autistic angel in a trenchcoat.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 60 - If We Try

✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist✦ ✦Chapter 59 - Chapter 61✦ ✦pairing: Dean Winchester x female!reader✦ ✦summary: You and Dean find yourself in a strange situation.✦ ✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action, smut, no use of y/n✦ ✦author's note: they're so married in this one. enjoy! also: happy chapter 60! btg can get a senior citizen discount now :)✦ ✦Chapter Title from Just the Two of Us by Grover Washington Jr✦

You’ve been trying to remember, but it’s all a blur.

There was the station. The fight with Dean, and then the other thing with Dean, and the escape that ended with you cornered in the file room. The world had gone black, and then there had been dulled colors. Like looking at something through a black veil, every sound muffled, even your memory of touches being like you were covered in thick layers.

Sometimes there had been flashes. Brief hits of light, where everything had been too loud, too bright. You remember glass, delicate and thin and tired of just looking pretty, begging for you to just let it be a weapons. There had been the water under your feet, sick of being confined to such a small pond, wanting to float up into the air and see the world.

The night, where you can remember flashes of Gold and something calling you, then a pure, white-hot fear that had been yours and yours alone. You’d screamed for it, and the world had screamed back, and then it had all been quiet.

Until Dean pulled you out. And you’d been swaying on your feet, standing somewhere so familiar, yet completely foreign. That’s still a little hazy, too. Your brain hadn’t stopped feeling like radio static until somewhere on the road, and you hadn’t felt like your own until Dean had touched you.

That had been nice.

Nice in the sense that it felt like heaven. It always felt like heaven. It was Dean, and his deep voice guiding you as his hands mapped your body. It had been nice with how you’d been set on fire and worshipped in soft touches. Nice how the pressure between your legs had felt like a summer fountain, when he’d relieved it over and over again. Nice to be under Dean’s gaze, his Gold stained all over your body, and almost believe him when he said that you were something beautiful. It had felt good. Really good. You’re not sure if all sex feels that good, or if it’s just your Dean, but you’re never going to trade him for the Universe, so it doesn’t matter. Sex with Dean is really good. You’d put it in the top five things of all time.

But it had also been nice to be grounded. To have his every touch moves you a little further into yourself, guiding you back together in a way you’d never even been able to do yourself. His kisses had helped you breathe, his low commands slowing your thoughts until it was just a chant of his name, and you’d been certain where you were. If you’d been wandering electricity, still charged from the storm and chaos of those weeks, Dean had been your lighting rod.

You’d giggled when you thought of that, on a hunt a few nights ago. Dean had given you an amused, curious look, and you’d just shaken your head. 

“What’re you thinking, sweetheart?”

“Nothing.” You’d smiled at him, twisting a ring on your finger. “Don’t worry about it.”

He’d scanned over your face, frowning slightly, but let it go. Kissed your brow and let it go.

You’d snuggled closer into his side, hiding your dumb smile in his chest. He’d cradled the back of your head with a sigh, and you’d wrapped your arms around his torso.

“It’s nothing bad.” You’d mumbled into his shirt, and he’d grunted.

“Alright.”

“’S a sex thing.”

Dean had coughed, tensing around you. “Yeah? What kinda sex thing.”

You’d giggled. “Rod.”

“Rod.” He’d echoed, petting the back of your head. “How late were you and Jo up last night?”

“Late. You’re my rod.”

Dean had made a sound like he was choking on the air. “I’m your what-“

“My rod.” You’d rolled to the side, yawning as you pawed at his shirt. “Dean.”

“I’m here-“

“You’re my rod-“

“Yeah, I heard you the first time-“

“It’s an innuendo.” You’d told him, and he was too far away.

You’d wiggled upright, fully into his lap. Pressed your brow against his, hands fisted in his shirt, a wide smile on your face as he blinked at you.

“Hi.” You’d whispered, and his lips had twitched.

“Hi, Princess.” He’d murmured. “You’re getting loopy.”

“No. I’m in a perfect line.”

Dean had snorted. “Alright, giggles. C’mon. Bedtime.”

You’d thought about protesting, but then he’d kissed your nose and everything became soft, pastel colors. You’d buried your face in the crook of Dean’s neck, and let him carry you into bed. Sam had been out drinking, and the motel mattress had been a little lumpy, but Dean had been letting you use him like a sleeping back. Your body flopped over his, his arms around you like a second blanket as you knocked right out, bathed and content in his Gold.

Maybe you had been up too late with Jo, the night before you left. And you’d been doing most of the case yourself, no matter how Sam and Dean tried to stop you.

They were helpful. But Sam’s head hadn’t gotten better—he needed a lot of breaks, and you’re getting worried about how pale he is all the time—and Dean is the love of your life and a genius, but incredibly useless when he spends all his time worrying about your wellbeing.

After you’d gotten home, you’d thought he might handcuff you together. When you were home, he’d linger outside the bathroom door like a guard dog until you rolled your eyes, and told him to just come inside.

“I, uh- You don’t have to-“

“You’ve seen it all, Winchester.” You’d flushed, a little less command in your voice that you could usually muster. “It’s fine.”

He’d slowly pushed open the door. Slid inside with a tiny smile, his hand landing on the top of your head and patting it before he took a pace back.

“You look nice.”

“No, I don’t.”

He’d frowned. “Yeah, you do-“

“I’m taking a shit.”

Dean had laughed. “And it’s gonna be the prettiest shit in the world.”

You’d flushed and swiped at his knees, and he’d just grinned down at you. It had calmed him down a lot, and at least stopped the shifting of his shadow under the door. But he also seemed to be developing a muscle memory for it. On that same hunt, he’d tried to follow you into the women’s bathroom five times, and succeed once when you hadn’t had time to fight him about it. You’d glared at him from the toilet. He’d grinned.

You don’t know how he’s not sick of you yet.

Dean hasn’t let you out of his sight since you got home. Not for more than ten minutes, save for girl’s night with Jo, and Sam had almost dragged him out by his collar. You’d been sick of yourself the moment you developed a consciousness, and had to be alone with that bitch for maybe a day, tops. You’re annoying, and loud, and bossy and mean and dramatic and a crybaby and rude and emotional and Dean somehow seems to enjoy all of it. He even seems to know when your thoughts are running away from you—hissing that maybe he’d be better without you, that it’s only a matter of time before he gets bored and moves onto someone easier—and kisses them gently away, distracting you until you’re floating instead of drowning in yourself.

He’s too perfect. You think you could make the world in his name, and still never deserve him. But you’ve also learned not to question him about these things. He wants you. Cares about you. Needs you. He wouldn’t have bothered to track you down, if he didn’t.

Neither of you have brought up the fight since you got home. For once it doesn’t seem to be out of fear—this stupid Leviathan things doesn’t get to be what breaks you, not after everything else—but you still aren’t in a hurry. Everything is in this suspended space where it’s still chaotic, but you’ve got it contained. The mess is confined, and you know where everything is. Sam’s getting worse, but he’s not about to die. Cas is still out of his mind, but it’s not hurting anyone. You and Bobby have gotten the God Reject cleanup on a system, and it’s a bit of a mess that might  take years to finish—there are a lot of things out there, Sam thinks you’ve barely scratched the surface and you’re inclined to agree—but at least there’s a system.

Eileen’s been checking in. Rowena’s out doing Rowena things—probably just whatever she wants—but she sends you updates and helps when you ask. You haven’t found Balthazar to run the baby monsters yet, but you found another nest and you warded it well. Heaven’s still on lockdown. Eve’s still underground.

The Leviathans are out there—there had been traces of them at that nest, and even if you hadn’t seen them, you’d sure as fuck felt them—but Sam and Dean are legally dead again. Frank has been keeping in touch, looking into your family’s transactions and meetings on Dean’s request. And maybe you told him that they were a part of a lizard cult that secretly ran the world, but it made the old man happy, and Dean had a lot of fun selling the lie.

Everything else has just been hunts. The nest, a White Stag that Dean had gotten the horn of, a bunch of Yeerks that had been trying to take over a town in Arizona. Compared to the mess of the past year, it’s almost felt like a vacation.

You’re lying flat on your back, the baby Lion on your chest, fiddling with Dean’s amulet around your neck. Your head and back had been hurting, and you’d made the mistake of telling Dean. He’d bundled you up like a baby and carried you up to your room without another question. You’d fought him about it, but less than you could. If you meant it, you could’ve wriggled away and demanded he treat you normally.

But you didn’t want him to treat you normally.

You’ll never tell him—he’d abuse the power—but it’s nice. To get all of Dean’s attention, to be coddled like you’re really something important, instead of a feral beast.

It’s hateful and itchy to just sit here and do nothing, when you could be tracking the Leviathans or going on a hunt. It would be unforgivable to ask Dean to pamper you after everything he’s given you. After you forgot him, and no matter how many times you’ve apologized and he’s told you that it wasn’t your fault, you still feel like you’re made of ashes and he should just toss you into the wind.

You forgot him. You forgot Dean, you’d looked at him and let them tell you he was no one, and you’d dreamed about him and he’d been every moment of clarity, but that wasn’t enough. You should’ve been stronger. If you’d been stronger, you wouldn’t have forgotten, and he wouldn’t have had to save you, and what’s the fucking point of having so much power if you can just forget Dean.

What if God makes you forget him. What if he grabs you and doesn’t even bother to try and make you move on. What if he wipes Dean from your head, and you’re forced to become drifting electricity again. No Dean to ground you, just a hungry, lonely hurricane that wants someone to wrap Her up, but can’t recognize the only arms that know how.

Dean’s amulet digs into your palm, and you take a deep, long breath.

They hadn’t been able to take all of him. It’s the only other thing you remember.

How they’d tried to get it off of you, and they couldn’t. There’s a blurry snapshots of screams and shouts of pain. A tugging on your throat and a prick on the back of your neck, then more shouts. Something had stung across your face, and it had hurt, but hadn’t done anything but make you cry.

You’d gotten to keep the amulet, and the ring. Gotten to keep parts of Dean.

And he’d forgiven you, even if you’d never, ever deserved it.

You hear the shower turn off, and crane you neck up to check if he’s already back. The Lion shifts on your chest, looking disgruntled that her pets had been interrupted, and you quickly scratch her ears again. Indy’s somewhere downstairs, bothering Sam for scraps of his dinner. The Lion is still too nervous to come out for Dean sometimes. You’re already preparing to grab her before she runs off, when he gets back.

You’re pretty sure she’s a girl. When you told Dean, he’d just said whatever you think, baby, which hadn’t been that helpful.

She bumps your hand again, and you run your thumb down her little nose. She seems to like it as much as you do, when Dean does it for you. Her purr is tiny, but soothing as it rumbles on your chest.

You want to keep her, even when you find Balthazar. You’re trying to wait for the perfect time to ask Dean, so he won’t say no. It’s not right now, though. When he’s already spoiling you, and you’re letting him, like some selfish, useless, brat.

But it doesn’t count when Dean makes you let him. Just like you’re not indulging or taking anything from him when he tells you that sex is going to happen. You can kiss and touch Dean all you want if he goes first. It doesn’t count. Just like you can let it show on your face that you love him when he’s fucking it out of you, just as long as you don’t say it aloud.

So you can be swaddled and held in bed, if Dean’s insisting on it. If you told him no, it would be rude. He does so much and asks for so little. It would be a crime to ask him to do this. But he’s the one who grabbed your laptop out of your hands and demanded you go lie in bed and wait for him. So it’s fine.

There are still things to do. Work that’s your responsibility to finish, and you could be helping Sam with his issues, and Claire might have homework, and if Indy doesn’t get her scraps she might try to break into the pantry again-

“De?” You call. “Did you feed Indy?”

“Yeah.” He answers immediately. “’Bout an hour ago, I think.”

“And did she eat it-“

“She always eats it.” He pokes his head out the door, wet hair stuck to his brow, broad shoulders bare and still shining with water. “Think she’s part goat or something. Gonna start feeding her scrap from the yard, see if we can save some money.”

You frown. “Dean-“

“Kidding.” He grins at you, eyes raking quickly over your body. You flush, trying to squirm away from the intensity of his gaze. “You look comfortable, sweetheart.”

You grunt, turning your face into the pillows, and he chuckles softly. It’s not fair when he does that. Puts you somewhere he can just see you, then looks at you like you’re every temptation he’s ever had, rolled into something soft he’d like to drink up. It makes you all tingly and pliable. Your core aches and you can’t even touch yourself to relieve it, because you’ve got a cat on your chest and you don’t even know how.

You don’t know how to do most of this. How to be pampered, how to ask for sex, how to figure out what you like as Dean keeps telling you to. You don’t even know how to feel this happy. Sometimes you wake up in the morning, drenched in sweat from a strange nightmare, and you think it’s all gone.

Dean always brings you back down after. He holds you and rocks you back and forth, pushing your head against his chest and rubbing your spine until you’re breathing without any reminders. You think he’s under the impression they’re just normal nightmares. The same kind he gets, that only wake you up when they’re so bad he starts to thrash and shout for you and Sam. When those happen, you let him wrap around you and bury his face in your breasts, sobbing and quiet until he knocks himself back out with exhaustion.

Those don’t happen often. There was one a few nights ago, but you didn’t ask any questions about the nightmare itself. Neither of you ever do. You have an idea of what he’s dreaming of anyway, and it’s nothing you need to hear aloud. You think he believes the same of you. And that used to be a good policy. You didn’t need to tell Dean—didn’t know how to tell him—that when you’d wake up screaming for him it was because God had taken him, and you hadn’t been able to find him anywhere, and you still hadn’t really been able to breathe until you could touch his Gold and know it was real.

But these nightmares have been different. Clearer, more coherent. The normal ones were fractured and made of long halls and tangled webs of everything you fear.

This feels more like looking through glass at an exhibit. It’s not right there, but it’s real.

The dead world you saw in the oracle cave. The rivers made of muddy tar and boiled skin, the ground scorched and everything reeking of death. Feeling like death. Even the air like a toxin when you’d try to breathe, and that high, clean castle up on the hill tainted in thick smog.

Dean hasn’t asked about it. You’re still trying to figure out how you’d tell him. But you will tell him. You said no more secrets, and maybe it will help you win the Leviathan argument.

You’re not sure how. That’s part of the figuring it out thing.

Warm, careful fingers run through your hair, slowly turning your head to the side. You let Dean guide your gaze up, and find him smiling down at you with soft eyes. His hair is damp and spiky now, and he’s still not wearing a shirt. Which isn’t fair. He looks like a statue above you, carved from marble to echo perfection. Your breath catches at just the sight of him, and he raises his brows.

“Hey, pretty girl.”

You swallow, suddenly salivating. “Hi.”

“You didn’t touch the chocolate I brought you.”

“Cat.”

“Ah.” He glances down, her little head tucked into your chest as she tries to hide from him. “She gonna let me sit down, or try to bite me again.”

You roll your eyes. “She didn’t try to bite you-“

“She showed teeth-“

“She was hissing. It’s a warning.”

“Yeah, a warning she wants to bite me.”

“Shut up.” You swat at him, and he laughs, catching your hand and kissing your knuckles.

“Bossy.” He squeezes you three times. “Scoot.”

You start to wiggle to the side, but Dean seems to decide that’s simply too much work to make you do, and suddenly you’re being picked up and dragged into his lap. The kitten starts up and scrambles away, her poofy, striped tail vanishing back under the dresser within a second.

“Dean.” You hit his arm, leaning back with a glare.

He shrugs, at least looking a little guilty. “Sorry. Thought you had a good hold on her, didn’t think she’d be so slippery.”

“I could’ve held on. I didn’t want to hurt her.” You grumble, sinking down into the mattress. Your back curled against Dean’s stomach, your head near the center of his chest. He taps your chin lightly, and you turn away.

“Come on, baby.” He mumbles, almost sounding like he’s pouting. “She’ll come back out.”

You know she will. You still glower at the wall, and Dean sighs. You feel him shift around you, one arm leaving your body to stretch somewhere off to the side.

Chocolate presses against your lips in a silent apology. You look backwards, and that’s a mistake.

It’s unfair, that he’s this beautiful. Tanned skin and full lips in his stupid, adorable smile. His dumb, muscled chest is warm and Golden, and you want to just roll over and press your face into it. Maybe hike your leg over his thigh and grind onto him, getting lost in his warmth and strength and cinnamon smell, and you love him, you love him, you love him-

“Open.” Dean mutters, and you know it’s a question but your head doesn’t take it to be one.

Your lips part, and Dean exhales slowly, pressing the chocolate into your mouth. His fingers go with it. It takes a lot of effort not to suck on them before he pulls them away. 

The heat between your legs is building. You’ve had sex one more time since the Impala, and you’re still not fully sure how you managed that. It had been on the Stag hunt, and Sam had been out, and Dean had been covered in sweat and handsome and his hands had been grazing your bare skin all day, getting you lost in a smokey haze that made it hard to think straight. You’d needed him. Needed him so bad you might’ve been about to cry over it, but you couldn’t just ask.

But he’d just known. You’d gotten back from picking up dinner—from Dean driving with his hand on your thigh and you feeling like you were literally going to explode—and he’d guided you inside with a small grin. The door had barely closed before he was on you. Flipping you so he had you pinned between him and wall, kissing you stupid before tossing you onto the bed and spreading your legs. You came on his face twice, and he only pulled away because you were sobbing and begging for his cock. 

You hadn’t walked in a straight line in the morning. Dean had fingered you in the car on the drive back home, and you haven’t gotten on your knees since the Impala, but he’s taken your hand and let you rub his crotch until he was moaning in your ear.

That did end with you getting flipped over and eaten out until you were dripping down your own leg. You’re not complaining. You’d forgotten every word except yes and Dean.

And you have no idea how he’s so good at telling exactly what you need, when you need it. How he’s so good at telling when you like, when if he asked you’d just blink at him stupidly and mumble his name.

You’re a little afraid to figure out what you do like. You’d rather shoot yourself than ask Dean, who seems to have a better idea than you do. Your hoping he tries to have the porn talk with you again, if you push all the right buttons. That maybe he can just pin you down and make you list out everything you’re into, the spell of Dean and smell of cinnamon pulling the answers out of your subconscious.

You think you like this. Dean’s fingers a little in your mouth, his arms all around you. The leg humping also sounds like an amazing idea.

Dean chuckles, and you flush. You need to get a fucking grip, he can probably tell how pathetically desperate you are, and he’s revolted by it because who would want to be wanted by you, and he’s going to leave, he can’t leave, he can’t leave-

“Look at that, Princess.” He murmurs, and you blink at him.

“Huh?”

“I’m growing on her.” He grins, nodding down to your feet. You follow his gaze, and let out a shaky breath.

The kitten jumped back up onto the mattress, and curled near the edge. She’s eyeing Dean wearily, but still fully settle. You smile, and Dean kisses the top of your head.

“You been thinking about names again?”

You look back at him with wide eyes. “I can keep her-“

“No. Didn’t say that-“

“You said I could name her-“

“That’s not saying you can keep her-“

“But I can keep her.” You challenge, rolling onto your stomach. Your hands planted on Dean’s abdomen, his gripping your waist as he swallows, giving you an almost pleading expression.

“C’mon. Don’t ask me that, sweetheart.”

“Why?”

“’Cause.”

“’Cause why-“

“’Cause.” He pinches your ribs, and you squeak, almost collapsing over his chest. Dean laughs, one hand gliding down to squeeze your ass before dragging you further up. You’re fully straddling his torso, your fingers tangled in his hair, his attention unwavering and openly fond. You don’t know how he manages to be under you and still make it feel like you’re just putty in his hands. It’s almost too much to bear.

“What about Daphne.” You whisper. “Or Dr. Sexy-“

Dean’s ears go a little red, but he still snorts. “Alright, smartass. You’re not naming the cat that shit.”

“You think I won’t?”

“I think you’re gonna name her Han Solo or something-“

You whack his chest, and he laughs. “Shut up. What about- Muffin.”

“Muffin ain’t bad-“

“Or Lambchop.”

“That one is bad.”

“Or Deanie.” You giggle, and Dean gives you a flat look.

“You think that’s funny, huh.”

You nod, beaming down at him, and Dean shakes his head.

“You’re not namin’ the cat that.”

“Okay, how about Crowley-“

Dean mutters your name, and your face hurts from smiling.

“Or Sammy-“

Your words fall into a squeak as Dean rolls you under him, kissing the words out of your mouth and slotting his knee between your legs. You gasp, grabbing his shoulders, and he grins, speaking low against your lips.

“I’m not tellin’ people you’re lying in bed with Sammy all the time.”

You hum, raising your brows. “So Deanie would be fine, then.”

Dean snorts, kissing your nose, and you wrinkle it.

“And if you’re going to be telling people that, it means I get to keep her-“

“Jesus, woman.” He laughs under his breath, molding his lips slowly over yours. You give into the kiss in a second, dragging your nails over his back as he traces his tongue over your teeth. You moan openly and Dean squeezes your hip, dragging his mouth over your cheek, along your jaw, under your ear before nipping gently.

“Dean…” You breathe out, and he makes a low sound in his chest.

“Sometimes I think you’d be happy if I just dragged you out to a farm.” He mutters, breath hot on your ear, and you mumble an incoherent agreement. You’d be happy anywhere you got to keep him.

But a farm does sound nice.

“You’d like that, huh.” Dean kisses your cheek, before propping himself over you. “We could raise chickens or some shit. Indy could be a sheepdog.” He grins. “Sheepdragon.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “A farm would be a lot of work, De, we don’t have the time-“

“We could make the time. I could make it for us, then we could move there, and-“

“Dean.”

He shrugs under your firm look, expression perfectly innocent. “It’s just an idea, Princess, it’s not like I’m buyin’ property in Iowa or something-“

You frown. “I wouldn’t want to live in Iowa.”

“Well, where would you wanna live? And,” he brushes some hair from your face. “You can’t say here.”

“I don’t-“

“Come on. Humor me.”

He gives you that winning, boyish smile, and you never stood a chance.

You sigh, running your fingers over the lines of his tattoo. He watches you silently, patiently, muscles tensing a little under your touch, but perfectly restrained.

“I liked Maine.” You mumble, and Dean grins.

“Maine, huh.” He nods slowly. “How much is land in Maine?”

“Dean-“

“Joking.” He says quickly, pecking your lips before pushing up.

You grab the hem of his sweats before he can get too far away. “I’m serious, we do not have time to- To try and build a fucking farm in Maine, it’s across the country and animals cost money we don’t have, and-“

“Your family has money.  And they sure as shit don’t deserve it-“

“Dean Winchester-“

“Hey. Joking.” He slowly pries your hand off his pants with a light smile. “Gotta use the bathroom, Princess. Lemme go.”

You want to grumble something about him never letting you got when you go to the bathroom, but you swallow it with a pout and release his sweats. You can get the kitten back up the bed, if Dean’s not there. You’re long term goal is to make her like him, so they snuggle together, and then Dean doesn’t want to get rid of her. Not that you’re going to let him anyway. You found the one cat in the universe he’s not allergic to, and you’re keeping her. 

Dean shuffles into the bathroom, and you slowly sit up on your knees, creeping down the bed and scooping the kitten into your arms. She doesn’t wiggle or fight, just flopping into your arms. You lie back into the pillows, kissing the top of her head, and she doesn’t seem like a Deanie, or a Daphne, or a Dr. Sexy. It also probably doesn’t have to be a D name. There are a lot of other letters. You could do an E—Enigma, Elephant, Eurydice—or a P—Penelope, Pig, Poppy—or M—Melody, Marmite, Ms. Piggy—and you think Dean started making you think about a farm too much.

It’s not that you wouldn’t love that. You would. You know you would. It sounds like a perfect life, being somewhere quiet and peaceful with a bunch of animals and Dean. No monsters, no demons, no God. Just the golden light of the morning, bird songs in the air, and Dean’s lips on yours when you wake in the morning.

But that’s the problem. It’s too perfect.

You don’t deserve that yet.

You’re still learning how to have this. You’re still barely able to let Dean hold you without trying to fly away. He keeps you steady with his gravity, and you don’t try to escape, but that’s all still so new and breakable. You can’t just retire with him when you’ve made such a mess of the world. When there’s still that foul little voice in your head, hissing what about when he gets sick of you. He’s going to get sick of you. Even if he feels this pull, even if he loves you only half as much as you love him—which would be enough to move the universe—he still might get sick of you. You’ve had you your whole life, and you’re the fucking worst. He’s still clouded in a honeyed, sweet haze from how being able to have each other makes the air clear. What happens when you ruin everything, because you always ruin everything, and you’re going to ruin this and-

The kitten noses your cheek, and you take a ragged breath.

Dean’s not going to leave. You’ve given him every reason and chance to, and he’s still around.

But you also still don’t deserve that. The perfect life.

You swallow on the lump in your throat, petting the kitten slowly. “You’d enjoy a farm.” You mumble to her. “So would Indy. Lot of flying space.”

She bumps your fingers, guiding them down her neck. You smile slightly.

“I know. Me too.”

Her purrs are soothing, and she’s so fluffy it’s like touching a cloud. You should’ve gotten a cat ages ago. 

Your head tips back against the pillows, and she crawls a little higher up your chest. Dean’s body heat is still clinging to the mattress next to you, and you can feel every place he’d been, lingering in a phantom touch. For a second, everything is quiet.

Then the Silver stirs.

You sit up carefully. It’s just a slight pull, but that shouldn’t be happening. You’re under control. Everything is fine, and there’s nothing that can even get onto the property without your permission. You frown around the room—maybe Crowley, you’re not sure you ever revoked his key after the whole Purgatory mess, and you should probably do that in the morning—but there’s nothing.

The Silver starts to burn. It’s bubbling under your skin, demanding and rising like a tidal wave, and the Spiderweb is starting to spark and glow. Whatever is kindling you isn’t visible, isn’t tangible, and maybe you’re just freaking out but you’d been fine before. The panic kicking your heart into beat is purely from the Silver and Spiderweb starting to work over time. 

But something is wrong.

The Silver roars, and you’re shouting for Dean before you can think. Something’s wrong, something’s very wrong, the Spiderweb is casting light as if it’s been set aflame, and you’re getting bigger than yourself, but not big enough to latch onto anything but the pull of Gold. In the other room. You’re yours, and you’re Dean’s—and there’s an exhaustion heavy in your bones, but it seems to be lifted by a heartbeat stronger than any army drum—and you think you’re a little bit of tiny fear that’s feral and quiet, emanating from the kitten in your arms, and-

There’s a flash of light, and the world flips upside down.

It’s quick. You’re all in color and noise for a second, a chill hits your face, and suddenly you’re standing on unsteady feet. The kitten is still curled in your arms, her tiny face hidden from the bite of the wind.

The wind.

You’re outside.

“What the hell.” Dean rasps, and you feel a big hand grab your calf.

You look down, and find him on the sidewalk, flat on his ass. He’s rubbing his face, frowning around the street, and you press your lips in a tight line.

He’s not shirtless anymore. He’s wearing a thick wool jacket, slacks, button down shirt, and fedora. He takes it off, running a hand through his hair, and whatever did this to you gave him a blowout too. He looks like he fell out of a movie screen, even more than usual.

You glace down at yourself, and swallow.

You’re in a dress. It’s tighter than you’d usually like, the kitten heels low to the ground and strapped on the top. You look back up and down the street, and all the cars are low to the ground and rounded. There’s less pavement and more cobbled stone. You’re clearly in a city, but there are no skyscrapers, and-

“Fuck.” You breathe out, and Dean mutters your name.

“Did we drink some of that magic dream root tea without thinking about it? Or- Maybe I knocked out on toilet, and Lucifer and Michael threw you into the 20s or something-“

“Lucifer and- No, Dean.” You frown down at him. “You’re not knocked out. And- How do you know it’s the 20s?”

“I dunno. The outfits. And cars.” He nods down the street. “I know my engines, sweetheart, and those are screaming 20s if I ever heard it.” He looks back to you suspiciously. “How do I know I’m not passed out. Maybe I’m in the cage now-“

“You’re not in the cage, how the fuck would that even happen-“

“I dunno. Stranger things.” He rubs his legs, brow furrowed. “Tell me something only you’d know.”

You scoff. “Dean-“

“A man gets zapped into a world from his bathroom, he’s gonna have some questions-“

“We don’t have time for this-“

“Then I’m in a magic sleep world.” He says stubbornly. “And you’re not my real Princess.”

You gape at him, he gives you a firm look, still sitting on the ground.

“You’re impossible.” You tell him, and he grins.

“I know. You love that about me.”

You flush, looking up to the sky, then taking a deep breath and looking back down.

“You like Soap Operas.”

Dean scoffs. “Anyone could tell you that-“

“And you always tell people that.” You cut him off with a firm look. “To cover for the fact that you really love bad teen dramas. We’ve watches Clueless twenty times. You made me see Jennifer’s Body with you. I wanted to see Inglorious Bastards.”

He swallows, nods slowly, and squeezes your leg. “Uh, yeah. Alright.” He clears his throat. “You want me to do one, or-“

“I know it’s you.” You dismiss, and he nods.

“Right. ‘Course you do.” Dean moves slowly to his feet, brushing off his coat and glancing around the mostly abandoned road. “You got any idea where we are. Or why the hell we’re here.” His jaw tics. “And where the hell Sammy is? Usually when we get yanked, he gets dragged with us.”

