Sweetest fucking cheeks I’ve ever seen and that’s with your pants on.” He licked his lips when his gaze drifted down your body. “I don’t think I’ve seen a better ass than yours.”
You blinked and looked behind you to get a look at yourself. “Excuse me?” you asked. Of all the things you thought he’d say, that wasn't one of them.
“I saw you from behind and stared for a good minute, thinking of all the things I wanted to do to you, before I walked over. You have the kind of ass that should be worshipped. Could make a grown man cry,” he said, your heart speeding up and your core throbbing. “And then you turn around with the face of a fucking angel and I swear my heart stopped,” he added, putting both hands on his chest for emphasis. “Givin’ me a heart attack over here.”
You almost laughed because he couldn’t be serious, but there was no humor in his eyes. In fact, he scanned your face like he was trying to memorize it. “That’s… no. My ass isn’t that great. Neither is my face,” you said. It wasn’t to fish for a compliment, as nice as it would've been, because while you had some confidence in yourself, you didn’t have that great of an ass.
But beauty was in the eye of the beholder, wasn’t it, and he looked like he was two seconds from dropping to his knees in the dirt to worship you like he claimed he wanted to.
“Tell that to my racing heart and my cock,” he said, your mouth parting when he pointed to his crotch. “But if you continue to disagree, I’m more than happy to show you how wrong you are.”
Your words were stuck in your throat, not used to being the center of someone’s attention that way. “I’m sorry, but we just met,” you said, unsure of how else to respond. He didn’t know you, apart from your name, and he was talking about worshipping your ass and looking at you like he wanted to devour you whole?
It was… kind of flattering. What would you have to be upset about? Weren’t you mentally telling your libido to calm down at the sight of him? You were attracted to him, he was just the one being brave enough to vocalize his attraction to you.
His gaze didn’t waver when he said, “Yeah, we just met, but I want you.”
Your mouth parted again. Well, he was certainly forward and that didn’t bother you. It was better than the fake people you surrounded yourself with before spouting pretty lies. “You want me? You don’t know me and I could be a taken woman,” you pointed out.
“I’ll get to know you if you let me. ‘Sides, it’s not like I see a ring or indentation on your finger, so I don’t think you’re married or engaged. And I sure as hell don’t see anyone here helping you with your stuff, so I’m guessing you’ve been single for a while or you recently got out of a relationship,” he said, taking a look around to make his point before he focused on you once again. You weren’t at all upset that he noticed your bare finger since you had looked at his, too. “You wanna be a taken woman?”
Was it that obvious that you were all alone? “So what if I did just get out of a relationship?” you asked. There was nothing wrong with getting out of something that wasn’t right.
He smiled, not pushing when you didn’t answer his question. “Then he’s a fucking idiot for letting you go. And what better way to get over someone than getting under another?”
“I dumped him,” you clarified, not knowing why you needed him to know that. Your ex was likely spewing to everyone that he dumped you to save face, but that’s not what happened. “And I’m already over him.”
You should’ve felt guilty for that, but he wasn’t your forever and you weren’t his. He was free to find someone who fit with him better than you ever did. You were free to find your own happiness.
“Good girl,” Bucky smirked, your legs pressing together. You had to get a grip. “And I wasn’t implying that he dumped you, only that he’s an idiot for letting you go and I’m happy to help you forget all about him.”
You finally let your laugh out and you swore you heard him groan. Did he like the sound of your laughter? “You really are forward, and I just said I don’t need to get over him.”
“I said I’d help you forget about him,” he said, taking a step forward and smiling when you didn’t step back. You weren’t some wilting flower he’d pluck from the soil. “Just let me fuck him from your memories and I swear you’ll thank me when I’m done.”
You frowned. Did he think you were an easy lay, or was he picking up on your attraction to him and running with it? “I haven’t even moved into my trailer yet, so maybe you should let me get settled before you continue to… I don’t know, harass me.”
His eyebrows shot up and the amusement died in his eyes. “Harass you? That’s not what I’m doing,” he swore, taking a step back to give you space. “Look, I’m sorry if I upset you or came on too strong.”
The apology took you by surprise and slowly warmed you inside. Not many people ever apologized to you for anything. “No, I’m sorry. Harass wasn’t the right word,” you said. It was just flirting. Very… strong flirting. “But if that isn’t it, what are you doing?”
He smiled after a moment, that spark back in his eyes. “Just grabbing an opportunity when I see it. Life’s too short not to,” he said.
You respected that perspective. “Is that what I am? An opportunity?” you asked. Something to get out of his system?
“I think you’re a lot more than that and that you may be running from something,” he replied, tilting his head. “Are you running from something or someone?”
He asked like he genuinely cared and you didn’t know how to process that. “I wouldn’t say I’m running,” you said, though you were running in a way, running from the life you no longer wanted. “More like I finally closed a chapter.”
“Well, I’m looking forward to getting to know you and helping you write a new chapter.”
“You say that like it’s a sure thing,” you said.
When his eyes swept over you again, it didn’t look like he was checking you out. It was as if he was trying to figure you out. “‘Cause it is,” he said, glancing at your door before you could say anything to his cocky remark. “Can help you out with repairs if you’d like.”
“I might take you up on that,” you said since you didn’t really have a clue what you were doing when it came to the handyman type of stuff. You could pay him, too. “Don’t get too excited. I said ‘might’,” you teased when he smiled.
Something in your gut said that even if he wasn’t hitting on you that he would’ve offered to help. It was a feeling you had, just like he had a feeling about you. And sure, he looked like danger and sin and everything you should stay away from, but there was more to him than met the eye.
What was his story? Who was the man behind the swagger and tattoos and rough edges? Did he grow up here or did he make a choice like you?
“I run my own shop. I’m very good with my…” He rolled his lip between his teeth. “Tools.”
You laughed again, louder than before, and his smile widened. “You really are something, Bucky,” he said.
“Love hearing you say my name,” he whispered, heat pooling in your gut before he pointed at your car with a whistle. “And she is a beauty. You ever need any help with her, you let me know.”
You agreed. She was a beauty. “Is this the part where you tell me you’ll take me for a ride or something like that?”
“Oh, I'll give you a ride,” he said in a low voice. “As many as you want.”
You ignored the ache between your thighs. “Not today, Bucky. I need to unpack.”
“One sec, Sweet Cheeks.”
“...Is that seriously what you’re going to call me?” you asked as he rushed to his trailer. It was ridiculous, but you didn’t hate it. You sure as hell liked it better than Pumpkin.
“‘Til the day I die,” he called back, whistling when he opened the door. “C’mere, girl. I got someone I want you to meet.”
Your brows furrowed. Who was in there who would possibly want to meet you? Did he have a kid?
You weren’t prepared for a white ball of fur to curl up in Bucky’s waiting arms. “And who is this?” you asked when he strolled back over. The image of such a beautiful cat in his arms was one that would put a smile on your face for days to come.
“This is Alpine. Found her near my shop a while back, starving and shivering. Nursed her back to health and she’s been by my side ever since,” he said, affection written all over his face. There was no bragging in his tone and that made you appreciate his story more. “Al, meet our beautiful new neighbor.”
You weren’t about to preen since he called you beautiful. “Oh, my god,” you whispered, tentatively holding a hand out to her when she lifted her head and regarded you with bright eyes. “Hi there.”
Alpine stared for a few seconds before she sniffed your fingertips and rubbed her head against them, encouraging you to pet her. You felt Bucky’s penetrating stare when you gently stroked her fur. “She’s a great judge of character,” he said, swearing under his breath. “I’m such a dick.”
“What do you mean?” you asked. He was a very forward flirt, but you didn’t get the impression that he was a dick.
“I didn’t ask if you were allergic,” he muttered with a shake of his head. “Fuck.”
Your heart turned over. No one you knew would’ve ever considered that. “I would’ve told you right away if I was allergic,” you assured him, smiling when Alpine purred. “I’m glad he was able to nurse you back to health. I’ll bet you watch over everyone around here, don't you?”
You could just imagine her being a little guardian and your heart twisted. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea for you to get a pet. Like your trailer, you could shower a pet with love, too.
Alpine surprised you when she moved forward and pressed her head to yours. “Fuck me,” Bucky whispered when she curled up again and closed her eyes. “She really fucking likes you.”
“Maybe she’s just being nice,” you said.
“Trust me, she wouldn’t do that unless she really liked you,” he said, leaning down slightly to kiss the top of Alpine's head. “Would you, Al?”
Your heart melted. It wasn't fair how sweet and sexy he looked holding an animal. The only thing missing was him in a leather jacket, which you had no doubt he owned. If you ever saw him in a leather jacket holding a cat, you’d probably combust.
“Like seeing me kiss a pussy?” he asked nonchalantly when he caught you staring.
“Oh, my god,” you giggled, not dignifying him with any other sort of response to his question. Because if you pictured him eating your pussy, your legs would start shaking and you were altready hot and bothered enough thanks to him. “I really should start bringing my stuff in,” you said. You really needed to look over your resume, too, and find a job sooner rather than later.
“Say bye, Al.” He lifted her paw to give you a wave as she meowed.
You smiled and gave her a wave, too. “Bye bye. Thank you for the warm welcome.” It was a smooth tactic bringing his cat out. You imagined she helped win a lot of people over if his charm didn't.
“Wait,” Bucky said when went to turn away. “You sure you don't need any help? I don't mind doing any heavy lifting.”
“I can manage,” you answered. You had to get used to doing things on your own now. “But I appreciate it.”
“If you change your mind-”
“I’ll let you know.”
He frowned, but nodded. “One more thing,” he said, nodding over to a clearing. “Potluck lunch two days from now. You should stop by. Give you a chance to meet everyone.”
“Really?” Your eyes lit up. “I can bake something,” you said. Something delicious that would leave a good impression on the neighbors.
He raised an eyebrow. “You bake?”
“Yeah, I like to bake. Cakes, cookies, brownies, pies, whatever I feel like.” You shrank in on yourself, waiting for the inevitable laughter or insult.
But it didn’t come.
Bucky merely stared when he ran his tongue over his lips. Did the man ever keep his tongue in his mouth? “Now, I think it’s only fair that I get to taste your sweet cheeks and I don’t know if I want to share.”
You shook your head. Surely you hadn’t heard him right. “...You mean my treats?” you asked.
“Cheeks, treats, all of it. Bet it’ll all melt on my tongue,” he replied with a wink and turned away, giving you the chance to check out his ass when he slowly walked away. He spoke about worshipping your ass, but you couldn’t take your eyes off his.
“You cocky son of a bitch,” you whispered with a smile. Of course you heard him right, and you bet he ate like a starved man. “Keep dreaming,” you called after him.
“Oh, I will, Sweet Cheeks. I will dream about you,” he promised over his shoulder before he looked back once more. “You might just be my future wife,” he declared and went inside with Alpine while his words hung in the air.
“Fuck me,” you breathed out, your shoulders shaking as you laughed because that just happened.
You didn’t know how the rest of the day would go, but you did know that your new home and neighbor were going to make for a very interesting and exciting chapter in your new life.
Okay, lovelies. What do we think? Talk to me. Let me know if you love him as much as I do. And let me know where you think this is going. 🥰 Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
Summary: Your car is teetering on the edge of a rickety bridge. When Sheriff Beau Arlen arrives at the scene to help you, he realizes that for the first time in his life, he can hear his soulmate’s thoughts.
AN: Happy Beau Wednesday! And here we go—my last bingo square for @jacklesversebingo … Round 1! 😉 That’s right, I’m gearing up for a Round 2 of fun prompts! But I had to do something for Beau before I closed out this masterlist for the first round. I’ve also been wanting to do another soulmate AU, since I haven’t written one since Never Say Goodbye (Dean Winchester x Soulmate!Reader). I’ve never seen one for Beau Arlen, so I thought, the time is now! Lol
Jacklesverse Bingo Prompt: “I’m gonna take care of this, but until I do, I need to get you somewhere safe.”
Posted on Patreon: 4/09/2025
Word Count: 4.2K
Tags/Warnings: Survival situation, sort of meet cute lol, angst, soulmates, and romantic fluff.
JVB Masterlist || Beau Arlen Masterlist
You picked your head up slowly from the airbag. You could barely feel that side of your face.
Blood began to drip into your eye, but you managed to wipe it away. You glanced down at your hand to watch the tremble in it, curiously.
Your gaze drifted beyond it, beyond your steering wheel. A sea of wheat-like grass and beds of gravel looked ready to meet you through your windshield. The groan of metal accompanied a slight rocking of your little 2009 Toyota Corolla, back and forth. You sucked in a shaky breath and tried to hold in the urge to cough.
Your chest hurt. It was sharp and aching where your seatbelt clung tightly to your ribs.
Then, your heart fell into your stomach as you realized…
Your car was teetering on the edge of the Morelli Bridge. It was one of the few in Helena, Montana that hadn’t yet been replaced for repairs or sold for scrap, but you knew it was old. An old, old timber bridge, built in 1893…which meant you were infinitely screwed.
You braced yourself on the driver’s side door and held your breath, trying to keep the panic from rising up past the tightness in your throat. Your bruised body was otherwise paralyzed; you didn’t know what to do, or even why you were hit. But you could guess.
You glanced out your window through frizzy strands of your hair at the silver SUV that bulldozed into your back tires. The SUV had spiraled away from your car and hit a lamppost. Now the front of it was crunched like an accordion, where it was smoking on fire. Two men broke open the driver and passenger side doors open with their boots. They were dressed like ranchers in their long jackets, jeans, and Stetson hats, but when they hauled out guns along with them, your eyes widened.
What the hell’s going on?!
You heard a horde of police sirens coming closer, until their lights were half-blinding you through the back windows of your car. An unfamiliar thread of feeling laced through you then. You didn’t know exactly what it was, but it cut into your awareness, for a moment right through your fear.
Goosebumps spread across your arms. A tingling warmth enveloped you, comforted you, if just for a few seconds.
A white van striped with red was racing across the bridge along with the squad cars. Between your ringing ears, you almost thought you could hear a man’s chatter, giving orders to cut ‘em off. Form a perimeter. Like some kind of police scanner.
Tears of desperation filled your eyes.
Please. Please help me.
Beau Arlen heard the thought like it was his own, loud and clear as a bell.
His voice cut off mid-sentence as he was speaking to Jenny and into the police radio. She shot him a look—first in confusion, then in concern.
“Beau?” she prompted.
“Yeah,” he said after a moment, clearing his throat. His mouth opened to continue giving his instructions on how to round up these guys; they had already ducked behind their smoking car and were shooting at the squad cars pulling up to them. They’d been caught on the act of trying to steal a showhorse. Luckily the horse was safe and being taken to the precinct, but these dusty cowboys were on the run.
“You okay?” Jenny said. “It’s not often that you’re at a loss for words.”
Beau shot her a wry look. He opened his mouth to reply, but the voice in his mind grew even stronger. Sharper. Feminine, and desperate.
Hellooo! Can they even see I’m still alive over here? Oh, God. Please. I can’t move…
Beau blinked in confusion, but the sharp tug of fear and dread inside his chest was even harder to ignore than the thoughts in his head—thoughts that were most definitely not his own. It was the strangest sensation, like a vice-grip on his heart.
Christ, it can’t be, he thought. Here? Now? But where—
His eyes widened when he looked over and caught sight of a little blue Toyota Corolla. It was teetering on the edge of the bridge, already tipping toward the side of falling right off.
“Pull over here. Now!” Beau told Jenny.
His voice was serious and sharp enough that she did what he said without questioning. She might enjoy poking at him from time to time, but he was still the Sheriff, and after the summer they’d had solving the case of Buck Barnes and putting his wife behind bars, Jenny respected Beau. More than she ever thought she would.
She pulled her 1996 Ford Bronco over beside the Toyota. Beau had his seatbelt off before she even hit the brakes. She started to put it into Park, but he stopped her.
“You back up the squad. I’ll handle this,” he said. He opened the passenger door and climbed out.
“What?” she said incredulously. “If someone’s in there, you’re gonna need help.”
“That’s what the Fire Squad’s for,” Beau said, tossing a thumb behind him at the firetruck speeding towards the bridge. He threw Jenny’s passenger door shut and banged on it twice with an open hand, asking her without words to do what he said.
Jenny didn’t like it, but she peeled off to help the blockade of policemen trying to corral the men they were after.
Beau didn’t exactly know why his instinct was to go to the tipping car alone, but he understood it the moment he hurried over and found you through the driver’s side window. Tears streaked down your face while you sat there very still, and very terrified. Not only could he see it in your face, but he could feel it behind his ribs. It made his desire to help you even more visceral—like a gut punch that reached all the way up into his throat.
“Hey!” he called to you.
Your head whipped over to meet him, and your eyes widened in abject relief. He could feel that too, and it made him smile, even as his own heart began to trip up faster. He pulled at the car door handle.
“Sheriff Beau Arlen, ma’am. I’m gonna get you out. Don’t you worry,” he assured. “Can you unlock the door? Slowly. Try not to rock the boat, so to speak.”
You gave a jerky, minimal nod, and you reached over to press the “unlock” button. The sensor didn’t respond for the locks or the windows. Beau’s lips pressed together. No matter how he pulled at the door, it wouldn’t budge. All he had on him was his gun, a pocketknife, and a lockpick that wouldn’t do him much good here.
Damn it. Should’ve grabbed a slim jim, he thought.
Beau noticed the way you paused, your head tilting as you stared at him with wider eyes. It made him pause as well.
“Did you…did you say something?” you asked, raising your voice so you could be heard through the closed window.
Beau was about to respond when a firefighter captain approached from his right.
“Sheriff,” he greeted with a nod. The firetruck was parked near the Toyota, and there was an ambulance coming up from behind on the bridge. “Just the driver in the car?”
Beau nodded at him belatedly. “Yeah, just be real careful. It’s teetering on the edge of the bridge.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” the captain said. “You might wanna step back, Sheriff.”
Beau looked back over at your tear-streaked terrified face, and he shook his head. He wasn’t about to step out of your line of sight. He wanted you to know that he was here, and he wasn’t leaving you.
“Just get this door open for me first, and we’ll get her out,” he said.
The captain took note of Beau’s firmness, and so he agreed. Two more firefighters came with Halligans and power tools to pry the door open. All the while, Beau was focused on you. He could see your growing panic when the tools whirred loudly and shook the car.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. This thing’s going to tip over and I’m going to be a fucking gravel pancake!
Hearing your thoughts again was like another dousing of cold water to his senses, but he felt compelled to get closer—as close as he could without getting in the firefighters’ way.
It’s okay, darlin’. You’re not gonna tip over. I’m not gonna let that happen, he thought in reply. It was instinctual, but he knew that you heard him. He saw the way you gasped, even as another tear rolled down your cheek.
He was struck then by the look of you. Despite your frizzy hair and a line of blood drying down the side of your face, you were beautiful; your eyes, the shape of your face and the shade of your hair, and the way you were looking at him now, like you were crying for a whole different reason.
You…you’re…
Beau Arlen, ma’am, he answered, with his best charming smile (albeit a bit nervous). He carded a hand through his hair on reflex.
You managed to smile back, wiping your tears away. Yeah, you said that.
What’s your name then, darlin’?
You hesitated, but when you gave him your name, the roll of the letters and the sound of your voice…it all made a strange, warm tingle run down his spine. It filled him with a sensation of champagne bubbly, stirring low in his belly. His hand pressed harder against the Toyota’s hood without him realizing.
The car groaned and began to tip even more.
Shit! Beau’s eyes widened. You gasped and clung to the car seat by your nails.
“Beau!” you yelled out through the glass.
“Got it,” one of the firemen said, and he wrenched the door open.
Beau stepped in quickly and fished out his pocketknife. Flicking it open, he barely had time to meet your eyes before he tore through your seatbelt. Then he slid an arm around your back and under your knees, gathering you to his chest before he scooped you out of the car.
It was just in time for it to snap against the cables secured around the car. You wouldn’t have gone over the edge, even if Beau hadn’t grabbed you and pulled you out…but neither of you had known that.
Your arms wrapped tightly around his neck as you buried your teary face against his chest. You were shaking. Beau nodded at the firemen in thanks and walked a few more feet away from the car. The ambulance was having a hard time getting through on the narrow bridge with all the police cars and the firetruck itself, so Beau saw no other solution but to have you kneel down on the ground with him, using the firetruck as cover.
“You’re all right. I gotcha,” he said gently.
His heart clenched at the way you clung to him, trembling. You nodded shakily, swiping stray tears from your face. When you looked up at him, he was struck silent again.
Just straight up raw beauty. His lips parted, but not a sound came out. His mouth suddenly felt dry.
“Yes, thank you,” you said. The fear faded out of your expression, melting into a smile. “For the save, and for the, um…the compliment.”
Beau blinked in confusion. Complim— Aw, shit.
You’d heard his thoughts just now. Too bad it was entirely the truth. He couldn’t help but smile too, if a bit sheepishly.
The moment shattered when a trill of gunfire sounded. A couple of bullets actually pierced the firetruck, one of them taking out a side mirror. You screamed, but Beau instinctively protected you with his body. He covered you by tucking your head to his chest and wrapping his arm around you.
“Let’s get you out of here,” he said.
“But, my car—” you said, with a tremble in your voice. The firemen were still trying to pull it back onto the bridge. Beau nodded.
“I’m gonna take care of this, but until I do, I need to get you somewhere safe,” he said, cupping the back of your head. “Come on.”
He withdrew his gun and helped you to your feet. He hastened you over to the ambulance, covering your head and your body with his broad frame until he could guide you inside the vehicle. The paramedics collected you from there, but you still stopped short and turned to grab his arm.
“Wait! You’re going back there?” you asked, alarm lacing your tone.
Beau felt your worry for him, your instinct to cling to the newfound connection in your soul, the part of you that sensed its equal. It was like a warm thread thrumming strong between you, but also delicate.
Beau gave you a patient, apologetic smile. “Can’t leave my team hangin’. But don’t worry, I’ll come find you when I’m done here. So we can…”
Your eyes stared deeply into his, and somehow, he knew you were holding your breath. Beau grabbed your hand and squeezed with purpose.
“I’ll come find you,” he promised.
You were reluctant, but you eventually nodded. He was the Sheriff, you reminded yourself. Of course he had to go back. You released his hand, letting him slip away from you.
Every step he took back toward the crime scene—every step he took away from the ambulance revving up to drive away was another step that felt wrong, down to his bones. When the vehicle made its way across the bridge and eventually disappeared around the bend, the warm tendril of connection in his chest dissipated.
He didn’t come.