“I know.” You mutter, shaking your head. “But- I don’t know. Usually when this happens there are very obvious, explicit instructions.”

Dean grunts. “We’re sending you back in time to stop your parents from getting murdered. You’re in this maze to save your baby brother and marry the goblin king.”

You give him an amused look. “Which one of those really happened to you?”

“Not the one you think.” He winks, and you roll your eyes.

“Well, Gabriel wasn’t obvious with the time loop he did to Sam. And that was just to Sam.”

“Yeah, but he was trying to teach Sammy a lesson.”

“Maybe he’s trying to teach us a lesson?”

Dean snorts. “What, that you look hot in a dress?”

You’d hit him if you weren’t carrying the kitten. “Dean, I’m serious-“

“So am I,” he says your name with a shrug. “There’s nothing he’s got to teach us. Anything I can think, Jo and Sammy did for him with the damn saferoom. ‘Sides, he doesn’t have the mojo to grab you, does he? Not against your will.”

You frown. You suppose, but it’s not like someone doesn’t always find a way to grab you regardless. “I don’t know, if it’s not Gabriel…”

You trail off, and Dean finishes with a sigh. “Then what the hell is zapping us out of the house and into the 20s frying pan.”

Both of you are silent for a moment. Then you look at each other, and understand without a word. Whatever it is, it’s got juice. Things with juice tend to like bragging an awful lot. Whoever did this is sure to show up and excitedly claim responsibility soon, and then you can very nicely threaten their life and force them to take you home.

Until then, the key is survival. The odds of someone having an unwelcome opinion about you and Dean isn’t by any means low. And the number can only go up, depending on where you actually are.

Whoever did this was very nice to give you the proper clothing. Now all you have to do yourself is steal yourself a bag, Dean a gun, and both of you a car.

“How the hell are you so good at this?” Dean mutters behind you.

You shrug. “It’s not that hard, De. I’m just jacking a car.”

“A car from the 20s-“

“Which makes it easier.”

He snorts. “Yeah, alright, you little thief.”

“I’m not a thief-“

“You’re carjacking.”

“We’re going to give it back.” You mutter, and the engine spits to life.

Dean gives you a mildly amused look when you sit up, passing you the bag—the kitten curled safely inside—with a grin. “Sure we will.”

“We will.”

“I know. I’m agreeing with you, sweetheart.”

You wrinkle your nose at him, muttering under your breath. “You’re being sarcastic.”

“Hm.” He kisses the side of your head, squeezing your waist gently. “Maybe. Sit.”

You whack his arm, but sit with a slight pout. You’re not stealing. You just taking a temporary, involuntary loan. You’ll even leave them some money, as a thank you.

You do have to get that money from somewhere. But that sounds like a problem for later.

It doesn’t take long to figure out where you are. Dean drives pretty aimlessly, both of you reading the street signs like either of you have major city street names memorized. It’s nice out, but not so nice that you can immediately determine anything. You could be in the north during the summer or the south during the winter. It’s windy, but everywhere has wind. The architecture alone tells you you’re still in the States, but it’s a big country. You’re about to tell Dean to just go ask someone when you see it.

“Dean-“ You grab his arm, and he immediately slams the breaks.

“What, what’s wrong-“

“That. The Church.” You point out the windshield, and he stills.

“Shit.”

You frown, pausing. “You know it?”

“Yeah, uh-“ He clears his throat. “This is where I met Death.” He shoots you a look. “You don’t think-“

“No. He doesn’t care enough.”

“Oh. Right.” Dean’s silent for a second, then laughs disbelievingly. “Fuck. We’re in Chicago.”

“Yeah.” You sigh, rubbing the scar on your palm, and Dean bumps your shoulder, saying your name with a wide grin.

“We’re doing the Untouchables, this is awesome.”

You give him a small smile—he’s adorable, and obviously thrilled, and you don’t want to be the sallow bitch but there’s kind of a lot going on—and squeeze wrist lightly. “I know.”

“Shit, there’s so much stuff we could go see, and- I mean, son of a bitch-“

“Dean.” You say gently. “The magic time travel.”

“Oh.” He nods tightly. “Right. Yeah. We, uh- We know where we are, I guess, so we should… Think about what magic shit was going on in 1920s Chicago?”

He gives you a nervous, hopeful look, and you bite down a smile.

“Why don’t we start in the magic church where you met Death?”

“Good idea. Smart.” Dean leans over, kissing your cheek, and starts the drive again. He takes you around to the back lot, fairly crowded, and you frown.

“It’s only, what- 6am?” You glance up at the sky, the sun slowly breaking through the horizon. “Why are so many people here?”

“Maybe it’s Sunday.”

“Who goes to Church at 6am.”

“I dunno.” He shrugs. “Never went to Church.”

You sigh, leaning your head on his shoulder. “John not a huge God guy?”

“Christ, no.” Dean snorts. “Before, maybe. Think we went randomly when I was a kid, before Sammy. Neither of them were all that serious about it. My grandma cared more than anyone, and we’d go for her.”

“Your grandma?” You frown. “I thought all your grandparents were dead.”

“They were. That was my Dad’s mom, and she died like, a few months before Sam was born. Dad never knew his old man, dude vanished sometime in the 60s, just left one day and never came back. And I never met my mom’s parents, but turns out they were hunters, so,” he sighs, grip tightening on the wheel. “That tracks. Shocked they even got to get hitched and have kids.”

There’s something bitter and tired in his voice, and you know it’s not for you. Dean’s not mad at you. You know what that feels like, because it makes the Spiderweb scream and you want to cry.

This just aches, low and sad. You grab his hand, and tangle your fingers together. Squeeze once, and give him a small smile when he meets your gaze.

He smiles back. Squeezes three times.

He’d said he’d marry you. That he’d give you anything, and you can’t even give him anything at all.

“Dean, if- If you ever-“

“Not now.” He mutters, leaning forward to kiss you softly. You rise up to meet him, bracing a hand on his thigh, and he grunts softly.

Not now is a good call. There’s so much else to do, and the conversation is going to lead to that fight—he wants to retire, and you’d love nothing more but you can’t, and he doesn’t understand why even though everything is your fault—so you need to focus on the main thing. You’re in the 20s. In Chicago. Something sent you here, and you don’t think it’s a coincidence that you landed so close to your family’s church so soon after they kidnapped you.

“We should go inside.” You mumble against his lips, and Dean hums an agreement. Neither of you make an effort to pull away, when you do it’s only for need of breath.

Dean wipes a little spit off your lip, and you smile at him.

“Glad I got time-napped with you.” He mutters, and you smile.

“You too.”

“I know. I’m a blast.” He grins, and you giggle.

You kiss his jaw, before dragging yourself forcefully away to open the car door. If you stay there any longer, you’re going to just want to sit in the car with him and hope whatever dropped you here gets bored and reveals itself. You smooth your skirt when you stand, the kitten safely hidden in her bag under the seat, and you’re going to have to find some cat food. Or at least fish. She seems open to anything meaty, regardless of it’s prepped or cooked. You’re sure you can find some fish.

Dean takes a few extra seconds to get out of the car, and his neck looks awfully red when he does. You frown, but he gives you a winning smile and offers his arm—and he looks perfectly fine—so you let it go.

“I went to this Church as a kid.” You murmur as you walk. He nods, scanning over the lot.

“I know.”

You blink. “You do?”

He hums, then pauses, mouth opening and closing before he gives you an oddly tense smile. “Yeah, uh- You told me before.”

“Oh.” Huh. “I don’t remember that.”

“We’ve know each other a long time, Princess. Can’t be expected to remember everything we tell each other. Come on, we don’t wanna be late for service.”

He’s dragging you forward before you can ask any more questions, and you can’t imagine why he would be lying about that, but you have a pretty good memory. You usually know about what you have and haven’t told someone, if only because you’d been so used to lying about identity and situations that you had to keep track.

He is right, though. You’ve known Dean for eleven odd years. You must have had some conversations you forgot. Maybe you told him last time you were in Chicago, before you had sex for the first time, and that event took over most of your memory of the night. It’s not that worth dwelling on anyway. Bigger fish.

You’re certainly already late for the service, but you don’t think there’s much to be done about that. It’s 6 in the morning, and they’re so deep into it—everyone sitting attentively in the pews, facing the old man in shiny robs, preaching at the front—that you think they might’ve started at 5. You and Dean slip inside and no one spares you a glance, so you slide into one of the back benches and try to make it through the service.

More like you drag Dean into a bench, and he mouths what are we doing? With a frown. You grab a prayer book and scribble need to talk to priest before showing him the paper.

He reads it, looks to you with a really? Expression, and you shrug.

Any better ideas? You mouth, before quickly writing if there’s demons, priest might know about them. Same for angels. Good place to start with zero leads.

Dean reads your notes and sighs, slumping into the bench but nodding in agreement. You smile apologetically, patting his knee, and he grabs your hand.

“This is going to be boring.” He hisses, and someone whips around to shush him. He gives you a pointed look, and you fight your smile.

You’ll make it. You mouth, and he groans dramatically.

He does make it. He’s a massive fucking baby about it, but he makes it. Dean flops around the bench while you try—and fail—to pay attention, nudging your feet together and running his fingers up your inner thigh. You whack his hand with a stern look, and he grins at you. You narrow your eyes, and he wiggles his brows.

You manage to occupy him with hangman and tic tac toe on the margins of some prayer books, and that does the trick. You adore the man, but he’s like a toddler sometimes, and when the service ends you’re shocked he doesn’t start running around like a dog let off a leash.

“I’m proud of you.” You tease, kissing his cheek. He scoffs, shifting in his seat.

“Shuddup.”

You giggle, grabbing his hand and tugging him to his feet. You weave your way through the crowd, examining the service goers and looking for the priest. He seems to be lost in the crowd of people looking for him, but at least he won’t be leaving the Church. It gives you time.

Most of the people here seem rich. They’re all wearing thick cloth like you and Dean, shiny shoes that can’t have been cheap in this decade, and jewelry that sparkles in the candle and day light. A few of them give you curious looks, which means they expected to know you. Tight knit community, but that’s not surprising. When you were four or so, you remember your mother and father muttering in the car about the dirty man poking around and getting mud all over the floors of the church. About how he’d been trying to talk to the priest, and been a bit of an ass about it, even making one of his gang members break in after hours when the Priest refused to work with him.

At least you and Dean look the part. And you’ll be a lot more polite to the priest.

And if he also refuses to work with you, you have something the dirty man didn’t.

A knife, and a Dean.

“Hey,” he mutters, tugging your arm in the direction of the walls. “Look at that.”

You follow his gaze, and tilt your head slowly. You don’t have a great memory of this place outside of reoccurring dreams and the times Michael and Lucifer showed it to you in the cage, but you’re certain you’ve never seen that before. A small statue of a woman with long hair, sitting with her head bowed. Flowers are carved around her feet, massive wings folded behind her back, a lion on one side of her and a unicorn on the other. She’s staring at her hands, but there’s nothing in them. You walk closer, pulling Dean with you, and squint at the plaque.

“What’s it say?” He leans over your shoulder, and you shake your head.

“Don’t know. It’s in Italian, and- Mine’s rusty.”

“Hm.” Dean pauses, and you look over to find his face scrunched in concentration.

You smile lightly. “Are you trying to read it?”

He nods. “Can’t hurt.”

“De-“

“Could say Cool Wing Lady.”

You snort. “It does not say Cool Wing Lady.”

“Well, you can’t read it, so we’re never gonna know-“

“I am positive.” You drawl. “That it does not say Cool Wing Lady.”

Dean laughs, and it pulls your lips into a smile. He looks so relaxed, and you don’t understand how. This is stressful, and confusing, but he’d just folded over you laughing and it makes everything impossibly better.

“Huh.” He mutters, and you frown.

“What?”

“Nothin’. It’s just-“ He shakes his head. “She kinda looks like you.”

You swallow, looking back to the statue. Dean lightly grabs your chin, tipping it to an angle that makes her face more visible, and you swallow. She does. It’s like looking in a little stone mirror, and you grab Dean’s arm as your knees start to feel weak. His arm immediately wraps around your waist, keeping you steady. But of course there’s a strange statue that looks like you here, why wouldn’t there be, with every other fucking thing going on this might as well happen-

“Are you going to pay tribute?” A younger voice cuts through your thoughts, and Dean turns with a glower.

“Move along, buddy, it’s a free country.”

The boy behind you scoffs. “Don’t call me buddy, pal, I could own you.”

Dean snorts. “You wouldn’t be the first to try, kid, but you sure as shit won’t be the one to succeed.”

“Dean.” You sigh, ripping yourself away from the creepy statue. “Not now-“

You cut yourself off, jaw dropping.

The boy standing across from you looks just like Roman. The resemblance is almost eerie, as if the two generations between them didn’t matter at all. And you’d seen pictures, but in person it almost knocks you off your fucking feet.

That’s your grandfather.

You don’t know why you’re so surprised. This is the church your family has been going to as long as they’ve been in Chicago. But all your memories of your grandfather are faded photos and a cold, crude frown as he assessed you. A booming voice as he shouted at your parents. Cold eyes that reminded you of the same thing, over and over. You’re never enough.

He’s barely sixteen, but he’s broad shouldered and tips his chin up at Dean as if he’d have a shot in a fight. Dean looks unimpressed—mostly annoyed—and your nails dig into the sleeve of his jacket, ready to yank him back if he gets dragged into something stupid.

“Sorry.” You smile sweetly. “He’s- We’re-“ You look over your shoulder, back to the statue of you. Pay tribute. “We’ll move.”

You drag Dean away, and your grandfather snorts something under his breath about Dean being a one of those pansies. You have to stop yourself from turning around and swinging on him. Focus.

“I could’ve beat that little twerp up, Princess-“

“That was my grandfather.” You hiss, and Dean’s eyes widen.

“Holy shit.” He looks back to the boy, now kneeling at the feet of your statue. “For real?”

“Yep.”

“How do you-“

“Who does he look like?”

Dean’s brow scrunches, and you can see the exact moment it hits him. “Roman.” He mutters under his breath, and you nod tightly.

“Come on, we don’t want to linger.”

Dean grunts, still glowering at your grandfather like he’d said something rude about the Impala. You guess, if you’re being very self-important and egotistical, he has.

“He’s dead now, De.” You mutter, pulling him further into the crowd. Dean doesn’t go easy.

“You said he did the ritual on you.”

“He did.”

“Hm.” His hand fists on your hip. “Lotta heavy, throwable things here.”

You give him a look, and he grins.

“I know.” Hands raise in surrender. “I’m being the big boy.”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. You know he’s not, but you don’t push it. You’ve already been stalling too much.

You keep moving Dean through the crowd, mostly trying to put distance between him and your grandfather. And part of you wants to ask if he’s thinking about it too. How your family is never going to just let up and let you go. You’re what they’ve been working towards for centuries. To them, you’ve barely more a piece of property to trade for glory.

And you want to ask if he knows. That there’s nowhere they could put you that you wouldn’t get back to him. They hadn’t been able to get the amulet off. They hadn’t been able to hold you forever, and if you’re strong next time, they won’t be able to hold you at all.

You’re about to tell him that when he yanks you back and presses a hand over your mouth. You don’t fight, the Silver humming easily, knowing the difference between Dean and danger.

You to elbow him and glare, though. A warning would’ve been nice.

“Sorry.” He mutters, kissing the space between your eyes quickly. “Just- Shh. Look.”

He nods up, and you follow his gaze out to the crowd. He seems to have found the priest, talking to a man dressed in the same woolen outfit as Dean himself. You give him a confused look—the hiding still doesn’t make sense—and he sighs.

“That’s Elliot Ness.” He mutters in your ear. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m sure.”

You weren’t looking at him like anything. You just raise your brows, and he sighs.

“I panicked, alright? I didn’t think we’d see him in a church- Didn’t think we’d see him at all- This is so awesome-“

“De.” You pull his hand down gently. He really is adorable. “Do you wanna say hi?”

“No. No.” His face is a little red, and he’s shaking his head quickly. “We don’t wanna bother him, he’s probably busy, you know. Uh- Big stuff. Going on for him.”

“Mhm.” You glance back to Ness and the priest. “Why is he talking to a priest?”

“I don’t know.” Dean frowns. “That wasn’t even in the book.”

You laugh under your breath, and tug Dean along the wall. It might just be normal FBI business, but Dean’s the one who always says to treat everything like it’s a part of the case. And risks don’t feel worth taking right now.

And you’re right. More than anyone, Dean strikes gold when you eavesdrop on the conversation, and the topic is very much your thing.

Ness thinks Capone is running a new drink that might help them catch him. The priest does charity work, and if he sees anyone with the symptoms, he should turn them over so they can be questioned with immunity for breaking prohibition. The priest asks what kind of things the side effects are. Ness says high suggestibility. Lack of lucid thought or memory, maybe confusion about their identity or out of character behavior. Like quitting their job, or giving away all their money, taking a sudden vacation or leaving a family for a mistress, or even marrying someone they’d told no before.

You and Dean exchange a look. You know something that does that.

Shit.

“Go, Dean- Go-“

“No, you do it-“

“You’re the one who’s in love with him-“

“I’m not in love with him-“

“Whatever, you’re the pretty white boy, just go-“

“Hey, that’s bigotry-“

“It’s the  1920s, dumbass, that’s my fucking point-“

“Can I help you two?” Ness’ measured, cool voice cuts through your hushed argument, and you both freeze. Dean looks so red you’re a little worried about him. You reach up and pat him on the cheek—trying to gently restart him—and turn around with a willing smile.

“Hello, Agent Ness.”

His eyes narrow, posture stiffening. “Listen, lady I don’t know who you think you’re talkin’ to-“

“You’re Elliot Ness.” Dean blurts, and Ness’ looks around with a clenched jaw.

“Keep your fuckin’ voice low, pal.” He glares between you. “Answer my question. Who are you.”

Dean gapes uselessly, and you sigh. “We’re with the Beurau as well. Agents…” You glance at Dean, and sigh. “Eastwood and Ford.”

Ness snorts. “A female agent, now I’ve been seen it all-“

“Don’t call me a female, dude.” You sigh. “I’m not a dog.”

The man blinks in surprise, and Dean takes the silence to find his voice.

“You- You’re really tall.”

Ness looks him up and down. “We’re about the same height, buddy.”

“Yeah, uh-“ Dean swallows. “That’s cool.”

Ness stares for a second, then turns back to you. “What’s wrong with him.”

“He’s, um-“ You glance at Dean, still gaping at Ness. “He’s having a big day.”

“Hm…” Ness scans over you. “And you’re his… Secrtary?”

“Partner.” Dean cuts him, and you stand a little taller.

Ness still doesn’t look like he believes it. That’s fine. Doesn’t change that he’s working with you, whether he likes it or not.

“We’re here about the new contraband Capone’s been running.” You say, and Ness snorts.

“Everyone’s somewhere about something. Doesn’t mean you gotta give them the time of day.”

“Wow. Poetic.”

Ness scowls. “This isn’t a game, sweetheart-“

“Don’t call her that.” Dean cuts in, and suddenly he’s in front of you. “And listen to what she’s saying. She knows what she’s talking about, better than either of us.”

Ness regards him, looks back to you, and raises his brows. “You two haven’t even shown me your badges, and I’m supposed to believe you’re with a dame who’s going to tell me how to solve my case-“

“We didn’t bring badges.” Dean cuts him off. “Too risky. You just gotta trust us, alright. You can pat us down, stick to us like glue, whatever the hell you want. But the lady says you’re working with us, you’re working with us. Got it?”

Ness is silent for a second. “And say,” he holds Dean’s gaze. “That I decide I don’t got it, and I have you arrested?”

“Then I sic my girl on you.” Dean shrugs. “And I think she’s got a knife, but I don’t know where the hell it came from. So I’d be careful.”

“The store sold knives.” You say proudly, and Dean frowns at you.

“We only bought a gun.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Dean sighs. “Princess-“

Ness clears his throat, looking between you with more and more confusion. “Is she… Your boss.”

“Yeah.” Dean mutters. “And she doesn’t even gimme health insurance.”

You stick your tongue out at him. “I offer. Then you say you don’t want to burden me-“

“Which is me, being an awesome partner-“

“No, it’s you being an idiot-“

Ness coughs again, louder than last time, and you flush. The drugs. The FBI agent you’re threatening. Priorities.

For some reason, it’s not any harder than the parking lot argument to convince Ness to let you work with him. He brings you to his current, deeply intoxicated witness and lets you interrogate them, standing the corner of the room the entire time.

“You think you’re gonna get somethin’ out of him that I can’t?” He asks before letting you in, and Dean snorts.

“She could make a dead man think he’s alive. She’ll be fine.”

Ness nods, not looking away from you. “Well, I can believe that.”

Dean scowls, and you pat his shoulder before sliding into the room. You will be fine. You are fine. It takes about five questions and the sickly sweet smell for you to know this is exactly what you thought it was. The same thing from the psych ward, Becky, and your family. Good news, in that you don’t have to run around doing research. Bad in that you have no idea what the fuck you’re supposed to do with that information.

“We’ve seen this before.” You tell Dean when you’re out of the room, Ness leaning in from the background. “Same shit from Becky.”

Dean frowns, and Ness chimes in. “Who’s Becky?”

“Criminal we brought down. She’d use this to, uh- Seduce men.”

Ness blinks. “This thing’s an aphrodisiac-“

“Don’t worry, it’s hard to actually make, you have to ingest it, and it’s not long term effective. Could probably kill you, if you’re not careful. So,” you shrug at Ness’ pale face. “You know. You’d have bigger problems.”

Ness swallows, and Dean clears his throat.

“How the hell would Capone get his hands on this stuff. You said it was rare-“

“I thought it was rare. Claire’s the one who recognized it, and she’d been studying specially for this kind of thing. Because she’s crazy.”

Dean snorts. “You encourage it, Princess-“

“I do not-“

“I know you’ve been teaching her, uh-“ He glances at Ness. “Coding. Tactics.”

You roll your eyes. “Well, would you rather I give her a gun?”

Ness looks between you. “Who’s Claire?”

Dean says kid at the same time you say trainee. You blink at each other, then you say kid and Dean says trainee, and you give up all together.

“It doesn’t matter. Dean, this stuff is rare, but it shouldn’t be here, rare or not. I would’ve known more about it, if it, um-“ You also look to Ness. Stupid civilians. “Was being dealt out here.” You give the confused man a sweet smile. “Our department is … Weird thing. It’s super-secret. Don’t tell anyone.”

Ness’ doesn’t look convinced. “And what are they callin’ your super-secret department, darling.” He drawls, and you swallow.

“The Men in Black.”

Dean snorts. You stomp on his foot.

“And you don’t have to believe us.” You add, raising your chin to hold Ness’ glare. “That won’t make what we’re saying any less true.”

That seems to get him. Ness’ frown deepens, and he takes a step closer, never looking away from you. Dean tenses at your side.

“If I learn you’re lyin’ to me, that you’re on Capone’s payroll-“

“Then you can try to kill us.” You say sweetly, and Ness grunts. You sigh, turning back to Dean. “We need to figure out who’s dealing it here. It might help us with our… Bigger case.”

Dean nods slowly. “Crowley? Even if it’s not him, not a lotta other people we know running around right now.” Dean glances at Ness. “In… Chicago.”

You frown, not a huge fan of that idea. But you can’t think of a better one. Crowley’s on Earth right now. You doubt he’s the dealer, but this does seem like the kind of thing he’d have a hand in, especially considering his whole cartoon villain thing.

The biggest problem seems to be that Ness demands to come with you, which is a little your fault. You did tell him that he could. But now that means you’re setting up a crossroads summoning with the Babylonian lion in your purse, and you’ve got a normal fucking man hovering over your, asking questions about your informant every ten seconds. Who he is, what he does, why you trust him. A bunch of follow-ups when you say you don’t trust him. It’s incredibly annoying.

“Dean.” You look over your shoulder. “Can you please give him the talk?”

Dean sighs. “Why do I have to give him the talk?”

“Because I’m asking you nicely?”

He glares at you, you smile in return, and he groans. Ness frowns between you. That seems to be most of what he does.

“What’s the talk? ‘Cause if you’re goin’ on about the birds and the bees, trust me, I’m already up to speed-“

“Keep it in your pants, Casanova.” Dean grumbles, grabbing Ness’ arm and hauling him away from you.

You sigh in relief. He’d sat down weirdly close. It had made you feel sticky and tight, and not in the fireworks way Dean did. But no one makes you feel that way but Dean, so you can’t really blame Ness.

You can hear Dean giving Ness the breakdown under his breath. You smile to yourself at how annoyed Dean sounds, humming as you split the sticks and fumble in your bag for those matches you borrowed from the station. Dean and Ness are bickering in low voices—probably about the talk, people who think they’d know things don’t ever really take it well—and you hum, striking the flame and dropping it.

“Well. It appears someone’s trying to make a house call.”

You look up and smile at Crowley’s red, greedy smoke, ballooning his vessel as he takes you in. He’s in a different vessel from the last time you were in the 20s. A clean looking white man, British again, wearing clothing not that different from Dean and Ness.

There are shouts behind you, and Ness must have noticed the man suddenly in the room. Gunshots fire over your head, slamming right into Crowley’s chest. He glowers, flicking his wrist, and scowls down at you when nothing happens.

“That’s a dirty trick, little girl.”

“I know.” You grin. “Your mother taught it to me.”

Crowley’s eyes narrow, and there’s more shouting behind you. You glance back to find Dean wrestling the gun out of a frantic Ness’ grip, Ness half struggling and half staring at Crowley.

“Where in Christ did he come from-“

“Oh. Not Christ.” Crowly clicks his tongue, and Dean shoots him a glare.

“Unhelpful.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, pretty boy. I’ll try to be more helpful next time I’m kidnapped by BOI agents-“

“Don’t be dramatic.” You drawl. “We’re not kidnapping you, we’re having a conversation without any… agitators.”

“He shot me!”

“And he’s gonna apologize now.” Dean grumbles, unloading the gun and tossing it to the side. Ness doesn’t move. Dean nudges him forward.

“I- Ah-“ Ness swallows. “What are you?”

“I told you.” Dean mutters. “He’s a demon.”

“But- Demons aren’t real-“

“Look, you process this however you need, man, but-“ Dean looks at you. “We don’t know if we’re on a clock or not.”

You nod, turning back to the still scowling Crowley. “Hi.”

“Hello, love.” Crowly examines you—still on the floor, your bag in your lap—with a tight frown. “You’re rather-“

“Bright. I know. Let’s just-“ You wave a hand. “Skip this part. You’re Crowley. You’re a Crossroads demon. That’s Dean, he’s a hunter.” You say your own name. “I’m the Bride of God.”

Crowley’s mouth falls open. “The what-“

“Don’t worry about it right now. You won’t remember this anyway, and you can be as angry about this as you want, you’re not getting out of here until you answer our questions. So we can do this nice and quick, or,” you pull your new knife out of your jacket, spinning it in your hand. “I can carve you out of your vessel and feed you to my lion.”

“Your lion?” Dean says, and you shoot him a glare.

“Yes. I want to keep her.”

“Woah, we haven’t agreed on that-“

“Lion.” Crowley cuts in, looking between you and Dean. “Maybe I’m the blind one, but I don’t see any lion-“

“She’s in the bag.” You open the top, just enough for Crowley to see her poofy, mottled fur.

He blanches. “What in Lucifer’s forsaken name is that-“

“Babylonian Lion Cub.” You pat her head, and she curls into the touch. “What do you think of Sharpay as a name? Or Buffy, or- Oh- Batman. But I could calls her Batty.”

Crowley’s nose wrinkles. “That thing is an abomination, it should be drowned-“

Dean snorts. “Good luck with that. She’s not joking about the carving you up thing.”

“I like Abomination for a name.” You say thoughtfully, closing the bag again. No need to disturb the sleeping baby. “Bomby for short.”

Crowley looks at you like you’re insane. “What is wrong with you, girl?”

“I don’t know. Sam keeps trying to diagnose me, but he’s really bad at it.”

“What-“

“Do you know anything about these plants?” You ask causally, passing your quickly done sketch up into his hands.

Crowley looks to you, then the paper, then snorts. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” You nod easily, and he shakes his head.

“What, you think a crossroads summoning just an ask a demon game-“

“Answer the question.” Dean grunts, and Crowley raises his chin.

“He hasn’t apologized to me yet.” He nods to Ness, and Dean scowls.

“Just fuckin’-“

“I’m sorry.” Ness says quickly. “You’re- You’re a real demon.”

“In the flesh, dear.” Crowley does the fun little eye thing, his smile like a wolf. Dean rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest while Ness pales. 

You clear your throat, gesturing to the paper, and Crowley sighs.

“Fine. I will cooperate, because I believe in manners. Not because I could not break out of this feeble spell in a second.”

“Uh huh.” You say, voice flat. “Answer the question.”

Crowley sighs. Looks to the paper, back to you, and shakes his head. “What did you say you were. The Bride of God.”

“Yep.”

“Hm. Is he looking to do some environmental work?”

You frown, and Crowley smirks.

“This is called a mirage cactus by humans, but the name I was taught, the correct name.” He drops the paper back on the ground. “Is Eve’s hair.”

You look back immediately, catching Dean’s gaze. He tips his head slightly, and you know he’s thinking the same thing. No coincidences.

“Of course, we call it the Whore’s Pubes.” Crowley smirks. “But that’s just us lowly, common folk.”

You grab the paper, examining your own sketch. Dean clears his throat. “You did tell me this thing is native to hell, Princess-“

“I thought I was confusing it with something else.” You mutter, frowning back to Crowley. “But- It does grow naturally on earth.”

“It’s an invasive species.” He shrugs. “Native to hell is the key word, I believe. But things also die. Quiet a lot. Just like that thing in your little bag should-“

“Why.” You ignore his jab at your lion. She’s perfect. “Why’d it die out?”

“I don’t know, why does anything die out. I’m not a bloody herbologist-“

“What about seeds.” Dean grunts. “Got any idea who might have their hands on some?”

Crowley snorts, and shakes his head. “Why on earth would I know about that, because I’m a demon? Tell me, pretty boy, do you know who might be able to find you a unicorn?”

“Yeah, actually. I do.”

“Well.” Crowley sniffs. “I may have an idea who might be able to make seeds.”

You sit up. “Who-“

“Eve. Mother of Monsters. It’s an old legend of hell, she makes everything that isn’t us, and isn’t you.” He nods to Dean and Ness, then pauses on you. “Or maybe she does make you. Whatever you are.”

It’s better if you ignore that. And of course Eve might be able to make them, but she’s still locked in Purgatory. Which is going to limit your option for who’s selling them to 1920s Chicago Gangsters.

You examine Crowley, biting your tongue. You have him here. Might as well…

“Hell has legends?”

Crowley dips his head. “We are cultured, some of us more than others.”

You hum. “And what do those legends say about Leviathans?”

Dean snaps your name. You ignore him, raising your brows at Crowley. He’s mostly looks a little amused, but not in his I’m about to fuck everything up or I’m going to tell a very annoying lie way. He just seems to like that you’re ignoring Dean.

“Nothing at all.” He purrs, and you sigh.

“That’s what I thought.” You push to your feet, wiping your hands. “See you in 80 years.”

You wipe Crowley’s memory before he can protest, and turn around. Ness is taking deep breaths through his mouth. Dean is glaring at you.

“Why’d you ask about the Leviathans-“

“I was curious.”

“No, you’re thinking about them again-“

“I haven’t stopped thinking about them.” You snap. And you really haven’t. Not when you wake up from another nightmare about that dead world. Not when you look at the kitten and still see the tiny scars from their venom, not when you’re alone for too long and start to picture the scream of the one you’d killed, and the one that had been mimicking Dean. You can’t stop thinking about them. “It’s something bigger, De-“

“Everything’s always something bigger, that doesn’t mean we need to keep upping our bets with the game-“

“But what if we can win-“

“We never win!” Dean shouts, voice echoing through the air. “This isn’t a game you fuckin’ win! You don’t get out unless you walk out, and yeah, it makes me a selfish son of a bitch, but I don’t care what we leave behind, long as we’re out.” He takes a firm step forward, glaring down at you. “I want out, Princess. Not of you.” He adds quickly, and you bite your dumb, wobbling lips. “Never of you. With you. Just- We can walk out.”

He grabs your face between your hands, and you drop your face into his chest. He’s Golden. Warm. His jacket wraps around you with him, and it makes you feel like you’re under a protected shield.

“I know.” You mumble, fidgeting with his belt loops. “I- I know, De, but- We still don’t know why we’re here. What sent us.”

“That’s got nothing to do with my thing-“

“There’s something I don’t trust.” You murmur, looking up at him, your voice getting smaller. “About all of this. Something- I don’t know. It’s all so…”

You trail off, and Dean sighs, dropping his brow against yours.

“Complicated.” He grunts, and you nod.

“Yeah.”

Both of you fall silent, and you let your eyes flutter close, just breathing him in. He’s still here. He’s pissed at you, but neither of you are moving. And you won’t. You won’t leave him, and he can grow roots into the ground wherever the hell he wants. Maine, Iowa, South Dakota, back to Kansas, across the world. He can chose a place to stand and you’ll stand with him. You’ll make him your home, and you’ll never fly so far you can’t get back.

Ness clears his throat, and you both look up. You’d forgotten he was there.

“Who the hell are you people?” He croaks. “What’s a Leviathan, who’s Eve, where did the demon go, and- There was a demon-“

“Dean.” You say as Ness’s breathing picks up, and he grunts.

“Alright, Buddy. In through the nose, out through the mouth.” He holds Ness upright, looking to you in a silent question. You shrug. You’re going to erase him anyway. Might as well.

“He- He said you were the Bride of God.” Ness mutters as you walk over. “That must be why you look- Like that-“

“Nah. That’s all her. Ow.” Dean glares up at you. “I was giving you a compliment, baby.”

You flush, trying to shrug it off. He can’t compliment you in public. It makes you all giggly and stupid. “I am God’s Bride.” You tell Ness. “But, uh- We’re in negotiations about it.”

“Negotiations.” Dean grumbles. You ignore him, and break it down as fast and easy as you can. You’re skimming a lot of details and doubling back when you realize they’re important, but it’s a hard story to tell. Hard to hear as well, apparently. Ness looks like you just told him he was going to die in a few days.

As an afterthought, you tag on that you are from the future, but you can’t tell him any details about it, in case he runs off and tries to change something.

“But you catch Capone.” Dean adds at the end. “And they make a great movie about it.”

“Dean-“

“What, his whole world is getting messed with! Let him have the win.”

You sigh, and give Ness a kind smile. “It’s an alright movie.”

“It’s amazing-“

“The Godfather is better.”

“No, it’s isn’t.”

“Yes, it is”

“She just thinks Marlon Brando is hot.” Dean glares at you. “He was racist.”

“I know. I just like old men.” You grin at Ness. “I can’t wait for him to be like- fifty.”

Ness blinks. Opens his mouth, closes it, scans over you, then looks back to Dean.

“Are you two married?”

Heat rushes your face, and Dean throws his arm around your waist, pulling you into his side with a wide grin.

“Not yet, but- You know how it is, I gotta beat out the competition-“

You cover his mouth, giving Ness a winning, casual smile like you don’t feel oddly lightheaded in the best way.

“The case. We should be focusing on the case.”

You shoot Dean a firm look. He winks at you, and the Spiderweb glows.

It’s a miracle you don’t jump him right there. 

Crowley was only a help in the sense that he was there, and he did tell you things. Other than that, not much progress has been made. You need to figure out who the hell is selling Capone the drug. Who’d know how to make it, let alone be able to get the plant. Dean wants to go ask Capone himself. And you already have a pretty good idea of who’s doing it—or at least a confident theory—but he’s having so much fun. You don’t have the heart to tell his cute little puppy face no.

Ness takes you to where Capone’s secret lair is. Dean says it’s just an office.

“There are too many guards for this to be an office.” You mutter, watching them wearily.

Dean leans down, whispering in your ear. “It’s on the business records, sweetheart-“

“Capone’s records are very famously falsified.” You hiss, and he beams.

“You have been paying attention to the movie.”

You roll your eyes, but don’t manage to bite your smile when he kisses your cheek. If he keeps this up, you won’t be able to work cases with him anymore. You’ll just spend the whole time fawning after him and trying not to become a gooey, giggly mess, pouting for his undivided attention.

Dean wouldn’t be a big fan of working separate cases, though. When you reach Capone, they try to make you—the girl—wait outside. A vein pushes at Dean’s brow, it takes five minutes to convince him you’ll be fine, and right outside the door, and he can even come check on you if he needs to. Ness and Dean walk into the office with the list of questions you gave them. Capone’s guards eye you like an attack dog they waiting to strike, gaze raking over your legs and jacket and purse. You fix them with unblinking glares in return, and they start to whisper.

“What’s a girl like you doin’ with two straights like that?” One of the braver ones coos.

You don’t even pretend to make your voice warm. “Don’t talk to me.”

His eyes narrow. “Bitch thinks she can speak without someone stuffing her up-“

One of them tries to grab you, and you duck away smoothly, keeping one hand on the bag—don’t want to bother the kitten—while your other goes for the knife. Another one tries to make a swipe at your arm, and you spin the blade, pressing it to his throat and backing him against the wall. You’d think the rest of the men would be shouting, but they’re all mostly just gaping and whispering as you glare up at the one who tried to touch you.

“I said,” you press the blade deeper. He whimpers. “Don’t talk to me.”

He swallows, nodding slightly, and you smile.

“Good boy.”

The door swings open, and you turn back to Dean and Ness with a wide smile. Dean scans over you—quickly tucking the knife into your jacket—then the guards, a tight frown pulling on his features. You take his hand, sliding back to his side, and bump his shoulder.

“Any luck?”

“Uh…” He coughs, shaking his head. “Yeah. I mean, no name, but- He said the guy was British. You don’t think Crowley was just pulling one on us-“

“No. There are lots of British people.” You glace over your shoulder. “And the supply-“

“Told him that if he didn’t get rid of it, we’d kill him. Don’t know if he’s actually gonna do it-“

“I think he will.” You wave at one of the guards, and he looks like he’s going to vomit. “Pussies.”

Dean frowns. “What did you do.”

“Nothing.”

He grunts your name, and you shrug.

“I’m fine-“

“Because you…”

You glare at his prompting. He raises his brows, and you sigh.

“Knife.” You mutter, and he sighs.

“Jesus, Princess-“

“They tried to grab me! It was self-“

“They tried to what.”

 Maybe you shouldn’t have told him that. Dean’s already reaching for his gun, turning back to teach them manners, and you have to drag him from the rest of the building. Ness watches with a quiet fascination, but doesn’t dare interrupt. A good call. Dean doesn’t seem to be seeing five feet in front of him unless it’s you.

When you go back to the warehouse to set up the next ritual, he’s sulking on the floor, his knees bent and the bag between them. The kitten keeps poking her head out to sniff him, and he always offers a hand before patting her head. You smile. You’re not even sure he knows he’s doing it.

“What demon are we summoning now?” Ness asks, standing over you—a very polite distance away—and you sigh.

“Not a demon. This,” you nod to the mess in front of you. “Is for an angel. Warding against it, specifically. Summoning an angel without the right safeguards-“ You wrinkle your nose. “Never ends well.”

“Ah.” Ness mutters. “There are… angels.”

“Mhm. There’s pretty much… Everything.”

 “And you have dealt with all of it?”

“Most of it.” You sigh. “There’s always more.”

You look over to Dean, a lump forming in your throat. He’s giving his full attention to the kitten now, muttering something under his breath that’s probably just bitching about the whole situation, and she’s blinking up at him with her big, blue eyes like he’s the greatest thing you’ve ever see. You understand the idea.

“You and Mr. Eastwood seem to have quite the connection.”

“Me and- Oh.” You’d forgotten about the aliases. “Um- Yeah.”

“You’re not married.” Ness glances down to your hand, and you flush.

“We’re partners.” And married wouldn’t be enough. If Dean really does want to marry you, you’re never going to stop him, but husband doesn’t feel like a big enough word for what he is to you anymore. He’s the only thing you’re certain you’re going to have, the only thing that keeps you on your feet some days, the only thing you shine for and the only place you want to be able to see. You could get lost in him, and be perfectly found, and there are no human words for how big that really is.

Ness must see it on your face. He nods slowly, words gentler that you’ve heard all day. “He loves you greatly. I have seen many men who find adoration for their women, but he… It is more than I can fathom.”

You have no answer to that. You just bite the inside of your cheek, focusing on the ritual as the Spiderwebs glows so bright it might blind you. You love him too. You love him more than you have the words for, more than there are things in the universe to shape in his name. But if you say it, God might take him. And if God takes him, you’re going to become something nobody could ever love at all.

“Dean.” You call, finishing the last ward. “Ready.”

“Coming.” He shuffles up to your side with the kitten in his big hands. You give him an amused look, and he grunts, cheeks turning a little red. “She was getting antsy. Cooped up in the bag too long.”

You hum. “She likes you.”

“She likes that I ain’t trying to stab her-“

“She likes you.” You kiss his jaw quickly, before you can lose the nerve. Dean makes a low sound in his chest, and you force your attention back to the ritual. “Ready?”

He nods, and when you look at Ness, the agent just makes a strangled, nervous sound. You suppose that’s ready enough.

And summoning an angel is easy. Especially when you have a name, and that angel is a little attention whore.

Balthazar never ignores a prayer. Not when it might be a business opportunity. And even if you get old Balthazar—instead of your version, who you’re willing to bet did more contract work for Eve than he owned up to—at least you’ll be able to use him to get to your Balthazar. Who has been ignoring your prayers, but only because he knows it’s you and he probably thinks you’re going to stab him or something. Which is something you never would’ve done. Last week. Before he pissed you off.

But it’s not either Balthazar that shows up in your warehouse. The angel that touches down isn’t made of bronze, but a brilliant, electric blue.  

You gape at the frowning woman in front of you, her hair dark and loose, eyes big and brown, but expression the exact same one you’ve always known. 

“Cas?”

Cas glares at you, his eyes narrowing, and Dean coughs.

“Sweetheart, that’s a chick-“

“I know. Vessels.” You take a step forward as Dean mumbles an Oh, watching Cas carefully. “Hi, Cas- Tiel.” This isn’t your Cas. He won’t know the nickname. “You’re Castiel.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow. He—She? It doesn’t matter, it’s Cas—looks between you and Dean, voice low and filled with suspension. “I am not the angel you prayed to.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, we’re working that one out, buddy-“

“How do you know who I am.” Castiel raises his head, hair falling over his features, and you swallow.

“I can see you? Like- You you.” This is so weird. “I have soul vision.”

Castiel looks you up and down, frown deepening. It’s a little amazing, how it’s the exact same frown on this vessel as the one you’re used to.

“What is soul vision.”

“She can see souls.” Dean jumps in, and Castiel’s attention turns to him with an even deeper frown. “And, uh- Angels. And demons. All of it. You, me, she’s seeing under the meatsuits. And- Yeah.”

Castiel hums, tilting his head. “Humans cannot see souls.” He muses, looking back to you. “But you… You are not…”

He trails off, and you smile at him tightly.

“I have never seen anything so bright.” He murmurs. “Heaven should know of you-“

“We’re not big fans of Heaven.” Dean mutters, and Castiel glares at him.

“Heaven does not care for the opinions of humans-“

“Maybe right now, but they’re gonna be all up our asses in about eighty years-“

“No angel has ever gone up an ass.”

Dean smirks, and you can see the joke forming in his eyes. You whack his arm, giving him a firm glare.

”Not our Cas.” You hiss, and he sighs.

“Yeah. I know. But it’s right there-“

“Dean.”

“Fine, your majesty.”

You glare at him, and he just gris back.

“You know, there are a lotta good things about going up the ass, and I could show you- Son of a bitch-“

He earned that elbow in the gut. And he’s lucky you love him, or you’d smack him too.

You’re even smiling to yourself, when you turn back to Castiel. It falters, though, the second you see his face. Her face.

The expression Cas hasn’t worn in years, where he examines you like he thinks you might be the answer to every problem. You’re what I’ve been waiting for, he’d told you, when Dean sent him to find you. And all you’d ever done for him was fail to help, force him to give up heaven to save your life, and make him crazy. You think you could save him now, if you told him to ignore you and Dean, when the apocalypse begins.

But you’re not brave enough. Not good enough. You need him around. Dean needs him around. So you bite your tongue, and give Castiel another, tight smile.

He blinks at you slowly, words low. “Not even my greatest brothers-“

“I’m bigger than your greatest brothers.” You sigh. “God’s Bride. Magdalene, Whore, whatever. Lot’s going on, but- You’ll understand in like, 80 years.”

“80 years.” Cas echoes, looking between you and Dean. “You are not from this time.”

“Nope.” Dean shrugs. “We come from the great land of heating and phones-“

“Michael and the Seraphs dictated no time travel.” Castiel mutters. “You are unsanctioned in this world.”

“We’re always unsanctioned somewhere.” Dean grumbles, and Castiel’s frown deepens.

“How did you get to this time.”

“Uh-“ Dean glances at you. “Jury’s out on that one.”

“Jury. You are on a trial-“

“No.” You jump in quickly. “We don’t know how we’re here. Or- Why.”

“We got distracted.” Dean adds, and Castiel blinks.

His eyes fall to the kitten in Dean’s hands, and he stands a little taller. In his vessel, wings flare, and you wince. Your Cas hadn’t reacted great to her. That’s your mistake.

“A first beast.” He almost growls, and Dean pulls the kitten closer to his chest. “Where did you find such a thing-“

“Woods.” Dean snaps. “Eyes off, buddy, she gets nervous.”

Castiel shakes his head, millions of eyes staring at the kitten. “We have not been notified of the threat. They should all be dead-“

“Fuckin’ try something-“

You touch Dean’s arm, taking a step forward, and he falls silent. Still cradling the kitten tight to his chest, as you frown at Castiel.”

“Does Heaven keep track of threats?”

“Of course we do.” Castiel says, using the same isn’t that obvious voice that’s usually directed at Dean.

You nod slowly. “And… What’s on that list right now?”

Dean grunts your name. “The case-“

“I can deal with Balthazar when we get home.” You mutter, keeping your eyes on Castiel. “This is more important.”

You and Castiel stare at each other for a second, and you’re not certain he’s going to answer. This Cas is still loyal to Heaven, and hasn’t been through hell and back with you. You wouldn’t exactly be able to fault him for not trusting the strange woman from the future-

“The list of Heaven’s threats.” He says, you nod quickly, and he frowns. “It is not all that interesting. We are effective, these are horrors that will never come to pass.”

You snort, Dean scoffs, and Castiel gives you both strange looks.

“You are odd humans.”

“You’re an odd angel.” Dean fires back, and you sigh.

“Ignore him. The list, please.”

Castiel thinks for another long moment, then clears his throat. “It is not long. Heaven is strong. Lucifer, Lilith, Azazel.” He frowns at the air. “Cain. Eve-“

“Eve?” You cut in. “Why Eve?”

Castiel sniffs. “I am not at liberty to divulge such information to… humans.”

“But I’m not human. You know that.” You take a step forward. Your back is hurting again, but the Silver is humming easily as you hold Castiel’s gaze. “Tell me.”

He blinks at you, and whatever he sees, it’s the same as that first time. Enough for him to trust you, for no reason at all.

Part of you wonders if your Cas would take that trust back, if he could. If this one would, if you were brave enough to tell him his future.

“She has…” Castiel sighs. “Made efforts before. Against us. I do not have more details than that.”

You nod, tight and short. “What about the Leviathans.”

Dean grunts your name. You ignore him, but Castiel just shakes his head.

“I do not know anything of that name.”

Fuck. You look back to Dean with wide eyes, and he glares right back.

“Princess-“

“We have to do something about them-“

“The hell we do-“

“It’s something the angels don’t monitor, Dean-“

“Which means it’s not that big a deal-“

“Or it’s a huge fucking deal, because who do you think they’re getting their list from-“

“I don’t know, Angel Google-“

“Him.” You snap, and a shadow flashes over Dean’s face. “Any threats they know about probably are managed by Michael, and anything Michael deems a threat is because he was told it was a threat. By him.”

Dean scowls, voice taut and low. “Maybe he’s wrong about what threats are. And Michael thought for himself, and counted the Leviathans out.”

You shake your head. “You know that’s not what happened. If they aren’t on the list, that means he doesn’t want them to be. And they’re-“ You swallow, a deep, sunken chill slithering over your bones at just the thought of them. Of all that Death. “They’re evil, Dean. You know they’re evil. So why wouldn’t he want Heaven to know about them.”

Dean works his jaw, but he doesn’t answer. Ness coughs.

“Uh… What’s a Leviathan?”

“I have the same question.” Castiel mutters, and you sigh.

“We don’t know. We’re still figuring it out. De, we need to at least find one to interrogate-“

“No.” He grunts, words pushed through his teeth. “We don’t.”

“Yes-“

“Why? Why the hell does this always have to be our job-“

“Because! It is, it’s my job, Dean, it’s-“ You take a deep, uneven breath, forcing your voice to stay firm. “Everyone’s told me to accept what I am.” You mutter, holding his gaze. “To stop fighting it, and this is me not fighting it.”

Dean’s throat bobs. “This isn’t what they meant-“

“Isn’t it?”

For a moment, you’re both silent. Staring at each other in the low light of the warehouse, Castiel and Ness just blurs in the background. Your head hurts. You back hurts. Everything hurts—the Silver pressing up your throat, your hands flexing to wrap around your neck and force it back down—but Dean is still clear. Still in focus.

“We can retire after-“

“There’s never an after.” He mutters, voice bitter. “You know there’s never an after, sweetheart.”

“No. There- There will be one this time.” It hurts to speak. “I won’t fail.”

Dean gives you a sad, heavy look, murmuring your name. You shake your head.

“Please.”

He doesn’t answer. You don’t beg again, not with an audience. And everything just… Keeps moving.

You still don’t know why you’re here. What sent you, or how to get back. You’ve called it on the Capone case—Balthazar’s a drug dealer, big surprise—and you wipe Castiel before releasing him. You go to wipe Ness, but he back away. He doesn’t want to forget. You look to Dean, and he just sighs, and nods. You make Ness swear never to tell anyone. You believe him when he says he won’t.

“If more comes back-“

“It won’t.” You mutter, taking your bag and the kitten back from Dean. “I’m going to talk to the angel who’s doing it when we get home. I don’t think he’s working for the woman who makes the drug anymore either way. Nothing for you to worry about.”

Ness nods, looking between you and Dean. “Good luck with your time. I’m sure he’ll come around.”

You bite your lower lip, and nod. Even if you don’t believe it.

Dean won’t come around. Not on this. You know him, and even if he agrees to let you do this, he’s not going to be happy about it. But you’re horrible, and cancerous, and demand that he go down with you every time you fall. One day he’s going to have had enough. He’s going to give up on you, decide you’re not worth the trouble, leave you to just burn in the sky alone, nothing to care about without him there.

He drives to the motel Ness directed you to. Neither of you yell, but neither of you speak, and it’s worse than screaming. The air is too hot, too thick. It feels like you’re breathing steam, even as the night chill bites at your ears. You almost start the fight again, just because you want it to be over. If you both shout and argue now, you won’t have to later.

But you don’t want to fight at all.

You run your fingers through the kitten’s fur, tears pricking at your eyes, and you don’t want to fight with Dean.

The motel room is small. You settle while Dean goes out to find dinner and food for the cat. She lies on your chest while you stare at the ceiling, fighting back body-shaking sobs. Nothing’s even happening. Your whole body just hurts, and Dean’s barely looking at you, and you’re so, so tired.

The kitten noses your face, and you sniff, rubbing behind your ears. When the door opens, she scrambles away quickly, hiding under the bed. You roll onto your stomach, hiding your face in the sheets. You don’t want him to deal with you right now. You can’t just be another fucking burden, problem, thing that he has to solve-

“Hey.” A warm, certain weight curls around you, and you press back into it despite yourself.   

Dean’s arm loops around your stomach. You grab it to keep it there, even as you keep hiding your face. His lips press on your neck, and you’re shaking with the effort not to cry.

“I’m not mad at you, Princess.” He murmurs in your ear. The first tears burn on your cheeks. “I mean, I’m pissed about the whole situation. But I’m not- It’s not your fault.”

But it is. It is. It’s always your fucking fault, everything is your fault, you turned that Castiel into the one who wanted to open Purgatory, you let evil loose on the world, you messed up everything in Heaven and you let Eve out and-

“Breathe.” Dean murmurs, his hand sliding slowly under your shirt. He grabs right under your breast, squeezing three times, and it works immediately.

You inhale sharply, your body shaking with silent sobs. Dean kisses your throat, almost wrapping himself around you, and you wiggle further into the safety of his body.

“I- I don’t-“ You gasp for air, each word a labor to get out. “I don’t wanna fight right now.”

The words sound weak and childish to your own ears. Dean just hums, squeezing your ribs again.

“Alright. No fighting.”

And that’s it.

You’re not that hungry. Dean doesn’t seem to be either, because that’s just the kind of day you’ve had. In the morning you’ll have to figure out why you’re here. How you’re going to get back home. For now you both just lie in each other’s warmth, Dean’s face buried in your neck and your heartbeat slowing under his hands. The kitten hops up on the bed and curls near your feet. Your tears dry, and Dean’s chest rumbles behind you with low snores.

Usually the sound is white noise, and you knock out soon after him. But tonight, your eyes droop and your brain fogs, but you can’t fall asleep. Your back still aches, although Dean’s warmth is soothing it and the Silver. It’s mostly your head.

Your head hurts.

It feels like someone is driving an ice pick through your eyes, throbbing and burning right to the base of your skull. You can only breath through your nose, and bile is rising up your throat. You roll over to wake Dean up, but he looks so peaceful. It’s probably just stress. And he’s already taken care of you once tonight.

You roll carefully out of his arms. At the foot of the bed, the kitten blinks up at you with bleary, big eyes. You kiss her little head, then look back to Dean. Handsome and dead to the world and yours. You kiss his head too, and he makes a low, grumbly sound, gathering the sheets tight in his arms. You smile to yourself. The noise sounded like your name.

When you get into the bathroom, you don’t bother to turn on a light. It would only hurt. You splash cold water on your face, but it does nothing. The sickness grows and twists in your stomach, but when you lie at the toilet nothing comes out. And your head hurts, it hurt so fucking bad, like someone pressing it between two iron plates, and without Dean the Silver is building up and rolling in so fast, and suddenly you can’t breathe. You can’t breathe, everything hurts and you can’t fucking breathe-

This world is dead.

There’s all the smoke, and smog, and withered stone and flowers under your feet. You’d throw up if there wasn’t such a gaping hunger in your chest, and you’d scream if you could take in a full breath. This world is dead and wrong, wrong, wrong, everything is wrong and you can’t fucking breathe-

The Silver flares, and you yank yourself out of the vision right when you feel it.

Him.

You scramble back, tripping over your own ankles and grabbing for any kind of weapon as God frowns down at you. There’s nothing—even the washcloths are gone—and the Silver is brimming right under the surface but just like every time before, it can’t quiet burst out.

“Woah.” God says your name in Enochian, taking a step forward. “It’s just me, no need to freak out-“

You kick up, slamming into his shin, and he stumbles back with a grunt.

“Ow. Come on, that’s not nice-“

“Dean!” You scream, and you shouldn’t, but it’s the only thing you can think. “Dean-“

“Yeah, Dean’s out.” God sighs, and your attention snaps back to him, the Silver becoming sharp and focused.

You could drive it right through him like a knife. You could shred him to pieces if he hurt Dean, you don’t care what the rest of the world becomes, an ashen wasteland or an overgrown jungle, nothing gets to be okay if he hurt Dean-

“I didn’t hurt him.” God says quickly, raising his hands. “He’s just not going to hear you. He’s passed out. Here.” He steps to the side, pulling the door open behind him. “Look. He’s fine.”

You scowl, keeping a careful eye on God as you crawl forward. Dean’s sleeping peacefully, right where you left him. Holding the blankets tight, snoring and relaxed. You’d fall over with relief, if you weren’t already on the floor.

“See? Fine.” God frowns at Dean, and you want to claw his eyes out. He shouldn’t be allowed to look. “You know, I’ve spent the whole day trying to talk to you alone. And he’s just… Always there.”

God makes a sour expression, and you put it together fast.

“You sent us here.” You mutter, and God sighs.

“I tried to send just him.” He jerks his head to Dean. “I had a whole plan about how there would be a time god to take the blame, and Dean could run around living out his little fantasy while you and I talked. But you just… Held on.”

“He would’ve been alone.” You move to your feet slowly, placing your body between God and Dean’s sleeping form. “He might’ve gotten hurt-“

“I wouldn’t have let him get hurt.” God dismisses. “I know what he means to you. I’d never hurt you like that.”

 “But you’d hurt him if I couldn’t do anything about it.”

God frowns. “Don’t- Don’t do that. Don’t twist my words. I like Dean too, he’s one of my favorites. I don’t just make anyone a chosen one, you know. Dean’s perfect, he’s got his whole little Devil May Care thing, he’s funny, big hit with some surprising demographics, but I wouldn’t change a thing about him.” He pauses. “Okay. That’s a lie. I’d change one thing.”

He gives you a pointed look. You might be about to vomit the Silver all over the floor.

“He cares.” You say. “Dean cares. A lot.”

“I know. I made him.” God sighs dramatically. “You know I made him, right? I feel like you keep forgetting that part-“

“Why are you here.” You cut him off, trying to sound as tight and formal as you can. “You were gone for months-“

“I was trying to give you some distance.” God shrugs, playing with the sink faucet as he speaks. “There was some tension from the whole end of the world stuff, which isn’t your fault. I did warn you to keep out of that messy business, but you didn’t listen, and I understand why that might’ve messed with your head. With your idea of us. And I mean, there’s that great human saying. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” He grins. “You missed me, didn’t you? You wondered where I was. That’s progress.”

You don’t let a single emotion onto your face. “Why are you here.”

“Because I want to help!”

You scowl. “You don’t help.”

“Yes, I do. Everything that’s anything, I made. So, medicine, that’s me!”

“Cancer is also you.”

God sighs. “Yeah, but- Look, that’s not the point. I’m hands off, I’ve been hands off, but-“ He spreads his arms. “I’m breaking that rule. For you! I’ll always help you,” he says your name soft, and it sounds like a rotting part of a fruit. “I think that’s a trait you find attractive. Right?”