Not when you spent four hours in the hospital’s Emergency Department. Not when you took an Uber home, ordered takeout, and cried through the entire movie of Fools Rush In to try and make yourself feel like you were home, and not a shaken mess.
However, nothing you did made you feel as safe as you did when the Sheriff held your hand.
Beau Arlen, you reminded yourself. The name that felt branded under your skin, on your heart, the moment he locked eyes with you.
You snuggled yourself deeper into your collection of fuzzy blankets in bed. You pictured his bearded face in your mind, and that small smattering of freckles that only showed up when the firetruck’s headlights hit his face.
You remembered his strength, his little show of badassery when he cut you loose from the car. But most of all, you remembered feeling his determination and his caring. Even if he didn’t say it in words, or even in his thoughts, you knew what you’d felt from his soul connecting with yours. He wasn’t going to let you go over the bridge.
By Wednesday afternoon, you were standing in front of your last class of the day. Helena High School was large enough that you didn’t have every junior upperclassman in your classes, but your 12th grade Honors English class had to be your favorite. The kids were sharp, and they actually paid attention and took notes when you spoke, even if it was on Wuthering Heights.
“Bye, guys. Have a good day,” you waved at them after the last bell of the day rang.
“Bye, Miss!” the last few of them called back.
So polite, you smiled. That was also what you liked about the honors class. The last girl was struggling to pack everything up into her backpack. A book fell off her desk and tumbled to the floor. She looked up at you sheepishly, strands of her light brown hair slipping out of the ponytail and into her honey brown eyes.
“Sorry,” she said.
“I got it,” you said, and you slipped between the rows of desks to help her. John Grisham. Interesting…
“Legal thrillers, huh?” you noted. “Not your typical reading for a seventeen-year-old, but I dig it.”
Internally you wanted to slap your own forehead. Did people even say dig it anymore?
Emily didn’t seem to mind. She just laughed.
“I know. I’m just not that into…you know, sexy vampires, and sexy werewolves, and…sexy fairies.”
Your brows rose of their own accord. “Sexy fairies?”
She nodded, with a blushing smile. “Yeah. But um, anyway, my dad’s on his way, so I’ve got to get out front.”
“Oh, I’ll go with you,” you said. “It’s my turn to supervise student pickup with Mr. Harrison.”
You leave your classroom with Emily and head down the hall with thoughts other than lesson plans running through your head.
I can’t believe that man. You couldn’t keep the frown from crossing your face. Three days, and the Sheriff couldn’t be bothered to keep his promise? What, he couldn’t get my information from the paramedics? The hospital? My damn police report?
You’d gone to the Lewis & Clark Police Department the very next day after the incident to file it, but the Sheriff hadn’t been in his office. You’d asked a Deputy there, a pretty blonde woman, and she’d told you that he was on a case.
“Do you want to leave a message?” she’d asked, when she noticed you hesitating to leave.
“No,” you’d replied. “No, it’s okay. Thank you though.”
You sighed. It was kind of sad, really. You were an English teacher who couldn’t write a simple note…even if it was to your actual soulmate.
“Are you okay, Miss?” Emily asked, breaking you out of your reverie. You gave her a smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry. Just thinking about everything I have to do before tomorrow’s class,” you lied. In fact, you lied through your teeth.
You two made your way outside the building and to the pickup and drop off area. You monitored most of the kids getting picked up, but Emily sat on one of the benches with her headphones in while she continued reading her John Grisham book. You smiled at the sight. It was nice to see kids reading of their own free will.
But you became a little concerned as the hour ticked by.
Geez, where’s her father?
You didn’t know much about her family, but you did remember that her parents were divorced. Her private attorney mother went to the PTA meetings whenever she could, outside of her busy schedule. Come to think of it, you supposed you knew where the interest in legal thrillers came from.
And suddenly, it hit you.
Emily Arlen…Arlen.
You gasped out loud, remembering the pair of green eyes that stared into yours so intensely, and the light brown hair that matched his daughter’s.
"Sheriff Beau Arlen, ma'am."
You jolted out of your thoughts when a red truck pulled into the pick-up zone and stopped at the curb. The man at the wheel honked twice, grinning at his daughter through the rolled down window. Your mouth fell open in soft shock.
“Finally,” Emily muttered, but she smiled when she looked up at her dad. She took out her headphones and stuffed her book into her backpack so she could go over to his truck.
She glanced at you as she passed by, about to tell you goodbye. Noting the spaced-out look on your face, she frowned and stopped short.
“Hey, aaaare you okay?”
It was the second time she was asking, but this time, you couldn’t lie to her. Because her dad followed her line of vision and finally found you standing there. His eyes went wide as well.
He quickly parked the car where it stood. He climbed out, and when he came around the hood toward you and Emily, his foot almost missed the curb and made him stumble.
You broke your frozen limbs out of the proverbial ice and reached out a hand, even though you weren’t even close enough to help. You held your other hand over your mouth to stifle your laughter.
Beau righted himself, clearing his throat. Then he took measured steps over to you and his daughter. The cut of his beard, short brown hair that swept over his dark brows, and kind green eyes…he looked exactly the same, if with a different jacket. This one was beige and suede. It matched well with his blue jeans and boots. His shiny gold-on-leather badge hung on his belt.
“Hey, there,” he said, with a short wave.
Your smile grew. “Good afternoon, Sheriff.”
He smiled too, setting his hand on Emily’s shoulder.
“Dad, this is my English teacher,” she said.
Beau’s brows raised high. “Really. Small world.” His eyes were set on you, and they didn’t leave your face. You bit the inside of your lip as your face began to heat up in a blush.
Emily gave him a confused look. “What?”
Blinking, as if coming back to himself, he patted her back.
“Ah, you know what, I actually want to ask your teacher something. Mind waiting for me in the car?” he said. “Just don’t blast the music too loud, kay kiddo?”
Emily gave him a slightly suspicious look, but she did as he asked, waving goodbye to you. You waved back as she went over to the car. It left you with her father.
Beau swept his fingers through his hair. He was a bit nervous, and you were now picking up on it as the connection between you two flared to life. You felt it deep and warm and thrumming in your chest. At least you weren’t alone in your nerves.
“Looks like you’re doing well. I’m real glad for that,” he said.
You nodded. “I am, thanks to you.”
He smiled at that. It was genuine at first, before it turned rueful.
“I uh…I owe you an apology though,” he said.
“That’s a good place to start,” you replied, though you softened it with a somewhat playful gleam to your smile.
He chuckled, and it pulled at the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes. Somehow, you thought it just made his smile all the more charming.
Then, he seemed to pause. His lips tugged harder at the corner of his mouth.
“Well, me and my charming smile are most definitely sorry,” he said.
Your face fell. Shit. Did he hear that?
Oh, he most definitely did. His grin kicked up into a smirk.
You covered your mouth when a snort bubbled up, your face flaring with a hot blush.
“So we’re basically human lie detectors now. Great. Just…great,” you said, giggling a little.
Beau’s amusement soon faded. “Look, I can’t excuse myself. First I just…I thought you might want some space after what happened. I didn’t want to overwhelm you. Then…well, maybe I just started second-guessing, letting myself get busy. I had no idea you were Em’s teacher.”
Your head tilted as you considered him. After a moment, you softened with a sigh.
“She’s a good kid. Really smart too,” you said, taking a cautious step closer to him. “Think I know where she gets that from.”
Beau snorted. “Definitely from her mother.” But he drew closer to you too, with a meaningful look. “Who I’m civilly divorced from.”
“I know,” you nodded, “but thanks for that footnote.”
He was a bit hesitant, but he reached out and grasped your hand. You took in a deep breath through your nose at the shiver that ran up your spine. That feeling was different, like the burn of smokey, rich whiskey filling your chest. Your heart leapt as you looked up at his face.
Safe. That was the feeling.
“Do you think I might be able to take you out for dinner tomorrow?” he asked. “I mean, I don’t want to go too fast for you, but considering our situation—”
“Beau,” you stopped him with a gentle hand over his. “You literally saved me from falling off a bridge, not to mention a hailstorm of bullets.” You smiled up at him more brightly. “I already know what kind of guy you are. You also happen to be my soulmate. I think I would very much love to have dinner with you.”
When your words finally registered, Beau’s shoulders loosened in relief. He looked like he wanted to say more, but he glanced back and realized that Emily was still waiting in the front seat of his car and watching you two curiously.
Beau sighed. He knew he was in for a full spotlight interrogation on the way home, but he fished out his phone and texted you his number. Somehow he had it without asking for it first…
“So, can I call you later?” he asked, with another one of those smiles that set your insides fluttering.
“Ah, so you did get my cell number off my police report. And still you couldn’t manage to call me?” you teased.
Beau chuckled, ducking his head in embarrassment. Was he even starting to blush?
“Well, you got me there. I really am sorry, darlin’. I just—”
You reached out for him this time, squeezing a hand over his wrist.
“It’s okay, really,” you said. “You’re here now. Let’s just…figure out what this can be.”
Beau peeled his gaze from your hand and looked back into your eyes. He had to smile. If he let himself, he could feel you. Your relief, your good humor, and your hope. It all felt sweet as pie to him.
“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s do that.”
Despite lingering insecurities and the remnants of past mistakes threatening to dampen the moment in his mind, he had just one thing winning out above them all.
I’ve got a feeling this is gonna be good, he thought.
He hoped you could hear it.
AN: Bridgerton fans who have also seen Queen Charlotte will get one of those little references in there. 😘
I have a couple of ideas on how to continue this, so if you guys want to see at least a Part 2, let me know! 💜
Join My Patreon 🌟 For early access to new stories, bonus content, first looks at upcoming stories; send me requests, and more!
Summary: You wake up in a strange alpha’s cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, all with a busted ankle. He holds shadows in his eyes, even though his hands are gentle. There are iron shutters around his heart, even though he saved you. You might just save him in return.
AN: Dropping this a bit early since tomorrow's a holiday!~ But here we're finally getting to the unplanned epilogue for ATW! The claim bond in this is not unlike the soulmate AU I just wrote for Beau. Guess I have a type on this stuff. 😂 Get ready for some family feels! 🥰
Song Inspo: “Against the Wind” by Bob Seger
Posted on Patreon: 4/13/2025
Word Count: 4.2K
Tags/Warnings: Fluff and more fluff, smidge of angst, hint of jealous alpha Dean, tinge of spice~
🧡 Series Masterlist
Epilogue: Shelter
"Someone told me there's a girl out there, with love in her eyes and flowers in her hair..."
You’ve given him a new reason to love Zeppelin IV, Dean thinks. He sneaks another glance at you. The two of you haven’t said anything for almost an hour on this two-day road trip, now almost at an end. But when you notice his gaze on you, the smile you give him is golden.
It makes him feel a little boyish and dumb, like he’s a teenager getting caught staring at his crush. His face starts to get warm, his lips curving upward, so he clears his throat and focuses back on the stretch of road ahead.
The scenery has turned rural, with stretches of wheat-yellow grass and patches of forest on either side of the gray, gravel strip. Out here in Northern California, it’s not so bad as its southern menace—cities like L.A., San Francisco, and Sacramento. Dean can roll the windows down out here and not be assaulted by the mingling scents of exhaust, vegan Tex Mex, overpriced cologne, and broken fucking dreams.
“Almost there,” Dean says, lowering the radio a bit. He points to a big curve in the road up ahead. “If I remember right, we’ve just got this stretch to go.”
You suck in a subtle, but noticeable breath.
“Great.”
Your voice is a little high. Dean raises a brow at you. He concentrates for a moment to suss you out, and he feels a thread of your anxiety through the bond. It’s been just over two weeks since he claimed you, but in that time living such close quarters, practically breathing each other’s air day in and day out, he hasn’t just been getting to know you a hell of a lot more. He’s also starting to understand this private WIFI connection you guys have going on.
Sam tried to explain it to him once, what it feels like after the claim.
“It’s like the world just…shifts on its axis a bit,” he said. “Your awareness expands. You’re connected, in a way that’s kind of…well, it’s hard to explain.”
“Okay, Obi Wan,” Dean chortled. He eyed his brother with amusement, but also with a slight shake of his head. The guy looked fucking twitterpated.
Sam shot him a wry look. “All right, Dean. Just wait. If you ever take that step with an omega, you’ll see. It changes everything.”
Dean held in another snort of laughter. If? Fat fucking chance.
He had no illusions about his life. Not at this point. They both knew he was probably going to die in this bunker, or more likely, on one of these solo hunts he’d started pulling. Sam was busy packing, ready to move out and settle down with Eileen, his mate, his omega—ready to leave his old life behind, and his brother along with it.
Dean was happy for him though. Of fucking course, he was.
He raised the glass of cheap whiskey to his lips.
Dean considers you with half a smile, reaching over smooth a hand along your thigh.
“You okay, ‘Mega?” he asks.
Your lower lip gets pulled between your teeth. You nibble on it, even as you slip your hand over his. You turn to him with a question in your eyes. He already knows the answer, even before you ask.
“I know this was my idea, but you still think this is… It’s not too soon?” you ask.
Dean shakes his head. “Nah. He’s gonna like you, sweetheart. They all will.”
“Oh, yeah? How do you know?”
He tosses you a grin. “Because I like you. And I’m an excellent judge of character.”
He punctuates his point with a kiss pressed to the back of your hand. Your lips tug at a smile.
Mission accomplished.
“Don’t you think you’re a little biased?” you tease.
He shrugs, but his crinkly-eyed grin says it all. You settle back in your seat and relax a little better for the rest of the ride.
You can’t help it. Your anxiety swells back to life as the Impala pulls up the slight hill into a U-shaped driveway, rolling to a stop at a modest ranch-style house. It’s mostly made of rust-colored brick, a white roof with pale gray tiles. Even the walk-up to the porch is lined with brick and white stones. You also notice a little green toddler bike lying on its side in the front yard, where it seems to have dented a sprinkler.
You tread carefully up the pavement on your crutches.
Yeah, your ankle is unfortunately still busted; fractured, to be exact. You’ll be wearing this big ol’ boot on your right foot for two more months at least, but Dean has a hand resting comfortably on the small of your back, a support you appreciate. He gives you one last knowing smile, his thumb brushing your spine.
Then he knocks on the door. His brother and his wife know you and Dean are coming, but it’s still a little nerve-wracking, now knowing what you know about your mate and his family. You know about monsters and terrible, evil things mostly put to rest. You know that Sam and Dean Winchester have quite literally saved the world, more than once.
But it’s not just that. You’re about to meet the only family Dean has left in this world. What if they take one look at you and know you’re not like them? What if they think you’re not enough for someone like Dean?
“Hey,” he says, his deep voice washing over you.
You glance up at your mate, biting the inside of your cheek. Can he feel your nervousness through the bond? You try to bottle it all back up where it belongs, but you’re not really sure how to do that yet. You don’t know if that will change the longer you get used to the soul bond thrumming in your chest, but right now, it feels impossible to hide anything from this green-eyed mountain of an alpha.
Dean shoots you a wink.
The door opens. An even taller lumberjack takes up the entire doorway with his broad shoulders, a light beard down to his neck, and longer, darker hair almost brushing his shoulders. He brightens with a smile when he takes in you and Dean, especially his brother.
He chuckles and pulls Dean into a grappling hug. Dean’s smile is ear-to-ear as he wraps his arms tight around his little brother’s frame, thumping his back with a widespread hand.
“There he is,” Dean says. “But what’d I tell you about that shag carpet on your face? You look like a fucking hippie.”
Sam rolls his eyes. Just as he’s about to answer, no doubt with a dry retort, the patter of little feet come sprinting over, and something knocks heavy into Dean’s bowlegged knees. He looks down and breaks into a new smile, even warmer than the last.
“Hey, little man,” Dean says, bending low to scoop the two-year-old into his arms. The toddler giggles at being raised as high up as his dad carries him.
“Unc!” Dean Jr. exclaims, raising small hands to Dean Sr.’s prickly cheeks. Dean grins and settles the boy on his side.
“You remember me?” he asks.
“‘Course he does,” Sam says, rubbing his son’s back. “He’s always hearing stories of his Uncle Dean. I show him the old pictures too.”
The brothers share a look, one that communicates without speaking. Dean’s is bittersweet and sorry. Sorry it took so long for him to get back here. Sorry for what he’s probably missed. But Sam’s smile isn’t judging, just happy to see him. He turns to you though, apologetically.
“I’m sorry, getting carried away here. Hi, how are you?” he asks.
Dean finally notices you keeping to the side, watching them with a soft smile of your own. You step forward to shake Sam’s hand, carefully taking yours off your right crutch. Dean clears his throat and moves to slip his arm back around your waist, not just for the physical support, but for solidarity.
After you introduce yourselves, Dean finally chimes in.
“Sammy, this is my mate,” he says. The pride and warmth in his eyes are evident as he squeezes your shoulder. Your face heats in a blush, but when you look over at Sam, all you see is a sincere welcome.
“Yeah, I was glad to hear someone finally tied him down,” he says. But then, his good humor sobers, becoming more earnest. “I also heard about your dad. I’m really sorry.”
You shutter up at that one. You’re both surprised and unsurprised, knowing Dean must’ve told him the full story of how you two met, but the mention of your father still makes your lungs tighten. You manage to smile a little.
“Thank you,” you reply. Dean squeezes your shoulder again, his thumb brushing your neck. You lean into him a little, bringing you face to face with Sam’s mini-me, who still hangs on Dean’s shoulder while he stares at you. “Mini Dean” has those big brown eyes that you saw in all the pictures on Dean’s phone, now with shaggier hair and a sweet-as-pie grin.
“Hi,” Mini Dean says shyly.
“Hey, buddy! You’ve almost got your whole fist in your mouth, huh?” you tease, stroking the toddler’s wrist. He looks a little unsure of you, but he reaches out and grabs at a piece of your hair. You let him do it.
“Ooh, you caught me, huh?”
He giggles, especially when you playfully poke your tongue out at him.
Dean’s smirking hard enough to make his cheeks hurt. His gaze lifts from watching you with his nephew and lands on Sam’s softer smile.
Sam welcomes you all into the house, where Eileen finally comes to meet you all. She looks a little frazzled, but still beautiful. Her dark brown eyes take you in before she greets you kindly. She and Sam look just as casual as you and Dean, jeans and flannels or comfortable sweaters.
Lots of flannel, you notice, with your mate and his brother.
“Sorry, was working on dinner,” she says, with an embarrassed smile. “Hope you guys like burnt chili.”
“Honestly I don’t think you can burn chili,” you say, as she leads you all further into the house. “It just enhances the smokiness.”
“Smells good to me,” Dean says. “And right on time, too.” The mention of food is already making his stomach rumble to life. You toss him a look over your shoulder, smiling in amusement. You reach back at pat your man’s stomach.
“You’re always ready to go,” you tease. He grabs onto your hand. It makes you stop for a moment, since you kind of need that hand for your crutch.
“Got that right, baby. Locked and loaded,” he whispers suggestively near your ear. Your eyes widen. You shush him with a laugh, covering his nephew’s ears. He’s incorrigible.
“Already corrupting my son, huh?” Sam says. His tone is censuring, but still amused when he takes Dean Jr. off his brother’s hands.
“Aw, who else is gonna educate the kid?” Dean jokes.
“He’s two,” Sam says dryly. “Maybe wait until he’s in preschool, at least.”
Eileen had nothing to worry about, and not only because your mate always inhales his food (and seconds and thirds) like it’s his last meal. She even made cornbread to go along with the chili.
“From a box,” she’d said demurely.
Regardless, there’s nothing quite like a good hearty bowl of the stuff with a beer and nice, warm, buttery cornbread. Sam even bought a Dutch apple pie for dessert, sending his brother a knowing look when he brings it out.
You all talk and laugh and share stories throughout dinner, even after the conversation moves from the dining table to the living room, where Dean Jr. takes turns getting doted on. He starts out in Eileen’s lap with one of his toys, but then he goes to his name’s sake, even giving Dean an action figure to engage him in battle.
After a while though, the boy starts to get sleepy. He tuckers out on the couch between you and Dean, half splayed in your lap with his head resting in the crook of your arm, while Dean has his sock-covered feet.
“Okay, we should probably get that one officially to bed,” Sam says, jutting a chin over at his son in amusement.
You feel special that the toddler already felt comfortable enough with you to literally fall asleep in your arms, but you glance down at his head with a smile.
“Aw, I’m okay being his body pillow. I’ll just sleep sitting up,” you say, laughing.
Eileen smiles and shakes her head. She signs as she says, “He’s already got you wrapped around his finger.”
“One hundred percent,” you giggle. You grab at his little feet, gently so he doesn’t wake up. “I mean, look at these! I just wanna eat ‘em.”
You look up and happen to meet Dean’s gaze. He hides a grin behind his right hand from where he’s reclined in his corner of the couch. His left hand holds a beer perched on his jean-clad thigh. His eyes, however, roam over you and his nephew with a certain gleam. A blush warms your cheeks.
Eileen eventually takes the little one off your hands. You playfully pout as he leaves you, but it gives you the chance to get up and stretch—and find the bathroom. Sam and Dean are left to sit in a comfortable silence that lingers, just until Dean inhales a deep breath.
“Gotta hand it to you, Sammy. You ain’t done half bad,” he says.
Sam quirks a brow, beginning to smile. “I could say the same to you.”
Dean’s lips twitch, but he stares down at his beer. Something uncertain passes through his eyes.
“How much have you told her?” Sam asks.
“Enough,” Dean replies, after a pause. “More than I fucking wanted to, really. It all just kind of…happened.”
Sam’s mouth quirks at the corners. “Stuck in a cabin for two weeks. Hell of a way to get through the get to know you, phase.”
At that, Dean smirks. “Yeah well, after the heavy shit, we weren’t doing all that much talking.”
Sam sighs, rolling his eyes. But he’s happy for his brother—happy and relieved. Dean’s wellbeing has been a weight on Sam’s mind ever since he left the bunker. No matter how many phone calls and texts, some going unanswered for longer stretches than Sam would like, part of him has felt the familiar guilt of starting over, even though he logically knew he wasn’t doing anything wrong. He just underestimated, again, how hard it would be for Dean.
Hell, he felt he had to hike up to a cabin in the damn mountains just for something different, a change of pace from drinking alone in the bunker. Sam wonders if Dean was embracing the solitude at that point, or if he was even planning to come back down the mountain.
And despite Jack’s promise to be “hands off,” Sam also wonders if their friend Upstairs had a hand in how you fell while hiking that day. Injuring your ankle. The blizzard. Had it all literally been the perfect storm?
Sam will never voice the thought out loud though. He’s just grateful…even if it is strange as hell to see Dean this way. All night, the man had never strayed very far from your side. He’s been there to reach out a helping hand to you whenever you needed to get up from your seat, raising yourself on your crutches.