Your mouth falls open—in shock or disgust, you’re not entirely sure—and God frowns.

“I would appreciate feedback if I’m wrong. You know, the problem with not giving you any strings is that I really have to woo you, and I’ve never wooed anyone before. And I can’t see in your head, so I have to figure out who you are, what you like, and let me tell you,” he says your name, shaking his head. “You are not an easy book to read. But, I’m willing to do the work. If I’m making you earn it, I should earn it too.” He clears his throat. “You like animals, I can make you a zoo! Books, I’ll create a massive library that had everything you could ever want. I found this one book, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, I could make that for you-“

“That book is a cautionary tale.” You mutter. “And I prefer the BFG.”

“Really?” Chuck blinks. “Okay. Well- I’ll read that one, and we can talk about it. I watched the Indiana Jones movies, too. You’re right, they are better than Star Wars-“

“I’ve been coming around on Star Wars. Sam’s been making me watch it again.”

God frowns. “Sam. Sam’s been making you watch it.” He shakes his head. “Why would you ever do something you don’t enjoy, you could command them with a thought-“

“Well, I don’t want to.” You snap. You like watching and debating about things with Sam. You love watching movies you don’t love with Dean, just to see him smile.

A life where you’re just talking to someone who mirrors you all the time sounds like a death sentence. You can barely stand to just look in the normal mirror sometimes.

“What do you want.” You repeat, words colder and firmer. God sighs.

“Like I said, to help. I’m not meddling, I’m still hands off, but if you need a little tip about some allegiances-“

“Crowley and Eve?”

God blinks. “How did you-“

“I figured it out like, weeks ago.” In the storage room. Between Hell’s Assassins and having the one drug that could temporarily incapacitate you, that only Eve could make, you’d been pretty sure. This trip just confirmed it. “You really want to help me?”

“Yes.” He says immediately. “Anything, my love, as long as it’s- You know- Reasonable-“

“What happened with Eve.”

God’s features darken. It’s such a sudden shift, he almost looks like a different person. No longer mousy and small. This is the God that people wrote about that. That they fear.

But you don’t waver. A voice that sounds like Death whispers in your ear, reminding you to stand tall, and you don’t even blink.

“You don’t need to know that.” God growls, and you raise your chin.

“You want to help, tell me-“

“You’ve been having visions.” He cuts you off. “I know you have.”

You blink. “How-“

“A hunch. I haven’t been going inside your head. I can’t. Cross my heart.” He gives you an almost sad look, the darkness passing so fast you feel insane for seeing it at all. “But I know. I know what you’ve been seeing.”

“What- What is it-“

“You could save us all.” He takes a step forward, ignoring you completely. “If you agreed. To be mine.”

You recoil, the Silver sparking and angry under your skin. “I thought I had to mean it.” You whisper, and God shrugs.

“You do. That’s part of my wooing. I charm you, you save us.”

He keeps saying it like that. You frown, tilting your head slowly.

“Us?”

God blinks. “The royal us. All of us.”

He waves a hand around the room, but it doesn’t ease your thoughts. Us.

“What-“

“It’s late.” God cuts you off again, looking up to the sky, then back to you. “Dean’s waiting. I’ll give you back to him, while he gets his shot, but- Hey.” He winks at you, and it crawls like bugs over your skin. “I’m coming for you, Honey. Start planning the wedding. I’m thinking… White doves.”

There’s not even a chance to make a face at the idea before God snaps his fingers, and the world flips upside down.

You land on your feet in your bedroom. Your real bedroom, back home. You whip around to find Dean still knocked out, grumbling in his sleep as he readjusts. The kitten blinks at you for a few seconds before yawning, kneading at the blankets, and pressing her head down into her paws.

Dean’s unharmed. You feel his brow, even peel away the cushions to check for a wound, and there’s nothing. When you check your phone, it’s only a few minutes from midnight.

No time had passed at all.

But you walk to the window, and open the curtains.

And outside.

The Sky is watching you again.

✦End note: tysm for reading!!!! i have an idea of what i want to name the kitten but i think it would be fun if you guys helped come up with some names to vote on so plz give me some ideas thank you ily all see you soon <3 ✦If you like this story, please reblog, like, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)

[deanwinchestersunhappythoughts]

CHUCK FFS.

[trizharrington]

hot protective dad mode on - steve harrington

pairing: fem!reader x steve harrington

summary: you and steve just had a little girl, now it’s time for his family to meet her. steve is not happy about it and turns on his hot protective dad mode.

warnings: literally nothing, it’s just a fluff, not proofread.

note: dad!steve are always my least liked and read fanfics but i love writing for him 😭😭😭😭 requests are open !!!

don’t repost or translate my work.

the house was already loud before you even stepped inside. not just loud, full.

voices layered over each other, laughter echoing through the hallway, the clinking of glasses, someone calling steve’s name from somewhere deep inside like they’d been waiting at the door for hours.

steve froze with his hand on the doorknob.

you felt it immediately. the way his body went tense beside you, the way his other hand came up instinctively to hover over your daughter’s head, like he could shield her from the noise before it even reached her.

“baby, i don’t like this…” he muttered.

you shifted the baby slightly higher against your chest, instinctively swaying. “you said that in the car, steve.”

“yeah, well,” he swallowed, glancing at the door like it personally offended him, “i meant it more now.”

you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “it’s your family.”

“exactly!” he said quickly, like that proved his entire point. “there’s like, what? twenty of them in there? twenty people with hands. and germs. and opinions.”

“they just wanna meet her, it’s completely normal that they’re excited. she’s their first granddaughter. your family hasn’t had a baby around for a while.” you said gently.

“they can be excited from a distance.”

you laughed under your breath, leaning your head briefly against his arm. “we’re not turning around.”

“we could…” he mumbled.

“steve.”

he sighed, long and dramatic, then leaned closer to you. his voice softer now, quieter, real.

“she’s so small…” he said, eyes flicking down to the tiny face tucked into the blanket. “what if someone- what if they hold her wrong? or get too close? or- i don’t know, breathe weird near her-”

“breathe weird?” you repeated, amused.

“you know what i mean.”

you did.

you reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. “hey. we’re right here. nobody’s taking her from us.”

his jaw clenched slightly. “okay...”

you nudged him with your shoulder. “open the door, dad.”

he rolled his eyes at the nickname, but there was no heat in it, just nerves, too many feelings sitting too close to the surface.

he knocked once.

big mistake, because the second the door opened…

“they’re here!”

“oh my god-”

“is that her- is that the baby?!”

steve physically stepped in front of you. like actually stepped in front of you. one arm stretched back, pressing lightly against your stomach to keep you behind him as at least six people immediately crowded the doorway.

“whoa- hey- HEY!” he said, louder now, sharper. “back up.”

they didn’t, so he moved forward, just one step. but it was enough to make people pause.

“nobody touches her yet.” he said firmly. “seriously. nobody.”

the room went quiet in that awkward, surprised way that only families could manage.

his mom blinked at him. “steven-”

“i’m not kidding,” he added, softer but somehow more intense. “you can look. just- no hands.”

you peeked around his shoulder, trying not to laugh.

“hi, mrs. harrington.” you say sheepishly.

“oh sweetheart…” his mom said immediately, her expression melting. “you must be exhausted. come in, come in.”

this time, steve let you move but didn’t take his hand off you, not for a second.

his palm stayed pressed to your back as he guided you inside, eyes scanning every single person in the room like he was counting them, memorizing them.

“okay.” his dad said, raising both hands like he was being held at gunpoint. “we’re backing up. see? space.”

“thank you.” steve replied quickly.

someone from the couch leaned forward. “can we at least see her face?”

steve hesitated.

you shifted the blanket slightly, just enough to reveal your daughter’s tiny face.

a collective gasp filled the room.

“oh. my. god.”

“she’s perfect!”

“look at her little nose-”

“she looks just like steve.”

steve’s chest puffed slightly.

“yeah.” he said, quieter now. “i know.”

one of his aunts stepped closer, already leaning in. steve leaned in too.

“no kissing.” steve says.

“i wasn’t-”

“no kissing anywhere.” he repeated. “not her face, not her hands, not- just don’t.”

“okay.” she said, blinking.

“and don’t get too close to her face.” he says.

“steve.”

“i’m serious.”

you bit your lip hard, shoulders shaking slightly.

his cousin muttered under his breath. “he’s worse than a security guard.”

you laugh, agreeing with him.

“i heard that.” steve shot back immediately.

“of course you did.”

his mom stepped forward more carefully this time, her voice softer. “steve, honey… can i hold her?”

everything in him paused.

you watched it happen. the hesitation, the instinct to say no sitting right there on the tip of his tongue.

his hand found yours again.

“only if you want to, baby.” he murmured to you.

you nodded. “it’s okay.”

he exhaled slowly, then turned back to his mom like he was negotiating a contract.

“okay. but listen-”

“oh boy…” his dad muttered.

“support her head,” steve said, already moving closer. “like fully. like- here… no- like this!”

he actually adjusted his mom’s arms before the baby was even in them.

“steve.” you whispered, laughing quietly.

“i’m just showing her.” he defended.

“you are my son… i’ve held a baby before, steve.” his mom giggles.

“not this baby.” he replies.

that shut the room up again.

very, very carefully, he helped transfer your daughter into his mom’s arms.

the entire house went silent.

your baby made a soft little noise, shifting slightly.

steve tensed immediately.

“babe, she’s fine.” you murmured.

“i know, i know…” he said quickly, already hovering so close he might as well have still been holding her. “she just- she moved.”

“she’s a baby.” you teased gently

“yeah, but that sounded like a specific movement.”

“what does that even mean?”

“i don’t know, i just-” he cut himself off, shaking his head. “never mind.”

“babe, steve. calm down.” you grab his hand, running your thumb through his palm.

his mom smiled softly, rocking the baby just slightly. “she’s perfect, steve.”

he softened instantly.

“yeah,” he said quietly. “she is.”

someone across the room pulled out a camera.

steve didn’t even look.

“no flash.”

“i didn’t-”

“no flash.” he repeated.

“steve,” you laughed. “they get it.”

“i don’t think they do.”

his cousin stood up. “can i hold her next?”

steve’s head snapped toward him. “how long are you planning on holding her?”

“i don’t know. like a minute?”

“thirty seconds.” steve says simply.

“what?”

“thirty seconds,” steve repeated. “and if she even thinks about crying, she goes back to her mom.”

“dude-”

“and support her head.” steve says.

“i know how to hold a baby!”

the transfer happened again. slow, careful, steve hovering the entire time like he was supervising a high-risk operation.

you watched him more than anything.

the way he didn’t sit. the way he didn’t relax. the way his eyes followed every tiny movement your daughter made, every shift of her hands, every breath.

“you’re staring.” you whispered.

“i’m monitoring.” steve replies.

“you’re staring.”

“what if he drops her?”

“he’s not going to drop her.” you reassure.

“he could drop her.”

“steve.”

“i’m just saying-”

“steve.”

he sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “i don’t like other people holding her.”

you softened instantly. “i know.”

“she doesn’t even know them.” steve sighs.

“she’s so perfect, sweetheart.” steve’s mom says to you.

“i know.” you pout, smiling at your newborn daughter. “she’s an angel, doesn’t cry that often, just eats and sleeps.”

“and she looks just like steve, god.” another person from his family adds.

“she does!” you laughed quietly, resting your head against steve’s shoulder for just a second.

and then, you spoke too soon.

your baby’s face scrunched, a tiny sound. and then, a cry.

steve moved instantly. “okay- alright, give her.”

“i’ve got her.” his cousin said quickly.

“no, she wants her mom.” steve insisted, already reaching for her.

“steve, i can-”

“she wants her mom.” steve insists once more.

“how do you know?”

“i know.”

his voice wasn’t loud but it was firm.

he took her back gently but quickly, turning immediately toward you.

“here.” he said softly, placing her into your arms like it was the most natural thing in the world. “there you go, mama.”

the second she settled against you, she quieted like a switch. her tiny hand grabbing your finger.

the whole room exhaled.

steve melted. his shoulders dropped, his hand coming up to brush gently over her cheek, his expression soft in a way that made your chest ache.

“hi, pretty girl…” he murmured, a smile on his face.

he stepped closer, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, slow, careful, lingering.

then his arm wrapped around both of you, pulling you into his side like he couldn’t not.

“okay,” his mom said gently, smiling. “we’ll give her a break.”

“yeah, she needs a break.” steve said immediately.

“steve-”

“and she’s staying with us now.”

you raised a brow. “steve.”

“i’m serious.” his fingers tightened slightly against your arm, not enough to hurt just enough to ground himself.

“they’re not taking her again.” he added quietly.

you looked up at him. at the nerves, the protectiveness, the overwhelming love that he clearly didn’t know what to do with.

“you’re doing really good.” you smile at him.

he blinked. “yeah?”

“yeah.”

he huffed out a small laugh. “even though i just threatened my entire family?”

“you didn’t threaten them.”

“i definitely threatened them.”

“a little.”

he smiled, finally, properly.

then looked back down at your daughter and everything in him softened all over again.

“she’s just…” he trailed off, shaking his head slightly.

“i know.” you say, caressing the baby’s head.

he swallowed, pressing his forehead lightly against yours for a brief second.

“no one’s messing this up.” he whispered.

“they won’t.”

“i won’t let them.”

“you would never let them, steve.” you laughed, shifting your daughter slightly between you both.

and steve? he didn’t let go of either of you for the rest of the night.

not once.

[lesservillain]

Now that the end of the world is over…

vi. Near Mrs.

Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: a new chapter in your life opens up, and steve does everything he can to make it comfortable for you.

cw: angst heavy in the first half gang, reader’s fam suuuuucks, some misogynistic remarks, steve is a sweetheart, idiots in love, misunderstandings, lots of jealousy on readers part, non sexual but territorial touching, underage drinking of a singular beer each

wc: 14.2k

an: i am a “steve is a loverboy” truther and i stand by that!!!

“Are you joking?” You wince at the harsh tone of your sisters question.

You looked at the faces of your family at the breakfast table as you broke the news to them. Their reactions all varied, from your mother’s seemingly unbothered blank face to the look of utter shock from your sister, with a lot of confusion from your grandparents in the middle. It made you uneasy, but they were all honestly handling this a lot better than you were anticipating.

”When are you leaving?” Your mother asks, and you lick your lips nervously.

”Um, Steve wants to come get me today,” you say, holding Lily tight in your arms.

”You’re leaving today? Are you even going to be here when I get out of school?” Fran asks, getting visibly more upset.

”Probably. Steve has to work today so he won’t get here until late.”

”So what does this mean about you and Steve then?” Your grandmother asks, taking a sip from her coffee. “When are you getting married?”

”Grandma, we’re not getting married—“

”Not getting married?” Your grandpa shouts. “Then why in the world are you moving in together?”

”They have a kid together, dad,” your mom says, shaking her head. “Them not being married isn’t the end of the world. I’ll help you pack dear.”

”That’s okay, mom. I was up last night stress packing a lot. I don’t know if I will be able to fit everything in my car and Steve’s truck, though.”

”Well you don’t have to get it all today. It will still be here whenever you can come back to get it,” your mom assures you. For some reason your mother’s reassurance made you feel good about your decision. You weren’t expecting her to protest, but you didn’t think she would be as supportive as she was, even if it was the bare minimum. You kind of expected a bit of passive aggressiveness from her, but she seemed like she might actually be on your side right now.

”This is so not fair. I can’t believe you’re taking my niece away from me,” Fran says, whining like a petulant child.

”It’s not like you’ll never see her again. Once you get your driver’s license you can come visit whenever you want, too,” you tell her, and she gives you an interested look.

”Steve wouldn’t care if I came and stayed like a weekend or something with you? Like, maybe in a few weeks during spring break?”

”Fran, that’s awful soon. Maybe you should give them some time to adjust before inviting yourself over,” your mother suggests.

”I don’t think he would mind,” you tell them, “But I don’t know if you’ll want to make that drive alone.”

”Well, think about it first, and you can plan it later,” your mother says, and you and Fran nod in agreement.”

”Your father is going to be just devastated that you’re leaving,” your grandmother says with a tsk.

”I know,” you say with a sigh.

Your dad had work early today so he had to go before you got the chance to tell him you were leaving. You were hoping it would be better to tell him after work anyway so that he wasn’t stressed the whole day at work. But you still had to sit with the guilt you felt about leaving in your stomach while he was gone.

And that feeling only grew as it got closer to when he would be getting home from work. Steve had called to tell you he was for sure leaving a little early from work today so he would probably be there around 5 to get you and Lily. That honestly made you feel a little better, because if your dad tried to convince you to stay you’d have to tell him Steve was already on his way.

Your stomach still dropped when you heard the front door open a little after 4. Fran had been home from school so you knew it was him before he even called into the house to greet everyone.

”Hi dad,” you called back from the kitchen where you were getting dinner started.

”Dear, your daughter has some news to share with you,” you hear your mother say from the entryway.

”Which one?” Your dad asks. Your mother says your name and your dad lets out an interested hum. Before you know it, he is entering the kitchen, a big smile on his face when he sees you.

”Hi, darling, how was your day?” He asks, waving to Lily as she plays with toys on the kitchen floor behind you.

”It was, um, good,” you say, but your dad clocks your hesitance.

”Your mother says you have something to tell me?” You gulp, keeping your eyes on the pot of food in front of you while you avoid eye contact. “Did something happen? Are you okay?” He whispers the last question, making you feel even worse.

”I’m fine dad, I just…I’m leaving.”

You feel like you could throw up. After a quiet beat, you look over to your dad and expect him to be upset, but he looks more confused than anything.

”Where are you going?” He asks evenly.

”I’m moving in with Steve,” you tell him, and he nods.

”Oh good, I think that will be very nice for you and Lily,” he tells you, and you look at him like he’s grown two extra heads.

”You think so?” You ask, trying to see if he’s bluffing.

”I do. I think Steve will be able to really appreciate having you around.”

Ah, yes. Your dad wasn’t a fool. He may be a bit of a coward when it comes to the rest of your family, doing his best to stick up for you but never succeeding, but your dad was always the best at encouraging you to make the best decisions for you. He was a man of wise words and someone you really felt had your best interest at heart.

So you knew this wording was his way of telling you to go. To get out, escape.

You smiled up at him, “Yeah, I think he will, too.”

”When are you leaving?”

”Steve is on his way now,” you tell him, and his expression drops a little bit.

”That’s really good for you,” he tells you before his eyes fall to Lily. “Lily are you excited to see your daddy?”

”Da?” She asks, her head tilting curiously. She then reaches her arms up, requesting her Pop pop pick her up, which he gladly obliges her.

”Well, when he gets here, I’ll be happy to help you move whatever you are taking.”

”Thanks, dad, I really appreciate it.”

He takes Lily with him when he leaves the kitchen, leaving you alone to think. As much as your dads reaction made you feel like you were doing the right thing, there was still a part of you that made you second guess your decision.

But you also tried to think of the positives, too. Really, the worst that could happen is it doesn’t work out and you move back home, right? You wouldn’t let it get bad enough to ruin anything between you and Steve, and you were a pretty tolerant person, so you couldn’t think of much he could do to upset you anyway. Not that it couldn’t happen, but considering the environment you grew up in, you knew you could be the bigger person in just about any scenario.

So by the time you heard the knock on the front door, you had pretty much convinced yourself everything would be okay.

”Hey,” Steve said, beaming at you as you opened the door for him.

”Hi, how was the drive?”

”It was pretty good for a Friday afternoon,” Steve says, walking into the house.

”Dada?” You heard being squealed from the other room, followed by the little pitter patter of Lily’s feet as she entered the entryway.

”Hi angel!” Steve said, dropping down and extending his arms out for Lily to run into. “Oh I missed you so much,” Steve says, hugging Lily tight.

”I guess I’m chopped liver,” you joke, and Steve looks up at you.

”I missed you, too,” he says in a distressed tone.

”I’m kidding, Steve,” you tell him, motioning for him to come into the house.

”Is Steve here?” You hear Fran call as she runs down the stairs at full speed, skidding a bit as she turned when she hit the main floor. “No! You can’t take her!”

”Fran,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose.

”You have to let me come stay with you guys when I have spring break, okay?” She tells Steve, and he looks at her with wide eyes.

”Fran! I told you I would talk to him about that first,” you tell her.

”Oh, I don’t care,” Steve says, looking between the two of you. “I have friends your age so maybe you could meet them.”

Oh, Steve, you sweet soul.

”I’m sure Fran would love that,” you say, hoping he wouldn’t notice her disgusted face. Fran wasn’t big on new friends, but you thought that this would be the perfect way to get her to change her mind.

”Yeah, sure,” she says with hesitance.

”Are you hungry?” You ask Steve. “I just finished dinner.”

”Starving actually,” he tells you, looking relieved.

”Dinner!” You yell into the house, walking into the dining room with Steve following behind.

”You need any help?” He asks as he puts Lily in her high chair.

”Nope, it’s a light dinner so I got it,” you tell him before disappearing into the kitchen.

As you gather the food, you hear your family entering the dining room and greeting Steve. No one is yelling so you feel pretty good so far, but there’s still time for something to go wrong.

Just as you’re about to leave the kitchen, your mother enters the doorway and looks around. “Need help with anything?”

”Oh, um, nope,” you tell her, a bit surprised at her offer.

”Let me take that,” she says, taking the salad bowl out of your hands before turning on her heel and exiting to the dining room.

”Oookaaayyy,” you say, not sure what that was about.

You make your way to the dining room as well, looking around as everyone has taken their seats. Steve is back in the same spot as the last time where he could talk to your father and grandfather, sure that they insisted he sit near them again. You weren’t surprised to see your sister sitting with Lily as she tells her about her school day. Lily loves listening to Fran talk, looking at her like she can understand everything she’s saying.

“That smells really good,” Steve says, standing to help you put the pasta dish on the table.

”You’re a lucky one, Steven,” your grandfather says. “Be grateful we’re letting you take our best cook home with you.”

”Dad,” your mother starts, and you brace for the passive back handed compliment. But she stops herself, giving you a small smile. “Don’t make him feel bad. You know he will appreciate her more than any of us will.”

It felt like you’d been hit in the head with a shovel, your head spinning at your mother’s words. You didn’t really understand where this was coming from, but you weren’t going to complain.

”Oh, I definitely will. Not that I’m gonna make her cook all the time,” Steve says defensively.

”I wouldn’t worry, she likes it when she has stuff to keep her busy,” your grandmother says with a wave of her hand. “I’m sure she’ll be plenty happy to keep after you and Lilian. Isn’t that right, dear?”

”Oh, uh, yeah, sure,” you say, not wanting to argue in front of Steve.

”Well, I don’t want her to feel like a maid or something. I’m hoping she’ll be able to, like, start a hobby or something.”

”Yes! I’ve been telling her to take up sewing or knitting. Very important skills to have,” your grandmother wags a finger at you.

”Mhmm,” you nod with faux agreement.

”What about you Steven? Not having to keep that house together anymore will give you some free time to do more, too,” your grandfather says between bites, “Maybe you could take up a hobby as well. Fishing, car repairs—Too bad Lily isn’t a boy, you could be teaching her how to toss a ball around.”

”Why can’t Lily toss a ball?” Fran asks with a challenging attitude. “She’s got hands.”

”Oh, you know girls don’t like those kinds of things,” your grandfather pshes.

”Acutally, my best friend is helping coach girls little league softball this season with me. You’d be surprised how sporty girls can be,” Steve says, making you smile.

”Well, we will just have to see what Lily likes, won’t we sweetie,” your mother says with eyes full of adoration on Lily.

”Whatever she wants to do, we will be there to support her every step of the way,” your father adds.

”I’m glad you guys are open to whatever she wants. My mom is convinced she’s going to be a Prima Ballerina.”

”Oh, that would be wonderful,” Fran says giddily. “Ballet is kinda like gymnastics in a way if you think about it.”

This line of conversation continued for the majority of dinner, with your family talking about the future of your daughter with Steve as if they’ve ever cared about her this much before tonight. You couldn’t even speak, keeping to yourself in case you were to slip something not so nice out to ruin the mood. Steve seemed to notice this, trying to get you to talk a few times, but ultimately catching your closed off demeanor and letting you be.

Once dinner was finished, you excused yourself to the kitchen to clean up while Steve and your father offered to load the stuff you had packed. There wasn’t much for you, but just about everything Lily owned was packed up and ready to go between your car and Steve’s truck.

As you did dishes, you thought about how you should probably be feeling sad about moving away from your family, especially considering how caring they came off at dinner.

But you quickly realized it was just an act for Steve, that your family just wanted to seem like they gave a shit about you and your daughter to…what? Make you look bad for leaving them? Make Steve feel bad for taking the two of you away from them? You hoped Steve didn’t feel that way. You’d make sure to show him that you appreciated everything he was doing for you, that this was the best decision for you and Lily right now.

“Want me to put those away for you?”

Your mother’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. You looked over your shoulder at her and shrugged, “Sure, knock yourself out.”

She grabbed some of the dishes you washed and began to dry them, putting them away. There was an awkward air about her, and you could tell she wanted to say something but wouldn’t for some reason.

“Mom,” you say, catching her off guard. “Whatever you have to say, just say it.”

”I don’t know what you mean, dear,” she says, but you’re not convinced.

”I can feel that you want to tell me something, so, please, just say it,” you plead.

Your mother sighs deeply before setting down the dishes she had in her hand. She says your name and looks at you like she’s about to cry. “I…I really hope this is right for you.”

”What’s that supposed to mean?”

”I don’t mean it in a bad way,” she clarifies. “I just…want this to work out for you.”

”It will,” you say without hesitation. You don’t like the way she looks at you with pity in her eyes.

”Just know that if anything happens, you can always come back.” You didn’t like the tone she said that in. Like she was expecting it. Like she knew this whole thing was going to fail.

And that’s when it hit you.

”Ah, I see what this is,” you say, and she looks at you confused.

“I’m sorry I don’t—“

”You think that I’m going to be just as miserable as you are, and that I’m going to come running back home crying to you,” you say, taking a step towards her.

”What are you talking about?” She asks, but you’re not buying it.

”Save it, mom. Don’t act like I haven’t lived with you all my life. You think this is going to be some kind of lesson for me to learn. Something that you’ll get to rub in my face and say ‘I told you so’ at the end of it.”

”I do not know where this is coming from. Darling, you need to understand that I am not against you in this. Sure, I have my reservations about the Harrington’s, especially the men, but if I thought you were going to get hurt I would not be allowing this to happen.”

”There’s nothing for you to be allowing, mom! I am an adult, and a mother at that. I think I can make decisions for myself!”

”The fact that you are a young, unwed mother is exactly why you can’t make decisions for yourself!” She suddenly yells back, making you flinch. “You have not shown thus far that you can make a proper decision, so, yes, I think I have every right to have influence on what you are doing with your life. And this just proves to me that what I suspected all along is true.”

”What are you talking about?” You ask, unsure of what she could possibly mean.

”Don’t play dumb,” she says with a humorless laugh. “You’re clearly doing this to get away from me, not because you want to be with Steve. You’re willing to tie him down and put him in a cage just to spite me, even after everything I’ve done for you. But, you want to leave so bad? Fine, but when you wake up one day and realize you’re unhappy, don’t come crying to me.”

Your mother storms out of the kitchen without another word, leaving you with your jaw on the floor at her accusations. You knew your mother was crazy, but you didn’t realize she was this delusional. Whatever scenario she’s concocted in her head about you was clearly her projecting about herself, because she can’t think about you as your own person and not just something to represent her.

“Okay, I think that’s the last of it—Woah, everything okay?”

You look at your dad as he stops in the same spot your mom was just in. If your mother was the devil, your father was an angel with an aura that could easily calm you.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you say, shaking your head.

”Good, good, um…hey, listen, I wanted to give you something.”

You looked up at your father, watching as he pulled a long white envelope out of his back pocket before handing it to you. You take it from him, noting how thick it was before looking at him with a raised brow.

”What is this?” You ask, lifting the tab of the envelope before letting out a gasp. “Dad!”

”Listen, I’m not taking from anything to give this to you,” he says, putting his hands up defensively. “I’ve been putting that aside for you for a long, long time.”

You look at the large stack of cash in the envelope and shake your head, “Dad, I can’t.”

”Please, just keep it. Steve is a good guy, and I have no doubt he will treat you right, but I want you to have something for yourself. Just in case.” You knew what he was saying, and you couldn’t be more grateful for him, but it still didn’t feel right to take this from him. “Consider it like a housewarming gift, since you’ll kind of have your own place now.”

”I don’t think that place will ever be mine, but I think I’ll be happy there,” you say with a small smile.

”Well, keep that in a safe place and, hell, maybe treat yourself to a little something with it. It’s all yours.”

Your vision becomes watery as tears well up in your eyes. You lunge towards your father, embracing him in a tight hug that you wish could convey how much you appreciate him. Deep down you felt a little guilty for leaving him, but you knew that he would be happier knowing you were happy with Steve.

”I love you, dad,” you whisper.

”I love you, too,” he says, holding you tight.

”Welp,” he says with a sharp sniffle. “You guys better get on the road. Don’t wanna get to Steve’s house too late.”

”Yeah,” you say, wiping the tears from your eyes. “Thank you.”

The two of you make your way to the entryway where your family, sans your mother, were all gathered to say their goodbyes. Lots of hugs and kisses and parting words that spanned all the way to the car, only stopping when you pulled out of the driveway.

As you followed behind Steve, you looked at your family on the porch still waving at you before finally disappearing as you turned onto the road.

That’s when it finally felt real.

Where you were able to grasp that you were free.

It was late when you finally arrived at your old neighborhood. It had been dark for a while so you were used to the darkness by now. So when you saw the bright light of headlights parked in front of Steve’s house when you pulled up, you were a bit surprised.

Pulling up next to Steve, you see two people get out of the car, but the light is so bright you can’t make out who it is. It makes you nervous, especially when one of them goes straight for the trunk. Only when Steve gets out of the car and waves at the mystery people do you feel a slight bit of relief.

“Who is that?” You ask Steve as you hesitantly get out of the car.

”It’s just the boys and Max,” he says, rounding the car to get Lily out of her car seat. You felt bad because you knew she was asleep already, so you just hoped that she would go right back to sleep after you changed her and got her in jammies.

”Is that the baby?” You hear Max call, telling Lucas to push her faster up the driveway.

”She’s a sleepy girl right now,” Steve says, bouncing Lily in his arms. “Do you need help getting inside?”

”We got ‘er,” Dustin says, waving Steve off as Lucas pushes Max’s chair up to the small step to the front door. You take Lily from Steve so he can unlock the front door for them, and you watch as Dustin and Lucas lift Max in her chair with ease until she’s inside the house.

“Wow, colour me impressed,” Steve says, slapping Dustin on the shoulder.

You follow behind them, getting inside the warm house with Lily as fast as you can. “And this is for you,” Steve says as he closes the door behind you. Turning around, you look to see that he’s holding out a house key to you, making you swallow.

This was it. Taking this set of keys meant it was real. That you were officially moving in with Steve. You could come and go as you please, you’d be getting your mail delivered to this house, this would be Lily’s primary address now…

You take the key from him and put it in the same coat pocket as your car keys so you could combine them later. Steve lingers on you for a moment before his attention is being taken by Dustin calling out from the kitchen. “We need to order these pizzas soon before they close!”

”Are we having a pizza party?” You ask Steve, still unsure of why the kids were here to begin with.

”Oh, yeah, I told them if they helped move stuff into the house tonight I would buy them pizza. And Max is here for Lily.”

”I see,” you say with a giggle. “Well, that was nice of them. It will probably go faster with their help than if it was just you and me.”

”I figured you’d be tired after the drive, too,” Steve says, and you couldn’t help but smile. You were always tired after driving that long, but you didn’t know that Steve had noticed. It made you wonder what else he noticed about you.

And then you thought about your family’s warnings, about how Steve would notice all the bad things you do that you don’t even notice about yourself. Their words felt like they were constricting around your throat, cutting off the air to your lungs, and it just got even tighter.

”Hey, you okay?”

”Huh?” You snap out of your spiral to see Steve waving a hand in front of your face. “Oh, sorry, I guess I am tired.”

”Why don’t you and Lily go get ready for bed? We’ll try and be quiet so you can rest.”

”No, I’ll be okay. I will put this one to bed, though,” you say, looking down at your very sleepy child.

“We should probably say hi to Max first,” Steve suggests. “Just a quick hello and then off to bed.”

You agree, and the three of you walk into the back of the house where the kids are. They’re looking at the surfer boy menu and arguing about what kind of pizza they want to get, and you notice Steve rolling his eyes.

”This kiddo is going to bed, so come say your peace before she’s down for the night,” Steve announces, making the kids scramble over to you. They greet you politely as they crowd around you, looking at Lily who is barely awake in your arms.

”Oh my god, she is so cute,” Max says with an agony that you can relate to when seeing adorable things.

”She even looks like Steve when she’s sleepy,” Dustin says, and Steve shoves him playfully.

“Is she normally a good sleeper?” Max asks.

”She sleeps well, its just getting her to go to bed that’s usually the hard part.” Just as you say that, Lily lets out a huge yawn.

”Not tonight,” Lucas laughs, and you nod in agreement.

”Alight, this isn’t a petting zoo,” Steve says, waving the kids away from you. “Go order your pizza so we can get started bringing stuff in.” As the kids go back to the menu Steve turns to you, leaning in so only you can hear him. “Need any help or do you think you’ll be okay?”

”I got it. I think she’s going to make it pretty easy tonight,” you assure him.

And she did, barely fussing as you changed her and put her in the crib. After a bunch of kisses and many I love yous, you closed the door to her room behind you and let out a deep sigh.

You could hear the commotion going on down stairs as the boys bring in the boxes from the cars. You hurried down stairs when you remembered Max was probably sitting down there by herself.

She was sitting on the couch when you entered the main room, smiling at you and even giving you a small wave from where she sat. “Do you want anything to drink?” You ask her, and she looks at you with wide eyes.

”Um, sure, I’ll take a pop,” she says and you give her a quick nod before walking over to the fridge. “So, are you excited to be moving in with Steve?” You hear her ask from the couch as you grab her a coke.

”Oh, yeah,” you say as you close the fridge door. You walk over to her and hand her the coke, but she doesn’t take it right away. Then you instantly remember her saying she can’t use her hands or something the last time you met her, so you quickly pull back and pop the can open for her. “I’m so sorry. Do you need like a straw or something? I can ask Steve if he has some—“

”They’re on the top shelf of the pantry,” Max says with a smile. “And don’t worry, I didn’t even expect you to remember.”

”No, I’m just so tired it slipped my mind is all,” you tell her, setting the can on the coffee table and rushing to the kitchen to get her straw.

When you return, you pop the bendy straw into the hole and she gives you a small thanks. You watch as she uses both hands to grab the can, bringing it to her mouth and taking a sip. You can’t help but watch her carefully, ready to step in and help at a moment's notice. But she doesn’t need you, setting her can back down without issue.

“That’s new for me,” she says to you, and you tilt your head in confusion. “Being able to move that much. I’ve been doing a lot of therapy, though. Three times a week right now.”

”That’s great. I’m glad it’s helping you.”

”I was in a coma.”

”Oh,” you say, taken aback by her forwardness.

“I wasn’t sure if Steve had told you, but that’s why it’s hard for me. When you don’t use your body for a while, it tends to break down a bit.”

”No, he hadn’t told me. I’m so sorry,” you tell her, and she bobs her head.

“It’s cool. They said I’ll make a full recovery. Should be able to walk again by the end of this year.”

”Wow, that’s amazing!” You say, sitting down on the couch next to her. “I’m sure your family is very happy for you.”

”It’s just me and my mom,” she tells you, “But, yeah, she’s pretty stoked. I’m gonna work extra hard so I can play with Lily.”

”I’m just warning you now, she’s gonna wear you out,” you tell her, making her laugh.

The two of you fall into easy conversation as the boys bring in the boxes. Eventually the pizza comes and you plate some for everyone to eat as they get the last of Lily’s things brought inside.

“God, that smells good,” Dustin says with a sigh as you hand the plate to him.

“Eat up, you guys deserve it,” you tell him.

Lucas takes the plates for him and Max and goes to sit on the couch with her. You watch as he helps her eat, letting her do as much as she can on her own. It was cute, and you could really tell how much Lucas cared about Max.

“Are they dating?” You whisper to Dustin, who looks at you with wide eyes.

“Uh, yeah?” He says, not seeming totally sure himself. “It’s always been…complicated, but I think they’re good now.”

”Amen to that,” Steve says, opening the door to pull out a beer. He pops open the top and sets it in front of Dustin, who takes the bottle with a smile.

“Um, excuse me,” you say as Dustin takes a swig from the beer.

”It’s fine,” Steve tells you, and you scoff at him.

“Aren’t you 16?” You ask Dustin.

”I’ll be 17 in May,” he says, as if that makes it any better.

”Oh, don’t tell me you weren’t drinking at parties when we were their age. And you can’t lie and say you didn’t because I can remember most of those parties.”

”Are you saying you were watching me at said parties?” You ask, totally meant as a tease, but Steve seems to get flustered for some reason.

”I-I mean, I wasn’t—“

”Smooth as butter,” Dustin says before taking another sip of his beer.

“I’m just messing with you Steve. But, yeah, I guess you’re right. Better here than somewhere dangerous I suppose.”

”Thank you,” Dustin says with a nod.

”Can I get one of those?” Lucas asks, and Steve grabs him one as well.

”Just this one thought since you’re driving,” Steve says, and Lucas nods.

”Fine, since we’re being bad influences—Max? Would you like a glass of wine?”

”Me? I wish, but I probably shouldn’t because of my medicine,” she says with a sideways frown.

”That’s fair. At least you’re responsible,” you say, side eyeing Steve.

”Do we need to take any of this stuff upstairs tonight?” Lucas asks, gesturing to the boxes sitting around the living room.

”I think most of this stuff is Lily’s, so we’ll leave those down here tonight. The rest of the stuff I can take up to our room before we go to bed.”

You look at Steve like he has two heads. Our room? We go to bed? Why was he making it sound like you would be sharing a room together?

You didn’t press it right now, letting Steve enjoy his company just in case it started an argument. He was really cute when he interacted with these kids. He treated them like they were his siblings, but siblings that he actually cared about. He would have been a great big brother.

It was late when the kids finally left, and you were barely keeping your eyes open as you gave your goodbyes to them. Steve stood at the door and made sure they all got in the car okay, watching them as they drove off into the night.

“You really care about them, huh?” You ask, and Steve turns to look at you.

”Yeah, those kids mean a lot to me,” he says, closing the door softly.

”I can tell. They seem to really admire you, too.”

”You think so?” He asks with a bashful grin.

“For sure.”

He gets a little shy at your words and you find it very adorable, but don’t make it known you think that. Instead, you are overcome with a huge yawn that brings tears to your eyes and shakes your whole body.

”Okay, okay, let’s go to bed,” Steve laughs, placing his hand on the small of your back.

”Steve, about that,” you say, making him stop to look at you.

”What’s up?”

”Do you think we’re going to bed…together? Like, in the same bed?”

Steve squints at you, “Yes? Didn’t we talk about this last time you were here?”

”Did we?” You ask, not really remembering.

”Yeah, we talked about both of us sleeping in my parents bed. You even brought it up first,” Steve said defensively.

”Oh,” you say, finding that hard to believe. But you had been drinking so who knows.

“I mean, if you don’t want to…”

”It’s not you or anything,” you say, trying to reassure him.

”No, I get it, it’s just…I kinda have been moving stuff into my room, so it’s not really habitable right now,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

”Ah, I see,” you say, biting your lip.

”It’s just because I thought you wanted to sleep with me,” he says, but immediately realizes what he said. “I mean, share the bed with me. Like, sleep next to me—“

”I know what you’re saying, Steve. And I understand. It’s not going to kill me to share the bed with you. So, let’s just try it out tonight and see how it goes. Maybe we won’t even notice each other!”

”It’s a pretty big bed soooo,” Steve says with an airy chuckle.

“I guess that’s settled then,” you say, clapping your hands together. “Better go claim your side before I get up there.”

Steve snorts, “I usually sleep on the left side because it’s closer to the bathroom, but you can pick whatever side you want.”

”I’ll stick to the right side, then,” you say, giving him a tight lipped smile.

Steve gestures to the stairs and you hurry up them, instinctively wanting to go left towards his room, but quickly recalibrating and going towards his parents room. He follows behind you, flipping on the light switch so you can better see.

The room is huge, much like you expected, making the large bed in the middle look like normal in comparison. There were two sets of doors, one of them looking like a closet and one you expected to be the on suite bathroom Steve had mentioned. You were curious to look around, but minded your business.

”Do you have clothes to sleep in?” Steve asks, opening a dresser drawer and pulling out a pair of pajama pants.

”I…did not pull any out,” you say, realizing your mistake.

”And they could be in any of those boxes down there,” Steve says, rummaging through the drawers.

”Yeah—Oh!” You quickly caught the clothes that Steve tossed towards you, almost dropping them since you didn’t expect it.

”Feel free to change in the bathroom. I’ll change in the closet real quick,” he says, walking past you to the door closest to you. You watch as he disappears inside, leaving you by yourself. Looking down at the clothes, you see he’s given you a pair of his sweat pants and an old t-shirt. It wasn’t what you’d normally wear to bed, but it would do for tonight.

Shortly after getting ready for bed in the bathroom, you reenter the bedroom to find Steve already in bed, the main light turned off and his bedside lamp on instead. You were surprised to see that he was reading a book, and one that you recognized no less.

“Dr.Spocks, huh?” You say, making him look up from the book, his reading classes perched on the end of his nose.

“Yeah, it’s actually really interesting,” he says enthusiastically.

”Well, good, I’m glad that you’re finding it entertaining,” you say, walking over to the side of the bed he wasn’t occupying.

”Informative, too. I never really thought I’d be interested in anything like this, but it doesn’t feel like a headache to read.”

You climb into the bed, sliding under the covers and sinking into the mattress. “That’s good,” you say with a yawn, feeling yourself already starting to drift off. You hear the click of the lamp and the room goes dark. “You could have kept reading.”

”It’s okay, I’m pretty tired, too,” you hear Steve say as he moves around in the bed. There’s a beat of silence between you before you hear a quiet, “Good night.” You say the same, and it’s the last thing you remember before fully falling asleep.

“Do you have your lunch?”

”Got it right here!”

”Did you eat enough breakfast?”

”Plenty!”

”Do you need gas in the truck?”

Silence.

“Uhhhh, I don’t think so?”

You look up at Steve with a smile, him looking at you like he genuinely can’t remember how much gas is in his truck right now. Today was the first day he has to go to work with you and Lily being in the house. The weekend had consisted mostly of you both unpacking and rearranging things, the both of you realizing that Lily has way too much stuff. A trip to the Goodwill was in order to donate some of her excess.

But, besides Robin coming to play with Lily while you and Steve put stuff away, it really was a weekend for the three of you to really spend time together, and it was…well it was great. It didn’t feel any different than the last time you were over, other than you and Steve sharing the bed this time, which ended up being much more comfortable than sleeping alone in Steve’s room.

Overall, things were going well. Until last night, where Steve fixated on the fact he would be leaving you and Lily alone while he was back at work training. You had been worried he would try to make an excuse to not go in, but he hasn’t made any yet, so you just went on how you felt the morning should go; by making him breakfast, getting his lunch together, and making sure his tie was straight before he left.

“Well, you better leave now just in case you do.”

”Got it,” Steve says, checking his pockets for his keys. ”Should I stop at the store for anything on the way home?”

”Nope, we’re going to go out and get some things later today,” you tell him and he nods.

“Need cash?”

“Nope, we should be okay.” Steve goes to open his mouth but you cut him off, “Steve, we’re fine. Go have a good day.”

You watch as he visibly deflates. “But I told you I would take care of you,” he says like he’s wounded.

“We don’t need much. I can cover it this time,” you assure him, but he doesn’t look convinced. But when he looks at the clock on the wall and sees the time, he just lets out a grumble and doesn’t press it further.

“I hate to leave you guys,” he says from the entryway as he slips on his shoes.

“We will be fine,” you yell back.

“You have the school’s number if you need me, right?”

“I’m looking at it right here on the refrigerator!”

”Okay, good,” he says, walking back into the kitchen. He makes a bee line to Lily, kissing the side of her head as she eats her oatmeal. “Bye, sweetie, love you.” Then he steps over and does the same thing to you. It caught you off guard, but he was out of the room again before you could really ask him about it.

”I’ll see you guys later today!” He calls, and you hear the front door opening and closing quickly.

You looked to Lily, seeing how unfazed she was by her father’s actions. Of course, to her, her dad kissing her and showing her affection wasn’t anything bad. And in any other circumstance, her dad showing her mom affection too shouldn’t be a problem. So why do you get shellshock anytime Steve manages to do something that is more than you would expect from your situation?

It was a light touch here, a kind gesture there, hugs and even a few pecks like the one this morning that he never acknowledges after he’s done it. It wasn’t anything that you wouldn’t necessarily want from him…if you were in a relationship. But you definitely weren’t. You were just the mother of his child who moved in with him.

So you’ve convinced yourself that this is just how he shows appreciation.

Was it going to be hard to get used to? Sure. But were you going to complain because in all honesty you kinda like it…Not at all.

Instead, you were just going to show him your form of appreciation; by cleaning and making everything easy for him.

Which seems to be working for you. Once you’ve been there for a little over two weeks, all three of you seem to fall into a nice routine. It was similar to what you did back at your grandparents, but you didn’t feel obligated to do what you were doing. Rather, you wanted to take care of things at home. It probably helped because Steve didn’t criticize you for every little thing you did, and he wasn’t constantly making you doubt your parenting abilities with Lily.

He was also a very proactive parent, doing things without being asked and doing what he can without your help. You couldn’t be more appreciative of it, but what he brought up to you tonight at dinner…was something you weren’t really sure of.

”I don’t understand.”

He had informed you that one of the kids, Will, was having some of his art put on display for a youth art exhibit in Indianapolis next weekend and that he wanted the two of you to go to support him. He also informed you that he already set up a babysitter to watch Lily. You try not to sound upset, but you don’t know why he would do this without telling you first.

”I just thought it would be nice for us to get out for a couple hours without Lily is all. And Mrs.Wheeler is very excited to watch her,” he says, taking a bite of his food.

”But you didn’t think to ask me first?”

”I wanted it to be a surprise! Trust me, that’s all it is,” he explains.

”I don’t know…” You were sure that Mrs.Wheeler was nice, but you didn’t like the idea of Steve’s ex girlfriend’s mom watching your daughter.

”Holly will be there, too. She’s a good kid. Not that I don’t think Mrs.Wheeler wouldn’t be able to handle it on her own,” Steve tells you, trying to convince you more.

”I get where you’re coming from, but I don’t know them like you do,” you tell him, and his shoulders slump.

”I understand. If you don’t want to go we don’t have to.”

”I still want you to go, I just think that it would be better if Lily and I stay home instead.”

Steve visibly deflates at your words, and you’re instantly hit with guilt. You could tell this was something he really wanted you to do together, especially since he’s been talking so much about how he wants you to get to know his friends. You appreciated his efforts, after all it was a little lonely being home just with Lily most of the day. But you just weren’t sure if you were ready to leave Lily alone with someone you hadn’t really gotten to know yet.

“Alright, I won’t push you. Just, maybe think about it?” He asks, giving you this kicked puppy look.

“I’ll give it some thought,” you tell him. He gives you a small smile and a nod.

“I’ll have to see if Nancy won’t mind driving us then if you don’t want to go.”

His words had your ears perking up. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I told Robin that the four of us could carpool to the exhibit,” Steve said nonchalantly.

“The four of us like—“

“You, me, Nancy, and Robin,” he says as he finishes your sentence.

“Oh, I see.” You kept a straight face, but the idea of Steve and Nancy being alone together, even with Robin, frankly pissed you off. Not necessarily at Steve, but…You really didn’t know why.

Steve had made it known that he and Nancy were just friends, that he’s moved on and doesn’t have any desire to be with her anymore. Not in a defensive way, but just in the casual way he she would bring her up in conversation made you feel like there wasn’t anything there anymore. It also helped when he told you that her and Jonathan broke up back in November, and the fact that Steve and her weren’t back together already seemed like it was over for them.

But, still, you couldn’t help the feelings that brewed inside of you. You’d been jealous of Nancy for so long that you’d forgotten what it was like not to be jealous of her. She was smart, pretty, and other than her being accused of cheating on Steve with Jonathan back in school, which Steve went on a campaign trail afterwards to clear her name, no one really had anything negative to say about her. So naturally, how else would you feel about little Ms.Perfect?

“I’m sure she’d be okay with driving us,” Steve says, finishing his plate. “I’ll probably throw a couple bucks her way for gas.” Steve adds more food to his plate as he gets seconds before returning back to the table. “Hopefully Robin still goes. I know she said she’s had a tickle in her throat. Probably allergies but it could be something worse by next weekend.”

You stop mid bite, looking at him crazed, but he doesn’t notice. “That means it would just be you and Nancy going?”

“Yeah, I think everyone else knows who is driving with who.”

“Well, maybe you can give me Mrs.Wheeler’s number and I can talk to her,” you say, and Steve looks at you with surprise.

“Really? Yeah, I can do that! She’s like one of the nicest ladies ever, you’ll love her,” Steve explains, and you just nod at his words.

Fortunately or unfortunately, Steve was right. You called Mrs.Wheeler the next day while Lily was down for her nap and she was a delight to talk to. She said she’s been watching other people’s kids her whole life and that she wasn’t worried to watch Lily in the least. She even asked you if she had any allergies and what all she should watch out for with her.

So, with a bit of reluctance, you agreed to let her watch Lily.

Which is why you were standing outside in the cool March air as Steve undid the carseat from your car. “Dang, this thing is in here tight,” he says before finally getting it unlatched.

“Dad made sure it wouldn’t budge.”

“Well, I’ll do my best to get it like that when we pick her up,” he assures you.

“I’ll supervise,” Robin says, giving you a salute with one hand while holding Lily with her other.

“Thanks,” you say with playful sarcasm while patting her on the shoulder.

“Alright, well we better get her inside so we can get a move on,” Steve says, holding the huge car seat in his grasp and carrying it past the three of you. Robin looks at you before turning with Lily and following Steve, prompting you to join them. When you realize you’re the only one who didn’t have something in your hand, you decided to speed ahead so you could knock on the door first.

“Coming!” You hear from the other side of the door, where only a moment later it was being pulled open by a very excited looking Holly. “Hi Lily!”

“What are we, chopped liver?” Steve says, and Holy scrunches her nose at him.

”Hi Steve,” she says unenthusiasticly, making you chuckle. “C’mon, mom is in the kitchen.”

The four of you enter the house and follow Holly to where Mrs.Wheeler was pulling a pan of cookies from the oven, which filled the air with a deliciously sweet smell.

”Hey there!” She greets, giving you an oven mitt wave. “Steve, you can set that by the door. I doubt we’ll need it but we’ll keep it there just in case.”

”Got it, ma’am,” Steve says, leaving to put car seat by the front door.

”Smells great in here, Mrs.Wheeler,” Robin says, nose in the air.

”Help yourselves,” she offers, gesturing to some cookies already sitting on a plate. “Nancy! Your friends are here!”

”Be right there!” Nancy yells from upstairs. For some reason you start to get a bit anxious at the sound of her voice, your eyes instantly searching for Steve.

But you felt him before you saw him, his hand landing on your shoulder as he walked up behind you, standing close enough his chest was touching your back. You looked back at him, giving him a small smile that he returned.

”Can I see her?” You hear Holly ask Robin, which takes your attention from Steve. Robin offers Lily up to Holly, who takes her with a small squeal of excitement. “You are too cute,” she tells Lily, who reaches out to grab at her blonde pigtails. Lily babbles at her and Holly’s eyes go wide, her head nodding like she’s understanding anything Lily is saying.

”Has she had lunch?” Mrs.Wheeler asks you.

”Oh, yes, we fed her before we left. But thank you for asking,” you inform her.

”That’s fine! We got plenty for her to snack on while she’s here.”

”Sorry, sorry!” You suddenly hear as footsteps thud down the stairs. Nancy rushes into the kitchen, looking, admittedly, very put together. It made you self conscious in an instant, suddenly feeling like what you were wearing wasn’t fit for the occasion, even if it was something you considered as one of your nicer outfits.

“Lookin’ good, Nance,” Robin says, giving her a nod of approval. You wait for Steve to follow up Robin’s compliment, but nothing ever comes.

”Thanks,” she says, looking a bit bashful at Robin’s words.

”We ready to go now that everyone is here?” Steve asks, pointing his thumb over his shoulder.

”Yep, let’s get going,” Nancy says with a nod. “See ya later, mom.”

”Bye dear, you guys have fun. Tell Will we said congratulations," Mrs.Wheeler says, waving Nancy and Robin off as they walk towards the door.

“Bye, Lily pad,” you say, leaning down to give Lily a kiss in her hair.

”Mommy and Daddy will be back in a little bit. Behave for the Wheeler’s, okay?” Steve says to Lily, prompting her to baby talk back to him.

”Everything will be okay, I promise,” Mrs.Wheeler says, seemingly directly to you.

”Yeah, it will be,” you say, almost like you’re trying to convince yourself. “It’s fine. Um, bye.” You awkwardly turn on your heel and make your way to the front door, stepping out into the cool March air to try and collect yourself before you start crying.

Then Steve is suddenly in front of you, a hand on either shoulder as he looks you in the eyes. ”Hey, it’s fine, it’s okay. She’s in capable hands, I promise.”

”No, no, I’m good,” you exhale, matching Steve’s eye contact.

”Okay,” he says, patting you on the shoulder.

”You guys good over there?” Robin calls from where she’s leaning against your car.

”Yep, let’s get this thing going,” Steve calls back, walking towards the car as he gestures towards them to get inside.

Everyone climbs in, leaving you to sit up front with Steve, which you were a bit surprised at considering you thought Robin would want to sit with him. But, you weren’t going to complain, sliding into your seat happily.

The ride was smooth, with casual conversation between the four of you, mostly fueled by Steve and Robin’s back and forth that you’ve noticed they like to do. Thankfully it made for an entertaining drive, making the hour long trip to Indianapolis feel much shorter.

It was a packed lot when you pulled in. It probably took Steve nearly 10 minutes to find a place to park down the street.

“Thank god most of the snow has melted,” Robin says, opening her car door and stepping out, Nancy doing the same and joining her on the sidewalk.

Just as you unbuckle your seatbelt, Steve is suddenly leaning across you in the passenger seat. You watch as he opens the glovebox and pulls out a card sized envelope before straightening back up in his seat.

“What’s that?” You ask, looking at the envelope in his hand.

”Oh, birthday card for Will.”

”What? Is it his birthday?”

”No, it’s the 22nd. But I wanted to give it to him just in case I don’t see him again.”

You look at Steve and feel a little tug at your heart for him. “That’s really nice of you, Steve,” you tell him, and he gives you a cheesy smile.

”Eh, I wanted to make sure he feels appreciated,” he says, waving the envelope between his fingers.

A knock on the window had you jumping in your seat. You look over to see Robin standing at your door looking into the window before motioning for you to get out.

”Sorry,” you say, opening the door.

”What’s that?” Robin asks, noticing the envelope Steve had.

”It’s for Will,” he says shortly.

”Awe, you’re so sweet,” Robin says sarcastically before playfully shoving Steve.

”Hey, I got you something, too. It’s in the trunk,” Steve says, nodding his head at the car. That made you smile, because you were aware of Steve’s gift to Robin, you and Lily being there when he picked it out for her.

”Ugh, you’re telling me this before we have to go inside?” She whines, making Steve laugh.

”You can have it later when we drop you off at home,” he tells her, paying no attention to her pout.

”Hey, gives you something to look forward to,” Nancy says, giving her a little elbow nudge.

”I guess,” Robin says with a sigh before walking away from your small group, making the three of you have to chase after her.

It was just a short walk to the museum, but the line to get inside was a tad long. You shivered a bit every time a cold breeze blew by making you wish you had worn a thicker pair of tights under your skirt.

”You okay?” Steve says lowly, leaning down to talk to you directly into your ear and making you shiver for an entirely different reason.

”Just cold,” you squeak, not looking at him.

”Want my jacket?” He asks, starting to take it off.

”What? No, I’m okay, really!”

“It’s okay, I was actually getting kind of hot in it,” he says, taking the light jacket and draping it over your shoulders.

You grab it from him, pulling it over you to keep it from sliding off. “Thanks.”

The urge to look next to you hit you, making your head turn until your eyes met with Nancy’s big blue ones. She looked like she was smiling, too, but quickly looked away once she realized you had noticed her. You didn’t know how to feel about this interaction in the moment, but Steve’s hand on your lower back urging you forward as the line kept moving distracted you enough that you forgot about it fairly quickly.

Once the four of you finally got inside, you were amazed already by the amount of art pieces that were on display in just the lobby. You’d been to plenty of art exhibits in the past, but you’d never been to one specifically for high school students. It gives you a weird feeling, like a sense of motherly pride as you look at all the art knowing that high school kids made them.

”There you are!”

You look over to see Dustin making a beeline through the crowd for Steve. They embrace each other and Steve pats the top of Dustin’s head in a very big brother move.

“Where’s the others?” Steve asks, looking around.

”They’re with Will by his piece,” Dustin says, nodding down the large exhibit hall.

“Well, let’s head down there,” Steve says, starting to take off with Dustin, Robin and Nancy close behind them.

“Um, is it okay if I look around a bit and meet up with you guys later?” You ask, making the four of them stop in their tracks.

”Oh, wow, I’m sorry,” Steve says, walking back to you. “You guys go on, we’ll be that way soon.”

”No, Steve, you go ahead,” you tell him, and he looks at you like you just cursed at him in Mandarin. “You came here for your friend so go ahead and see him.”

”I-I don’t want to leave you alone, though,” he says, shaking his head.

”It’s just an art exhibit, I think I can handle myself,” you giggle.

He looks at you, then to his friends, then back to you. “Okay,” he says with a sigh.

”I won’t take long, I promise,” you assure him.

Steve nods, biting his bottom lip before walking back over to Dustin, the four of them disappearing into the crowd and leaving you alone.