And the way you two look at each other. Sometimes it’s just a check-in, a brief touch, and a confirmation. Sometimes it looks like an inside joke, with Dean’s suggestively waggling brows and signature smirk. (You usually look away first, as if fighting a blush.) But sometimes, it’s like a whole conversation passes between you and Dean in just that one moment.
Is that what Sam’s own bond looks like with his mate?
Probably, he thinks with a smile.
“It changed everything, right?” Sam asks.
Finding her. Claiming her. Dean understands what his brother’s getting at with those unspoken words. His gaze rises from his beer. He stares back at Sam and shakes his head.
“Yeah,” he agrees, however reluctantly.
It’s a heavy fucking weight of responsibility, with the lives they’ve led and the enemies they’ve made along the way, but Dean can’t bring himself to regret it. There’s too much of you in his heart already, filling those jagged, frayed, broken parts with smooth muscle and sinew, and new red life blood pumping again.
What he said to you that night still rings true.
It’s too damn late to let go.
That night, Dean falls asleep before you. His light snorts fill the guest room, and after almost a whole day on the road, you’d love nothing more than to join him in dreamland. You’re not sure what’s stopping you. It could be that it usually takes you a while to fall asleep in a new place and an unfamiliar bed, but it could also be your overactive mind still racing with today, and possibilities of tomorrow.
Sam and Eileen had offered for you and Dean to stay for a few days before you continued on your way, or even a week if you wanted. After that, Dean had agreed to take you home and meet your mom. After that though, what? Your job hadn’t been so understanding when you called and told them you’d gotten snowed in a cabin in Montana of all places, with no access to cell service or internet for almost a month.
So yeah, they let you go. It wasn’t a job you were in love with, and of course, meeting Dean is worth more to you than any job…but it had been paying your bills, even while living at your mother's house to help her after your dad's death.
I’ll figure it out…we’ll figure it out, you remind yourself. You’re eventually planning to go back with Dean to that bunker he’s been talking about. At least it’s in Kansas, somewhat close to your sister. From there, you’ll both have figure out the job thing, and potentially the house thing. You’re not totally sure about living in a bunker.
These thoughts keep you up long enough that you heave a sigh and slip out of bed. A drink of water (and a few minutes of mindless pacing) might settle you a little. Somehow, the last thing you expected upon entering the kitchen was to run into Sam boiling water on the stove. He looks over his shoulder at you in surprise.
“Uh, hey,” he says.
“Heyyy,” you give an awkward wave. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Haven’t tried yet,” he admits. “Dean woke up about an hour after we set him down. He’s been finnicky, but finally got him to lay back down.”
At first you’re confused, until it hits you.
“Ah, you mean Mini Dean,” you say, smiling. “Aw, poor baby. He’s at that stage, huh?”
He chuckles wryly. “It’s called Terrible Twos for a reason. Want some tea?” He gestures at the mug he has waiting on the counter.
You agree, thanking him before you sit down at the two-seater breakfast nook in the kitchen. He pours you a mug as well and sits across from you. Silence threatens to reign between you, but you eventually break it.
“Thank you, by the way. For having me here too,” you say. “I know you weren’t exactly expecting me.”
Sam breaks into a smile. “Honestly, I’m the one who should probably be thanking you.”
You blink in surprise.
“Me? I haven’t done anything.” Your lips pull at a smile though, your fingertip tracing the rim of your mug. “Dean’s the one who took care of me. Still is, really. He’s the one who saved me, more than once.”
Sam tilts his head in acknowledgement. “Yeah, I don’t doubt that. But, uh, something tells me you saved him a little too.”
You look up at that, mostly in disbelief. You gave Dean a headache from the beginning. You’d needed his help all the time with your damn ankle. You poked your nose into his business, invaded his privacy, almost got him killed hunting that monster. What was it? Ah, right. A fucking Wendigo.
After all of it, he came back to you. He brought you closure for your father’s death, and held you when you fell apart. And when you kissed him, asked him with your whole heart to let you in, he broke through his own reservations to do it.
“Even if I did, it probably doesn’t even put a dent in what I owe him,” you say after a moment. Tears sting in your eyes, though you try to blink them away, taking in a subtle breath to try and steady yourself.
Sam’s eyes soften. He reaches across the small table and lays a hand on your arm.
“Trust me. I think he’d say you don’t owe him a damn thing,” he says.
You utter a laugh, though you try to keep it quiet. “Yeah, that sounds like him.”
You’re about to thank him for real when a low, gravel-filled growl echoes through the kitchen. You and Sam raise your heads to the doorway, where Dean stands in a plain shirt and a pair of sweatpants. His hair is mussed in sleep, but his face is firm with a tired frown. His gaze is homed in on Sam’s hand resting on your arm.
Sam slowly takes his hand back, quirking a brow at his brother.
“Alpha?” you carefully ask your mate.
Dean blinks a few times once your voice registers in his mind. He seems to come back to himself, shaking his head a bit. He clears his throat and pads over to you guys on bare feet. He drops a hand across your shoulder and down your back. You’re not sure if it’s meant to be possessive or not, but it almost makes you laugh. You manage to hold it in though.
“Hey,” Dean says.
Sam lets out an incredulous chuckle. You understand why. Was Dean really just going to try and pretend nothing just happened?
“Did you just growl at me?” Sam says.
Dean’s lips purse, but he doesn’t answer right away.
Yeah, he was totally going to try and pretend nothing just happened. You bite your lip against a smile.
“Sorry,” Dean says, scratching at the back of his neck. “Uh…so what’s up? You guys having some sort of insomnia party out here?”
Sam snorts. “No. I’m heading to bed actually. Good night, guys.”
“Good night, Sam,” you say. The two of you share an amused look before he leaves. It’s quick, but it’s enough to make Dean roll his eyes as he fights his embarrassment.
You begin to stand up from the table, reaching for your crutch. Dean helps you instead and settles both hands on your waist. You slip your hands up his forearms and curl them around his biceps.
“We were just talking,” you say knowingly. Then, a teasing smile plays on your lips. “About you actually.”
Dean raises a brow. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you chuckle, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lips. “All good things. So you can relax.”
His green eyes are a shade or two darker, his inner alpha having risen to the surface. Half-asleep as he’d been when he walked into the kitchen, his instincts were more dominant than his brain in that moment, especially at seeing you and his brother looking a little too chummy.
Dean wraps his arms around your waist and gathers you to his chest.
You can’t help purring in response. He grins, his eyes half-lidded as his gaze roams over you.
“What if I don’t wanna relax?” he says. The depths in his voice make you shiver, and even smile, but you give him a warning look.
“You’re shameless, you know that? We’re in your brother’s house.”
“Aw, he won’t mind.”
You scoff in disbelief. Dean tilts his head with half a smile. He knew you wouldn’t buy that one.
“Eh, it’s all right. He knows how I am,” he says, right before he bows his head for a nipping kiss along your neck. A breathless squeal escapes you, even though you try to contain it. You swat his shoulder.
“Alpha,” you warn. Once again, you try to temper your smile. Dean is only encouraged. His lips and warm breath tease along the edge of your mating gland on purpose, buckling your knees a little. A short whine escapes your lips, and a tremble of arousal pools slick between your legs. You don’t want to let him win on this one, but damn him, he’s playing dirty.
You grab his head, tangling your fingers in his hair, and pull him to your lips for a proper kiss. There he licks into your mouth and pulls a soft moan from deep inside you.
“Okay,” you give up. “But we have to be—”
Dean hooks his arms around your shoulders and under your knees and swiftly carries you up, forgetting your crutches behind. You have to smother your giggles with both hands while he takes you back to bed.
AN: lol Dean's insatiable, but we all knew that. 😆 I know it's been a while, but I hope you guys enjoy this little epilogue for ATW! In my head, she and Dean go on to have little adventures together after he meets her family. Like little dates and road trips to all the places Dean has enjoyed the most on his cross-country travels.
(And then maybe a couple of kids once they get settled in their own little cabin.) 🧡
Join My Patreon 🌟 Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!
Series Masterlist
Jacklesverse Bingo Masterlist
Dean Winchester Series List
Dean Winchester Masterlist
Main Masterlist
Follow @zepskieswrites (with notifications on) to get notified every time I drop a new story or chapter. 🧡
Summary: You wake up in a strange alpha’s cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, all with a busted ankle. He holds shadows in his eyes, even though his hands are gentle. There are iron shutters around his heart, even though he saved you. You might just save him in return.
AN: The grand finale...
Song Inspo: “Against the Wind” by Bob Seger
Word Count: 3.4K
Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, knotting, claiming, fluff and feels.
🧡 Series Masterlist
Part 4: Running to Live
His cold hands are warming on your skin as he slides them underneath your sweater. They move smoothly up your back, bunching up the material. You break from his kiss only to help him get the sweater off you, followed closely by his pants.
Your sweatpants slide down your legs with just a sharp tug, baring most of your body to his gaze. His eyes drag over your exposed neck and shoulders, your breasts cupped in your bra, down to your panties and bare thighs.
A shiver runs through you, both from his heated gaze, and from being exposed to the cooler air. Even with the fire going and the heater running in the cabin, the frigid air outside is unforgiving.
You have no problem with the way Dean guides you down from the chaise to take advantage of your nest on the floor, right in front of the fire. He draws you into a sensuous kiss, sucking your lower lip into his mouth and grazing with teeth.
“Were you nesting, Omega?” he teases, between the sinful meetings of his lips with yours. You hum your affirmation before his tongue swipes across your lower lip, seeking entrance.
You open yourself to him in more ways than one; you slip your hands across his naked shoulders and explore the smooth planes of muscle, the dips and softness in between. You encourage him to lower down, to cover you with the length and broadness of his frame. His weight is a welcome one between your thighs and against the softness of your body.
“Was worried about you,” you whisper a confession against his lips. Dean briefly pauses, meeting your eyes.
“Thanks for waiting up,” he says, with a hint of a smile.
Your lips curve upwards in return. You reach up to caress his cheek, feeling the prickling of his stubble. Your fingers thread into his hair, and you pull him back down for a devouring kiss.
Dean’s brows furrow as he holds you to him, wanting to feel every part of your skin against his. His calloused fingers map their way down your side, and across your back to unhook your bra. His lips veer away from yours to burn a wet, heated trail along your neck. His teeth come out to graze your skin, down your throat, down the lovely valley between your breasts.
“Dean,” you gasp, encouraging him when his hand cups one of your breasts. He explores the other with his mouth, teasing a pebbled nipple with his tongue. Your fingers tighten in his hair, your thighs rubbing together between the cage of his knees in the mess of blankets. Already you feel slick forming at the apex of your thighs and slipping down in between.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin. “Fucking beautiful, you know that?”
You can’t help but smile. Your face warms either from the fire dancing shadows across your bodies, or from him, his attention, his warmth, and the heat in his eyes when they meet your again. His hand slides down your body, over your hip and squeezing your thigh as he opens you up further for him.
“Tell me what you want, Omega.” While I still have control, his tone implies. His voice is gravel and sin while his hand moves swiftly and smoothly up the inside of your thigh.
“Touch me,” you breathe.
Nodding, he hooks his fingers around the hem of your panties and slides them down. You help him kick them off. Afterward, his thumb brushes over your mound, making you sharply inhale and squeeze his shoulders encouragingly. His fingers dip inside your wet heat, his brows raising with a smirk, as he feels the sheer amount of your slick already coating his digits.
“Fuck. This all for me, baby?” he remarks.
You hold onto the back of his neck with both hands as you nod, biting your lip. Your hips begin to cant against his hand on reflex, urging him to touch you.
“Alpha, please…” you implore, in a ragged whisper. He swallows your plea with a ravaging kiss, but he still gives you what you want. His thumb circles your clit, earning a moan from you into his mouth.
Soon, two of his fingers plunge slowly inside you, working you open, drawing more gasps and shudders of pleasure from your body. His length continues to strain hard against your thigh, but for him, it’s worth it to draw every sound, every time your body writhes and arches against him, craving release.
With a few more purposeful strokes, your inner walls clamp tight on his hand, and a flood of slick coats his knuckles even more. You gasp his name, your hands squeezing his arms just as tight as your pussy around his fingers.
Your skin is beginning to get dewy with sweat, and he kisses some of it off you when he trails down your chest. You stroke down his arms, down his back, whatever you can reach as you catch your breath. But then, his name falls from your lips with a firmer tone.
Dean raises his head, and you gently push at his chest. His brows furrow in confusion, only for it to be replaced with a smile of surprise when you curl a thigh over his hip and guide him onto his back. His head just manages to fall on one of your pillows, but he still utters a small grunt. You giggle down at him, bowing to meet him for a kiss.
He smirks and holds onto your hips, playfully squeezing your ass. “My wily omega.”
“Thought I was your cheeky omega,” you tease.
He snorts. “That too.”
You giggle some more as you treat him to the same path of open-mouthed kisses down his neck. Except this time, you hook a hand behind his neck, and you trail your tongue around his mating gland. You feel his jolt of surprise, as well as his instinctive growl of pleasure in response to his mate. Or at least, not yet…
His heart pounds in his chest.
“Omega,” he says, a warning not to tease as his grip tightens on your hips.
The command in his voice makes you shiver, but you smile and nuzzle his cheek in affection. You kiss your way down his body, playing special attention to his nipples, his stomach, the soft V and the happy trail of light brown fuzz leading you down between his hips.
Your fingers slide down his hardened desire through his underwear, earning a grunt from him, along with a shifting of his body against the blankets. Your lips curve as you nuzzle him there as well, letting your lips drag across his impressive length.
His fingers tangle in your hair when you hook your nails around the waistband and free his cock from its confines. His boxers join the rest of your clothes somewhere, and finally you get to see all of him, as much as he takes in all of you. Your hand wraps around his girth, your thumb circling around the sensitive, weeping head of it. Dean groans, a sound from deep in his chest.
You don’t know this, but it’s been a while since anyone but his own hand has touched him. That’s not the only reason his body has been calling to yours, but it plays a part in how fucking good it feels, and how much more he wants you.
He feels your intentions when your hand moves down his shaft in a teasing caress, your fingers tracing around his knot. A shudder rattles down his spine, makes his desire burn hotter in the pit of his stomach.
He can’t fucking take it anymore. He needs you, needs to be inside you. Needs to take you the way his instincts demand.
He grasps your shoulder before you put your mouth on him. You blink up at him, with a question forming on your lips, but he hefts you up onto his chest by your arms. He cages you there with a kiss filled with abject need.
“I can’t. Can’t wait anymore,” he says. He drags his fingers through your folds and earns another moan from your when he finds your clit. “You ready for me, Omega? Need my knot?”
“Yeah,” you nod, agreeing against his lips. “Need you, Alpha—”
No sooner had the words escaped your lips, when Dean rolls you back underneath him. But this time, he guides you onto your stomach, then raises up your hips, until you’re on your hands and knees. You catch your breath as you regain your bearings, shooting an incredulous smile over your shoulder at Dean. He smirks back at you, but his gaze is intense, his pupils darkened with the alpha inside him.
Still, he soothes a hand down your back and steadies you with a hold on your hip. You feel him slot himself behind you, guiding his cock at your entrance. His chest presses hotly against your back.
“Last chance, Omega,” he says, his voice tight with restraint.
You look back at him again over your shoulder, your mouth threatening to frown. You reach back and sink your fingers into his hair with a sharp tug. “Do it.”
He sinks into you with one smooth plunge. It’s a relief for both of you, your mingled moans echoing in the near silence. All that’s left is the sound of your quickening breaths, of skin against sweat-slick skin as you move together.
Dean brushes your hair away from your neck. He kisses and licks his way along your bare shoulder, and finally the back of your neck. You’re trembling by the time his lips find the sensitive flesh of your mating gland. It echoes with the pulsing from your core as he continues to drive into you.
“Alpha,” you gasp on reflex. You squeeze his arm; he has it wrapped tight around your middle. Your pleasure builds ever closer to that crescendo, especially as his thrusts become ragged, at an angle that zips delicious tingles through your core. “Close…just…I need…”
Dean isn’t so far gone. He hears you, and helps you, reaching his hand around to strum his fingers insistently on your clit, along with his final thrusts.
Finally, it tumbles you over. Your inner walls become impossibly tight around him as he draws out your second release—one that triggers his own. Dean groans into your ear; his knot swells and locks into place, and he spends himself deep inside you. He pants hot against your neck, but even though he fastens his lips there, he hesitates, once again making you shudder.
“Do it,” you repeat, in a coarse whisper. You’re close to tears. “Please. Want you, Alpha. Need you…”
Once again, he hears you.
His teeth sink into the back of your neck, making you cry out. But your pain is quickly overshadowed by a deepest pleasure, thrumming along with his.
Afterward, Dean holds you in his arms. The warm glow of the fire paints your skin in its light, despite the utter darkness in the rest of the house.
While you both wait for his knot to subside, you revel in the fact that you know he’s content. You can feel it through the newly formed bond. He traces random shapes in your skin, which still glistens with a fine sheen of sweat. The fire he stoked doesn’t help to cool you down, but you don’t care.
Nothing else matters but this. You turn your head toward him over your shoulder. He meets you there with a gentle kiss, much more gentle than any other you’ve shared before. It feels right.
When he parts from you, he presses another kiss to your forehead. Then he leans back a little and sighs. You feel his thumb trace the raw flesh around the claiming mark on your neck. A small shiver runs through your body. Maybe on another day, you’ll mark him in return.
“It’s too damn late,” he says, breaking the silence. “You realize that right?”
You shoot him a frown. “Too late for what?”
“For me to let you go,” he says.
His words both warm you and make you sad. Just how little does he think of himself?
“Dean,” you say, endeavoring to be patient. “You’re my true mate. Do you know how rare it is that we’ve actually found each other?”
Dean remains quiet.
“And after everything you’ve done for me,” you add, “how can I not think you’re a good man? How can I not think this is right?”
He seems to consider your question. His gaze briefly falls, then meets your eyes again.
“You don’t know me that well,” is his answer, with a wry turn of his lips.
You reach back to caress his cheek. “Then tell me. Tell me about, um…tell me about how you became a hunter. From your dad’s journal, I got the sense that it’s a family thing.”
A vendetta, you wanted to say, but you keep that thought inside.
Dean chuckles, dropping another kiss onto your shoulder. You feel the pleasurable rasp of his stubble.
“Yeah, more like a family business,” he says.
He tells you why John Winchester started writing in that journal in the first place. Dean explains it in his own words, of what his family was before and after a demon broke into his brother’s nursery. Your heart continues to break for him, over and over, the more story he tells. Your shock can only reach new heights when he tells you about angels and demons and everything in between.
There are moments where he pauses, needing the time to find his words. He’s talked for so long that his knot finally softens, allowing you to withdraw from him, just to turn in his arms and be able to see his face. He bundles you in the blankets to keep you warm, but he also keeps you close, with a loose arm around your waist as he continues.
You sense that he’s not telling you everything. How could he? A lifetime of blood and wins and incredible losses; family gained, and family lost, endless saves, and so many near misses. You listen with rapt attention (and a lot of shock) to everything he can share, but your heart twinges when you see how he struggles to talk about his mother’s most recent death. Then his best friend Cas.
You realize that this man, for all his self-deprecation, is a hero. More so than you already knew.
“After the whole Chuck thing was done, I thought we’d just…go back to status quo. Me and Sam against the world, you know?” Dean says. He gives a rueful smile. “Then Sammy tells me he knocked up his mate.”
You smile. “You’re happy for him though.”
“Course I am,” Dean nods. “He never thought he’d get to have all that. A badass chick who can keep him on his toes, a house, the kid, the whole damn thing. He’s downright respectable again.”
His brotherly pride and his humor are tinged with something else though. You think you begin to understand. His losses have weighed him down, leaving him aimless and living in that in between, not unlike the ghosts he used to hunt. You know the feeling.
You thread your fingers with his, earning his attention.
“You can have that too, you know,” you say. “I mean, I don’t want to skip ahead, but I feel like things are going well here, despite the whole busted ankle thing.”
Dean slowly smiles, shaking his head. He brings your hand up to his lips.
“Okay, enough about my Hallmark movie life. What about you?” he asks.
So you tell him.
You two continue to share and explore, both in words and with your bodies, until morning comes.
It’s another week in the cabin before Dean insists on helping you down the mountain. Your ankle has gotten a little better, but at this point, you need to see a doctor. It takes a couple of days, going as slow as you need to. He ends up carrying you for most of the way anyway. You tell him over and over that he doesn’t have to, but your alpha is stubborn.
Once he gets you back to the city, you two take a shuttle to the nearest hospital. X-rays are taken, and you get a new cast for your officially fractured ankle. At the very least, you don’t need surgery. You’re able to call your mom from there and let her know where you’ve been, that you’re all right, and best of all…that you’ve found your mate.
You cry along with her on the phone, this time for a good reason. The best reason.
When you’re eventually released from the hospital, Dean picks you up in a sleek, black Chevy that has your eyes wide.
He grins at the look on your face. “Hey, sweetheart. Come meet my Baby.”
He parks the car and keeps the heater running while he comes around to you in swift strides. He takes your crutches and slides them into the backseat, then helps you into the passenger seat.
“It’s beautiful, but my God, how old is this thing?”
“She. She’s a she.”
“Oh, pardon me,” you say in amusement. “Do I have some competition here?”
Dean gives you a teasing smirk. “Well, technically, she’s been with me a lot longer than you.”
You scoff incredulously. He laughs and takes your hand, pressing a kiss into your palm. You discreetly study him and marvel at how much lighter he seems. You don’t know how much is because of this, what your hand in his symbolizes, and how much is because he’s reunited with something important to him.
“It’s okay, Omega mine,” he says, with a measure of desire in his eyes. “From now on, you’re my priority.”
Your spine prickles with the same arousal you can feel from him through the bond. You lean across the way and share a thorough kiss.
Until a horn honks loudly from behind. You both jolt, but Dean’s face falls into annoyance. He shoots up a choice finger at the car behind him in the rearview mirror. You laugh as he begins to peel out of the curved pick-up and drop-off zone in front of the hospital.
“Where are we going, Dean?” you ask, still smiling in amusement.
“Wherever we damn well please.” He turns to you with a hint of a smile reforming on his lips. “Want me to take you back home? We can sort out the logistics on, uh…well, this.”
You think about it. He poses a good idea, but at the same time, you’re not quite ready for this part of the adventure to end.
“How long has it been since you’ve seen Sam?” you ask.
Dean blinks at your question. He whistles lowly. “About a year. Jesus, since my nephew was born.”
You smile and reach over, resting your hand on his thigh.
“Let’s go see him, then,” you say. “I want to meet your family. Then you can meet mine.”
After that, you two can figure out the rest, like where to live, and how you’ll live.
Dean raises a brow. “Really? That’s like, a thirteen-hour drive.”
You shrug. “I’ve always wanted to go on a real road trip. Can we get some food first though? I’m starving.”
He laughs and nods as he stops the car at a red light.
“What do you know? A woman after my own heart,” he says. His amusement eases into a gentler smile the longer he stares at you. You smile back, and you give into the urge to lean in again, meeting your lips with his. He brushes your cheek tenderly with his thumb.
“I know what this needs,” he says lowly. Your brows draw together in a silent question.
He pulls away to reach into the side compartment along the driver door. He fishes out a cassette tape labelled Zeppelin IV. You bite your lip and try not to say anything smartassed.
Damn, this man is old school.
He skips ahead until he finds Track 7, just as the light turns green. A melodious guitar riff fills the car as he turns onto the main road with your hand wrapped in his.
Made up my mind to make a new start.
Going to California with an aching in my heart…
AN: And thaaaaat's all, folks! 🥹
...Just kidding! lol Here's the surprise epilogue: 🧡🧡
▶️ Keep Reading: Epilogue
Join My Patreon 🌟 Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!
Series Masterlist
Jacklesverse Bingo Masterlist
Dean Winchester Series List
Dean Winchester Masterlist
Main Masterlist
Follow @zepskieswrites (with notifications on) to get notified every time I drop a new story or chapter. 🧡
Summary: You wake up in a strange alpha’s cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, all with a busted ankle. He holds shadows in his eyes, even though his hands are gentle. There are iron shutters around his heart, even though he saved you. You might just save him in return.
AN: Merry Christmas! I'm dropping this chapter a day early for you guys. Now, here's the full story, and what Dean is going to do about it…
Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, mentions of blood, hint of spice.~
🧡 Series Masterlist
Part 3: Nothing Left to Burn
“We should start heading back,” you say, looking up at the mid-afternoon sky. It was starting to dip toward the top of the trees in the distance. “It’s going to take a couple of hours to get back before nightfall.”
“Yep, it’s about that time.” Your dad groans as he starts to haul himself back to his feet, where you two had been taking a rest against a tree. “Jesus, I need a new pair of knees. Help your old man, would ya?”
You smirk as you help the middle-aged alpha to his feet. His joints pop and his back cracks as he stretches his arms high.
“Damn, Dad. You’re creakier than the trees,” you quip.
He tosses you a wry look. “Just you wait. In a few years, after wrangling a couple of pups, you’re gonna feel my pain.”
“A few years?” you laugh. “Did I miss the part where I actually met a decent guy, let alone one worth mating?”
“Oh, you’ll find him,” your dad nods, slinging his rifle back over his shoulder. “Or he’ll find you, like your mother did with me.”
You follow his lead with your own rifle, falling into step with him through the forest clearing. It’s a beautiful day in late November. Already you can see the edge of frost on the shrubs and half-barren trees. The ground is littered with dead leaves painted in browns, oranges, and dappled with reds.
“You met her in college. It’s not like you guys defied fate,” you say.
“Yeah, but if she hadn’t walked into my psychology class by mistake, and stolen my latte at the campus café, maybe you wouldn’t be here,” he teases.
You huff and roll your eyes. Yes, your parents are a walking cliché. And by far, your dad’s the bigger sap.
“I’m telling you. Sometimes, the universe does us a solid,” he says, reinforcing his point with a literal pointed finger your way. You push it away from your face in exasperation.
“You might wanna watch where you’re going,” you say, “before you roll your ankle on another pebble.”
“You kidding me?” he exclaims. “That thing was the size of my fist! You’re lucky I didn’t break an ankle. Make you carry me all the way back to the car.”
You snort. “Right. Think I’ll just leave you for the bears…”
You trail off when a sound reaches you and your father. The sound of leaves crunching in the underbrush, quick and light. Your father’s shoulders straighten with alertness, the alpha’s head cocking toward the sound.
“Maybe I spoke too soon about the bears,” you whisper. He shakes his head.
“Nah, too light. It’s probably an elk.” He tosses you a smile. “We’ll have one hell of a haul to bring home, plus a good story to tell your mom.”
Your mother, the vegan veterinarian?
“Yeah, because she loves elk meat.”
“Would you quit being a smartass for two minutes? You go a little west. I’ll see where it’s at,” he says.
He quietly wracks his rifle and steps away from the clearing, farther into the woods. You do what he says, veering west. You don’t see the elk, and soon enough, you don’t see your dad either. You do hear a whistling on the wind, and the cold of it cuts right through your coat.
Unease prickles down your spine, though you don’t know why.
“Dad?” you whisper-yell, trying not to spook whatever animal might be out there.
A gunshot rings out, along with your dad’s voice in a shout. Your eyes widen in alarm, and you call his name, taking off in a run to find him.
You end up rising over a hill you hadn’t crossed before, but you see your dad below; you recognize his bright blue puffer jacket that Mom got him for his birthday. You call his name, and he looks up at you with fear in his eyes.
Not for himself, but for you.
“Go, get out of here!” he shouts and waves you off.
“What? What is it?!” you yell.
He shakes his head, like he’s unable to answer your question. “Run! Run and don’t stop!”
He moves further into the denser trees until you can no longer make him out. With a frustrated huff, you sprint down the hill and try to follow his tracks with your gun at the ready. On the wind, in the distance, you still hear his voice.
Until it cuts off abruptly, along with the terrible cracking of bone.
You gasp and halt in your steps. What the fuck was that?
Tears fill your eyes and blur your vision. Despite what you heard, you realize just how very alone you are in the clearing. Fear and adrenaline make your breath tremulous and shallow, but you can’t just give up. You search for a while longer, making yourself hoarse calling out to your father.
No matter what direction you take, you never find him.
“I ran back to town to get the rangers,” you say, brushing a couple of stray tears from your cheeks. You sniff, licking your lips and swallowing a hard lump of emotion in your throat.
Dean continues to listen intently with his brows furrowed.
“It was too late,” you sigh. “He disappeared. They explained it away, thought a grizzly bear got him, but I know it wasn’t a damn bear.”
You shake your head as the tears come harder and faster, all over again. Dean’s jaw clenches in sympathy.
“No one believed me about what I heard, not even my mom,” you confess. Your mother had been too distraught to entertain “anything else.” No matter how strongly you’d felt about your suspicions, you understood that she just wanted to put your father’s death behind her after his funeral. Part of you had stopped believing yourself.
A stronger part of you hadn’t been able to let it go, however. So you had to come back here and try to find any trace of your father.
When you finally run out of words, you see the proverbial gears turning in Dean’s eyes.
“What’re you thinking?” you hazard to ask. You can’t help but reach out and grab at his wrist. “Do you…do you believe me?”
Dean’s gaze softens a fraction. He lays his larger hand over yours.
“Yeah, I do,” he says. “I’m willing to bet on what took him too.”
He squeezes your hand before he lets you go and gets up from his seat. He soon returns with his father’s journal in hand. He reclaims his spot across from you, sitting close to your thigh on the end of the chaise. His gaze falls away from your face to the journal in hand, and he flips it open to a page he knows from memory. You suck in a subtle breath to steel yourself when he turns it toward you—to the very page that had given you nightmares the first night you read it.
Wendigo.
“Nasty son of a bitch,” he says. “It hibernates for decades at a time, but when it surfaces, it knows how to get through long winters like this. It takes a handful of people at a time, feeding on its victims slow.”
You feel sick at that, but still, his words elicit a sliver of hope.
“So there’s a chance he could still be alive,” you say, in a brighter voice. Dean gives you a measured look, dragging a hand over his mouth.
“Look, I’m gonna be straight with you,” he says. “It’s been months, right?”
You nod, though you realize what he’s saying. Don’t get your hopes up.
“But there’s a chance,” you insist, with tears in your eyes. Dean holds your gaze for a moment, and he nods. He squeezes your knee this time, then shuts the journal with one hand as he moves to stand.
You follow him on your crutches over to the kitchen. He pulls out a drawer and retrieves a folded-up map. Tossing the journal on the kitchen counter, he opens up the map and lays it out flat next to the sink. It’s a map of the mountain, and the entire forest surrounding the mountain of Big Sky. Dean’s eyes flick up to yours.
“Where did it happen?”
Dean has packed up his supplies and put on his winter gear. You watch him from the living room sofa, trying to hide your unease. You know he’s doing this for you, but there’s part of you that doesn’t want to see him leave, for his own sake, and selfishly for yours.
“Try not to go outside again unless you absolutely friggin’ have to,” he warns. “And if you do, don’t go too far. Make sure you take a weapon, preferably a gun and a knife.”
“Dean, I know,” you reply. You get up and hover by the couch while he finishes lacing his snowshoes and hooks his backpack on. You’re unable to hide your concern.
“You shouldn’t be going out there alone,” you say.
Dean tosses you a grin. It has the shade of how he was with you before the “journal” incident—self-assured, a hint teasing.
“Don’t worry. This isn’t exactly my first solo mission,” he says, though his devil-may-care attitude soon subsides into something more serious. “If I’m not back inside a week, you need to ration out the supplies here as best you can. That new meat in the fridge should last you a while.”
By new meat, you have to assume he means the bear.
“When you’re healed up, you can make your way down the mountain and back to town with that map I left for you. Kitchen counter,” he says.
Your frown worsens. You step closer to him with the pretense of closing and locking the front door for him after he leaves.
“Dean,” you say, stopping him at the door. He turns to look at you over his shoulder. You hesitate, fidgeting slightly, but you gain your courage.
“If you don’t come back, I’m going to find you,” you warn him.
Dean frowns. He turns to you fully and tilts his head as if to say, come again?
“No, you’re not, Omega. You understand me?”
His terseness doesn’t scare you anymore. You glare up at him, quite literally standing your ground.
“You didn’t leave me out there when you didn’t even know me. You think I’d do that to you?” you counter.
At that, Dean has to pause, tilting his head slightly. He almost smiles at your stubbornness, and just like that, his annoyance dissipates. It softens him, making him reach for your arm in an assuring squeeze.
“I appreciate the thought, but trust me. I’d rather you look out for you,” he says.
Right now, you don’t really give a shit about what he’d rather, but you don’t say so. It’s written across your face anyway. Dean’s mouth tugs at a smile.
“All right, I’m out,” he says. “Save me some of Yogi in there.”
You huff, but you shut the door behind him after he steps out onto the porch, down the steps, and beyond. You move to the living room window and watch him get farther and farther away from the cabin.
Despite the crackling fireplace, you begin to feel cold inside.
After the first three days, you’ve managed to clean the entire cabin, top to bottom. With the “new meat,” you make a large batch of soup to last you throughout the week. You freeze a couple of servings for Dean.
For when he gets back.
You try to fill up your time in other ways, like attempting, and failing, and trying again more successfully to make bread from scratch. You haven’t binge-watched every season of The Great British Bake-Off for nothing.
Then you organize all of the alpha’s books by author. You wash all the laundry you can find and fold everything neatly on his bed, and you put away the couple of sweaters you’ve borrowed from him into your own dresser.
On Day Four, you create a nest of pillows and blankets in the middle of the living room floor. In your anxiety, it’s a reflex you can’t help. Your initial instinct was to nest in his room, but you thought that was too invasive of his privacy, so the living room was your next best option. At least his scent is still somewhat imbued into his favorite chair, and around his records. (You do steal another shirt of his to sleep with though.)
On Day 8, your worry becomes a living thing. You pace the living room and the kitchen on your crutches, probably wearing down the wooden ends of them while you debate what to do. Despite what Dean told you to do if he didn’t get back, you know you’re not just going to leave him out there. But the reality is, you have a problem of mobility.
With a frustrated huff, you decide to try setting your problem foot down normally. Your ankle hurts, a sharp pain shooting up your calf and nearly sending you to the floor.
“Fuck!” you gasp, both in shock and aggravation.
You know this isn’t just a sprain. At best it could be a fracture, since no bone is protruding under the skin. It still means you shouldn’t go after him either.
But you’ll have to try.
After you manage to clamber back onto your feet using the crutches, you put together some supplies, including the extra med kit in case he’s hurt. (Or in case something happens to you while you’re out there.) This is a bad idea, you think, even as you heave on your jacket.
Then, you hear the sound of a lock turning, before the front door shoves open.
A yelp of surprise escapes you, though you soon realize that it’s Dean, looking worn down and ragged, but alive.
“Home, sweet home,” he says wryly, but he looks relieved to see you too.
You help him sink down onto the chaise, where he stretches out with a groan. He tips his head back on the cushion. His jacket is torn in a few places. Blood has dried on his cheek, his neck, and near his hairline, and you worry about where else he might be hurt.
You quickly go to the kitchen and pour a bowl of warm water and grab a hand towel. You bring it all back to Dean, where you set your supplies on the floor and sit down beside him on the cushion.
“Are you okay?” You try to calm down your racing heart (and the nauseous feeling in your stomach) as you help him work open his jacket, followed by his shirt. Discreetly, your eyes take in the expanse of his tanned skin and pebbling nipples exposed to the cool air, even with the fire roaring nearby.
“Yeah, just peachy,” he says.
You smile a little. You take the towel, dampen it, and begin to clear the blood from his cheek, his neck, and the upper part of his torso—even his scuffed hands. Then you squeegee out the blood in the bowl and continue your task. Dean subtly watches you, his gaze a bit softer than usual.
He eventually looks you over with a frown as he takes in the way you’re dressed, and then the backpack by the door.
“What, about to go for a little afternoon stroll?” His sarcasm turns to annoyance. “Didn’t I tell you to stay put until you can actually walk?”
Your mouth flattens into a line, but any anger you might’ve felt is waylaid by your relief. It brings tears to your eyes.
“I thought something happened to you,” you say.
Dean hesitates. Your hand has stilled on his chest. He softens a little more, grasping your hand in his larger one.
“I’m fine,” he says. “The job’s done.”
Your eyes widen. “You found the…thing? The wendigo?”
His mouth pulls at a cocky grin, tempered only by his tiredness, and the way he’s looking at you. “Sure did. Tried to take a chunk outta my ass, but a little aerosol deodorant and a lighter’s all you need to barbecue that ugly son of a bitch.”
You smile in amusement, but all too soon, it fades.
“Did you find my dad?” you ask.
Dean’s expression sobers as well.
“Yeah, I think so.” His face gentles. “Was he wearing a blue puffer jacket?”
Your lips tremble. As that horrible realization dawns, you break down into tears. You already know from his tone that your father was dead when he found him.
Dean guides you down to him by your shoulder and wraps his arms around you. You bury your face into his neck, and your body shakes with quiet sobs.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your hair. “Believe me, I am.”
He holds you close, warm and secure. He allows you to stay there as long as you need, where you feel safe, even if this world has become a colder, darker place.
After a few minutes longer, your intense sobs begin to subside. You don’t mean to, but you turn your nose into Dean’s neck, scenting him on reflex. It calms you down, but it has the unintended effect of arousing him. The alpha rumbles in pleasure.
You blink in surprise and lean back enough to see his face. Dean’s lips press together as he looks down on you; he seems embarrassed, but you also see the heat reflected in his gaze, so intense in those forest greens. Your face begins to warm in a blush.
He brushes your cheek with his thumb, collecting your tears there. You glance down at his plush lips again, your own parting with a breath. His hand moves to cup your cheek, framing the side of your face. Please…
He finally drags you to him in a kiss.
It’s heady and passionate, and also comforting. Your fingers wind into his hair, your nails scraping along his scalp. He growls as his arm tightens around your waist. You shiver in delight.
You press a hand to the center of his chest, giving you leverage to rise up and slide your thigh over his legs. There you sink into his lap. Your breasts pillow against his chest when you lay on top of him, your elbows digging into the cushion on either side of his head. His hands move down your body, feeling down your sides, squeezing your hips, and then your ass. You hum into his mouth and roll your hips into his. Already you feel him hardening through his jeans.
But somehow he breaks away from your kiss, even though your hands are still in his hair.
“Sorry…we can’t do this,” he says, with difficulty.
He sits upright and nearly makes you fall over in the process. He grabs your arm before you tip over, but he keeps himself at arm’s length from you after you’re forced to slide off his lap, sitting on the end of the chaise instead. Your eyes glisten with hurt and confusion.
“Why?” is all you can ask.
He doesn’t want to answer.
“Dean?” you ask, inching towards him. He raises a hand to keep you at bay.
“Just…it’s not a good idea, okay?” he says, with the clenching of his jaw.
That cuts into you even more. Your heart pulses with pain.
“Do you know what your scent is to me?” you ask, in a voice slightly trembling. You glance at the fireplace that has dimmed to embers. “It’s better than that fire at full blaze. Every time I went camping with my dad, that’s what I loved the most. Sitting by that fire, talking, laughing, and for the millionth time, telling the story of when I gave my sister micro bangs in her sleep when I was ten.”
You wipe a stray tear from your eye, but you respect the distance he’s put between you two.
“The second I met you, I knew what this was,” you say. “I think you know it too.”
Dean shakes his head. His face betrays his wariness, his desire, and his obstinance.
“Look…even if that’s true, you don’t want this with me,” he says. His handsome face becomes marred by a frown, his brows knitting together. “I don’t even own this place. Besides my car, I ain’t got much of anything to give.”
You shake your head in dismay. “I know that’s not true.”
“I’m not bullshitting,” he says. “Listen…I’ve never had much. And what I did have, I found a way to lose. I’ve let my people down. Just about everyone I’ve ever…”
You can’t help but reach out a hand for him, your heart hurting, but he leans away, pressing himself back against the seat. It cuts even deeper into you; now though, you wonder if it’s because he feels the same gut feeling you do when he’s this close—close enough to touch, but almost afraid of the burn.
“They’ve been hurt, almost always because of me.” His voice shakes imperceptibly, with a wry, humorless turn of his lips. “So take it from me, sweetheart. You’ll wanna steer clear.”
“Dean,” you say. You expel a breath, digesting his words, while thinking of what you want to say.
“I’ve never not felt safe with you,” you confess. “Even when I screwed up and drove you crazy, I’m sure, I knew you’d never hurt me. The same way I know…”
You reach out a tentative hand to lay in the center of his chest, over his heart. Your thumb brushes the edge of his strange tattoo, over the dark ink in his skin.
“You’re my mate. My one, true mate in this world,” you say, meeting his eyes. “And I want to know you.”
You see inner conflict in the depths of Dean’s eyes, dark green and troubled. You take a chance and lean in, brushing your cheek against his, nuzzling, laying a soft kiss to his cheek.
“Omega,” he warns, but the grit in his voice has little heat.
Or at least, it’s heat of a different kind, as his strong hands once again find your waist. They hold you still, but also hold you to him. Your gentle affection is making him ache, deep in the shadowy cavern of his chest. He’d never admit it, but loneliness had set in there, burrowed deep with a stronghold on his heart. Without knowing, you’ve been carving it out with those gentle hands.
You now slide your hands up his chest and over his shoulders, warm palms on his skin.
“Alpha, I want to know you,” you insist. Quiet, but steady, your voice is a mere brush of words near his ear, against his cheek. “Please.”
Dean’s brows furrow as he briefly shuts his eyes tight. With your whispered plea, the brittle chain of his restraint finally snaps free.
He cradles the back of your head and guides you back into a feverish kiss.
AN: Sorry to cut it off there lol, but the big (steamy) fourth part is coming up next week! Perhaps a little earlier than Friday. 😘
Next Time:
“Were you nesting, Omega?” he teases, between the sinful meetings of his lips with yours. You hum your affirmation before his tongue swipes across your lower lip, seeking entrance.
You open yourself to him in more ways than one; you slip your hands across his naked shoulders and explore the smooth planes of muscle, the dips and softness in between. You encourage him to lower down, to cover you with the length and broadness of his frame. His weight is a welcome one between your thighs and against the softness of your body.
“Was worried about you,” you whisper a confession against his lips. Dean briefly pauses, meeting your eyes.
“Thanks for waiting up,” he says, with a hint of a smile.
Your lips curve upwards in return.
▶️ Keep reading: PART 4
Join My Patreon 🌟 Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!
Series Masterlist
Jacklesverse Bingo Masterlist
Dean Winchester Series List
Dean Winchester Masterlist
Main Masterlist
Follow @zepskieswrites (with notifications on) to get notified every time I drop a new story or chapter. 🧡
Summary: You wake up in a strange alpha’s cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, all with a busted ankle. He holds shadows in his eyes, even though his hands are gentle. There are iron shutters around his heart, even though he saved you. You might just save him in return.
AN: Thank you guys so much for all the amazing feedback on Part 1! Now, most of your theories and questions will be answered...
Tags/Warnings: Angst, and peril, the other kind of "hunting."
🧡 Series Masterlist
Part 2: Seems Like Yesterday
“I’ll raise you 25,” you say, tossing five chocolate covered pretzels into the middle pile. It’s a risky bet, considering how much you lost in the last hand. Dean regards you with an amused, if critical eye while he holds his cards.
“Ooh, you’re bluffing,” he says. You pop your brows at him, a subtle smile tugging at your lips.
“You want to test that theory? Put your money where your mouth is,” you challenge.
He tilts his head at you with a raise of his own brows.
“Cheeky omega,” he mutters. His attention returns to his cards as he deliberates on his next move.
You attempt to be nonchalant as you glance down at your cards again. It’s a shitty hand, but he doesn’t need to know that. The alpha’s won the last two hands of Texas Hold ‘Em, but you did win the first one. Though you suspect he let you win.
You want to at least even the score before he resumes his work out in the shed. He spends most of his time there during the day, or making sure the firewood is stocked. It seems like he takes any excuse not to spend too much time in your presence.
More than anything, you want to ask him if he feels what you feel—the same tug in the pit of your stomach every time he’s nearby. You just haven’t found a way to broach that with him.
Hey, I know we just met like two minutes ago, but I think we’re supposed to be together. Do you feel it too?
You nearly roll your eyes at yourself. Yeah, that’ll go over well.
So you have to be content with mornings like this and in the evenings, where he lets you put on one of his records, and you two share dinner together, maybe another round of cards. Or you’ll read a book while lounging on the chaise, and he lays out on the couch, listening to his music with his eyes closed. You like watching him like that, with a relaxed, damn near peaceful set to his face.
Too often he holds that harder, stoic expression, or that divot between his brows that makes you want to soothe two of your fingers there; or better yet, lean in and press your lips—
“It’s your move,” Dean reminds you. He’s finally played his hand, but you were too distracted to hear what he said.