Even though the place was crowded, you found yourself navigating from piece to piece with ease. It was nice to turn your brain off in a way, just taking your time to enjoy the art without feeling rushed or like you need to be on your toes keeping track of a toddler. You even got to stop and talk to some of the young artists, letting them go on about the work they were very proud of.

As you are making your way through the exhibit, you are suddenly stopped when you accidentally collide with another person. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” you say, taking a step back from whoever you ran into.

”Watch where you’re—I mean, sorry, that’s my fault,” the man you ran into says. He was a tall man, maybe in his early thirties and dressed in some very nice clothing.

“Not at all! I wasn’t paying attention. Can’t walk and look at art at the same time I guess,” you say with a dry chuckle.

”Well, there is quite a lot of wonderful art to look at, isn’t there?” The man says, making you nod in agreement.

”Very much so. It’s amazing to see so much young talent in one place.”

”Are you just here to look or do you have someone here you’re supporting?” The man asks.

”Both? I came here with some friends, but I’m just taking some time for myself to check everything out first. How about you?” The man chuckles lowly, before handing you a card. It said that his name was Dennis Banner, and stated that he was an art dealer. “Oh, so you’re here looking for some young talent then?”

“Yes, indeed. I like to keep my eye out at these exhibits for those who I want to keep in contact with for future projects. I like to help the high school students get portfolios together for those who plan on going into an art college as well.”

”Wow, that sounds like a great opportunity for any kid,” you say, and he nods.

”It’s not something I get to do often, unfortunately,” he says downtroddenly. “A lot of these kids don’t stay in the arts, often being influenced by family and friends to give up their passions for a more conventional job.”

”That sounds like my mother,” you say with a roll of the eyes.

”Then you understand. Say, why don’t you take me to your friend and so I can take a look at what they have on display?”

You perk up at Dennis’s offer, “Yes, of course. I haven’t gotten there yet but I’m sure they can’t be much further up.”

“Perfect. By the way, I don’t think I got your name,” Dennis says, one of his hands landing delicately on your arm. You give him your name, and he nods his head slowly. “Beautiful. Now, lead the way.”

Dennis follows you as you bob and weave through the crowd, eyes scanning diligently for a familiar face. But, instead of a face, you were able to find the group by the wheels of Max’s wheelchair, her red hair in a long braid down her back.

”This way,” you say, walking up to where you found the rest of the group.

”About time you showed up,” Robin teases when she spots you approaching. The rest of the group greets you as well, Max resting her head on your side when you stand next to her.

“Hey, thank you by the way,” Will says with a bright smile.

”For what?” You ask, confused.

”For the card! From you, Steve and Lily.”

”Oh, yeah,” you say, looking at Steve who nods encouragingly at you. “You’re so welcome. Happy early birthday.”

Dennis clears his throat from behind you, making you turn to motion for him to join you. “Right! Will, this is my new friend Dennis,” you say, gesturing at him. “He’s an art dealer.”

”Among many things,” Dennis says, reaching his hand out for Will to take. “Is this your piece here?”

Dennis gestures to the large painting hanging on the wall. It was a gorgeous landscape, a bit dark and gloomy with a fantasy vibe about it. It was so incredibly detailed it reminded you of those Bob Ross paintings but with a unique spin.

”Y-yeah, this is mine,” Will says, stepping out of the way so Dennis could look at it.

Dennis hums as he looks at the painting. Then his arm was suddenly interlocking with yours, and he was leaning in as if talking to just you. “What are your thoughts, dear?”

”M-me? Oh, well I was just thinking about how detailed it looks. The atmosphere about it is very appealing and I could see it on display in a moody library type setting.”

”Hmmm, yes I see your vision,” Dennis says as he rubs his chin. “It’s definitely very advanced detailing for someone so young.”

”Is that a good thing?” You hear Mrs.Byers ask Robin, who just shrugged at her.

”Yes, it’s a very good thing,” Dennis clarifies. “William, was it? You have real talent here. May I talk with you and your family for a moment?”

”Sure,” Will says, looking over to his mom and brother.

Dennis lets go of your arm huddles with the Byers to talk. Just as quickly as he left his presence was replaced with Steve’s, him standing so close to you he was practically on top of you.

“Where’d you meet this guy?” Steve whispers to you, looking over at Dennis.

”I just ran into him. We got to talking and he asked to see Will’s art. That’s all,” you say with a shrug.

Steve wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into him even more. “He say anything else to you?”

”Nope,” you say with a shake of your head.

”Hmm,” Steve says, seemingly upset about something. “What’d you think of the rest of the art?”

”Oh, Steve, there’s so many good pieces,” you tell him excitedly. “You should really get a look at some of the stuff in here.”

”Let’s go right now,” Steve says, pulling you away from everyone else, Max yelling out a “Hey!” when you were suddenly not there for her to lean on.

“Is everything okay?” You ask Steve after a few minutes of walking in silence.

”Yeah, peachy,” he says, looking around at the art.

”You can tell me if something is wrong,” you tell him, prompting him to look down at you. He looks at you for a second and smiles.

“I’m great,” he says, hugging you closer to him for a moment. “You think any of this stuff is for sale?”

”I haven’t seen any price tags. I’m sure a lot of the families would prefer to take their kid’s works home with them.”

”Mmm, yeah makes sense. You know, we might be back here one day in like 15 years for Lily.”

You take a deep breath in, lips curling in a tight smile at Steve’s words. ”As nice as that sounds, I don’t know if I want to think about that yet,” you say, making Steve laugh.

“I get it. I don’t like thinking about her getting any bigger either,” Steve admits, and you were glad you weren’t alone in that feeling.

The two of you made your way down and back around the rest of the exhibit, eventually making your way back to Will’s spot where Dennis was nowhere to be found. Conversation immediately picked up amongst the group, Steve included, leaving you to listen to them all talk to each other.

The whole time they talked Steve didn’t take his arm off of you. It had been there for so long at this point you had sort of forgotten about it. At least until you saw Nancy looking in your direction again. This time she let her eyes linger for a moment, giving you a small smile before finally looking away to answer a question that had been asked to her.

At some point Dustin seemed to realize you were there, moving to stand next to you and grilling you 20 questions style. You eventually started asking your own questions between the ones he had for you, where you got to learn a decent amount of information about Steve’s little friend.

”Hey, when is your school’s spring break?” You ask him, and he raises an eyebrow at you.

“Uh, the 21st-26th?”

”Perfect. So I have a sister, her name is Fran—“

”Uh huh…”

”She’s going to come stay with us for a few days that week—“

”Okay…”

”And, I’m going to be honest, she is nothing like you guys.”

”Huh, okay?” He says with a confused nod.

”She’s a total stuck up, doesn’t really have any friends. But, I think if she just got a little taste of the kind of friendship you guys have, I think she might open up a bit.”

”Sooooo, you want us to hang out with your sister so you don’t have to entertain her?” Dustin says, looking at you like he’s cracked your hidden code.

”Nooooo, nooooo…Okay maybe,” you finally say, giving yourself up.

”I mean, I’m not necessarily saying no, but—“

”I’ll pay you.”

”So what days is she coming?”

”You’re such a chump,” Steve huffs, shaking his head at Dustin.

“Hey, only one of us is getting paid in this scenario. So who’s the real chump, huh?” Dustin fires back.

”Whatever,” Steve says, pshing him. “Fran’s not that bad so you guys will be fine.”

”Oh, you sweet, naive man,” you tease, patting Steve gently on the cheek.

”Can we use your big table in your dining room?” Dustin asks Steve, making him tilt his head.

”For what?”

”Well, I’m assuming we’re going to be playing games, soooo…”

”Soooo?”

”Oh my god, so we’ll need the big table to play games on!”

”That should be fine,” you tell him, and he thanks you.

“No drinking,” Steve says sternly, and Dustin looks at him wounded.

“You think I need to drink to have fun?”

“Sorry, forgot you were a nerd for a second and not like a regular high school kid,” Steve says, prompting Dustin to make a face at him.

”Whatever. Let’s just plan for that Friday. Sound good to you?” Dustin asks you.

”Oh, yeah, works for me.” Dustin nods, giving you a thumbs up.

“Cool, cool. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta find the men’s room,” Dustin says, ducking behind you and disappearing into the crowd.

”You really think this is a good idea?” Steve asks.

”Oh, it’ll be fine. She’s like my mom in public settings; very passive. So even if she’s not enjoying herself she’ll put on an act and then bitch at me later about it.”

“If you say so.”

“Man, I’m beat,” Robin says, stretching her arms as her and Nancy walk ahead of you and Steve.

”Robin, it’s only, like, 4 pm,” Steve says in disbelief.

”Maybe I’ll take a nap in the car on the way back,” she says to Nancy, completely ignoring Steve.

”Don’t do that, we don’t need to hear you snoring,” Nancy says back, making Robin’s jaw drop in disbelief. Steve thinks this is absolutely hilarious, head back as he cackles at Nancy’s dig.

”Hey, you don’t have any room to be laughing Mr.Snores-Like-A-Bear,” Robin says, pointing back at Steve.

”It’s really not that bad,” you say, making Robin and Nancy look back at you. “T-the snoring I mean. Doesn’t bother me much, at least.”

Robin and Nancy look at each other before Robin’s mouth shuts, her lips pursing as if she’s trying to keep herself from saying something. You wonder if you said something you shouldn’t have, looking up at Steve out of the corner of your eye to gauge his reaction. But he seemed unphased, just curiously looking around at the buildings as you walked past them.

The subject quickly changed once the four of you were back in the car, with conversation picking up once you hit the highway.

”All I’m saying is they should have had alcohol,” Robin says with a shrug. “Not my fault those kids can’t drink.”

”I could have used a drink at a couple points,” Steve says under his breath, making you look at him.

“Well, you’ll have pleeeeenty of opportunities to drink in Massachusetts,” Nancy says.

”What’s in Massachusetts?” Steve asks, looking back at Robin in the rear view.

That’s when the car goes quiet. There was a tension in the air that you immediately picked up on, making you swallow thickly.

”Robin…what’s in Massachusetts?” Steve repeats, more concern in his tone the second time asking.

”…I was going to tell you eventually,” Robin says quietly, something very out of character for her.

”Tell me what?”

You look back at Robin and see her fiddling with the sleeves of her sweater. She looks nervous, and you start to worry about what she might have to say.

Finally, after a long pause she finally clears her throat and speaks.

”I…got accepted into Smith.”

Another beat of silence, and you look to Steve who seems like he’s never been more confused in his life.

”Smith…like, the college? The one you said you wanted to get in to?”

”Yeah?” Robin confirms.

”Robin,” Steve says with a huff, “That’s…that’s awesome. That’s what you wanted, right?”

”I mean, yeah it is,” she says, warming up a bit.

”This is great, then! When did you find out?”

”I got the letter last week.”

”I bet your parents are so stoked for you,” Steve says with an airy laugh.

”Yeah, they are,” Robin says with a smile, seeming relieved.

”How did you find out, Nance?”

”Oh, um…Well, I actually was telling Robin that I got into Emerson…”

“Woah, you got in, too?” Steve asks excitedly. “That’s great for you guys. How far away from each other will you be?”

”Um, I think Smith is like two hours from Emerson?” Nancy says, looking at Robin.

“That’s not too bad. You guys can hang out and stuff if you wanted to.”

”Steve, can I be honest with you? You’re taking this way better than I thought you would,” Robin says, leaning around the console to look at Steve.

”I mean, am I sad my best friend is leaving me? Of course,” Steve says with a shrug like it’s obvious. “But, I know you really wanted to get into this school and it’s not fair for me to expect you guys to hang around forever.”

”Wow, that’s really mature of you, Steve,” Nancy says.

”Thanks, I’m trying,” he says with a smile.

”You guys will be home for holiday’s, right?” You ask.

”Oh yeah,” Robin confirms with Nancy nodding in agreement.

”So it won’t be too bad,” you say to Steve.

”Yeah, it’s not like it’s going to be forever, either,” Robin adds.

The four of you continue talking about Robin’s and Nancy’s future college endeavors for most of the rest of the ride back to Hawkins. Robin tried asking a few questions about you and Steve, but you tried to change the subject with short answers to avoid any conversation about whatever the hell was going on with you and Steve right now.

As the car pulls up to Robin’s house, her and Steve jump out and head to the trunk so he can give her the gift he picked out for her. It wasn’t anything crazy since you all were strapped for cash right now, a few language books and a new record player he got at a second hand store that was newly refurbished.

The main gift was some cash he had saved that was specifically meant for her to get her driver’s license. He knew she wanted to finally take her test and officially get her license but things were tight at home for her and her family too so he wanted to help her out. And from the way she lunged at him to hug him you could tell she appreciated it.

”What did he get her? Nancy asks, watching through the back window.

”Some money to get her driver’s license,” you tell her, and she looks at you surprised.

”That’s great! She was worried she was going to have to take public transport everywhere in Massachusetts.”

”Does she have a car?”

”Her parents were planning on giving her one of their cars whenever she got her license,” she tells you.

”Sounds like everything is going to work out for her then,” you say, waving back to her as she waves to you all from her front door. A moment later Steve gets back in the driver’s seat with a huge grin on his face, seemingly very proud of himself.

”That was really thoughtful,” Nancy says to him, making him look back at her.

”Yeah, well, I know it’s like the last big thing she was needing to do, and I got permission from the Missus to do it, so I figured why not,” he says, nodding at you.

”Wait, me?” You ask, pointing at yourself. “Oh, no, he’s joking,” you try and clarify to her. “I don’t tell him what he can and can’t do.”

”I know he was joking, it’s okay,” she says with a laugh, and you sigh in relief.

Steve drives the short distance from Robin’s house to Nancy’s, all three of you getting out to follow her inside.

“We’re home!” Nancy calls into the house, shucking off her jacket and placing it in a coat closet.

”We’re in the living room!” Holly calls back, and Nancy gestures for you and Steve to follow her inside. The three of you enter the living room where Holly is sitting on the floor with Lily. You bring your hand to your mouth, holding back a laugh when you see your daughter, more specifically her hair. Someone had made an attempt to put it in pigtails, but you could tell she has been messing with them and trying to pull them out.

”Don’t you look cute,” Steve says, squatting down next to Lily. Steve looks up at a man sitting silently in a recliner. “Hi, Mr.Wheeler.” The man just makes a small grunt, and you notice Nancy rolling her eyes at him.

”She kept playing with my hair so I did hers, too,” Holly says proudly. “I think she likes them. She keeps playing with them,”

”Awe, did you wanna be like big sis Holly?” Steve cooes, making Lily clap and babble back at him.

“Oh, hey,” Mrs.Wheeler greets you as she walks back into the living room. “How did it go?”

”Great! There was a huge turnout,” Nancy tells her.

”That’s wonderful! I’m sure Will was very excited.”

”How did Lily do?” You ask her curiously.

”Oh gosh,” she says with a wave. “I wish any of my kids had been as easy as she is. Granted she had Holly to entertain her most of the time.”

”Good, I’m glad to hear that,” you say with a relieved smile. “She’s good for me but you just never know how she’s going to be when you’re not around.”

”Totally get that,” Mrs.Wheeler says. “Nancy was such a little adventurer, always getting into things. But as soon as she was at her grandparents house she was like a whole different kid.”

”Still pretty adventurous,” Mr.Wheeler says monotonly from his chair.

Nancy looks at you and shakes her head in annoyance, making you smile.

“Anyway, would you all like to stay for dinner?” Mrs.Wheeler asks, looking between you and Steve.

”That’s okay,” Steve says, picking Lily up. “We have some stuff at home we need to cook before it goes bad.”

”Thank you for the offer though,” you say, “And if you change your mind about us paying you—“

”Don’t even think about it,” Mrs.Wheeler assures you. “It was our pleasure. Let us know if you ever need us to watch her again. And if you ever need a date night, the Sinclair’s have a teenage daughter who would probably watch her for you, too.”

“Oh my god, how did I forget about Erica,” Steve says, slapping his hand on his forehead.

“You’d have to pay her though,” Nancy says with a knowing smile.

“Yeah, but she’s smart so it would be worth the upcharge,” Steve says with a shrug.

”Well, we better get going,” you say, putting a hand on Steve’s arm. “Don’t want to overstay our welcome.”

”Not at all! You’ll learn this house is open to anyone pretty much any time,” Mrs.Wheeler explains.

”Don’t know when I ever agreed to that,” Mr.Wheeler grumbles.

”Thanks again, Mrs.Wheeler,” Steve says, walking over to her to give her a side hug.

”Anytime, Steve,” she says, patting him on the back.

You say your goodbyes and head out to the car where Steve struggles with the car seat at first before eventually getting it in. Lily does baby talk the whole ride home and even once you’re in the house, making you wonder if she was trying to tell you about her day.

“Sounds like you had a lot of fun,” you tell her as you get her set up in the living room with her toys and some music playing.

Just as you go to stand up, you feel something grabbing you. It only takes you a second to realize it was Steve, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you against him.

”What are you doing?” You giggle, fighting against his grip.

”I’m just hugging you! Is that a crime?” He asks defensively.

”No, it’s not, but I feel like you have ulterior motives,” you say, sure he was going to try and tickle you or something.

“Me? No, never,” he says, burying his face in the cook of your neck. Once you realize he’s not going to do anything, you just hold his arms around you and let him have this. He stayed like that for a moment, just breathing against the skin of your neck.

“Today was nice,” he finally said after a long silence.

”Yeah, it was,” you agree. “It was a good time. I’m glad I went.”

”Mmm, me too. How did you like seeing everyone?”

”It was good. Those kids are so smart,” you say with a bit of disbelief. “And they’re very mature.”

“They’ve been through a lot. I hope they get to be kids for the next year and a half before they graduate,” Steve says as he lifts his head.

Once Steve lets you go, you head into the kitchen to start on dinner. Steve joins you, helping you with cutting and adding ingredients to the pan you were cooking in. At one point he broke out into song, singing along with a Queen that started playing on the TV.

”Steve!” You squeal as he grabs your hips and rocks them back and forth, making you dance with him while you are trying to cook. Once the song was over, you turned back to look at him where he bowed at you.

”Did you know you have a really good singing voice?” You tell him, and he just waves you off.

”Eh, it’s okay,” he says, not trying to drag the subject on.

Once you all ate, your night time routine went on like normal. Lily got a bath and you and Steve put her to bed, leaving you both to take turns showering before staying up to watch reruns on the couch until one of you almost falls asleep. It was you tonight who started to doze off so you tapped out first, bidding Steve a goodnight while he stayed behind to finish the newest episode of 21 Jump street.

You found yourself falling asleep fairly quickly, something that was a bit of a struggle at first when you started sleeping in Steve’s bed. But lately it’s been easy to drift off, not feeling anxious anymore now that you’ve gotten used to sleeping next to him. The bed was big enough you hardly even noticed he was there most of the time, besides the slight snoring Robin had brought up. But it had become sort of comforting, like you felt safer knowing he was there.

You weren’t sure what time it was when you felt the bed move, only slightly waking you up from your sleep. You were laying facing the closet with your back to where Steve sleeps when you felt something slide over your waist. You instantly grabbed at it and realized it was Steve’s arm, making you sigh in relief.

”Steve?” You mumble sleepily.

”Shh, go back to sleep,” he whispers, and you realize he’s right behind you then, just as his chest hits your back.

”You okay?” You ask him.

”Mhmm, good night,” he says, snuggling up behind you.

You were a bit surprised by his actions since he’d never done this before, but you were honestly too tired to care, finding his hold comforting. So you let him be, falling asleep to the feeling of his chest moving up and down against your back.

thank you for reading!

Next Part

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[deanwinchestersunhappythoughts]

this is adorable omg😭

[godmadeaterribleerror]

✦be quiet✦

✧･ﾟ:His hand is clamped over your mouth, your eyes locked as he drives in and out of your cunt.

✧･ﾟ:You’d been crying. Loud and open, unable to stifle the sounds with the overwhelming pleasure Bucky was giving you. You’re trying not to disturb your teammates, just a thin wall away. Bucky had said you’d just have to keep quiet.

✧･ﾟ:And yet, he’d made it his personal mission to try and make you as loud as possible. Teasing, dirty words against your skin as his fingers played with your pussy. Soft touches and kisses to work you up and almost sob with desperation.

✧･ﾟ:It’s been an hour or so since you’d been able to do anything but make incoherent sounds. You’d lost the ability to speak sometime around when he’d sat you on his face and worked his mouth against your pussy. Now, with him drilling you into the mattress, you’re putty in his hands. Lips trying to say his name and only making a puckered little O.

✧･ﾟ:Bucky knows exactly how to work you. How to rut against your g-spot and tease you’re body until you’re a trembling wreck below him. He kisses under your jaw, biting softly, and a broken sound breaks through your lips

✧･ﾟ:“Shhhh, babydoll.” He mutters against your ear, warmer hand squeezing your hip.

✧･ﾟ:You moan shamelessly into his mouth as he hits that sweet spot inside of you, over and over again. There’s a mess between your thighs that’s sticky and dripping, Bucky’s cock smearing it as he pulls almost fully out, then slams back in. It’s an obscene, wet sound. It almost covers your shriek of his name when he angles your hips up, forcing you to take it at a deeper angle.

✧･ﾟ:“Good job,” he coos, low and hungry in your ear. “Just like that, you can take it.”

✧･ﾟ:You whimper, eyes rolling back in your head as he plows into you. You can see your arousal, clinging to his length when he pulls out, lewd and overflowing when he plunges back in.

✧･ﾟ:“There she is.” Bucky moves his hand, kissing your swollen, shaking lips. “That’s a girl. Nice and quiet for me.”

✧･ﾟ:You’re not quiet because you’re trying. It’s mostly because you’ve been so spent your voice is gone. Breathing is all you can stand, everything else too lost in the feeling.

✧･ﾟ:But it’s good. So good that it’s more than worth it.

✧･ﾟ:And when he’s done with you, you’re going to beg him to do it again.

✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist✦ ✦Author's Note: on a semi-public sex streak... should probably examine that but i dont want to.✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦

[godmadeaterribleerror]

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[godmadeaterribleerror]

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[oneecheri]

[aseafullofstars]

forgotten ☆ dean winchester

summary: first anniversaries are meant to be special, something you'll remember forever. you'll certainly remember this one, though maybe not for the right reasons

pairing: dean x reader (gn) | genre: sad hurt/comfort | word count: 3.7k

warnings: forgetting anniversaries, some tears, a lot of guilt and shame and apologies, dean feels really damn bad about it

notes: requested !! i'm sorry about how long it took me to get to this one 😭also for those who don't like sad endings; there's a part two on the way for you loves :]

part 2 | taglist

When you wake up, Dean’s not there.

You’d fallen asleep in his arms last night, head resting on his chest and listening to the sound of his breathing. It skipped like an old record every time nightmares flashed in his mind, but it always evened out eventually, like even in his sleep he knew you wouldn’t let anything hurt him. Now, you’re in bed alone, your arms wrapped around a pillow instead of Dean’s body. The sheets on his side are rumpled like he’s been tossing and turning, but they’re stone cold, so cold you might have been convinced he was never there at all. The only hint that he’d ever been in bed is the faint remains of his shampoo on his pillowcase, and a torn piece of paper on the bedside table, a note written in his heavy scrawl.

Out today. Not a hunt, but something Sam wants to check out just in case. I’ll be back before dinner. See you when I’m back. – Dean

Your chest tightens on instinct, head hammering at your ribs like it’s trying to escape. You’d hoped that maybe he was just in the library or the kitchen, having woken up after a bad memory, not wanting to wake you no matter how many times you tell him it’s okay. You sink back into the bed, sheets bunched around your hips, not enough energy left to care about fixing them. You bury your face further into the pillow, hoping that maybe with enough pressure, the aching feeling in your heart will flood out through your body and leave you alone; the aching reminder that you’ve been forgotten.

It’s not unlike Dean to take off on hunts or research excursions with Sam, because he can’t stay cooped up in a building for long before he goes crazy. He’d stopped asking you to go on these missions ages ago, because he knows you’d rather stay in unless it’s a real hunt; you’ve gotten better at picking and choosing your battles recently, only putting yourself on the line when it really matters. Being left behind in the bunker isn’t what’s causing that thorny pulse of pain behind your eyes every time your heart beats to the tune of Dean’s voice. What is, is the fact that he’s chosen today of all days to head out.

Today, last year, Dean was sitting beside you on the hood of the Impala, back resting against the windscreen and long legs stretched out over the hood. You were beside him, one hand hovering a half inch away from his like it wanted to be held but didn’t have the voice to ask for the touch. Dean had known anyway, because he knows everything about you without even trying. He’d taken your hand, pressed a faint kiss to your knuckles, and asked if you were doing this for real. The stolen dates, the motel room kisses, long drives with your head on his shoulder; daring to live the fantasy hunters never got. You’d agreed, weight lifting from your shoulders, and you’ve never seen Dean look more hopelessly in love than he had in that very moment.

You weren’t expecting anything fancy today, on an anniversary between two hunters who’ve only been dating a year and have been preoccupied with saving the world. Maybe waking up in his arms would have been nice; it would have given you the chance to press sweet kisses to all his freckles while he pretended to complain about it. Maybe you’d have made breakfast together, spent whatever time during the day you could afford to waste watching movies that weren’t good but that reminded you of a simpler time. Maybe you’d have convinced him to go out for dinner with you, taken a walk afterward, come back to the bunker in time to give him his gift.

The gift that’s been sitting in your dresser drawer for three months, the one you’d had to go out of your way to track down. Something he’d mentioned off-handedly a while ago and that had never quite left your mind, like a bug bite that never went away. It certainly feels like one now, a mosquito bite to your heart that drinks the blood from your veins in hopes you’ll be drained empty before the disappointment kills you. The lingering feeling in your chest that’s been a backdrop to your entire life starts up again, screaming louder and louder until all you can hear in your head is a devilish chorus of your failure, of how little you’re worth to Dean.

Somewhere deep in your heart, you’re convinced he could never forget. Dean remembers your birthday every year, remembered it even before you could really call yourself friends. He remembers Sam’s birthday, and Bobby’s, even a couple other ones of people he’s met along the way and had to pass by. An anniversary is enough like a birthday, you think. Unlikely he’d forget, especially considering how important this is. A year of your love proving to be stronger than whatever it is you hunt, a year where you can love someone and not have that put a bright target on your back for a werewolf’s claws or a wraith’s spike.

Last year on your birthday, he’d pulled a similar trick. Dean and Sam had appeared in your doorway that morning with breakfast and quick birthday wishes before heading off on a hunt courtesy of Jody. You’d called her yourself with the intent of asking her to let Dean come back to you, but before you could even say a thing, you’d immediately clocked the distress in her voice. Turns out Jody’s just as good an actor as the women on TV; Dean had taken Sam with him to get your birthday gift from Jody’s house and brought her to your birthday dinner, all three of them conspiring together with the intent of keeping you in the dark.

Maybe that’s just what he’s done this time, you pray to yourself, rolling over in bed and grabbing your phone from the table. The bunker hums around you; perhaps agreeing with your conclusion, perhaps warning you not to get your hopes up. A pipe creaks somewhere when your mind drifts to the heavy prospect of Dean forgetting, and you hope it’s just coincidence. You’re already having a rough week, what with the end of the world and all, and you really don’t need Dean’s forgetfulness making it worse. You know he’d never forget on purpose, but you’d expect him to put a little more weight into remembering.

Unlocking your phone, there’s a voicemail from Dean and an unread text from Sam. You read the text first, finding it’s only a notice to let you know they safely got to where they needed to be. You send a reply back, noting Sam reads the message. You listen to the voicemail next, the low rumble of Dean’s voice made sharper by the phone.

Hey, uh, leavin’ you this to let you know ‘m sorry for leavin’ without tellin’ you. Didn’t wanna wake you up, ‘s all. You’ve had a, uh, a rough week so…anyway. I’ll be back before dinner like I said. Not doin’ anythin’ dangerous. I, uh. Yeah. See you soon, sweetheart.

Your heart sinks a little. Even in the voicemail, Dean leaves no inkling of your anniversary. You’re tempted to call him back and even ask him if he remembers, but the weight in your heart is just too heavy, and pushing in the buttons for Dean’s number feels like it’ll take more energy than you can afford to spend. Eventually, when your body feels too weighed down by the mattress to feel useful, you haul yourself upright with the intent of seeking out a shower and something to eat.

Dean’s voicemail rings in your head as you shower, filling up the bathroom until the words bounce around the shower walls enough times to sound like a new language. Maybe he’s just being evasive, maybe he’s just trying to keep you distracted and thinking he’s forgotten. Maybe he’s really ended up on a hunt, and if that’s the case, there’s not much you can do; monsters don’t care much for sentimental romantic occasions, although you find yourself wishing they did. Down the drain goes Dean’s shampoo, and with it goes most of your worries. Keeping yourself distracted is your best bet for today.

When you enter the kitchen, your eyes drift to the still-wrapped flowers sitting on the counter. The ones you’d bought yesterday evening for Dean, because you remember him telling you that “guys don’t get flowers, sweetheart”. They do if they’re Dean Winchester, you’ve decided. Fingers peeling back the paper, you take them out of the bag and lay them out, separating the stalks from each other and untangling the leaves with a strange sort of care. You don’t have a proper vase to put them in, so you make do by splitting them into two smaller bundles; one for the bedroom, and one for the kitchen table.