“What’d you do?” you ask, surveying the piles of cards.
“Call,” he repeats, popping a few pretzels into his mouth. He washes it down with beer and more barbeque chips. Those are worth $10 in this little fantasy betting. He points a finger towards you with the same hand that holds his beer, teasing, “You got all the lights on in there? Or am I boring you?”
You glance up at him, fighting a smile. “All right, keep your pants on. Let me see…”
As the dealer, he’s already turned over the River: the last card in the hand. It’s a 10 of Clubs, which means your One Pair is actually a Two Pair. It’s still not a great hand, but it’s decent enough to maybe let you get the best of your opponent.
After you go “all in,” Dean’s lips twitch at a smile, and he humors you, going all in as well. You’re on tenterhooks when he finally reveals his hand.
“Ooh, it ain’t a cheesy ‘90s sitcom, but it’s still…a Full House,” he brags as he lays out each card in a smooth line of overlapping cards, the mix of glossy red diamonds and black spades showing the truth. He won again.
You huff in defeat, your shoulders sinking in your seat at the kitchen table. You turn over your measly hand. Sweeping the winnings toward himself (a mound of chocolate covered pretzels, a stack of barbecue chips, and a handful of Oreos), Dean chuckles and tosses you a wink.
“Ah, don’t beat yourself up, sweetheart. I’ve been hustlin’ poker for a long time. Hell, I’ve been playing this game before I even knew my times tables,” he says as he collects the cards.
“That young?” you reply. “Who taught you?”
“My dad,” he says. “Oh, believe me, I used to get my ass kicked many a’ time, but by the time I turned sixteen, I was hustlin’ grown ass men in skeevy bars out of their daily paycheck.”
“You were hanging out in bars at sixteen?” you ask incredulously. There, Dean seems to realize he’s said too much. He becomes more guarded as he puts away the deck and cleans the crumbs off the table.
“My dad was always working. You could say I didn’t really have a curfew,” he says.
“A latchkey kid, huh?” you reply, hiding the way you’re trying so hard to glean any more hints of truth between his words.
“Heh, yeah.” He gets up from the table and tosses the breakfast dishes in the sink, then travels to the front door to don his jacket and boots.
“All right, I’ll be out back,” he says.
Out back, code for out in the shed. You nod, and in a flash, he’s shutting the door behind him.
You’ve learned another small tidbit about him, one that feels more important than it seems on the surface. And yet, it only elicits more questions you doubt he’ll be willing to answer so easily. He’s more than tight-lipped about his past, only giving vague outlines and general pictures.
Even his stories—like being raised up in a family of traveling mechanics, putting Nair in Sam’s shampoo when he was a kid, or the guy’s serious fear of clowns—feel like they’re missing some key details.
You decide to take up your crutches and head for your room. There you unearth the journal from its hiding place under your pillow. This time, you turn to the very beginning. Before all the jargon about mythology (and an odd footnote about a “Turducken Slammer”), there are actual journal entries. The first one dates back to November 6, 1983. The first line already captures your attention.
I buried my wife today. Even as I write that down, I don’t believe it. Last week we were a normal family…eating dinner, going to Dean’s T-ball game, buying toys for baby Sammy. But in an instant, it all changed… When I try to think back, get it all straight in my head…I feel like I’m going crazy. Like someone ripped both my arms off, plucked my eyes out. I’m wandering around, alone and lost and I can’t do anything.
This is Dean’s father, you realize. The more that you read, with no small amount of dismay, you also realize that this man is writing about his wife, Mary.
Dean’s mom…
He writes about their house burning with all their memories inside, along with Mary. Somehow, he saw her pinned bloody to the ceiling.
Along with these pages is a clipping from a news story:
House Fire Kills Mother of Two
Lawrence, Kansas.
You’re spellbound by it all. You keep reading.
November 13, 1983
…Most of our clothes and photos are ruined, even our safe—the safe with Mary’s old diaries, the boys’ savings bonds, what little jewelry we had…all gone. How could my house, my whole life, go up like that, so fast, so hot? How could my wife just burn up and disappear?
The police don’t believe his story, about how she died before the fire, about what he saw. So he tries to convince himself that what he saw wasn’t real. Still, he can’t find rest, and he worries about his sons’ safety.
December 4, 1983
I haven’t let them out of my sight since the fire. Dean still hardly talks. I try to make small talk, or ask him if he wants to throw the baseball around. Anything to make him feel like a normal kid again. He never budges from my side—or from his brother.
Every morning when I wake up, Dean is inside the crib, arms wrapped around baby Sam. Like he’s trying to protect him from whatever is out there in the night.
Sammy cries a lot, wanting his mom. I don’t know how to stop it, and part of me doesn’t want to. It breaks my heart to think that soon he won’t remember her at all.
You don’t realize you’re crying until a droplet lands on the page. You quickly wipe it away before it becomes a stain, and you dry it all the way with your breath before you move on to the next page, sniffling. Your heart hurts, even as your guilt grows. You know now that you’re really, truly invading Dean’s privacy by reading his father’s words. You just can’t stop yourself from turning the next page.
John becomes convinced that someone, or something, started the fire that destroyed his life and took his wife away from him and his sons. He leaves his job and the remnants of that world behind, to venture deeper into the darker one. But in that darkness, he finds truth.
He visits a psychic, Missouri, who leads him back to his house and senses the echoes of an evil presence—something that shakes her to the core, and John too: the creature that killed his wife.
December 20
…She told me that it was the most powerful, awful thing she’s ever come across.
On January 1, 1984, John makes a New Year’s resolution. He determines to find the answers himself.
A shiver runs down your spine. In John’s words, your heart breaks for Dean, but you also see yourself. You try not to think about why.
You keep flipping through the rest of the journal past January. There are translations of a Latin exorcism, and like you read before, strange drawing of evil looking creatures—as well as what they are, scraps of their history, and how to kill them.
Silver bullet to the heart, can’t withstand iron, salt and burn.
You pause on a certain page, more filled with lore than the rest, and a primitive drawing in the center.
WENDIGO
Cree: Evil that devours.
Wood spirit. Eats live flesh. Lives in forests.
Perfect hunter.
Your breath stills in your lungs as a cold sweat forms across your skin. The more you read, the faster your heart beats.
The crunch of dead leaves. Your father shouting at you to run, and keep running.
The coarse shout of a bear morphs into something other. It’s a sharper, whirring sound like wind howling amidst animalistic clicking, and then bones breaking—your father’s scream cut short. You turn around with your rifle in hand, poised to shoot blindly.
Your stomach churns as bile rises into your throat. You feel sick, and wrong, and you suddenly have the urge to throw the journal against the wall.
“Omega?” calls Dean’s sharp voice. “You okay?”
You jolt badly at the sudden noise. You didn’t hear him reenter the house. He likely caught the scent of your distress. He pushes the door of your room open to find you, but he stops short in the doorway. His surprise quickly morphs into a frown when he notices what you’re holding in your lap.
You gasp, freezing where you sit, but there’s no point in trying to cover up what you’ve done. With an angry purse of his lips, he reaches over and takes the journal from your hands.
“What the hell are you doing with this?” he demands.
“I’m…I’m sorry. I just—” You swallow past the lump in your throat. “I was just curious. I wanted to know more about you. I thought it was…a normal journal.”
“So this is how you go about it, huh? Got everything you wanted, Columbo?” he says, his sarcasm cutting into you. He flips through the journal to make sure all the pages are intact before he tucks the journal under his arm. “Seriously, going into somebody’s stuff? Who the hell raised you?”
At that, you begin to bristle.
“My dad,” you snap back. Though remembering the passages you’ve lived with for the past few hours, you soften with a painful twinge of sympathy in your heart.
“And it looks like yours raised you to be some kind of…well, what are you, a ghostbuster or something?” you ask.
His jaw locks. “Or something.”
With an exasperated sigh at his hedging, you swing your legs around the edge of the bed and haul yourself up with your crutches so you can at least match his stance (more or less).
“Dean, please, just talk to me,” you implore, gesturing at the journal tucked under his arm. “The things I read—”
“Are none of your goddamn business!” he growls, making the omega inside you cringe. The alpha’s voice is deep and sharp, and even though he isn’t crowding you, his height and broadness are still intimidating.
“The sooner you heal up, the sooner I can ship you back to where you belong,” he says. “Back to your life, so you can stop sticking your nose into mine.”
Your mouth actually falls open in shock. His vehement words feel almost as powerful as a physical blow, if to your soul. They make your arms tremble while holding yourself upright on your crutches. Hot tears well up in your eyes, though you try to blink them away. After a moment, you’re able to collect yourself enough to speak.
“I’m sorry for going through your stuff,” you say, in a quiet voice.
You hobble awkwardly past him out of the room. You don’t stop until you reach the front door, where your snow boots are. You manage to get them on by yourself so you can go outside and get some fresh air, not to mention some much needed distance from the alpha’s burning presence. You can still feel him trailing behind you. You hear his heavy boots.
“Where the hell are you going?” he grits out.
You hobble faster.
Dean watches you go out the door without a word in irritation, even though it triggers an alarm deep in his gut every time you leave the safety of the cabin.
The snow depth has lightened somewhat since the storm, but it’s still not easy to navigate on your crutches. You get some distance from the cabin, mindful not to go too far. You know you’re limited, and you didn’t even take a gun with you.
Finding a solid tree to lean on, you rest there and try in vain to stifle your tears. You know you were wrong for snooping, and he had a right to be mad, but did he really have to be such a freakin’ bear?
Fucking alphas. I swear.
You thought you were starting to connect with him, but clearly, Dean wants nothing to do with you. He wants you out of his life.
Does he not feel the same pull you feel to him? Does he really not realize…that he’s meant to be your mate?
You take in a shaky breath through your nose. If he does, apparently he doesn’t care.
Just then, you hear the crunch of snow nearby. Twigs snapping.
Your body stiffens with a terrible memory—of that day in the woods. Your breath comes out in short puffs on the cold air, your eyes wide as you listen closely.
Hearing nothing, you allow yourself to breathe a little easier. You venture a few paces forward and to the right, but you stop shy of how it slopes downward. Some unnamed feeling tells you to look over the edge.
You lean over and cast your gaze down the slope, but all you see is snow and trees down below. With a shaky breath, you lean back and look out to the north again. Plodding along the trail, heading towards you, is a bear.
Oh shit…
You remember Dean mentioning something about a bear passing by his cabin a couple of days before the storm. Looks like he’s back to make his rounds.
His fur is dark; from this distance, you can’t tell if it’s a black bear or a grizzly. It doesn’t make much difference when all you have on your person is a can of bear spray. His gait is massive, unhurried, but he lets out a braying sound when your gaze meets his, as if acknowledging you. He stops there for a moment, assessing. Your body locks up with fear.
The bear groans again, this time sharper. You finally snap out of your reverie and force your body to move slowly backward with your crutches spearing into the snow. The cabin isn’t that far, maybe thirty or forty yards at most. Still, the bear can probably beat you.
Instead of trying to run, you stand your ground and shout at the bear, hoping he’ll back off. Your voice dies in your throat when he rears up on his hind legs, with a loud roar. Trembling, you miss a step and get knocked back into the snow on your ass, your crunches falling out at your sides. You scramble inside your jacket for anything that might help you.
Bear spray!
You hurry to get the cap off with shaking hands, but before you can even aim, the creature’s heave paws thudding into the ground in front of you—a gunshot rings out and hits the animal in the chest.
The bear falters, then roars in pain and anger.
Two more shots finally bring it down to an even heavier thud, not far from your feet.
In this moment, these are the things you don’t know about Dean Winchester:
For one, the scent of an omega in distress always calls to an alpha’s protective instincts. But the scent of your abject fear feels like someone tried to rip his lungs out through his stomach.
Second, when he sees you there, your wide, shiny eyes filled with the remnants of panic, yet relief at the sight of him, it takes everything within him not to drop to his knees, grab you by the hair, sink his teeth into your neck and claim you, right there in the snow. Maybe then you’d start listening to him and stop taking your life into your hands.
Instead, his lips purse as he wracks his rifle and slings the strap of it over his shoulder. He stalks toward you and scoops you up, crutches and all. He brings you back to the cabin without a word.
His jaw is once again locked with silence and strain; he doesn’t trust himself to speak until he’s brought you inside and carried you over to the chaise. He sits beside you there and takes an inventory of you with his eyes.
“You okay?” he asks at last.
You manage to meet his gaze and give a little nod.
“Okay. Don’t move,” he says shortly. He gets up and goes to the kitchen, where he grabs a foldable set of knives and a cooler from under the sink.
You watch him in silence, and you realize he’s going back to gut the bear. You didn’t know that he actually hunted out here…well, hunted to eat. He continues to gather items in silence. It gets to a point where you can’t stand it, or his curtness, any longer.
“Thank you,” you say, halting his steps. Dean glances at you over his shoulder, then continues strapping up his supplies. He huffs in response.
“We’re gonna be eatin’ good for a while,” he says without looking at you.
His attitude both hurts you and aggravates you, so much that you refuse to take it anymore.
“Look, Dean. I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have butted into your life,” you say. Frustrated tears well up in your eyes. Expelling a sharp sigh, you amend yourself. “I’m sorry for invading your privacy. I’m sorry about what you went through, and I’m…I’m sorry about your mom. I’m sorry for today. I’ll just…stay out of your way, and I’ll leave as soon as I can.”
Dean finally turns your way, but your lips tremble as you turn your face away from him and shut your eyes tightly against the salty burn of tears. Deep inside, his heart withers in his chest. He sighs and drops his supplies on the couch. He walks over with those heavy boots, and he sits on the edge of the chaise beside you. He hesitates for a moment, but eventually, he rests a warm, calloused hand on your arm and earns your tearful gaze.
“I’m sorry. I, uh…shouldn’t have yelled at you,” he says.
You sniff, quickly wiping away your embarrassing tears as they come. Your cheeks are hot with it.
“What is it you wanna know? About me,” he asks, surprising you that much more.
Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out. It takes you some time to think, but the first thing that comes to your mind is…
“Everything in that journal,” you say, licking your dry lips. “Is it real?”
Dean holds your gaze steadily. You know the truth without him having to say it, but he does.
“I was a hunter,” he says. “Those things you read about, I found ‘em. Killed ‘em. It was my job.”
“And now?” you ask, once that large bit of information has time to set into your brain.
His lips tug at a half smile. “Consider me…mostly retired.”
You exhale softly, and you nod. It earns a furrowed look from Dean.
“You don’t seem all that freaked out by this,” he says, with a more scrutinizing gaze on you.
“Should I be?” you say, with an unsteady laugh.
He raises his brows. “In my experience, yeah.”
You chew on the inside of your lip. You don’t know if you should even put into words what you’ve been holding onto for months. Like John, no one believed you. Even your own mother had started to look at you like you needed a shrink.
“Omega?” Dean presses. His green eyes are perceptive as they take in the conflicted look on your face. “There something you wanna tell me?”
You deliberate for a moment longer. Then, you release a sigh and glance down at your hands clenching in your lap.
“A few months ago, I lost my dad,” you begin.
Dean nods. “Yeah, you said—”
“I lost him in these woods,” you say.
That quiets the alpha.
You shake your head, and you find your words as the memories that have been haunting your nights return to you.
“Like I said, we used to go hiking here every year…”
AN: Just so you know, all of the journal entries appear in the official "John's Journal" SPN merch. 😉
Next Time:
Unease prickles down your spine, though you don’t know why.
“Dad?” you whisper-yell, trying not to spook whatever animal might be out there.
A gunshot rings out, along with your dad’s voice in a shout. Your eyes widen in alarm, and you call his name louder, taking off in a run to find him.
You end up rising over a hill you hadn’t crossed before, but you see your dad below; you recognize his bright blue puffer jacket that Mom got him for his birthday. You call his name, and he looks up at you with fear in his eyes.
Not for himself, but for you.
▶️ Keep Reading: PART 3
Join My Patreon 🌟 Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!
Series Masterlist
Jacklesverse Bingo Masterlist
Dean Winchester Series List
Dean Winchester Masterlist
Main Masterlist
Follow @zepskieswrites (with notifications on) to get notified every time I drop a new story or chapter. 🧡
Summary: You wake up in a strange alpha’s cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, all with a busted ankle. He holds shadows in his eyes, even though his hands are gentle. There are iron shutters around his heart, even though he saved you. You might just save him in return.
AN: This is a canon ending-divergent AU, but still an Omegaverse story within the canon world. It also fulfills a bingo square for @jacklesversebingo!
Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: True Mates
Song Inspo: “Against the Wind” by Bob Seger
Word Count: 5.5K
Tags/Warnings: A/B/O dynamics, scenting, injuries, hints of angst, fluff and feels.
🧡 Series Masterlist
Part 1: In His Hands
Your body is mostly numb when he pulls you out of the snow.
You utter a sharp cry when something in your side twinges, waking up your entire body like a white-hot shiv. Your ankle begins to throb as well.
“Hold on. I’ve got you.”
You only half hear the voice, a deep, coarse rumble. His form is broad and dark and blurry, but his male scent is the only thing you register with perfect clarity.
Alpha.
A small treble of alarm runs through you. It’s an instinct you’ve had to learn, as an omega traveling alone in rural Montana. However, something else disrupts that anxiety.
It’s his scent. His scent is like the crackle and smoke of a warm hearth.
Safe. Your body is heavy and stiff and doesn’t respond to your commands, and yet, you feel a measure of calm when he maneuvers you into his arms. It’s a baser instinct, rooted deep in your chest. He begins to carry you down the slope of the mountain, and your vision blurs white…
Like the flurry of snow falling heavy on his jacket.
You wake up freezing and shivering in pain. A sensation of small sharp needles begins to travel all across your skin. Slowly, as you're able to blink, your view of the dark wood cabin clears and focuses. You realize that you’re bundled in blankets, and laying on a chaise in front of a large fireplace. Still, you’re too cold. A keening whimper escapes you as you try to burrow in.
Alpha. Your body instinctively recognizes his presence, as he’s suddenly there, hovering close above you with a divot between his brows and a frown marring his face, where thick stubble threatens to become a beard. Stern, dark brows are furrowed over his concerned eyes. His plush frown is framed by a stubborn-looking chin. Your gaze wearily travels over his handsome features, his short brown hair, the flickers of firelight that splash across the side of his face.
He places a warm, calloused hand on your forehead, and he mutters a curse. Your body trembles further with cold. You part your lips, but you can't yet force your voice to escape them.
Again, he quite literally takes the problem into his own hands. He peels away the thick blankets just to slide himself in behind you. His arms wrap around your waist, and you feel their tempered strength when they cage you in against him. You manage to turn your head and rest your cheek against his chest, covered by red plaid. Thank you...
Almost on reflex, you breathe in his scent deeply. The earthiness of it calms you, warms you from the inside. Your shivering eventually calms and turns to purring in your chest.
“What’s your name, Omega?” he asks. His voice is deep and gruff, and it threatens to make you shiver for a different reason as the timbre of it washes over you.
It’s difficult, but you manage to speak, clearing past your parched throat to give him your name. He nods, as if rolling the sound of it back and forth across his mind.
“Was somebody out there with you?” he asks.
You shake your head, even though the thought elicits a painful twinge in your heart.
“Who…” you try to speak again, even though it hurts a little. “Who are you?”
You feel him take a deep breath. He hesitates, like he’s reluctant to give it to you.
“Dean,” he says.
You roll the name around in your head, over and over. Dean, Dean, Dean…
You smile slightly. “Yeah, makes sense.”
“What?” he says. You hear the raised brow in his tone.
“You sound like a Dean,” you say, perhaps a little delirious.
Anyway, that’s when your eyes close on you again. You fall back into the warm lull of sleep, to the sound of a crackling fire, and a feeling that permeates throughout your body.
Safe.
Can’t fucking believe this, Dean thinks, as he holds you. Just when he thought his life was done throwing him curveballs.
He tips his head back against the sofa cushion with a tired exhale. It would just be his luck to find a stray omega wandering his stretch of Big Sky. Montana can be gnarly in the winter, but for the past couple of years, Dean has learned to survive here in this rental cabin for a couple of months at a time, when wandering an empty bunker gets to be too much. At least here the quiet’s peaceful, if still a little unnerving sometimes.
He glances down at you. Now that you’re warm and sleeping again, he should find something to wrap your ankle and ice it down. It’s swollen, and he wants to take an inventory of your other injuries, so he can determine how to get you back down the mountain and through the woods, back to civilization.
The sooner he gets you medical attention and back to your life, the sooner he can get back to his—even though the thought of leaving you in anyone else’s hands almost stirs a growl in his throat.
And that last part unnerves him, makes him anxious. He begins to untangle himself from you, but his movements falter when your sweet scent filters through his nose again. Cinnamon apples, with a hint of something floral.
Fuck me.
It’s almost too sweet to be true, but Dean does his best to ignore it…and what that alluring sweetness probably means.
Dean leaves you in the morning to revisit the site where you fell. He digs through the snow and manages to find your backpack, filled with your clothes, supplies, and your phone and wallet. He returns just in time.
The falling snow becomes even more intense, until it becomes a quiet roar outside. You watch the snowstorm through the impact windows in the kitchen, and you know what this means. You’re snowed in with a stranger—an alpha, no less.
You also have a bum ankle, which he wrapped for you. Doesn’t feel broken, he’d said, but it could be fractured, or at the very least sprained. You also likely have a couple of cracked ribs.
“What were you doing out there, anyway?” he asks, while pouring himself a glass of whiskey. “This ain’t exactly hiking season.”
While you drink some hot chocolate he made you with a bit of whiskey splashed in (for extra warmth), you explain.
“Well, I guess it wasn’t my best idea in hindsight,” you say with a weak chuckle. “I was trying to find my way back, and I…well, I was a bit lost.”
He raises his brows wryly, still sipping.
“And to make a great situation even better, I thought I heard a wolf howl nearby,” you say. “I know most of them would rather run from us than attack us, but you can’t be sure, you know? I had my rifle on me, so I was turning around, trying to pinpoint what direction it was in…and of course, my foot slipped on something.”
You fell down that hill. You think you even hit a tree on the way down, which would explain your ribs. Everything gets a bit swirly, cold, and dark in your memory after that.
Dean shakes his head. “Gotta say, going out there alone wasn’t a great idea either, especially now. This time of year, there’s no telling when a blizzard like this is going to come through.”
He waves haphazardly toward the storm raging outside. Your gaze falls to the mug in your hands. You don’t really want to talk about your reasons for taking that risk, but maybe giving him a little honesty will get him off your back.