You spend the next hour arranging them, removing the wilted leaves from the stalks and tossing them into a bin, then trimming the stalks so they can get adequate water. The petals still look good, still bright and vivid, the light scent of the lilies flooding your senses until all you can think of is the way Dean’s freckles look like the pollen dusted on the inside of the flowers. You place one bundle in a tall cup nobody uses, setting it on the kitchen table and wiping the bottom to prevent condensation from piling up under the glass.

The second bundle goes to the bedroom, finding its way to Dean’s bedside table and resting patiently, awaiting his return. This group of flowers is the smaller group, and you’ve squeezed two into each of the four cleaned and dried beer bottles you’re using for a vase. It’s makeshift and not at all as gorgeous as you were planning, but there’s something so intrinsically Dean that it makes you grin in spite of yourself. You have half a mind to tie some ribbon on the bottlenecks, but you don’t have any and you’re all out of creative alternatives now.

After scrounging around the cupboards for lunch, you settle on making the boys dinner. The least you can do is prove to them you’re grateful for them, and it’s the least you can do for Dean; make him something home cooked, a reminder that you haven’t forgotten the day, that it still carries a weight to you. A weight that buries itself deep in your stomach and makes you wish you’d never learned to put a word to your emotions, but a weight nonetheless. A tidal wave that’s been out to sea and slowly starting to creep back in, the closer the clock ticks to Dean’s homecoming. One that pulls at you with awful, tangled hands and gnarled fingers and threatens to drown you in doubt.

You work in silence, not even bothering to click a cassette tape into the radio for accompaniment. You listen to the sounds of the bunker as you work, a choir to go along with the noises of your cooking; hums of the water heater when you fill a pot on the stove and wash the vegetables, ticks of the gas stove turning on to boil the broth and cook the meat, floorboards creaking under your feet as you reach for the dishes you need. It’s a dance you’ve done a hundred times before alone, and a hundred times more with Dean as your dance partner, but you’ve never danced it with the lingering anxiety of love weighing heavy on your heart. It slows your steps until everything comes a second late, it makes your movements stiff and choppy that shows when the vegetables are cut too big. It’s creeping into every corner of your life today, and all you can hope is for Dean to come home soon and quell the storm.

By the time the meat’s cooked and thrown into the pot with everything else, you can hear heavy footsteps and light chatter on the stairs. The door slams behind them and Dean curses the wind, although you both know it was really just his carelessness. He does this every time; it’s how you can tell them apart, because Sam closes the door like something holy in comparison. You set some of the meat aside of the soup for Dean, something extra as a gift, a treat to him for being yours.

You look up when their footsteps near the door, ladling the soup into bowls and setting them out. Dean walks in, still in his coat and boots, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and kissing the side of your head. His stubble scrapes your cheek, making you smile slightly and you kiss him back.

“You survived,” you comment.

“Damn right. Told you nothin’ bad was gonna happen.”

You make a noise in agreement, turning back to the soup. You push Sam’s bowl in his direction, and he takes it gratefully, murmuring his thanks. He hesitates, only entering when you raise an eyebrow. He doesn’t say anything, not wanting to disturb your and Dean’s space as he gets himself a glass of water, taking a beer from the fridge for later.

“Looks good, sweetheart,” Dean says, peering over your shoulder.

“I should hope so.”

Dean smiles. “What’s the big occasion?”

Sam stops in the doorway, eyes wide as he turns back to Dean. Sam gives you a sympathetic look as he takes off down the hall, clearly not wanting to be in the middle of this. Your heart sinks at the words; Dean really doesn’t remember what day it is today. He’s really forgotten your anniversary. You swallow heavy around the emotion in your throat, words caught somewhere between your brain and tongue. Dean’s brows furrow, eyes drifting around the kitchen until they come to rest on the flowers.

“Oh-. Shit. I’m-. I’m so-. It’s-,” he stutters.

“Yeah…” you whisper, cracked.

Dean tries to say something else, mouth working and Adam’s apple bobbing, but nothing comes out. His hand tightens once on your shoulder before it drifts off, like he needs you close but doesn’t know if you’ll let him touch you. His hand reaches for yours and you pull back slightly, rubbing at your eyes that have stayed strangely dry.

“I-,” Dean starts.

“Save it, Dean. You forgot.”

You don’t intend for it to come out mean, but it does anyway. You feel the way Dean shrinks back like you’ve hit him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to sound like that,” you say, turning the stove off and turning toward him.

“’S okay. I deserve it,” he mumbles, face red from embarrassment.

“You don’t deserve me snapping,” you say.

“I forgot our anniversary. ‘Course I deserve that.”

You look at him, really look at him. There’s something that looks like shame in his eyes, swimming amongst the green. It is shame, you realize, but it’s so raw and deep that you almost don’t recognize it as a human emotion. You can already see the way he’s blaming himself, thinking of a hundred things he should’ve done differently, praying you’ll still love him after this.

“Dean?” you ask, resting a palm on his shoulder.

He doesn’t reply, but he looks at you with those pitiful eyes that say a million apologies without saying any words.

“C’mon, I have something for you.”

You take his hand in yours, leading him off to your bedroom. Dean hesitates, like he’s unsure if he’s allowed to be in your shared space after this, but when you tug on his hand, he trails after you like a puppy on your heels. His footsteps follow yours like an echo, your own sadness amplified and shared to the world through him. You push him in before you, closing the door quietly behind your back and striding to the dresser while Dean sits himself heavily on the bed.

Gift in hand, you sit yourself down beside him, shoulder brushing, one of your thighs resting alongside his denim-covered one. His hand twitches toward your leg before pulling back again, settling desolately in his lap. You press the small cardboard box into his hand, folding his fingers around it with a care you’re certain Dean’s not expecting you to use.

“What’s this about?” Dean asks quietly, turning the box over.

“Anniversary gift.”

“Don’t-.”

“Dean, please don’t fight me on this. Whether you remembered or not, it’s still our anniversary, right?”

He nods, shame crawling up his neck.

“Then let me give you your gift. I still love you, Dean, so open your damn gift.”

Dean allows himself a small smile, breaking the box’s seal with his nail and opening the end. Inside, he finds a bracelet with a protective charm on it; because of course, some part of it has to be practical. Both you and Dean will be damned if you don’t give each other some sort of weapon or protective charm every year, because even when you’re apart, it means more than anything to know you’re being kept safe by each other’s love. He picks up the bracelet, examining it before carefully sliding it over his wrist. You do up the clasp, and he tests the tightness, nodding when he’s satisfied it won’t cause him pain.

It’s what’s under the bracelet that makes him inhale a sharp breath. A couple of tickets to a music festival trailing across the country, that just so happens to be making a stop a few hours away from you. Dean doesn’t care for most of the acts; just some recent artists he’s never bothered to listen to, nor will he ever. A few of the headliners catch his eye, some bands he remembers from when he was a kid playing on the Impala’s radio. But what matters more is the fact that for one, there’s two tickets, which means you’re coming with him whether you want to or not. And two, it means he’s finally going out and doing something normal, something he’s always wished he could do. It’s just a shame he has to find this out after forgetting what he’d been begging himself not to forget for the last year.

“You-,” he starts.

“Yeah. Thought you should get to have something fun for once.”

His hands shake as he places the tickets back in the box. “How’d you even get these?”

You shrug. “I have my ways. Don’t worry about that.”

“I’m-. I’m sorry, I don’t have anything for you,” he whispers, low and broken.

“It’s okay, Dean. Really. It’s fine.”

He catches your head in his hands, the box going tumbling to the floor. “It’s not fine, and you know it. Don’t go saying things like that.”

You swallow. Dean stares. Something low in your heart stabs your chest and cracks it open, threatening to flood you with shame. Both of you want to make a move, and neither of you feels like moving.

“I just-. I promise I remembered yesterday. I really did. I was thinkin’ about what I was gonna do with you today and then it just-.”

“Slipped away?” you fill in.

“Y- yeah. Somethin’ like that. Had a whole damn plan too. Kept thinkin’, ‘don’t mess this one up’.” He gives a hollow laugh. “Guess I really screwed this up, huh.”

You lean together so your foreheads are touching. “You did. I won’t pretend you didn’t. I mean, Sam remembered.” You emphasize your point by showing him the note that’s been slipped under your door since the evening went sideways; something in Sam’s handwriting, short and sweet, just a simple happy anniversary you two. Dean’s inhale cracks around a sob.

“Can-. Do-. Are we…are we done?” he says, frightened.

“Are we-. What?”

“Are we done? Did-. Have I screwed it up too bad?”

Your heart stops. Your Dean, sweet and kind and soft under all the hard edges, recognizes this pattern. He’s seen it before; he lets people down, people die, they come back, he lets them down again. A vicious cycle over and over that dunks his head in cold water. Usually, you’re there to towel it off and hug the life back into his body. He doesn’t know what to do now that it’s you he’s broken.

“Oh, Dean,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Dean, we’re not over.”

He swallows thickly. “But I forgot.”

You nod. “You did.”

“And I hurt you.”

“You did.”

“But you’re not-. We’re not breakin’ up?”

You shake your head. “No.”

Dean’s shoulders shake. “Why not? Isn’t that what people do?”

You heart cracks in two. Of course he’d assume that, you think. Anyone he’s ever accidentally hurt has always left him.

“Because I still love you, Dean. And because I know you didn’t mean it. And because I think you can fix this.”

“I can?”

You nod. “You’re good at fixing things.”

Dean buries his head in your shoulder, rocking side to side with his arms locked around you.

“Promise I’ll fix it. God, I’ll do anything you want. I’m gonna fix this, sweetheart,” he murmurs into the side of your neck, repeating it over and over again like a prayer.

You card a hand through his hair, the gesture as soothing for him as it is for repairing your bruised heart.  You gently kiss the top of his head, hoping that the love you hold for him is enough to will away the pain and anger and frustration that you know is killing him inside. The poison in his heart that comes from how he never lets himself be forgiven is still pooling in there, and you know you’re going to be doing your best to make sure it washes away under your touch.

“I know you will, Dean.”

tags : @sayras-blogg, @sweetbabygirlsworld, @spectralgalaxygauntlet, @ladycain00, @andmeiamherdagger, @hxppythxughts-jpeg, @k4renp4ge, @0ccvltism, @shansonito, @bejeweledinterludes2, @thewinchesterwench, @castielscaplan, @spaghettiwoes, @andrealeahhee, @winchesterheart, @miyasfatass, @legalmente-loca-blog, @alexxavicry, @lessiesimpala

[metal-armed-muse]

A SIMPLE FAVOUR

bucky x fem! reader — college au summary. Bucky Barnes is your senior. That’s how simple it should’ve been. But when feelings come into the mix, nothing is ever simple right?

in which,

a simple favour somehow turns into a complicated affair.

word count. 19.3k warnings. college au — med school, slowish burn, smut, mdni, 18+, tit play, oral (f receiving), protected pnv, insecure reader, angst, hurt/comfort, impulsive reader who self sabotages, college girl acting like a college girl, bucky is described as a fuckboy, takes reader to watch a surgery. no use of y/n. notes. extremely self-indulgent, i miss med school man. but can easily be read as a college au, i just gave them med subjects. this is basically stuff that kinda happened to me and stuff i wish happened to me lol. in my college — like in many colleges in my country — there’s this unspoken rule, where a junior must obey their senior no matter what. so she can’t just say no when he asks her a favour. i’ve probably used bike and motorcycle interchangeably, please ignore that. Supposed to be posted like a month ago. Since I might be inactive in the following week, this is here now.

READ ON AO3

You had promised yourself you would not spiral today. That promise sits thin as you step out of the library, the familiar pressure of deadlines stacking one on top of the other until breathing feels like a chore instead of a reflex that keeps you alive. There is a quiet pride in having stayed back this late, in choosing tables and notes over distractions, in being the kind of second year who does not get noticed for the wrong reasons. You’re someone who slides through corridors without anyone remembering her name but still remembers every page she read, every line she underlined, every small victory that does not need witnesses.

It should have been a clean exit. Library to hostel. Bed. Maybe a shower if energy allows. A voice cuts through that careful plan. “Hey. Hey, wait.” Your name follows, said with the kind of casual certainty that makes your stomach drop because you do not remember giving it to a him. You slow before you mean to, hate yourself for it immediately, then stop fully because pretending not to hear it is useless now. He is leaning against wall near the steps, fourth year scrubs on, bag slung carelessly over one shoulder like rules never applied to him in the first place. Bucky Barnes.

The name exists in your head long before this moment, passed around in whispers and rolled eyes. The kind of senior everyone knows without knowing, the kind who never seems stressed, the kind who smiles like he expects the world to bend for him because it usually does. He looks at you like this is normal. Like calling you over has not just rearranged your internal organs. “Yeah… You. From second year, right?” The nod comes before you can stop it. Your mouth opens, and closes. Something about air refusing to cooperate. He does not seem to notice, or maybe he does and just enjoys it, because his smile tips slightly. “Good. I was hoping it was you.” Hoping implies intention. Intention implies choice. Your brain scrambles to keep up. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a record book, thick and familiar and immediately ominous. Oh no. He holds it out like a peace offering. It’s not. “I need this filled. Clinical entries. You know how it goes.” Of course you know. Seniors handing down record books like curses, juniors swallowing irritation because no one ever says no. It is tradition dressed up as mentorship, exploitation wrapped in smiles. You have watched others do it, complained quietly about it, sworn you would find a way out if it ever landed on you. It has landed on you.

“Uh,” your voice finally shows up. “I… I have my own, uhmm records. To finish.” He hums, just acknowledging a fact that does not change anything. The book does not move. His hand stays steady between you, patient in a way that feels practiced. “I know. Everyone does. You’re good at it though. Got neat handwriting. I’ve seen your stuff.” Being seen has never felt like a gift. It feels like exposure, like someone has pulled back a curtain you forgot was there. You wonder who told him. You wonder when he looked. You wonder why it matters. You take the book because not taking it feels impossible. Your fingers brush the edge of his fingers for half a second too long, heat flaring where there should be none. You hate that too. “Thanks,” he says, like you have done him a favour already. “I’ll need it by Monday. You can just slip it under my door. Room 318.” Monday. Your mind does the math without permission, counts hours you do not have, pages you do not want to fill, resentment blooming immediately. Your mouth wants to say no now, wants to choke the word out before it becomes habit. Instead, what comes out is a quiet okay that feels like a betrayal. Fuck. “You’re a lifesaver,” his grin widens, the phrase just sticks under your skin because you know he does not mean it. It is just something he says. Something that works. He pushes off the wall then, stretching like this conversation has taken nothing out of him, like he has not just fucked up your entire evening, possibly your entire week. “See you around, yeah?” You nod again, nodding seems to be all you can do around him. He walks away without looking back, already pulling his phone out, already elsewhere. The space he had left behind feels too empty and too crowded at the same time.

You stand there, blaming fate, blaming everything. Irritation simmers, edged with something that feels uncomfortably like embarrassment. Not because he asked. Because you said yes. Why couldn’t you have said no? The walk back to your room passes in a blur of footpaths and familiar turns, replaying the way he said your name, the way he smiled like nothing in the world could touch him. The unfairness of it all presses heavy. Fourth years like him float through med school like it is a game. People like you count pages and hours and caffeine intake and still feel behind. When the door clicks shut behind you, you drop your bag on the chair harder than necessary, the record book landing on your desk with a dull thud that feels deeply satisfying. “Oh my God,” you mutter, then louder, “Oh my God.” Your friend looks up from her bed. She has known you long enough to recognize the particular tension in your shoulders, the way your hands shake when you are trying not to scream. “What happened?” You hold up the book like evidence. “Bucky Barnes happened.” Her face shifts instantly, recognition blooming into something between amusement and sympathy. “No. Absolutely not.” “Yes,” your voice rises despite yourself. “He just handed it to me. Like I’m his personal assistant. Like I don’t have my own shit to do.”

“Did you say no?” The silence answers for you. A dramatic groan leaves her mouth. “You cannot do this. Seniors will see you coming from a mile away.” “I didn’t mean to,” you snap, then immediately soften because she is not wrong and that makes it worse. “He just… called me. And he smiled. And then suddenly I had the book in my hands and it was done.” You pace now, words spilling out faster, frustration finally finding a mouth. “Monday. He wants it by Monday. Do you know how much I have to finish by Monday? I barely sleep as it is.” Her expression becomes gentler now. “Why you though? He has friends. Groupies. People who would do it without complaining.” “Apparently my handwriting is neat,” the bitterness in your tone is obvious. “Apparently he’s seen my stuff. Which is creepy, by the way.” “That man has no boundaries. Also he’s hot, so no one calls him on it.” You stop pacing to glare at her. “Do not.” “I’m just stating facts,” she puts her hands up. “He’s a menace.”

“He’s a fuckboy,” you correct, the word slipping out with venom, satisfying in its accuracy. “And I do not have time for this.” The innocent book still sits on your desk, infuriating you. Pages waiting to be filled with cases you did not attend, observations you did not make. Your jaw tightens. “I should just give it back,” you say, more to yourself than to her. “Tell him I can’t. Tell him I have my own work.” She watches you for a moment, then smiles in a way that is all understanding and zero judgment. “And will you?” The answer tastes bitter before it even forms. You sink onto your chair, stare at the book like it has personally wronged you.

“No. Because I’m weak and stupid and I said okay.”

“You’re just too nice.” A humourless laugh echoes. “That’s not a compliment in med school.” She gets up then to cross the room, and peers over your shoulder at the offending book. “Look. We’ll bitch about him while you write.” That helps. The bitching. “He smiled at me,” the confession slips out before you can stop it. “Like I was already going to say yes.” “Because he knows people do.”

“I hate that it worked.” She bumps your shoulder lightly. “Welcome to being human.” You pick up the pen, flip the book open, anger and resolve tangling together in your chest. If you are going to do this, you will do it right. Not for him. For yourself. Because that is what you do. Because walking away has never come easily.

Still, as the first page fills under your hand, one thought forms inside your head.

Bucky Barnes is going to owe you for this.

Finishing this stupid record book on time might actually be the most irritating miracle you have ever pulled off. Two nights of cramped handwriting and squinting at borrowed case sheets, all for a senior who probably has not worried about a deadline since orientation week. There is a strange mix of pride and annoyance together in your chest. Pride because the pages look perfect, neat lines and careful diagrams, everything organized the way your brain likes it. Annoyance because none of it is even yours. Your roommate watches from her bed while you pack the book into your bag. “You actually finished it,” her voice is impressed and a little horrified. “I had no choice,” you zip the bag with more force than necessary. “If I didn’t, he would find me in some corridor and smile at me again and I would say yes to something worse.” She laughs like she understands exactly what you mean. “Go give it to him and be free.” Free is a strong word, but you take it anyway. The walk across campus feels lighter without the weight of guilt hanging over you. You rehearse what you are going to say in your head, something polite and quick and efficient. Here is your record book, thank you, goodbye. Nothing more. Definitely no unnecessary conversation. You spot him near the canteen. Of course he is surrounded by people. Bucky always seems to exist in the middle of laughter, like he attracts it without trying. A couple of fourth years, one or two juniors, faces you vaguely recognize. He looks relaxed leaning back on the bench. Your steps slow on their own. It would be so easy to turn around, to come back later, to avoid this tiny social nightmare entirely. But the book is in your bag and Monday is too close and courage, apparently, is a muscle you are forcing yourself to use. He notices you before you can talk yourself out of it. “Hey,” he calls out, like you are an old friend and absolutely not a nervous junior.

Every pair of eyes turns in your direction at once. Wonderful. Exactly what you wanted.

Trying to ignore the sudden heat crawling up your neck, you walk closer. “Um, I finished it.”

You hold the book out to him the way a student offers homework to a teacher. Careful, a little formal, maybe even a little scared. His eyebrows lift when he flips through a few pages.

“Damn,” he does not bother to hide the surprise. “This is perfect.”

Praise should not matter this much from someone like him, but apparently your brain did not get that memo.

One of his friends leans forward, curiosity written all over his face. You remember his name after a second. Sam.

“So, this is the famous second year with the magic handwriting,” Sam says, looking at you like you are a rare species. “Hey, listen, any chance you want to do mine next? I will pay you in coffee and eternal gratitude.” Your mouth opens, ready to spit out a polite refusal you have been practicing since last week, but Bucky moves before you can speak. His arm slides around your shoulders, pulling you a fraction closer to his side. “Nah,” he says easily, “she’s mine.” The words echo in your ears long after he says them. She’s mine. You know it’s not serious. It’s just a joke tossed out between friends. Still, your entire body reacts like it is not a joke at all. Your heart jumps. Your face heats. You suddenly understand why half the campus melts over him. Sam raises both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, territorial much. I see how it is.” “Find your own hardworking junior,” Bucky grins, finally letting his arm drop from your shoulders. Though the ghost of the touch stays behind though. You stand there feeling ridiculous, trying to remember how to breathe normally, trying to figure out how to actually survive. “Thanks for doing this,” Bucky’s voice is softer now, like the rest of them are not even there. “Seriously, you saved me.” “It’s fine,” you manage, which is not true but sounds polite enough. “Just… don’t give me another one.”

“Cross my heart,” he promises, two fingers over his chest in mock solemnity. The group drifts back into their conversation and you prepare to make a quick escape, mission accomplished, when Bucky stands up and grabs his bag. “I’ll drop you off,” he says, like it is the most natural sentence in the world. Did you hear it right? Your brain stutters. “What, no, it’s okay, I can walk.” “I know you can walk,” he sounds amused. “But I’ve got my bike and you’ve done me a huge favor and I’m not letting you disappear like that.” People are watching again. You hate that people are watching. Refusing in front of everyone feels impossible, so you nod before you can overthink it. The bike is parked near the gate. It’s black, shiny and slightly intimidating. Okay, very intimidating. You have never actually sat on one before. He hands you the spare helmet without making it a big deal, and somehow that small kindness settles your nerves more than anything else. “Just hold on to me, yeah,” he says while you climb on behind him. Holding on to him sounds like a terrible idea for your already fragile composure, but the engine roars to life and instinct wins over dignity. Your hands settle lightly on his sides, trying to keep a respectful distance that disappears the second the bike moves. It feels strange and a little unreal, like you have stepped into someone else’s life for a moment. Bucky drives smoothly, confidently, like he does literally everything else. You tell yourself not to enjoy it. You enjoy it anyway.

When the familiar outline of your dorm comes into view, you’re surprised of the disappointment that blooms. The ride had ended too quickly. Sudden quiet wraps around the both of you as he cuts the engine. You climb off carefully, handing the helmet back, already rehearsing another quick thank you and goodbye. Bucky does not move to leave. He stays seated, one foot on the ground, looking at you with that same unreadable half smile. “So,” he stretches the word out, “what do you want?”

“What do I want… for what?” “For writing my record,” he clarifies. “Don’t say nothing because I know how much time that took.” The question catches you off guard. You had not even considered the possibility of getting anything in return. In your head, this whole thing was just an annoying duty, a favor extracted through seniority and social pressure. “I really don’t need anything… it’s fine.” He studies you for a moment, like he is trying to figure out if you are serious. Apparently the idea of someone not wanting something from him is a new concept.

“Okay… but I’m not accepting that answer.” “you don’t have to do anything,” you insist, as you feel awkward all over again. “I just did it because you asked.” “Exactly. Which is why I’m doing something because you helped me.” You shift your weight from one foot to the other, suddenly very aware of how close he is, how easily he holds your attention without even trying.

“Look… let me at least buy you dinner. As a thank you.” Dinner. Your brain immediately supplies a hundred reasons why that is a bad idea. He is a senior. He is Bucky Barnes. People talk. You do not do dinners with boys on bikes who call you theirs in front of their friends. You definitely don’t do dinners with Bucky Barnes. “You really don’t have to,” your voice is weaker this time. “I want to.” He says it like it’s simple, like it doesn’t carry any hidden traps. You try to find a polite way out and come up empty. “It’s just dinner,” he adds, reading your hesitation with annoying accuracy. “No weirdness, I promise.”

The easy confidence, the genuine gratitude and the tiny hopeful tilt to his expression, makes your resolve wobble. “Okay,” you hear yourself say, surprising both of you. “But only dinner.” His grin widens. “Only dinner. Scout’s honor.” You have no idea if he was ever even a scout, but the image makes you smile despite yourself. “Same time tomorrow,” he starts the bike again. “Be ready.” Before you can overthink or change your mind or list all the reasons this is probably a terrible decision, he gives you a small wave and rides off.

You stand there for long after he is gone, heart doing strange unpredictable things, trying to understand how a simple favor turned into this. Deep inside your chest, excitement and nervousness argue back and forth. Dinner with Bucky Barnes. Tomorrow.

Maybe this is a bad idea. Tiredness is sitting heavy in your shoulders, the kind that feels stitched into your bones after a long day of lectures and wards and pretending to understand things you only half understand. The sensible version of you knows exactly what tonight should look like. Pajamas. Leftover notes. An early night. Peace. Instead you are standing in front of your tiny mirror with a dress spread across the bed behind you, trying to decide if it looks normal enough to pass for casual and nice enough to pass for dinner. This is ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. You keep telling yourself that while you brush your hair, while you check your phone for the tenth time even though you know there is nothing new there, while you dig through your drawer looking for the one pair of earrings that make you feel a little less invisible. Getting ready for dinner with Bucky Barnes feels like preparing for an exam you never signed up for. Your roommate is out, probably somewhere with her own life that does not involve spiralling over a senior who asked for a favour and then offered dinner in return. He probably didn’t even mean it like that. That thought pops up while you smooth the front of the dress over your stomach, trying to ignore how nervous your hands feel. He said it casually, like he says everything, like inviting someone to eat is the most normal thing in the world. He did not ask for your number. He did not give his number. People who plan real dinners usually do those things, right? They exchange details and make proper plans and act like adults instead of just throwing out a time and disappearing on a bike like you see on movies. What if he forgot?

What if he only said it because he needed to look cool and effortless like he always does? What if he says things like that to everyone and never follows through because he is Bucky Barnes and the world follows him around instead of the other way? The more you think about it, the more stupid you feel for taking it seriously. You imagine him right now somewhere across campus, laughing too loud with people who are not you, maybe already at a party, maybe already making other plans that have nothing to do with a shy second year who writes neat record books. A small ache starts low in your chest and you hate it instantly. Why did you even get ready? You stand in front of the mirror, turning slightly from side to side, trying to see yourself the way he might see you if he ever actually showed up. The dress is simple and soft and maybe a little nicer than what you normally wear to class, and suddenly it looks silly. Like you tried too hard for something that might not even happen. Oh God, the thought of sitting here all dressed up for no reason, waiting for a message that never comes. This is embarrassing.

You start to take the earrings off, fingers fumbling more than they should. It feels safer to assume nothing is happening. It feels safer to crawl back into your comfortable routine and pretend none of this ever existed. You reach behind you and tug at the zipper, already planning how quickly you can change and wash your face and bury yourself under a blanket. He did not even ask for your number. That sentence loops in your head like a stubborn song you cannot turn off. If he really wanted to take you out, he would have made sure he could contact you. That is basic logic. That is common sense. You pull the dress down over your shoulders, halfway committed to the idea of forgetting the whole thing. But then your phone lights up on the desk. The sound is small but it freezes you completely. For a second you just stare at it, heart suddenly beating in a way that feels unfair. Notifications come from lots of people. Groups and apps and random spam messages. It does not have to be him. There is no reason to assume it is him. Still, you walk over to the desk like you are being pulled by an invisible string. One new message.

Unknown number : I’m here. Come down.

That is all it says. Your face heats so fast it almost hurts. It’s him. He remembered. He actually remembered. The room suddenly feels too warm and too small making your earlier embarrassment shift shape into something lighter and terrifying in a completely different way. He is downstairs. Right now. Waiting for you. And you are standing here with your dress half off like an idiot. You scramble back into it with clumsy fingers, tugging the zipper up again, checking your reflection in a rush of nervous energy. The girl in the mirror looks flustered and a little wide eyed, and there is no time to fix that.

Of course he remembered. Why would he not remember. He literally told you to be ready at this time and you convinced yourself he was lying because apparently your brain enjoys drama. Maybe this is not such a bad idea after all.