“My dad and I used to hike up here every year,” you confess. “A few months ago…I lost him. So I guess this was just something I needed to do.”
You blow on your hot chocolate before you take another sip. This time when you glance up, Dean’s judgy expression has evened out into something more sympathetic. He lowers his glass.
“Well, hate to break it to you, but there’s no cell service up here,” he says.
You give a humorless huff. “Believe me, I know.”
“Which means no one can come up here and get you,” he continues, “and even when this storm breaks, I can’t carry you all the way down the mountain back to civilization. Not with the snow as deep as it’s gonna get. Now…maybe I can go down by myself and bring help back with me.”
“But another storm could snow me in,” you realize, with growing apprehension at the thought.
Dean nods. “It’s either I take that chance, leave you by yourself. Or we wait for you to heal up.”
He leaves the choice up to you with a gesture of his hand, the one still wrapped around his glass. You weigh those options with a tilt of your head. On one hand, you don't want to impose on him longer than you had to, but on the other, you really don't want to be left alone in this cabin for God knows how long while he scales the mountain by himself, for your sake.
“I think it would be better if we go down together, right? It can be dangerous, even when the storm breaks,” you reply.
Dean nods slowly, like that was what he was going to suggest too. “All right. Well, until you’ve got two working legs, you’re stuck here with me.”
“I figured as much,” you say. Your head tilts as you consider him. He has a gruff exterior, but all his actions so far have been kind, and far more than you’d expect from a stranger. And an alpha at that.
Not to say that all alpha's are assholes, but you've had far too many experiences with the stereotype: arrogant, entitled, and handsy. Can't forget handsy.
“Thank you for saving me,” you say, meeting his gaze, “and for…well, being a decent guy.”
Dean’s lips twitch. He nearly chuckles. Instead, he sits back on his side of the couch.
“Yeah, well, there’s a spare room in this place for you, one bathroom. The kitchen is stocked. I’m a half-decent cook, if I say so myself, but help yourself.”
He gets up from the couch without preamble, to go to his room, you assume. It leaves you feeling at a loss, like he’s trying to get away from you. You know you’re a guest in his space, so you try to respect the way he wants to be alone for a while. He definitely gives off loner vibes.
You look around and find a collection of vinyl records, and smaller collection of books on a shelf next to the fireplace. You find Gulliver’s Travels, Dune, The Odyssey, The Wizard of Oz—books you didn’t think a guy like Dean would be into.
You take up The Wizard of Oz, reclaim your spot on the chaise, and start reading.
That night, your dreams are plagued by the crunch of dead leaves, your father shouting at you to run, and to keep running.
The coarse roar of a bear morphs into something other. It’s a sharper, whirring sound like wind howling amidst animalistic clicking, and then bones breaking—your father’s scream cut short.
You wake with a start, your body both cold and flush at the same time.
Dean is there once again. It confuses you at first, but then it all returns to you in a rush—the where and the why you’re here, once again with the alpha standing over you in concern. He grasps your shoulder and asks if you’re all right. Your breathing is too erratic for you to answer him, your eyes too wide, your body trembling.
Had you been making noise in your sleep? You blush in embarrassment at the thought. You also feel bad for waking him, and all those things get trapped in your throat.
Seeing that you’re most definitely not fine, he sits on the edge of the bed, squeezes your arm, and reminds you.
“It’s okay. You’re safe here,” he tells you. His tone is deep and even, reassuring.
You meet his steady gaze and manage to nod, trying to catch your breath.
“I’m okay,” you say, with a shaky nod. He gives you a measuring look, both a question and a confirmation. You give it to him with a firmer nod. “Thanks, I…I’m sorry I woke you up.”
He exhales through his nose, accepting. “‘S all right. Don’t worry about it.”
You feel the loss of his touch when his hand eventually slip away from your shoulder. As soon as he came into your room, he’s gone.
Dean leaves swiftly, trying to brush off how the scent of your fear had tugged sharply at his gut even in his sleep. It not only woke him up, but compelled him to kick his blankets off and get out of bed to go to you.
You were having a nightmare, reliving your fall, if he had to guess. You came out of it pretty quick when he carefully grabbed your shoulder. Every instinct in his body told him to gather you into his arms and cover you with his own scent and protective embrace to calm you down.
Through sheer willpower, he managed to ignore every single one of those instincts.
Two days pass, in which you and Dean say very little to one another, besides when he asks you what you want to eat, and how you’re feeling. The alpha seems genuine, but guarded any time you ask him about him; anything that’ll give you a clue into who this guy is, and why he’s here.
You try again to strike up some kind of conversation over dinner one night.
“Do you live here year-round?” you ask, around a mouthful of burger that’s absolutely delicious. He wasn’t lying when he claimed to be a good cook. He even made the fries himself.
“No,” he replies. “No Netflix, no internet? Think I’d die of boredom. I just come up here to uh…take a beat, I guess.”
You smile. “I don’t blame you. Sometimes you just need a break,” you say, even though your tone is heavier than you meant it to be. Your gaze, a bit distant in that moment, sharpens and focuses back on Dean. “Where are you from, then?”
“Kansas,” he offers.
“Oh really?” You brighten with that scrap of information. “My older sister lives in Topeka. She moved there for a job, initially, but then she met her guy. He’s some kind of day trader. Which is just code for sits on his ass playing Call of Duty while she busts hers.”
Dean huffs, then crams more burger into his mouth. He hasn’t been giving you a lot to go on while you two have been talking. Unfortunately, you have the tendency to ramble and fill the silence before it becomes even more stifled.
“She works at a bank. Smart, driven, always knows what she wants. Meanwhile, I’ve had about seven jobs in the last three years, none of which were even remotely related to my almost useless degree in Communications.”
“Yeah, doubt you need a degree in communicating,” Dean remarks, popping another fry into his mouth.
You purse your lips at him, but the glint of teasing in his eyes makes you fight not to smile.
“All right, smart guy. So, what about you?” you ask.
Predictably, the man’s walls firm back up. “What about me?”
“Well…why’re you up here alone? Do you have family?” you ask.
Dean quirks a half smile. “I’ve got a brother.”
“Okay. Younger, I’m guessing?”
He tilts his head at you, a bit amused at your guess. “Why’s that?”
“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I can’t imagine you with a brother who’s older than you.”
His lips twitch. “You callin’ me old, sweetheart?”
You begin to blush with embarrassment. But also, sweetheart?
You shake your head. “No, that’s not what I meant. I just mean like…”
Dean saves you with the return of his smile.
“Yeah, he’s younger,” he says. “But he’s the one with the quasi-wife and the apple pie life.”
“Quasi-wife?”
“They’re mated. Just haven’t gotten around to the whole getting hitched thing,” he explains. “But they’re happy. Dean Jr.’s growing up fast, already running full speed into glass doors.”
His smile is genuine when he talks about his brother, just tinged with a bit of melancholy, you think.
“Dean Jr.?” you ask in amusement. Dean Sr. laughs a little, and you enjoy the sound, the way it lightens up his face and pulls at the corners of his eyes.
“Yeah, can’t say I wasn’t surprised myself to get that honor, but…hey, it works for the kid. He’s got my chin,” he remarks.
He digs into his pocket to show you a picture from his cell phone. Even though it doesn’t have service, you can still view the many pictures of the adorable infant in his camera roll, courtesy of Sam and his mate, Eileen. You coo at the chubby cheeks, the bright little eyes, and the swirled tuft of dark hair on his head.
“Where do they live?” you ask.
“Out west, a stone’s throw from the City of Angels.” Dean’s smile dims. “He just had to go back to California.”
“What’s wrong with California?” you ask.
“It’s full of pretentious douchebags, that’s what,” he says, his voice a dry whip. “Waxed up to the fucking eyeballs, smelling like Botox, Adderall, and sweaty desperation.”
You splutter laughing so bad that your diet coke escapes you in a spit take. It partially goes up into your nose, burning, stinging your eyes, but it’s made worse by the way Dean waves a hand up incredulously. You’ve just gotten half his sleeve wet.
He meets your gaze, and you can’t help but laugh even harder.
“Wow,” he says.
“God, I’m sorry,” you say, still giggling. You get up, hobble over to the kitchen counter, and rip off a paper towel to try and pat his arm dry. He takes it from you and helps you back into your seat.
“I got it, Spit Take. Just finish your food,” he says, if with a dancing gleam in his eyes.
From then on, it becomes easier for you to pull the alpha into conversation. Besides reading, napping, and staring out the window while it snows, you don’t have much by way of entertainment. Not to mention the pain of trying to get around without crutches, as it also jostles your ribs. Dean often has to help you from one room to another, which of course, you get embarrassed by.
“I’m sorry!” you yelp, when he saves you from another crash landing in the hallway. You’re fresh out of a shower, and it had taken you twenty minutes just to figure out how to wash your hair on one leg, let alone dry yourself off and get your shirt and borrowed sweatpants on. The main problem in getting back to your room happened to be the pants themselves. Their length and bagginess made you slip.
At least Dean’s learned to ignore your apologies. He now holds you by the waist, having pulled you against his chest on reflex. With furrowed brows, he notices your pained hiss when you grab onto his arms for balance.
“You okay?” he asks with a note of alarm.
“Ribs,” you gasp. They’re throbbing sharply with his hold, especially after being rattled by the near fall.
He immediately adjusts his hold lower, holding your arm and hip to support you. His hands are strong, but gentle. The warmth and pressure of his touch rattles you more than almost falling into a heap. Cliché as it might be, your heart is beating faster, what seems like in and out of rhythm. A feeling you can’t name stirs and tugs at your lower belly when you hazard looking up into his eyes. They’re a nice shade of green, like a forest floor in the spring.
“You just go ass over tea kettle at any moment, huh?” he quips, his lips tugging upward. “Come on. Where were you headed?”
“To my room, wise guy,” you say wryly, even as your blush heats your face and neck. “But this is a great taxi service.”
He snorts. “Yeah, call it the Winchestermobile.”
“Winchester. That your last name? Like the rifle?” you ask, while he helps you carefully down the hall. He nods in confirmation.
“That’s interesting. You don’t meet many Winchesters,” you remark.
“Yeah, well, ain’t that many left,” he mutters.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he shakes his head, easing you down onto the edge of the bed. His hands go to his hips as he scrutinizes your form for further injury. “You good? I was about to get cracking on some lunch.”
You offer him a grateful smile. “Yeah, I’m good. What’s on the menu?”
“Nothing fancy. I’m thinking grilled cheese. Maybe some tomato soup, assuming I can find a can in the pantry,” he says.
“Honestly, that sounds awesome,” you say. “Haven’t had a grilled since…God, probably since I was a kid.”
At that, Dean smiles. “Well, I happen to make an awesome one. No less than three kinds of cheese.”
“If they’re as good as your burgers, then I don’t doubt it,” you reply. He seems pleased at that, and maybe a little bashful as his gaze falls away.
Cute, you think. Your smile grows.
“All right, well, stay tuned,” he says. He winks, tossing you a “gun for hand” gesture that makes you laugh. Dean wears a rugged exterior as easily as his winter jacket, but he’s also kind of a dork.
After lunch (delicious, as you predicted), you take the afternoon just to sort through Dean’s records and alphabetize them for him. You hunker down on the floor in front of the shelf, close to the record player.
“I don’t need all that. I know where all my stuff is…more or less,” he says, with a lazy wave of the beer he has in hand.
“Oh really?” you raise a brow. “Okay, let’s test that theory. Where’s Boston.”
“Right next to the White Album, there on the left.”
Sure enough, you find Boston, as well as the White Album by the Beatles.
“Oh my God, you actually have the White Album?” You open up the double-sided case in excitement to read the list of songs printed on the inside. “This thing is so expensive.”
“Beatles fan, huh?” Dean says as he takes a seat on the couch. You turn your smile on him, and he stills in his seat.
“Uh, yeah. Who isn’t?” you say.
Dean shrugs with a smile of his own. “Put it on if you want.”
You bounce a little with excitement before you figure out how to turn on his record player. You put the vinyl album on Side B, moving the needle until you find “Blackbird.”
“Of course,” Dean says, slightly teasing. You turn to him with crunched brows.
“What? ‘Blackbird’s’ a classic.”
“Eh. Everyone likes ‘Blackbird.’”
“That’s what a classic means,” you argue.
“More like a mainstream copout,” he says. You think it’s just to needle you, but you still purse your lips.
“Fine, Mr. Music Snob. Then what’s your favorite?”
“On the White Album?”
“Any Beatles song.”
“‘Hey, Jude,’” he says, after a moment. There’s some kind of weight in his eyes, a note of melancholy. You don’t miss it, even though you don’t know why it’s there.
“Everyone likes ‘Hey, Jude,’” you quip, trying to lighten him.
He smiles a little. “Yeah. Fair enough.”
Finally, the snowstorm breaks. Dean ventures outside and brings you back a long, sturdy stick to lean your weight on when you want to move around, though he claims he’s working on a better solution. Now that the snow has let up, he’ll be able to go out to the shed and do some work.
Whatever that means, you think.
You watch him from the living room when he goes outside to chop some more firewood.
He should really wear a hat. His brown hair is getting dusted white with snow flurries as he continues to swing down the ax. You notice the power in his tall frame, even covered by layers of his jacket, pants, and boots. You almost feel each chop of the wood resonate in your chest.
Heat rises in your cheeks when he looks up, as if he senses he’s being watched. You bow your head and pretend to read your book.
His boots continue to crunch in the snow as he makes trips back and forth from the surrounding forest. Aside from the firewood, he brings back a few long, thinner logs that he takes to the shed. Soon you begin to hear the steady back-and-forth cutting of a saw. You wish you could go out there and take a look, but you can’t even get around the house that easily, let alone venture outside.
Your curiosity about this man knows no bounds, and you decide to use the walking stick he found for you in the meantime to get around without putting pressure on your injured ankle. You know it’s wrong, but you end up traversing the long, dark hallway, pushing open the door to the right, and venturing into Dean’s room.
It smells like him, earthy and tinged with smoke. His scent is seeped into every part of it—the bed, the dresser and nightstands, the dark blue bedsheets, the desk and chair, and even the drapes. It makes you almost lightheaded at the pleasurable feeling of it washing over you.
A shudder suddenly runs down your spine and tugs at your core in arousal. With a sharp intake of breath, you have to shift on your feet, pressing your legs together against the slick already forming down below.
You’re shocked and embarrassed at first. You aim to bolt out of his room, but you stop short in the doorway as it dawns on you.
Your sister is a beta, and so is her husband. She’s never completely understood you as an omega. She never understood your parents either, or the bond they had. She always scoffed at the idea of “true mates.”
Soulmates. It was fantasy and myth, the stuff of cheesy Harlequin novels.
Growing up, you’d agreed with her, even though a part of you deep down always protested. It wanted to tell her not to open her mouth about something she knew nothing about, and would never know.
The day you met Dean, you knew she was wrong.
Your more logical mind tries again to reassert itself though. You remind yourself that you barely know anything about this man, no matter how attractive, kind, funny, enigmatic…
And yet, you can’t shake that part of you that doesn’t rest until you see his face in the morning; until you make him coffee and eat breakfast together, and take any opportunity to pull more threads from him. It’s more than passing attraction. It’s more than just being stuck together in this cabin, unable to escape each other. You know, because the feeling scares you, and it electrifies your blood at the same time.
All these thoughts go through your mind when you turn back around. Slowly, you continue to look around his room, your whole body tingling. The room is neat, more or less, with everything in its proper place. It’s pretty bare though, décor wise. There’s a desk with a few scattered books and a journal sandwiched in between. A smile of surprise forms across your face.
No. Don’t tell me this guy is Mr. Dear Diary? you think in amusement. Though you wonder if it’s another way he passes his time here, especially when he’s holed up in his room.
You know you shouldn’t be snooping, let alone contemplating what you’re about to do…but you can’t help yourself. Biting your lip, you slide out the journal and begin to flip through it.
You frown at the strange drawings and odd entries—dates, narratives, scraps of information on different types of mythological creatures, and even more strange, on how to kill them.
What the hell is this?
That’s when you hear the front door swing open. You bolt from his room as quick as you can, not realizing you took the journal with you in your haste. You stuff it up your sweater and pretend like you’ve just come out of the bathroom on the way back to your room. There you slide the journal under your pillow. You jump when Dean knocks on your door.
“Hey,” he greets.
The jolting pains your ribs, and your hand goes to your left side in a hiss.
“You okay?” he asks, brows furrowing in concern. He takes a step into your room, but you turn to him with a nod and a placating hand.
“Yeah, I’m fine. You just scared me,” you say, with a bit of nervous laughter.
He gives a half smile. “Sorry. Just come ‘ere a sec. I wanna show you something.”
He reaches out a hand to help guide you to the living room.
There he presents you with two rudimentary crutches. Your eyes widen as your free hand passes over the smooth chestnut color of the wood. Dean keeps a light hold on your elbow, just in case.
“You made these?” you ask.
“Yeah, just a bit of woodworking. Picked it up over the last couple of years,” he says.
He’s downplaying it, but you’re nothing short of marveling. You set aside the walking stick in favor of picking up the crutches, and they’re even the right size to position them under your arms.
“Now you don’t have to hobble around like Long John Silver,” Dean quips. You meet the sight of his grin with a raised brow, but you soon begin to smile. When you get close enough to him, you lean the crutches against the couch and give him a warm hug, resting your head on his chest.
“Thank you,” you say. It’s something he was wholly unprepared for, but he hugs you back with a chuckle.
“Uh, you’re welcome.”
Just then, he tries not to inhale your scent. He tries not to focus on the feeling of your body pressed soft and warm against his. You fit just right.
After a beat, you have mercy on him and pull away. You take your crutches back up and continue to walk around the living room experimentally.
“You think I’d be okay trying to go outside?” you ask on your way to the door. Dean tenses.
“Uh, I don’t think—”
But you’re already halfway out the door. He shakes his head and follows you with swift strides. He watches you step out carefully onto the porch like a baby deer. He cleared the snow this morning from the deck and the steps, but he’s more concerned when he sees you considering how you might step out onto the snow.
“Stay on the porch, all right, Bambi,” he warns. “You’re not wearing snow boots and it’s still pretty deep. Not to mention, I’ve been keeping an eye out for a bear that wandered through here last week—”
You turn to look at him over your shoulder in amusement.
“Okay, Alpha. Calm down,” you say playfully. “I’m not gonna go ass over tea kettle.”
His brow twitches as he frowns. Alpha. He fights not to show his reaction to the way you said it; it calls to his baser instincts, almost stirring a rumble in his chest.
Cheeky little omega.
You keep to the porch, but regardless, you’re happy. You don’t even mind the cold. You see your breath on the air, and you tip your head back, closing your eyes with a smile as the sunshine warms your face. You inhale through your nose and let it out slowly in contentment.
“It’s a good day, Dean,” you say quietly.
You don’t realize that he’s watching you with a more reserved smile on his face. When he realizes it, he shakes his head at himself. He’s only been here a week with you, and it’ll probably take a couple more for your ankle to heal up well enough for you to walk again, let alone get down the mountain.
He doesn’t want to leave you alone up here, so he’ll have to somehow keep fending off your probing questions into his past and personal life. There's a lifetime of blood, nightmares, and death that he just can't let you see behind his eyes.
Hell, he's been trying to shove it all down for the past year—in booze and odd jobs and trips to nowhere, always coming back to an empty bunker. He still wonders how Sam's managed to do it, to move on, and build a new life for himself.
If Dean's honest (and he's not), he feels a bit like this cabin; old, falling apart, and forgotten.
But he’ll have to keep taking in your brightness and warmth, continue arguing with you about music and other inane shit, and pretend that every small touch of yours doesn’t ignite his skin. That it doesn’t make him have to beat down every instinct he has to pull you into his body and blanket you with his scent, ravage you, claim you, and make you his.
He never thought this would happen to him. He never thought someone like you was out there…for someone like him.
He knows it though, deep in his gut. You’re meant for him. You’re meant to be his mate.
Which means he’s already screwed.
AN: And we're off! Special thanks again to Michelle (@luci-in-trenchcoats) for being my sounding board when I was first writing this series. Let me know what you think of Part 1! 🧡
Next Time:
I buried my wife today. Even as I write that down, I don’t believe it. Last week we were a normal family…eating dinner, going to Dean’s T-ball game, buying toys for baby Sammy. But in an instant, it all changed…
When I try to think back, get it all straight in my head…I feel like I’m going crazy. Like someone ripped both my arms off, plucked my eyes out. I’m wandering around, alone and lost and I can’t do anything.
This is Dean’s father, you realize. The more that you read, with no small amount of dismay, you also realize that this man is writing about his wife, Mary.
Dean’s mom…
▶️ Keep Reading: PART 2
Join My Patreon 🌟 Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!
Jacklesverse Bingo Masterlist
Dean Winchester Series List
Dean Winchester Masterlist
Main Masterlist
Follow @zepskieswrites (with notifications on) to get notified every time I drop a new story or chapter. 🧡
“You spoke so beautifully. So beautifully, man. So gorgeous.”
This is even sweeter knowing that Colin Farrell’s son has Angelman Syndrome. He has spoken about it in the past, saying that he wants people to be kind to his son, and treat him and other children with special needs with kindness and respect.
I think the beauty of meeting someone just once to understand them to be part of their life for a brief second or a moment. It’s so wonderfully terrible, that’s the process of life I suppose.
Modern Beauty and the Beast AU
Winter soldier x f reader
Long awaited, I hope you all enjoy it as well.
Word count: 8.9k
Warnings: 18 + Angst, injuries, Fluff, All the sweet smut, Bucky is a sweetheart
"оставаться внизу" [Stay down] The soldier ordered, holding his gun to the targets forehead, his metal finger twitching against the trigger while the man cowered in front of him.
"Please" The man tried to plead but it was no use. He knew his fate was sealed the second he heard the thud of the boots entering his home. The whirring of metal. The ghost people spoke of but never saw until it was too late.
"тишина" [Silence] The soldiers rough voice growled behind the mask that covered his face. He pressed the barrel further into the man's head, freezing when he heard the soft patter of footsteps nearing the office he had broken into.
"Papa?" A soft voice called, the scent of roses and vanilla accompanying it, "Papa, where are y-
You gasped as you entered your father's study, your heart dropping to your stomach seeing him kneeling on the floor with his hands tied while the soldier towered above him.
So the rumors were true.
The silver of his arm was illuminated in the moonlight, the rest of him covered in Kevlar and black leather. Weapons were strapped to every bit of his body but the only one that worried you now was the one that was about to take your father's life.
"Don't hurt him!" It was a futile attempt to save your father, you knew this enough. The Winter Soldier didn't spare anyone, in fact for the longest time you wondered if he was nothing more than an urban legend. No one had actually seen him. Those that did didn't live to speak the tale. The soldier grunted in response, hardly sparing you a glance as he stared at the man before him.
A professor. A brilliant man. One who was quietly working with a group of researchers aiming to destroy the the longtime work of Arnim Zola from so many years ago. No more serums. No more soldiers.
Hydra wouldn't have that.
Not when those very serums created their best asset, the Winter Soldier himself.
"Он моя миссия" [He is my mission] Was the only response you were given. You didn't understand the words he said but it didn't matter; it was quite clear. He didn't intend on sparing the professor.
"Darling, please go, it's okay" Your father shook his head, ready to accept the consequences of his choices. He hoped to aid in the movement of making the world safer and if this was his end, he was prepared to meet it. Tears welled in his eyes with a sad smile on his face, "It'll be alright, go, hurry-
"No, please!" You pleaded with the soldier once again, all you could see were his blue eyes, void of emotion, cold and icy. "If-if you kill him, someone will take his place and then another. My father will no longer help with the government if you spare him and take me. Please just take me instead, it will put an end to all this. Please"
If you kill him, someone will take his place
The words rang through the soldiers mind.
It shouldn't be a problem. He'd killed plenty of people before but...
Then it would be another mission to carry.
And then another.
Another.
The innocent man trapped in his brain screamed to stop. A voice long forgotten, begging him to reconsider. To fight against the words that were causing him to do this. The solider flinched, fighting within himself, contemplating his next actions. The mission was to ensure Arnim Zola's work wouldn't be eradicated. The girl was offering herself to ensure the same work wouldn't continue. He wouldn't have more blood on his hands if he allowed the professor to live.
He shouldn't have cared but a part of him did.
He didn't want to kill another innocent man.
He never wanted to kill anyone.
Your father let out a sigh of relief feeling the weight of the gun pull away, only to have his greatest fear come alive; losing you.
"NO, darling you don't know what you're doing, I'll be fine-
It was too late. The soldier cut through the ropes that bound your father's wrists, taking you instead. Before your father could reach for you, the soldier grabbed and hauled you over his shoulder and strode away, ignoring the plea of the professor to spare his only daughter.
His mind was made up.
She was not his mission but now he had a new one.
If he killed the man, another would take his place.
He was risking repercussions listening to the trapped soul only his mind could hear.
He shouldn't have listened to her words.
He shouldn't have let the professor go.
Yet he agreed.
The gait of the soldier lulled you into a dreamless sleep; exhaustion consumed you as he wandered through a thicket of trees and into the woods far from home. You hadn't spoken a word nor let out a cry as he carried you off, after all, you agreed to be his prisoner as long as you father lived.
-
He brought you to a place he knew no one would find.
A place no one else knew of.
A place that was now his own.
He was once sent to take the life of a wealthy aristocrat, a man who had no one to leave his estate to. The place was deep in a forest, away from most of humanity; even when Hydra had sent him to finish the man, they were unable to give him a location. The soldier had located the target himself only to find the man had already passed from old age.
No questions were asked.
The mission was considered complete.
The body was disposed of and for quite some time, the soldier thought nothing of the castle like place that no one else knew of. It was a secret only he knew and he soon found himself seeking its solitude. A resting place between missions. A place to patch up. A place to hide when his mind was too loud, trying to escape from clutches he didn't understand.
It was the closest place he had to freedom.
The soldier pushed through the heavy wooden doors, entering the dark oak foyer. He stilled, torn between taking you down to the cellar or taking you to the rooms up in the master wing.
How could he chain something so soft.
How could he imprison something so delicate.
His feet began to move towards the large staircase before his mind could process anything, shifting to carry you in his arms as he made his way up to the west wing. He set you down gently onto the large bed with the soft sheets, careful not to stir you. He stared at your sleeping form, unmoving from his place as you softly snored, the choices of his actions beginning to plague his mind.
What was he to do with you now. Why hadn't he gotten rid of you.
He knew the rules; once his job was done, he was to return to the base but he hadn't completed the mission. He had been away for weeks and the longer he was away, the louder the screaming was. The voice of a young sergeant who fought bravely in the war. The pleading young man, scared like a child, trapped in the body of a killing machine. The cries of a little boy trying so hard to runaway from monsters that haunted him every single night. All trapped and begging to escape.
He'd let the professor live.
It was wrong of him.
He disobeyed his orders.
Or perhaps it was the right thing to do.
Though the soldier had been brainwashed, there were times he found himself caught in-between a state of control and chaos. His duties were to Hydra. He knew this was wrong. You shouldn't be here. His task was to continue their vision. He was their asset. He belonged to them.
His tourmiol continued. Why did he spare the professor. Why did he bring the girl and set her down on the softest bed out of all the rooms when he should have chained her in a cell. Exhaustion began to weigh on him but he didn't close his eyes. He didn't allow sleep to consume him. The soldier remained in place even as the sun rose. He watched as you stirred, soft sunlight streaming through the curtains, falling onto your face.
-
You blinked, rubbing sleep from your eyes, a fearful gasp escaping your lips when you saw him sitting in the armchair in the corner of the room. A thousand thoughts began to run through your mind at once as you sat up, a part of you surprised to find your hands and legs free from binds. You were atop a plush mattress on a large bed, the room itself surprisingly warm and quaint. Had you not been in a state of terror, you would have taken some time to appreciate the olive green walls and fine paintings that decorated the space as well as the well kept antique furniture.
"Please don't hurt me" You whispered, still disoriented from the night before.
"я не буду" [I won't] He replied, aware you didn't understand him. His lips twitched, all the words of English he wanted to speak dying in his mouth. His mind wouldn't allow it.
It wasn't required for this mission.
You stayed frozen in place while he said nothing else, walking off and closing the door behind him. Tears welled in your eyes as dread began to set in. This was your life now. He could kill you at any moment without warning. In fact, you didn't understand why he hadn't. From the rumours, you knew the soldier never took prisoners. You didn't know why you were spared; the only sliver of joy you had was that your father was alive. You thought about your him as you gathered yourself out of bed, deciding to make the best of your circumstances with the faintest hope that one day you'd be reunited with him again.
You inspected the room the soldier had put you in. There was a vanity across the bed. A walk in closet that only contained a few old sheets. You gasped as you entered the en suite bathroom, white marble tiles covering the floor, a large clawfoot tub, brass and gold accents decorated the handles of the cupboards.
The room was enchanting.
After splashing some water onto your face, you crept into the hallway, padding down to the staircase, surprised again at the beauty of the place. High ceilings. Dark wood. Crystal albeit dusty chandeliers. French doors. Original paintings. It was the type of place you'd imagine when you read fairytales. It would have been the type of place you'd dream to live in; one you'd only imagine in your wildest fantasies where the princess finds her prince. Such stories were only found in books.
You quietly explored the main floor of the mansion and avoiding the rooms which were locked shut. You didn't dare touch a thing, quickly retreating back to your room once you'd seen everything, familiarizing yourself with it's layout. The kitchen. A study. A living room. The hauntinly beautiful hallways. A door to the grounds in the back. You hadn't seen the soldier which both relieved and scared you.
Where did he disappear to?
That night, there was a knock at your door and when you opened it, a plate of warm food was left on a tray. Boiled carrots. Potatoes. A dinner roll. You hadn't even heard his footsteps down the hall. As you peered out of your room, it was empty without the slightest hint that anyone had been there seconds ago.
Where had he gone?
You hadn't realized how hungry you were until you took the first bite, scarfing down the rest in haste, placing the tray back in the hall. The next day was the same. You woke up to find a simple spread of breakfast outside of your room; toast and jam.
The soldier was a man of his word; if you were to be his captive, he had to keep you alive.
At least until he knew what to do with you...
Days had passed and you'd managed to avoid him, keeping to yourself and staying out of his way but you weren't able to avoid him forever.
-
The soldier had already heard you coming, pausing his cleaning as he waited for you to enter. The sight of your trembling form evoked something inside him.
You were scared. He didn't like it.
His mask remained on his face while his blue eyes peered at you, waiting for you to speak.
"I-I need clothes" Your voice was hardly a whisper, body shaking as you approached him, finding him in the study room, parts of his gun in hand. There was nothing wrong with the simple cotton dress you had on though it certainly wasn't comfortable to sleep in every night and you weren't able to wash and it dry within the same day. You needed at least one other set of something to wear. "Please"
He nodded without a word, resuming his cleaning while you retreated to your room. His brows furrowed as he thought about what you'd need. Perhaps it would be easier to return you and finish off the professor or get rid of you both-
No.
No.
He didn't want more blood on his hands.
The foods he stole were already a risk....where would he go for clothes?
-
The next morning, you found a fresh set of clothes left beside your tray of breakfast. You lifted the pile and brought it to your room, munching on the toast that had come with honey instead of jam for a change.
There was a red Henley and some sweatpants. A black t shirt and joggers. A few other basics for you to wear comfortably around the house. You couldn't help but giggle at the very large leather jacket he'd also left in case you felt cold even though there were already plenty of warm blankets. They were very clearly his own clothes but they were all washed and perfectly clean. You couldn't expect him to go shopping for you.
You threw off your dress, taking a long bath before drying off and slipping on the Henley and sweats. They were warm and soft, fitting loosely on your smaller frame, his soft scent of something distinctly him clinging onto the material. It was strange that it didn't bother you. Quite the opposite. It was pleasant, almost comforting.
You wondered about the man behind the mask and who he was. Such a dangerous man who was giving you the clothes off his back, feeding you and keeping you alive even though he'd killed hundreds of others. He was dangerous and yet he looked at you with such softness, you couldn't understand how he'd be capable of hurting anyone.
What was his story?
He hadn't chained you to the bed.
He hadn't locked you in your room.
You were free to go about where you liked.
Surely he wasn't all evil?
As you grew more accustomed to your living arrangement, you decided to inspect more of the kitchen. You hadn't been told you couldn't cook; even if the soldier didn't kill you, boredom eventually would. You needed something to pass the time and he had disappeared yet again.
You opened the fridge and pantries surprised to find a few fruits and vegetables stocked up. An untouched sack of flour and bag of sugar sat at the bottom of the shelves. Who knew the winter soldier enjoyed plums so much? There were a few pots and pans as well as basic kitchen utensils. You didn't need much to make a simple meal, careful not to make a mess as you began to peel some carrots.
-
The soldier blinked as he entered the house, the smell of food wafting throughout, a smell he hadn't come across in a long time.
Home.
There was a pot of stew left on the stove along with a pie left to cool on the counter. His eyes widened at the way his stomach grumbled; it had been years since he'd truly felt hunger. He ate for sustenance. Raw, uncooked, at most boiled food to keep him going. When he was with Hydra, he was fed with a tube.
Just basic nutrients to keep him alive.
He hadn't had a home cooked meal in years.
-
You woke up the next morning to find a pastry at your door instead of toast. When you wandered into the kitchen, you smiled at the tiny crumbs left pie tin and the now empty pot of stew. There were also newly stocked ingredients waiting for you; berries, potatoes, somehow even a whole chicken. You got to work, deciding to try something new each time; each night a warm meal awaited the soldier along with something sweet at the end.
He continued to bring you breakfast but there were only so many different pastries and cakes he could nick, besides they didn't compare to yours.
It wasn't enough. The soldier frowned at the strange feelings he had within himself.
He wanted to do something for you.
He wasn't sure what. He smuggled a handful of cookies you'd baked that morning into his room before removing his mask and savoring each once. He didn't leave a crumb behind, licking the remnants of chocolate off his lips while his mind wandered. You didn't have to cook for him. In fact you had every right to try and escape from him but you never did. He recalled the number of bookshelves that lined your home, after all he'd taken note of every detail as part of his mission.
You liked to read.
-
You sat up when you heard a knock at your door, the soldier waiting on the other side. He looked at you with a softness you hadn't seen previously, turning around and walking down the hall, hoping you'd follow him.
You stayed a few feet behind, trailing after him as he led you to the living room, leading you to the large bookshelf. He wordlessly stood by it, the strange sensation of nervousness and anxiety bubbling within him when you looked at what he wanted to show you.
Would you like it? You looked so unsure, scared. Perhaps you wanted to be free, you wanted to leave, you-
"M-May I?"
He blinked hearing your voice, nodding, watching your eyes light up as you scanned the various book titles. Gasps of joy and little squeals of delight escaped your lips as you came across stories you adored.
That wasn't the only thing that made his heart beat faster. Seeing you in his clothes stirred something in him. You were dressed in his red Henley, the hem reaching mid thigh. He was pulled away from admiring you as you squeaked, seeing one of your favorite books from when you were a little girl, a first edition no less.
"How did you get all these" You were in absolute awe, lost in your own world while he pondered how he came to own such treasures. Perhaps he was always a soldier gone rogue. His missions came with a side of thievery when he'd see something that would catch his eye. Something that would spark a memory of sorts, such as an old book he'd seen as he passed an vintage bookstore. Soon, the shelves of the mansion were filled with books and trinkets he'd collected. A part of his brain would nearly break itself to try and connect to the things he'd collect, only for the memories to fail to fall into place.
His mind felt like a pile of shreds from different cloths; pieces that would never fit together again. His little treasures were the closest he'd ever get to remembering, a few sparks from the past that would forever be disconnected.
-
Ever since the soldier had shown you the shelves of books, you'd left your room more often, spending more time reading after cooking. In a strange way you also began to trust the very masked man who had taken you away. You didn't worry about him hurting you. You no longer worried about running into him. He hardly spoke, nothing more than a few words of Russian. He hadn't demanded you stay locked in your room, so why did you?
You picked up one of your favorite books, deciding to read outside in the garden, in need of some fresh air. You hadn't taken much time to look at the outside of the house, pausing as you opened the doors that entered the grounds. It was strangely beautiful, especially considering the assassin who resided in it. For such a dark soul, nature still continued to flourish around it. Tall, overgrown hedge fences surrounded the backyard while weeping willows and bushes of flowers shaded the stone paths that led to a fountain in the very center. You found a comfortable spot under the tree, settling onto the cool grass, the scent of spring calming you as you turned to the first page.
-
The soldier trudged through the doorway, surprised at the way his appetite had grown since you'd started cooking. His body which was used to sustaining itself on the bare minimum now rumbled through the day. He'd find his mind wandering to your pies and craving the comfort of the soup you'd make. The food was set in the kitchen but you were nowhere to be found. He walked past your room, knocking on the door, only to be met with silence.
Where did you go? Did you run away?
He knew something was wrong when he felt his heart sink because he couldn't find you. He couldn't remember the last time his heart felt anything other than emptiness. It was more than just you escaping.
He was worried about you.
He took longer strides as he searched for you with purpose, fingers already itching to reach towards his gun, deciding to first check the grounds in the back. His heart settled when he saw the doors to the garden left ajar, finding you nestled in the shade, curled up in the grass with a book.
You were safe. You hadn't run away.
Again he was left stunned and unable to move. You were the final piece in the puzzle of the garden; you fit there like the perfect flower. He'd seen the garden 100 times before and it had never looked so beautiful.
Not until now.
Roses and daisies grew in abundance but you were the prettiest thing there. You were meant to be there; a soft, delicate, flower.
"цветок"
You set down the book you were reading, looking up to see the soldier peering down at you. You hadn't heard him coming as he appeared before you with the silence of a ghost.
"цветок" He repeated, gazing at you before looking towards a daisy. He kneeled, plucking one and handing it to you, "цветок. мягкий, как ты" [Flower. Soft, like you]. You felt your cheeks heat up as he looked at you intently, blinking with an innocence you hadn't seen before. He looked almost...shy?
"Thank you" You whispered, stroking the petal of the flower he gave you. You didn't understand why you longed for him to stay as he went back inside, your curiosity about him growing with each passing day.
It went on like this.
Most days, you would spend your time exploring the trinkets the soldier collected, staying out of his way while he disappeared into the forest to do things you didn't pry into. Each night you knew he would return, hearing the heavy creak of the doors open during the darkest hours. You'd hear the quiet sound of clinking cutlery and then the soft sound of his bedroom door shut.
Except tonight.
You set down your book hearing the sound of heavy boots dragging down the hall, quite different from the silence the soldier usually moved with. A sense of dread washed over you as you debated on staying put, something telling you to lock the door, hide, something-
"What do we have here" The click of your door opening sent shivers down your spine, your blood running cold as a man strode in, a metal mask covering his face showing nothing but his eyes. You wanted to scream but your voice was stuck in your throat, you felt safe with the soldier, this man was not the same, he lunged towards you, knife in hand, the blade swiping towards your neck, "The soldiers little pet"-
"DON'T TOUCH HER" A growl shook the window as you hugged your knees to yourself waiting for the knife to plunge but it never came. You gasped as the man was ripped away, the flash of silver gleaming as the soldier grabbed him and hauled him away, shutting the door behind him.
"You're weak. You were supposed to kill him"
"So this is what's been keeping you"
"Kill her and come back to us. That's an order"
"Rumlow-
"Kill her. They're nothing more than collateral damage, end them, желание-
You didn't dare move, tears spilling down your cheeks as you heard the sounds of a struggle growing further and further away, eventually melting into silence.
He saved you.
You heard him return, still frozen in fear but the sound of a pained whimper pulled you out of bed. You peered into the hall, eyes widening in horror seeing a trail of blood staining the floors leading to his room, streaks of crimson smeared onto the wall. You didn't think twice as you dashed out of your room to his, your body moving faster than your mind could comprehend as you let yourself in.
Your heart continued to race seeing the blood lead to the washroom where he stood with a needle in hand, beginning to sew a gash on his side across his ribs. His bloodied tactical gear was thrown on the floor though his mask still remained hoping to silence himself as he attempted to take care of himself.
He hissed in pain, piercing his skin while his head began to spin, multiple wounds needing attention, the blood loss starting to take its toll.
"Let me" you hesitated to touch him, going against your better judgement when you wrapped your hand around his wrist, pulling his hand away. The soldier shook his head, fighting the way his body craved for something more gentle, more caring, more loving than the jagged and painful stitches he was giving himself.
"I won't hurt you, soldat" you looked in his eyes with such sincerity, for a moment he thought he'd ask you to be his girl.
Such a doll...
One he'd take dancing...
Call you darlin' with that Brooklyn drawl...
He blinked at the fleeting memory, a whimper escaping his lips when you dabbed his gash with an alcohol soaked cotton ball. You blew across the cut to soothe the pain before taking the needle and carefully stitching him up with a feather light touch.
"There" You whispered after taking care of the awful injuries that littered his body, leading out of the bathroom to lie down so he could rest. You didn't dare ask what had happened as you looked around the room; though there was a large bed with the softest sheets and finest materials but the makeshift pallet on the floor was clearly where he chose to sleep at night. He collapsed from exhaustion, falling into a deep sleep while you remained by his side.
You watched the rise and fall of his chest, occasionally glancing over the dressings you'd put to see if blood had seeped through. You couldn't bring yourself to leave him alone, only getting up to see if you could find a sheet to drape cover yourself with in the cold room. As you removed the blanket that covered the bed, something caught your eye in the mostly untouched room.
A wooden box, carefully tucked away in the furthest corner of the room. There wasn't any dust on it, compared to the other pieces of furniture that were never used. It was something he very clearly wanted to keep a secret. His other treasures that were out in the open on the shelf were different from this.
Even the soldier had secrets.
Your curiosity got the best of you as you made your way to the corner, lifting the box as silently as you could so you didn't wake him, inspecting its contents.
Newspaper articles, some decades old.
Old photographs.
One of a young man.
The eyes.
Those blue eyes you'd become so familiar with.
James Buchanan Barnes.
A brave soldier who fought in the war. A young man, no, a boy, drafted to war, his life ripped away from him, leaving him for dead in an icy forest. You blinked back tears at the innocence the young Sergeants eyes held, bright and heroic, hoping to help in a fight that wasn't his. Scribbles on scrap pieces of paper read "I am James Buchanan Barnes" repeatedly.
Your could feel your heart break into tiny little fragments as you pieced together what happened to the boy from Brooklyn, he had his whole life ahead of him but-
A pained scream tore from his lungs, his eyes squeezed shut as you knelt by his side again, brows furrowed together. You looked over his injuries, everything was still in place but he sounded like he was being tortured. He tossed around, his screams melting into sobs, pleading for someone to stop.
"James?" You hesitated to use his real name, your hushed voice made him flinch in his sleep but it wasn't enough to pull him as he begged for the painto end. He didn't want to lose his memories again. He wanted to remember. Please?
"You're alright James" You cooed softly, running your fingers through his locks while tears continued to stream down his face, lost in a nightmare. "You're not alone"
You were careful not to scared him awake, your gentle ministrations soothing him, his cries coming to a stop. You wiped away the remnants of tears that fell against his cheek, some slipping beneath the mask he refused to remove. You didn't have in you to take it off, not without asking him first. His soft snores filled the room once again as the sun began to rise.
-
He stirred feeling a strange warmth surrounding his body blinking in confusion when he found soft sheets draped over him. The usual sting he'd feel after stitching himself up was nearly non existent. He ran his fingers along the gash, the neat little sutures still in place, covered with a bandage to protect the area. Bits and pieces of the night came to him in waves.
Running into his captors. Evading them. Escaping. The bloodshed. The weapons. The injuries. The pain.
However, there was also softness. Such tenderness. The touch of an angel he'd only be able to imagine in his wildest dreams that would never come true. Not for someone like him. Such sweetness. God, he'd missed it. He missed what such love and care felt like. It was so foreign to him. He was so used to the cold. Razor sharp, jagged edges. He'd forgotten so many things but the longer he kept to himself, the more that came back to him.
You called him by his name. He was sure of it. In the muddled fog of nightmares, he was sure he heard an angel call.
He knew he was in no condition to move or get you breakfast but the delicious smell of your cooking wafted through the halls letting him know it was okay for him to rest. He closed his eyes, flinching at the few prickles of pain he felt in his head.
You were there.
You'd take care of him.
He couldn't remember everything just yet but surely the puzzle pieces would fall into place soon.
-
"NO" The sound of the soldiers pained cry made you drop the book you were reading in your room, running off to find him. He'd fallen asleep after eating what you made for him that evening; you were sure he was getting better. He knelt on the floor, sweat covering his body as he gripped his hair, pulling from the roots. He felt another sharp piercing pain in his head, fleeting memories of things he didn't understand all flooding back at once.
You rushed to his side, taking his hands into yours to keep him from hurting himself. His eyes shot up, tears threatening to spill over, all the things he thought were lost forever coming back together.
He was a Sergeant.
A soldier.
A young man.
One who loved to go dancing.
One who wanted to help others.
Hydra turned him into a beast but you brought him back.
There was always something about you.
His sweet flower.
He relaxed feeling your soft fingers trace against his palms in hopes of grounding him, giving both his flesh and metal hands equal affection. He gently pulled his right hand away to remove the mask, letting you see all of him.
"Soldat?" You whispered, hesitantly brining your hand up to his scruffy cheek. He pressed his hand against yours, leaning into the warmth of your touch, he never wanted it to end.
"цветок" [flower] he whispered back, your eyes widening hearing the precious name he had just for you, "It's me, flower"
"James?" You knew it was no longer the soldier speaking, this was the little boy from Brooklyn, his piercing blue eyes now full of warmth and light.
"Your father, I have to take you home, flower I'm so sorry-" dread began to consume him as he realized how long he'd taken you for, trading one life for another, how could he-
"James, breathe" You held his face in your hands, wiping away the tears that began to fall, your hand coming down the rest against his erratic heart, "It wasn't your fault, I-I read what happened to you, you were taken, it was never you, you're a good person" You soothed his aching heart but it didn't ease how heavy it felt. Every part of him wanted to beg for you to run away, so far away from him so you could be home again yet his arms moved on their own, wrapping you up and holding you close, you fit so perfectly with him.
"I'm still a broken man, цветок" Bucky whispered with a sad smile, holding you with such care as you curled up in his lap. "I don't think I deserve to hold something as sweet as you"
"You're not broken, you deserve this and more" You cooed, inhaling his soft scent, your nose brushing against the column of his neck.
"You took care of me, flower" Bucky held you tighter, hiding his face into the crook of your neck, feeling safe for the first time in years, home had never felt closer.
"And you took care of me" Your fingers moved to card through his hair, pulling his face away so he'd look at you.
"I took you with me, doll" He couldn't shake the fact that he'd taken you from your father, first intending to kill him and then taking you in his place. "I didn't give you a choice, you should be home" The guilt ate him from the inside, if he'd been himself, he would have never-
"And you still protected me with your life" You whispered, your forehead resting against his.
"And I always will" Bucky promised, his lips brushing against yours. He meant it from the bottom of his soul, he'd always protect you no matter where you were. It didn't matter that he didn't want you to leave, that he wished you could stay, he knew you belonged elsewhere. He'd still always make sure you were safe. Exhaustion began to pull at him, his eyes growing heavy as his body continued to fight what Hydra wanted him to do and the man he really was.
"Sleep, Jamie" You pulled him down to lay on your chest, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead and for the first time in years, he slept soundly without a nightmare.
Over the next few days, you continued to nurse the soldier back to health, hushing him each time he plead for you to go, insisting he'd be okay to manage on his own.
"My body will heal, I promise, you don't have to do all this for me, let me take you home-
"Once you're all better. I'll write to him so he knows I'm safe" You pressed a finger to his pink lips before going back to tucking him in bed. It was true that the cuts had all cleared up exceptionally quicker than normal but you could see the mental exhaustion that plagued him each day.
He found a way to get in touch with your father without alerting anyone in Hydra from finding him and while your father graciously forgave him with understanding, nothing felt easier. He promised to return you home as soon as it was safe but the longer he spent with you, the more he selfishly wished for it to last forever. He promised your father he'd take care of you in every way possible but he knew it was truly you taking care of him.
He'd sleep soundly when you were near, falling asleep quickly when you'd read to him, sometimes softly playing with his hair so he'd relax. The few times he'd been alone, the awful memories would come flooding back leaving him confused and disoriented. It broke your heart hearing him cry, the soldier who was nothing but a killing machine truly an innocent man on the inside, a prisoner of his own mind.
You'd comfort him every single time, every moment more intimate than the next. It started with your soothing voice, sitting by his bed where you'd call his name, your fingers caressing the scruff of his beard, wiping away his tears. Then the nights came where you crawled into bed with him, helping him fall asleep with his head on your lap only to wake up with your limbs tangled together.
Then he started to hold you before he was asleep. He held you tightly while telling you stories about things he could remember. Things that made him smile. That his nickname was Bucky. You would do the same. You told him about all the things your father taught you. He'd start to kiss you goodnight. Innocently with a peck to the top of your head.
Sometimes your cheek.
He so badly wanted to kiss your lips, stopping himself when he felt his stomach stir, especially when your sweet doe eyes looked up at him. When he cuddled you, his arms would wrap around your body, his hands finding their way to the hem of the Henley you wore. His henley. His fingers would slip up to feel your skin, knowing such an angel was real grounded him. You'd do the same, tracing over his scars, neither of you openly talking about the growing tension between you both each day.
-
"Will you read to me?" Bucky asked, wrapping his arms around your waist, his head resting on your shoulder while you stirred some honey into the tea you were making. You giggled at his needy cuddles, his much larger form practically engulfing you from behind. "Please"
"Who'd have thought such a strong, scary soldier would want bedtime stories" you cooed, letting him carry you away to his room, making a stop at the bookshelf first to pick out a new story.
He settled against the headboard with you tucked in his lap, relaxing at you made yourself comfy between his thighs. Your words had an affect on him he couldn't describe, no longer paying attention to what you were saying and instead watching the movement of your lips. Your eyes darting across the pages. Your body pressed against his.
The butterflies started again.
His stomach stirred.
He tried to adjust himself, pulling you into a hug to calm himself down, ignoring the way he wished he could have more.
"You alright, Jamie?" you asked, feeling his squirming, his eyes growing wide as if he'd been caught red handed. He shook his head, insisting you continue reading, God he didn't know what to do with himself.
He fidgeted again, this time trying to keep you off the tightness growing more and more, you made it so difficult for him-
"Are you sure you're okay bub?"
"I don't remember much but-I-I know I want you closer, flower" His voice was shy, his adams apple nervously bobbing in his neck as he shifted, unable to hide the hardness between his legs. His mind was a mess, fragments of love and intimacy struggling to piece themselves together yet he knew enough to want to hold you close.
He wanted to feel your soft skin on his.
He wanted to kiss you in places that would make your cheeks warm.
Where you'd want to cover yourself but let him have you, just him.
He wanted to feel your hands touch him everywhere. He wouldn't flinch at your delicate ministrations, he'd give all of himself to you. He'd trust you in his most vulnerable state, feeling things he hadn't for years, so heavy between his legs.
"How much closer, Jamie" you couldn't meet his eyes, gripping onto his t-shirt instead, setting the book on the nightstand, now all your attention on him.
"You know, angel" He let his nose bury into your hair, the blush on his cheeks travelling to his neck. He couldn't bring himself to actually say what he wanted, hesitantly moving his hands to your hips instead, slipping up your shirt to hold your waist. "Can-can I kiss you?"
He could hardly recognize himself, nervous beyond comprehension, his heart racing when you nodded, cupping his cheek to look at you. He leaned down to press his lips to yours.
"More" You let your body melt into his, his tongue lacing with yours, deepening the kiss. He didn't pull away until he desperately needed air, no longer able to contain his arousal.
"M'sorry angel, s'been so long, my body's not the same-
"Don't. Don't you dare, I adore you just like this Sergeant" He sucked in a breath as you toyed with the hem of his shirt, nodding after a moment letting you take it off. You kissed every scar on his chest, your head resting on his shoulder where metal met flesh, "You're the most handsome, beautiful man," You kissed his neck making him hiss, your tummy jumping at the feeling of his erection now pressed right against you, "You deserve all of this"
"Can I see you, please?" He undressed you with such care as if he was unwrapping the most precious present, first laying you down before slipping your top off. You wordlessly undressed each other until there was nothing left to take off going right back to wrapping your body with his.
"You're the softest thing I've ever touched" He whispered, loving how you felt, your thigh hitched over his hip, your breasts pressed against his bare chest, your soft tummy against the hard planes of his abs, your hands rubbing up and down his spine, oh God your silky most sacred parts absolutely soaking his length. His body moved on its own, rutting up to chase more, his cock slotting so perfectly with his flushed tip rubbing against your clit.
The desperate moan he let out made you gush, seeing how lost he was in chasing how good you felt with the stutter of his hips.
"M'so hard" He whined, hugging you tightly, "Please angel, do something" It was the most delicious torture. You pulled away from his hold wanting to give him every bit of loving he deserved, giving his body the pleasure it had been deprived of. You shuffled to kneel between his legs, his eyes growing wide, your face so dangerously close to where he was achingly hard. There was no way, you weren't going to- your lips pressed a gently kiss to his frenulum and the tears started, you wouldn't give him more than this-
"Baby, oh God, no, no, I can't angel, oh God-OHH" He cried, his body splayed wide for you, bach arching off the bed as you took his swollen cockhead into your mouth, your tongue swirling around his circles, licking every bit of his essence that dripped out. Your face was between his legs, his cock was in your mouth, you were suckling off his most sensitive parts, how could he not spread his thighs apart further for you. He'd never been so open or vulnerable, letting you play and toy with his cock, his tears soaking the pillow at his balls started to pull towards his body, it couldn't be over so soon-
"Sweet baby, please, please-" He pulled you off his cock, bringing you up to smash his lips against yours, his thick length slapping against his tummy. He could have sworn he was close to cumming just tasting himself on your tongue. "Can-please I want to-" He scrambled to lay you against the pillows as you squeaked at the way he manhandled you in desperation, "please"
He was between your thighs, sighing with heart eyes as he carefully spread your folds with his fingers, taking his time smearing around your slick, your throbbing clit begging for his mouth. He latched on like a baby, nursing with the most needy gurgles, your gasp melting into a moan making his eyes roll back.
He couldn't believe he had his mouth on his pretty angel, his tongue toying with the precious parts between her legs, letting him taste her, drinking up her nectar, feeding him in the best way possible.
"I-oh-slow down baby, please, M'gonna- You gasped, feeling surges of pleasure already pulsing as he flicked his tongue with precision, his arms wrapping around your thighs, tossing them over his wide shoulders.
"Mph, cum" he whined before diving in for more, greedily humping and grinding against the mattress, how was he supposed to last like this.
"Want-want to feel you, please" You begged, needing him inside you, giving you something thick and hard to cum on. He didn't waste a second, shakily clambering back on top of you, nervously positioning himself at your entrance.
"You sure, sweet girl? I-it's been so long"
"I trust you" You pulled him down to kiss his reddened nose making him blush, letting out the breath he was holding as he started to push. You both moaned together as he buried himself all the way, stilling once he was flush against you, his orgasm already so close to shooting at the base of his cock.
"Hng, I needed this angel" He didn't move and you didn't need him to, just the feeling of him stretching and filling you fulfilling something you couldn't describe. You loved the feeling of you both being connected in the most intimate way, joined as one, it felt so right like he was finally where he was meant to be. Like he'd found his everything.
Your thighs moved to hug his waist, your arms around his shoulders. He drew his hips back and thrusted forward gentle, the gasp escaping your lips urging him to keep going. He started to move at a steady pace, bringing his hands to lace with yours, pinning them against the bed.
"I love you-even if I have no right, I love you so much" Bucky lost himself to you, his hips moving at a slow grind, letting every inch of his cock fill and caress your walls, "You showed me love when I least deserved it"
"Fuck, I love you too!" You cried out, the curls at the base of his cock rubbing your clit, sending you higher and higher. "Oh, James!"
"My God, the way you say my name when m'inside you, say it again baby, please" He started to move faster on his own accord, primal urges starting to take over as he began to chase his pleasure and yours.
"Please, James, feels-feels so good"
"Gonna make me cum so hard, the things y'do to me baby, drives me crazy, wanna be like this for the rest of my life, making love to you and nothing else, swear this is all I want"
"James, gonna-gonna cum"
"Cum with me angel, all over my cock baby, cum on it, wanna feel it, please give it to me, I need it. Need your sweet cream all over me, fuck-yeah-jus like that-" You clenched around his cunt, his name dripping from your lips as your orgasm crashed over you. That was all it took as he tucked his face right against your neck, holding you tight as he trembled, it was so much,
"M'cumming!!" His sob was muffled as his cock throbbed, warm streams of his cum pumping you full, his ass stuttering with each jerk of his hips. "So-so much for you, s'all for you angel"
Bucky made love to you everywhere, not one place left without him taking you apart to his heart's content, including the garden. The story you were reading was long forgotten as he took you under the shade of the tree, the long wispy branches of the willow tree hiding you from the rest of the world.
The summer sun cocooned you in a blanket of warmth as clothes were all tossed aside leaving you both bare on the sheet you'd spread on the grass, the sounds of the breeze, the rustle of the bushes and your moans blending in so perfectly with his rhythmic thrusts.
"Beautiful" he whispered against your cheek, pulling away so he could look at every bit of you, "So beautiful for me like this"
"Jamie, stop" You grew bashful, you knew no one could see you in your secluded spot so deep in the forest but you still felt so vulnerable, spread out naked with just his body covering you, shamelessly taking his cock while the afternoon sun hung in the sky.
"S'just us baby, just you and me, don't worry" He purred, bringing your arms up, holding your wrists in his metal arm while his flesh hand came down to caress your face. "We're not doing anything wrong darling, m'showing you how much I love you, how good you make me feel, yeah?"
"Yeaah" Your voice melted into a breathy whine as he started to move with more purpose, his warm breath fanning against your face.
"Lookit how pretty you are sweet girl, my pretty flower, you were meant to be here baby, feels so right, just like this"
Out of all the stories and poetry you'd read to him, this was what Bucky saw as true art. He'd seen the finest paintings around the world in the richest houses, guarded by the highest security. He'd seen nature's most incredible wonders with the tallest trees, the sweetest flora and nothing, absolutely nothing, would top how gorgeous you were, bare, on the grass, him filling you up, it was euproic.
The image was etched in his brain, he'd treasure it forever. Your shy moans. The clench of your cunt. The way he filled you up and kept his cock in you even after it was soft. The way you cuddled and kissed in a post sex haze, listening to the sounds of the forest. He could have cried at the way you fell asleep in his arms, so trusting for him to keep you safe.
This was all he needed.
He took care of you, keeping you protected while he did his best to eradicate Hydra with you to patch him up each time he came home. As soon as it was safe, he took you right home and under the care of your father, he healed from the words that held him captive.
It didn't take long for your home to be filled with the sounds of tiny feet mixed with the sounds of science experiments gone wrong; your little babies, their daddy and their papa getting up to mischief at all hours.
"Careful, flower" Bucky shook his head, running towards you as you waddled into the living room with an expression of concern on your face, cocking an eyebrow when you saw your son looking up at you with bug eyed goggles matching his papa.
Bucky came to steady you, his hands coming to wrap around your growing belly while your father and son continued to tinker away at a new creation.
"How are my princesses" He cooed while you huffed, still wondering what they were doing.
"We're both wondering what you're going here James"
"Papa's building me a rocket-
"A bicycle! Just a bicycle darling, go sit, son why don't you take her for a walk" You father ushered you and Bucky out, sending a wink to his grandson.
"A bicycle my foot" You shook your head while Bucky took you to the kitchen, setting a pot of water, ready to dote on you as usual.
"He gets that side of him from you, love" Bucky chuckled, coming down to kiss your belly, resting his head there. "Just wait until she's here too"
"You're a menace, Sergeant"
"You married me, darling" Bucky pouted making you giggle, cupping his face to kiss his jutting lips.
Summary: Someone learns the hard way that it's a bad idea to upset Bucky's wife.
Word Count: Over 1.5k
Warnings: Established relationship, violent threats (not against the reader), protective vibes, implied sexy times, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: I'm in a mood, lovelies. We can consider this in the same universe as Mr. and Mrs. Barnes and Handsome and Beautiful. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Bucky was no longer the Winter Soldier. He told himself every day he wasn't a cold killer anymore. He did his best to make amends and worked hard to clear his name. From time to time though, people pushed his buttons and got under his skin. You helped him brush it off. Their opinions didn't matter at the end of the day, only yours.
You mattered to him more than anything else. So, if someone bothers him, yeah, he could let it go. Someone upsetting you? He wouldn't stand for it.
Bucky's eyes narrowed as he spotted the little weasel sitting at the table in the break room alone. A few hours ago, you called him to vent about how this guy repeatedly tried to make you look bad in front of your superior during a meeting. It wasn’t the first time either. Your tears of frustration were obvious by your tone on the other end, though you tried to hide them. You worked hard, harder than anyone else he knew, and you took your job seriously.
He saw red when he heard you sniffle and it was the only color he had seen since then.
“Give me his name.”
“Bucky, no,” you had argued. “The guy’s a prick and I just needed to vent, so you don’t-”
“Please, baby,” he whispered, knowing full well you could handle yourself, but you were his wife and someone took joy out of your day. Not just that, they made you cry. He took this personally and he wanted to defend you. “Just give me his name so I can take care of it.”
You softly gave him the name, and he made it a priority to find the asshole. It didn’t take him long. No one even questioned why he was asking. It must’ve been his “murder strut” and glare. You once said it could break even the strongest of people.
He headed toward the empty chair beside the agent, careful not to make a sound. His stealth assisted with that. Once he reached the chair though, he made it a point to scrap the chair across the floor to get the prick's attention. The annoyance in his eyes quickly shifted to fear when he realized who he was looking at.
Good. He hoped he pissed his pants.
He made a show of slipping off his leather jacket before taking a seat, making sure the agent got a good look at his metal arm. He also made a show of getting one of his knives out, one you gifted him. “I think we can skip the introductions since you know who I am and I really don't give a shit who you are,” he began, his voice low as he twirled the knife between his fingers. “But I understand you know my wife and, well, she’s the reason I’m here.”
The guy blinked when Bucky made eye contact, the blade still expertly weaving in his hand. “S-Sure. Everyone knows your wife.”
Bucky smiled softly, taking a second to glance at his wedding band. “I’m usually not one to brag, but I can’t help it when it comes to her. She works hard and deserves all the praise she gets, but she’s still humble. Appreciative. Loyal,” he boasted, still smiling before he glared again. “She’d never throw anyone under the bus, especially in front of a superior.”
The little weasel cleared his throat, sitting up a bit straighter in his chair. He seemed to notice for the first time that they were the only two people there. “Look, I don’t know what your wife said, but-”
Bucky pointed the blade at him. “I would think very carefully about what comes out of your mouth next,” he snarled, his eyes as cold as ice.
There was a beat of silence as the guy squirmed in his seat and averted his gaze. Bucky wished you were there to see it. And Steve and Sam. “I may have run my mouth a bit. I just wanted to knock her down a peg or two, you know? She keeps getting promoted and…” he swallowed when Bucky’s eyes narrowed to slits. If this fucker even thought about implying that you slept your way to get where you were today, he may actually cut his throat. “Please, don't kill me.”
The silence after that statement may have been uncomfortable for some, but Bucky didn’t break a sweat. No, he was just thinking of all the different ways he could put him in the hospital for even thinking he had a right to put you down. Putting the knife away, he slowly got to his feet. “Get up,” he said quietly, flexing his hands in intimidation.
“Fuck.” The man nearly knocked his chair over as he stood. “Listen, I’m sorry,” he blurted out, putting his hands out in front of him. “I’ll apologize to her first thing tomorrow, I swear.”
“You think that makes up for it? And are you sorry for trying to make her look bad or are you sorry that you’re under my radar now?” Bucky’s stare remained steady as he knocked his chair out of the way, the piece of furniture nearly splintering when it hit the wall. “Everyone knows what I'm capable of, but do you know what happens to people who upset. My. Wife?”
Bucky refused to say that you cried. The asshole might take that as a sign of victory and he wouldn’t give him any sort of win. He didn’t deserve it. He didn't deserve to be in the same space as you.
The guy’s mouth parted as he took a few steps back on shaky legs. “I-It won’t happen again! I swear!”
“No, it won't, but how about I cut your tongue out so you can’t run your mouth again? Maybe pull out your teeth, too?” Bucky knocked the table away next as he advanced. “Or how about your eyes so you won’t look at her either. Hell, I’ll settle for taking your arm. We’ll match.”
The man let out what sounded like a whimper, his teeth nearly chattering from his fear. Scaring people had given him nightmares, haunted him, but it fueled his fire when he terrified anyone in your honor. “I won’t bother her ever again! I’ll tell my boss she deserves another promotion! I'll transfer! You have my word! I’m sorry!”
Bucky laughed after a moment, a bitter, chilling sound before he held up a hand. “I’m just fucking with you.”
His eyes were still wide with fear. “W… What?”
“I was just trying to scare you a little. You should see the look on your face,” Bucky chuckled again, lightly smacking the guy’s cheek. “Listen, you don’t have to transfer and I’m not going to torture you. Just apologize to my girl and we’re good, okay?”
“Okay.” He let out a breath and chuckled, too. “You really won’t torture me?”
“No, I won’t,” he grinned, grabbing his shoulders. “But I will knock you down a peg or two.”
The prick didn’t see the headbutt coming, but he felt it before he hit the ground. Bucky knew he’d feel it in the morning, too. He got off lucky.
“You know, after you apologize to my wife, I hope you do stay so you can see her continue to thrive,” Bucky toed the guy’s body with his boot. “And speaking of, I need to go buy her some flowers, chocolate, and wine. She deserves it.”
Grabbing his jacket from the broken chair across the room and brushing it off, he whistled as he left the room. He waited until he was a good distance away to call. You picked up on the second ring.
“Hey.” You sounded much better than you did earlier. “So, what’s the damage?”
“Hey, baby,” he smiled. “I headbutted the prick. And before you ask, my head feels great.”
The former assassin may get suspended for that and damaging the table and chair, but he doubted the asshole would have the balls to speak up about what happened.
“Bucky…” you sighed. You were probably pinching the bridge of your nose. “What am I gonna do with you?”
“You’re gonna let me eat you for dessert when I get home,” he smirked. Not that he needed an excuse to dive between your legs, but he'd take any chance he had. “Figure I'll give you at least two orgasms before dinner.”
“Is that right, Mr. Barnes?”
“That is right, Mrs. Barnes.”
The sound of your giggle spread warmth through his chest. Your happiness was his happiness. “Better not keep me waiting,” you teased, pausing for a beat. “Thank you.”
“Nothing to thank me for,” he said. You always stuck up for him without question.
“Love you.”
His heart swelled more. “Love you, too.”
He’d have some more explaining to do once he got home and would probably have to pay for the damage he caused. He was also sure that you were plotting the demise of the man’s career and would tell him that he didn’t need to do anything, but he wanted to. He was no longer the Winter Soldier.
But he was your husband and he’d defend you with his life, no matter what.
Violence isn't the answer, but this is fanfiction and we all deserve a loving Bucky. ❤️ Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