You do not want to read too much into it. You really do not. But the feeling is there anyway, impossible for you to ignore. It is only dinner. Just a thank you dinner between a senior and a junior. Nothing dramatic. Absolutely nothing life changing. Still, you catch yourself smiling at your phone like it personally delivered good news. This is how it starts, isn’t it? Tiny things that mean nothing on their own slowly adding up into something heavier. A hand on your shoulder in front of his friends. A ride on his bike with the wind in your face. A message saying he is here when you were sure he would never come. Do not get carried away. Do not turn this into a story in your head. You barely know the guy. He barely knows you. Getting attached to the idea of someone is a dangerous hobby and you have exams and responsibilities and a life that already feels full without adding complicated feelings into the mix. What if this is all in your head? What if he is just being polite and you are turning it into something bigger because you are not used to attention from boys like him? What if tonight is normal and friendly and you walk back to your room later feeling silly for letting yourself hope for anything more? You don’t remember getting down. When you push open the hostel door and step outside, the evening air hits your face gently. For a second all you can hear is your own heartbeat being louder than it has any right to be. But that’s when you see him. Bucky is leaning against his bike exactly the way you imagined he would be, like he belongs there, like waiting for people outside dorms is just another ordinary part of his day. He looks up the moment you appear, and the second his eyes land on you, something in his expression changes. A playful whistle slips out before you can even take three steps toward him. “Okay, wow… yeah, hi. You look… really pretty.” Nobody ever just says things like that to you so casually. Nobody ever looks at you like that either, like you are something worth pausing for. You have no idea what to do with it. “I… um… thank you,” you manage, this is as flustered as you can get and it’s not even two minutes in. He smiles at the reaction instead of pretending not to notice it. “No, seriously. I’m glad you didn’t bail on me.” “I almost did,” you admit before you can stop yourself. “I mean… not because of you… God, no. Just because I thought maybe you forgot.” His eyebrows lift slightly. “Forgot?” “Yeah,” you are suddenly aware of how silly it sounds out loud. “You didn’t ask for my number and I didn’t have yours and I just… I don’t know, I figured maybe you say things like that to people all the time.”

He studies you for a moment.

“Hey… no. I don’t do that. If I say I’ll show up, I show up.”

He says it like he actually means it, and you hate how much relief that gives you.

“Good to know,” you mumble, suddenly very interested in the ground.

He reaches for the helmet hanging on the handlebar. “C’mere.”

Before you can process what is happening, you’re stepping closer, his hands are gently lifting the helmet over your head. He adjusts it carefully, fingers brushing your hair back so it sits properly, tugging the strap under your chin with an ease that makes your stomach flip.

“Hold still for a second,” he murmurs.

“I am holding still,” you answer, trying very hard not to focus on how close he is.

“Yeah but you’re holding still like you’re nervous.”

“I am nervous.”

He chuckles softly. “That’s kind of cute, you know.”

The buckle clicks into place and he gives the top of the helmet a small affectionate tap. “There. Perfect.”

You genuinely have to remind yourself to breathe.

Climbing onto the bike feels a little easier this time, but not by much. Your hands settle on his sides again and you wonder if he can feel how tense you are through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“You good back there?”

“Uh-huh, yeah,” even though your heart is doing ridiculous things.

The ride to the restaurant passes in a blur of lights. It feels different tonight, less awkward and more intimate, like you are sharing a small secret with him that the rest of the world does not get to see.

When he finally pulls up in front of the place, he turns back slightly. “Hope you like Italian. If not, pretend you do for my ego.”

“I like Italian,” you answer quickly. “I mean… pasta is good. Pizza is good. Food in general is good.”

“That might be the most honest review I’ve ever heard,” he laughs.

Everything inside feels new and a little intimidating in the way unfamiliar restaurants always do. Bucky opens the door for you without making it feel like a grand gesture, just a simple natural thing, and you slip inside with a quiet thank you.

He pulls out the chair for you at the table.

Nobody has ever done that for you before.

“You don’t have to do all this,” you say, sitting down carefully.

“I like doing it.”

The menu becomes a safe distraction for a few minutes, something to focus on so you do not have to keep wondering what to do with your hands or your face or your nerves.

“Order whatever you want,” he tells you. “Don’t do that thing where you pick the cheapest thing to be polite.”

“I was not going to do that,” you lie.

“You absolutely were.”

“Okay maybe a little,” you admit, smiling despite yourself.

The waiter arrives and Bucky waits for you to speak first, like your choice matters more than his. You stumble through your order with a little too much hesitation, suddenly hyper aware of how ordinary your preferences sound out loud.

“That’s a solid choice,” he says once the waiter leaves.

“I don’t do adventurous very well,” you confess. “I like safe food.”

“Nothing wrong with safe. Safe is good sometimes.”

Conversation should feel awkward. It usually does for you. Sitting with new people always involves long pauses and overthinking and trying to figure out when to talk and when to stay quiet. But with him, words seem to find their way out more easily than expected.

“So,” he leans back in his chair, “tell me something about you that isn’t related to med school.”

Your brain blanks immediately. What’s there not related to notes, day-old scrubs and stethoscopes?

“That’s… a hard question.”

“Come on, there has to be something. Hobbies, embarrassing talents, secret dreams.”

“I can touch my nose with my tongue,” you blurt out, then immediately want to sink into the floor. Bucky stares at you for a second and then bursts out laughing, real and completely unfiltered. “That is not what I expected.” “You said embarrassing,” you defend yourself, your voice is small like that of a child, cheeks burning a little too much. “No, that’s perfect. I’m genuinely impressed.” The way he laughs makes it easier to relax. It makes you feel less like a nervous junior and more like an actual person sitting across from another actual person. He tells you stories while you wait for the food, small funny things about his friends and the chaos of fourth year. You learn that he drinks too much coffee and hates morning rounds and once fell asleep standing up during a lecture. None of it sounds like the larger than life version of him people whisper about. It just sounds human. “So you really did all that work just because I asked?” he asks at one point.

“Yeah… I complain a lot but I’m bad at saying no.” “I’m sorry about that, by the way.” “About what?” “Putting it on you like that. I should have asked properly instead of… whatever that was.”

The apology catches you off guard. You had not expected that from him at all. “It’s okay. I survived.” “Still… thank you. Really.” Food arrives and fills the table with warm comforting smells, and for a while the conversation slows into easy quiet. He asks if you like it and you nod with your mouth full, making him grin. He pays attention in a way that surprises you. Notices when your glass is empty. Notices when you hesitate over the dessert menu. Notices little things you are not used to anyone noticing. “You don’t talk much,” he says suddenly.

“I know.” “Is it because you’re shy or because you think everyone else is dumb?” A small laugh escapes you. “Definitely the first one.” “That’s a shame. I think you probably have smart things to say.” Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. “You don’t even know me that well.” “I know enough… and id like to know more.” Somewhere between the main course and dessert, the nervous knot inside you loosens. You start answering more without overthinking every word. You ask him questions too, and he answers without making you feel like a kid for asking. This feels entirely new but safe. Things that usually don’t belong together for you. By the time the plates are empty and the bill arrives, you realize with a tiny jolt that you do not actually want the evening to end yet. “Ready?” he asks.

You’re not. “Yeah.”

“So,” he says as you reach the bike, “dinner was okay.” “Dinner was really nice,” you correct. “Thank God. Because I was low key worried you’d hate my choice and never talk to me again.” “I would have at least finished the food before ignoring you.”

“You definitely know how to humble a guy,” he laughs. You stand there just looking at him, helmet in your hands, trying to hold on to the feeling of the evening before it slips away into ordinary life again. He looks at you with that same easy smile he had when you first came downstairs, but now it feels different. “Thanks for coming out with me.” “Thanks for actually showing up,” you reply before you can stop yourself.

His grin widens. “Told you I would.” As you hand him the helmet so he can help you put it on again, a small undeniable truth settles into your chest. Maybe you are not as immune to Bucky Barnes as you thought you were.

That night he drops you off like nothing extraordinary has happened.

Until you reach the dorm steps, he stands there and makes sure you get inside safely the way he said he would. Just a small wave and a lazy smile.

“Sleep well, okay?” There’s nothing cinematic about it, but it feels like a movie anyway.

You were on your bed for a long time afterward, staring at the ceiling fan and replaying the whole evening in your head from beginning to end, trying to understand how something so normal could feel so important.

You tell yourself not to overthink it. You tell yourself it was only dinner. You tell yourself a lot of sensible things that did absolutely nothing to stop the tiny hopeful flutter still moving around inside your chest.

The first text came later that night.

Bucky: Hey. Did you make it in without tripping over anything?

You laugh out loud because it’s such a ridiculous thing to ask. It felt like he texted because he just had to text.

You: Yes, thank you very much. No accidents reported.

Bucky: Thank god. I was prepared to feel personally responsible.

That’s how it started. Small messages here and there that slowly turned into longer ones without either of you noticing.

Bucky: How was class today?

You: Boring. You?

Bucky: Don't even ask. Surgery rounds are trying to kill me.

He started to slip into your routine in little almost invisible ways. A text in the morning asking if you were awake. Another one in the evening asking if you ate. Sometimes just a random picture of something stupid he saw on campus with a line of commentary that made you smile harder than it should have.

One morning, when you mention that you had skipped breakfast, he shows up outside your lecture hall holding a small paper bag and a cup of coffee.

“You said you didn’t eat,” he hands it over before you could even react.

“I didn’t mean for you to… you know… bring me food.”

“Yeah but I just didn’t want you to starve yourself, so here we are.”

Inside the bag is a sandwich cut neatly in half and a chocolate bar tucked beside it. You do not know what to do except mumble a shy thank you while trying not to look too affected.

You’re not used to people paying attention to small things like that. You’re not used to someone remembering. But here he is, with food, like you’d actually starve if you don’t eat.

Days begin to feel a little brighter with him in them. He waits for you near the library sometimes, pretends it’s a coincidence. You pretend to believe him. He walks you back to your hostel after late study sessions even when it’s slightly out of his way.

“It’s dark, okay. Just let me be dramatic and protective.”

“That is the most ridiculous you’ve ever said.”

“I prefer heroic but sure, we can go with ridiculous.”

He always teases you easily, gently, never in a way that makes you feel small. It always feels like he was trying to pull you out of your shell inch by inch, like he enjoys watching you relax around him.

One afternoon though, he did something that made your entire week.

You had been whining to him about how second years never get to see anything interesting in the operating rooms, how you were always stuck observing minor procedures while the exciting cases went to seniors.

The next day he texted you out of nowhere.

Bucky: Wear clean scrubs and meet me near the main OT at two.

You spent the entire morning confused and curious and a little nervous, and when you show up at the time he asked, he’s already there waiting.

“I pulled some strings... c’mon.”

“Pulled strings for what?”

“For you to watch something actually cool for once.”

He gets you inside an operating room you have no business being in.

You stand against the cool tiled wall with your hands folded awkwardly in front of you, trying very hard to look like you belong.

Bucky leans slightly toward you, voice soft enough that only you can hear. “this is a suspected small bowel perforation.”

Throughout the surgery, he explains before you could even ask anything.

“First perforation ever?” Bucky glances at you with a small smile.

“First case ever.”

He doesn’t seem to miss the awe in your voice. “Not bad, huh?”

Not bad at all.

Afterward you could not stop thanking him.

“You really didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

That sentence becomes a pattern between the two of you. Small thoughtful things wrapped in the same simple logic. I wanted to. I want to.

He learns your coffee order without asking. You learn that he hated pineapple on pizza with an unreasonable passion. You start looking for his face first whenever you enter a room.

Slowly, without any formal decision, you become part of each other’s days.

Evenings often find the two of you sitting on the library steps pretending to study while mostly talking about everything else instead. You told him about your family and how nervous you were on your first day of med school. He told you about his ridiculous group of friends and how he still sometimes felt like he was faking his way through life.

“Everyone is faking it a little.”

“Even you?”

“Have you seen me?”

“Nah,” he chuckles. “You actually know what you’re doing.”

The faith he seems to have in you feels strange but warm and a little dangerous.

Sometimes you catch yourself thinking about him at odd hours, wondering what he might be doing, wondering if he is thinking about you too. The thought would embarrass you immediately afterward, but it never stops coming back.

You try to stay sensible about it. Really.

But he is Bucky Barnes. Charming and confident and surrounded by people all the time.

You are just you, always a little out of place in big social circles. There is no logical reason for him to keep choosing your company, yet he keeps doing it anyway.

One evening he calls instead of texting.

The sound of his voice in your ear makes you realize you had missed it more than you expected.

“Hey… are you busy right now?”

“Not really. Just pretending to study.”

“Perfect. Come downstairs for a bit.”

“Right now?”

In your two years of college life, there wasn’t a day where you’ve not dreamed of a moment like this. But there’s never been a day like this so far.

“Yeah right now. I’m outside.”

You go down in your pajamas and messy hair and he still looks at you like you were worth showing up for.

“I was out with friends, saw this juice you like,” he hands you a juice pouch like it’s no big deal.

He just got you something just because you liked it. You don’t remember the last time someone did that for you.

This shouldn’t make you feel special. But it does anyway.

These little moments pile up quietly. Late night conversations about nothing important. Shared snacks in the canteen. Him saving you from your seniors — who are his juniors by the way — during clinical postings. You helping him organize his notes even though he pretends to not need help.

One day he asks you to help him study for an upcoming exam. Pediatrics. You end up sitting together in an empty classroom for hours, your notebook spread between you while you explain topics he claimed to be terrible at.

“You’re really good at teaching,” he tells you. It’s a simple compliment. But when has there ever been anything simple about him?

“I’m just repeating what the book says.”

“No you’re not. You make it make sense.”

He looks at you with such easy admiration that you have to glance away to hide how much it affect you.

There are days when you wonder how this even happened. How a simple record book favor had turned into shared lunches and inside jokes and a growing comfort that feel suspiciously like happiness.

Your friends start noticing too.

“So are you two like… a thing?” your roommate asks one night while you were smiling at your phone again.

“No. We’re just friends.”

“Friends who text constantly and see each other every day.”

“That is literally what friends do.”

She gives you a look that says she absolutely does not believe you.

The truth is you don’t know what you are to him. He never defined it. Never said anything that crossed an obvious line. He was just there, steady, present and kind in ways that kept sneaking past your defenses.

You find yourself getting used to it. To him.

That scares you a little.

Because somewhere along the way you stopped thinking of him as just a nice distraction and started thinking of him as part of your life. You started noticing how your mood shifted depending on whether you had seen him that day. You started caring a little too much about how you looked when you knew he would be around.

You are not supposed to get attached. You know that. But knowing something and feeling something are two very different battles.

You spend a lot of time pretending that the little things don’t matter. That you are normal about him. That the way his name lights up on your phone does not rearrange something fragile inside your chest every single time.

It’s been easy mostly. Easier than it should be. You tell yourself it is just convenience, just proximity, just two people whose schedules keep overlapping like stubborn lines on a calendar. You are busy, he is busy, and somewhere in the middle of all that busyness you keep finding each other.

But tonight feels different in a way you can’t explain without sounding ridiculous even to yourself.

Maybe it is because he texted you at three in the afternoon asking if you wanted to grab something after your class, and you typed back a yes before you could think about it too hard. Maybe it is because you are sitting beside him now on the couch in his apartment with the television in the background like a polite third person trying not to interrupt.

Whatever it is, this is different.

You have been here before. Not like this, but close. Close enough that you know he keeps his spare blanket folded over the arm of the couch, close enough that you know he taps his fingers against his knee when he is trying to decide what to say next.

He is doing that now.

Tap tap tap.

“You look tired,” he’s always observant in that annoyingly careful way he has.

“I am tired.”

“Long day?”

“Long week. Long month. Long life, honestly.”

He laughs at that, pulling a smile out of you too.

“You wanna head home?”

The question catches you off guard because it is gentle and easy and leaves room for you to say yes without pressure. And for some reason that makes you want to say no.

“Not really.”

“Okay.”

Just okay. He stretches one arm across the back of the couch behind you. You think it might touch your shoulder. But it doesn’t, at least not yet.

The silence makes you aware of the small things, like like the way his knee is angled toward yours, like the way your foot is almost brushing his on the rug.

You start talking to fill it because you always do.

About a patient who made you laugh today. About the vending machine that ate your last twenty. About how you might actually be developing a caffeine dependency that deserves medical attention.

He listens to you like he always does, mouth twitching at the corners when you get animated.

Somewhere in the middle of your story you realize he is watching you a little too closely. The realization makes the words wobble in your throat.

“What?” you ask finally, because you’re self conscious and him watching you isn’t helping at all.

“Nothing.”

“No, you are doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you look at me like you know something I don't.”

His mouth curves. “I do know something you don’t.”

“And what’s that?” At this point, you’re wondering if you have clown makeup on because that’s how intense his look is.

“I know that we’re alone because Sam is out with his girlfriend.”

“That is incredibly unhelpful right now. And for the record, I know it too.” You roll your eyes, but you are smiling.

The movie he put on earlier plays forgotten in front of you. Some action thing you stopped following twenty minutes ago. You can hear it more than you can see it, explosions and dramatic music bleeding into the background of the room.

He shifts beside you, turning a little more toward you on the couch. The movement is small but it changes everything. Suddenly his leg is closer. Suddenly his shoulder is closer. Suddenly everything is closer.

He lifts his arm in an invitation, like this is the most normal thing in the world. Absolutely no words and yet you understand.

It shouldn’t feel like such a big decision to lean over a few inches. It shouldn’t make your heart start thudding. But it does.

You tell yourself not to be weird about it. You tell yourself this is nothing.

When you shift closer, his arm settles around your shoulders without ceremony. “Much better.”

You huff out a laugh and let your head rest back against the couch, trying very hard not to think about the way his thumb is brushing idly against your upper arm through your sleeve.

Minutes pass like that. Or maybe it is seconds. Time feels like a traitor you cannot trust.

You can feel the rise and fall of his chest beside you. You can smell the faint clean scent of him. You can hear the movie and the city outside.

All of it feels louder than usual.

“You cold?” he asks after a while.

“A little.”

He reaches for the spare blanket without letting go of you, drapes it over your legs with unnecessary care, tucking it around your knees. The gesture is so domestic it makes your throat tighten for reasons you refuse to unpack.

“Better?”

“Better.” Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to.

His hand doesn’t leave your arm. If anything, it drifts lower, resting just above your elbow, fingers tracing lazy patterns that make it hard to breathe normally.

You should probably say something. Make a joke. Lighten the moment. But every sentence you think of feels like a landmine you’d be stepping on.

You just sit there and let it happen.

“You know,” he says eventually, “you are very easy to be around.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah.”

“Most people would disagree.”

“Most people are wrong.”

Your chest does that stupid flutter again. “You just… say that to everyone?”

He turns his head to look at you properly then, and the teasing drops out of his face.

“No.” Just one word.

You become aware, all at once, of how close your faces are. Of how if you turned your head a few inches your nose would brush his. Of how his mouth is right fucking there.

Your brain scrambles for something normal to say.

“It is getting late.”

“Yeah.” Neither of you move to do anything about it.

His eyes drop to your lips and then back up again so quickly you almost convince yourself you imagined it. Almost.

“I should probably go,” you say, even though your body makes no attempt to follow through.

“You could.”

“You are not making a very strong argument for it.”

“I am not trying to.”

Your pulse kicks up, so loud you doubt if he could hear it too, but then you remember it’s inside your body and he will be unaware of it unless his hand makes contact with that point of you.

“Bucky.”

“Yeah?”

“What are we doing?”

He takes a breath slowly, like he is choosing his words carefully.

“Right now? Sitting on my couch.”

“You know what I mean.”

A small smile tugs at his mouth. “I think we are figuring it out.”

It’s a fucking line. He’s probably bluffing. He probably says that to all his flings. That answer should annoy you. Somehow it doesn’t.

His hand slides a fraction lower, resting at your forearm now, thumb warm against your skin. You can feel the calluses on his fingers.

The distance between you feels thinner with every breath. You can see the faint flecks of color in his eyes, the tiny scar near his eyebrow, the way his lashes cast shadows against his cheeks.

He tilts his head a little, searching your face like he is waiting for permission he does not want to assume. “Tell me to stop.”

Your heart trips over itself. “Stop what?” your voice is barely a whisper.

“Whatever this is about to be.”

You should say it. You know you should. This is complicated and messy and you promised yourself you would be sensible.

But sensible feels very far away right now.

“I don’t… I don't want you to stop.”

The words come out like a breath, almost worrying you that you imagined saying them.

He hears you though. You can tell by the way his shoulders relax, by the way his hand finally moves from your arm to your jaw, cupping it gently like something precious.

Your body moves towards him before your brain can catch up.

It’s hard to think.

The first brush of his lips against yours is careful. Like he is still expecting you to change your mind. It is soft and warm and nothing like the dramatic movie kisses you have built up in your head.

It feels real.

You lean in without thinking, closing the tiny space between you, and he makes a sound that you feel more than hear.

The kiss deepens slowly, two people learning the shape of each other in real time. His fingers slide into your hair, and you find yourself gripping the front of his shirt like you need something to anchor you.

It is unplanned and honestly a little clumsy in the best way.

“Is this okay?” he asks against your mouth.

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Bucky, please stop asking before I lose my nerve.”

A quiet laugh escapes him. He is kissing you again, a little more confident this time, a little less restrained.

Your brain goes pleasantly fuzzy. Every worry you walked in with dissolves into the simple fact of him and you and the warmth building between you.

His hand slips to your waist, drawing you closer, and you let yourself melt into him because pretending you do not want to feels impossible now.

You are very aware that this is a line. A big one. A bold neon line you are stepping over with both feet.

But right now you cannot find it in yourself to care.

The world narrows to the feeling of his mouth on yours, to the way he says your name like it means something important, to the way your heart pounds with a mixture of excitement and fear and something dangerously close to hope.

The kiss lingers like a question neither of you wants to answer just yet, his mouth moving against yours in a rhythm that feels both new and inevitable, pulling you deeper into a haze where everything else fades out.

You can taste the faint bitterness of coffee on his tongue, which he drank before you got here, and it mixes with the sweetness of the gum you'd chewed nervously on the way over, creating this odd, intimate flavor that's just yours and his right now.

His hand stays tangled in your hair, your fingers clutch at his shirt tighter, feeling the fabric bunch under your palms, the heat of his chest seeping through, and suddenly it's not enough.

You need more. You need to feel skin instead of cotton, need to know if his heart is racing as much as yours is.

Without breaking the kiss, you tug at the hem, pulling it up inch by inch, your knuckles grazing the smooth plane of his stomach. He gets the hint immediately, leaning back just enough to help you yank it over his head in one fluid motion that leaves his hair a little messy, falling over his forehead in a way that makes him look less put-together than the confident senior everyone sees.

"You sure about this?" he murmurs against your lips, you can feel that he's holding back but needs to check anyway, his breath warm on your cheek as his eyes search yours in the dim light.

There's no pressure in it, just genuine care mixed with that quiet intensity he always carries, the kind that makes you feel seen without feeling exposed.

And god, you are sure… surer than you've been about anything in weeks, even though your mind is a whirlwind of half-formed questions tumbling over each other: what if this changes everything, what if it's too fast, what if you mess it up somehow.

But none of that stops the yes from spilling out, because the way he's looking at you right now, like you're the only thing in his world, drowns out the doubts.

A small smile tugs at his mouth before he kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding under your shirt to trace the curve of your back, fingers splaying wide against your skin, sending sparks everywhere they touch.

The contact makes your breath hitch, you arch into him. He takes that as his cue, lifting the fabric slowly, giving you every chance to pull away if you want.

You don't. Lifting your arms instead, you let him peel it off, the cool air of the room hitting your bare shoulders and making you shiver, though it is definitely not from the cold.

It's from the way his gaze drops, taking you in with awe that feels almost unfair, like he's memorizing every inch.

Left in your bra and the simple jeans you'd thrown on earlier, you feel heat creep up your neck, but he doesn't give you time to overthink it.

His mouth finds the spot just below your ear, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw that make your eyes flutter shut.

"God, you're beautiful," he whispers, and it's not said like a line. It's mumbled, almost to himself, like he couldn't help it, that makes your hands reach for him again, tracing the lines of his shoulders.

He's solid and warm, the kind of presence that fills the space without overwhelming it, and you wonder briefly how many times he's done this, how easy it seems for him, but the thought evaporates when his lips find yours once more, pulling you back into the moment.

Your fingers fumble with his belt, nerves making them clumsy, warranting his help, as he undoes it with a quiet chuckle that breaks the tension just enough to make you smile against his mouth.

"No rush," he says, his voice steady even as his hands work at the button of your jeans, popping it open with a gentleness that contrasts the heat building between you. "We got time."

Maybe. Yes.

Sam's out, there’s no one here except you two. But the muffled sounds of neighbors through the thin dorm walls remind you that this is real life, not some polished fantasy, making this somehow urgent.

As he slides your jeans down your hips, he helps you kick them off without any awkward tangles.

The cotton of your bra and panties feel suddenly too thin under his gaze. You would’ve have worn something sexier if you knew this would happen.

Sitting back on his heels to look at you properly, he pauses. His eyes have gone dark but soft, his hands resting lightly on your thighs.

"Still good?" His thumb rubs small circles on your skin, the simple touch sending a jolt straight through you, making it hard to think straight.

You want more, but you’re also scared of wanting more, excited and overwhelmed all at once. But your body knows, nodding before you can form words, "Yeah, don't stop.” Stopping now would feel like cutting off a breath you didn't know you needed.

With that, he scoops you up effortlessly, one arm under your knees and the other around your back, lifting you bridal style. You let out a surprised gasp that turns into a laugh, your arms looping around his neck as he carries you the short distance to his bedroom.

The door's half-open already, and he nudges it wider with his foot, the room spilling into view: unmade bed with sheets twisted from whatever sleep he got last night, a desk piled with notes and a near empty water bottle, posters on the wall from bands you vaguely recognize.

It's lived-in, personal.

He lowers you onto the mattress, the springs creaking softly under your weight.

He follows you down, bracing himself above you on one elbow, his free hand trailing up your side as he kisses you again, slower now, like he's savoring it.

The bed dips under him, the pillow sinking a bit as your head rests back. You can feel the warmth of his body hovering just over yours, close enough to tease but not quite pressing down.

His fingers dance along your ribs, light, exploratory, absolutely maddening.

You need more, you need him to touch you properly. There’s the ache building low in your belly making you shift restlessly beneath him.

Without thinking, you reach for his hand, guiding it up to your chest, pressing it against your bra.

Surprised, he pulls back, a slight smirk playing on his lips as he looks down at you. "That eager, huh?" he teases, his voice laced with amusement.

"Tell me what you want.”

It’s absolutely impossible to word it, word what you want, as his thumb circles your nipple over the fabric. It's so close to what you need but not quite, making you whine softly in frustration.

"Just... touch me," you finally manage, the words coming out breathier than you intended,

He's already moving, his fingers deftly reaching behind you to unhook your bra with a single flick that speaks volumes about how many times he's done this before.

How many girls has he brought here, made feel like this? A spike of insecurity flickers, but it vanishes the second his mouth descends, warmth closing over one nipple while his hand cups the other, thumb circling in a way that makes your back arch off the bed.

Pleasure shoots through you, pulling a moan from your throat that surprises even you. It’s loud in the quiet room, echoing off the walls.

You're not usually like this, not vocal, always holding back out of some ingrained habit of keeping things contained, but here it spills out unfiltered.

He seems to notice it because frankly, it’s hard to miss. "That's it, lemme hear you… don't hold back if it feels good." His encouragement is gentle, making the next moan come easier, louder, as his tongue flicks and sucks, alternating sides until you're squirming beneath him, hands threading through his hair to hold him there.

Bucky takes his time, drawing it out, lips and teeth grazing just enough to tease the line between pleasure and ache, his free hand sliding down to grip your hip, fingers digging in slightly as if to steady you, or maybe himself. You’re not sure.

The sane part of your brain slips away with every pass of his mouth.

With spit shine and swollen lips, he eventually pulls back, his eyes meeting yours with a heat that mirrors the fire building in you.

"You're so responsive.” He's marveling at it, at you, his hand trailing down from your breast to hook into the waistband of your panties, tugging gently.

"Lift up for me, baby," the word baby slips out casually and affectionate, like he's said it a hundred times, making you obey without hesitation.

The fabric is peeled down your legs, and tossed over onto the floor, forgotten.

Now fully exposed, the vulnerability hits you for a split second. You feel the cool air on bare skin, but more than that, you feel his gaze.

When you break eye contact, he shifts down the bed with a purposeful grace, settling between your thighs. His hands part them gently, thumbs stroking the sensitive inner skin.

Anticipation tightens your core, making it impossible not to squirm under his touch. "Relax," he whispers, pressing a kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other, his breath hot against you, making you tremble. "I got you."

The gasp you let out is stifled by your bitten lips, as his own brushes over your core gently.

"No, let it out— wanna hear how good it feels." The encouragement works, pulling another moan from you as his tongue finally presses flat, licking a slow stripe that makes your hips buck involuntarily.

He holds them down with firm hands, keeping you in place as he works, alternating between long, languid strokes and focused circles around that spot that has your vision blurring.

The room narrows to just the wet sounds of his mouth, the way his hair tickles your thighs, and the occasional groan from him like he's enjoying it as much as you are.

The sheets are rumpled from your fists, now they reach for him again, fingers tangling in his hair as the pressure builds, coiling tighter with every flick and suck.

Moans spill freer and louder now, spurred by his murmured approvals like "that's perfect" and "just like that" between breaths.

He's thorough, attentive, reading every reaction and adjusting, drawing it out until you're teetering on the edge, body taut and trembling under his touch.

His tongue keeps that relentless rhythm, dipping and swirling in ways that make your toes curl against the sheets.

The pressure coils tighter and tighter in your belly, a hot insistent build that has you gasping his name in broken syllables, "B-Bucky, oh God.”

Your hips grind up toward his mouth without any real control, chasing that peak.

A sudden and overwhelming wave crashes over you, your whole body tensing and shuddering as pleasure ripples out in waves that leave you trembling. Your muscles quiver in the aftermath, breaths coming in short ragged bursts that echo in the quiet space.

He eases you through it with softer licks that draw out the aftershocks, making your legs twitch and your hands clutch at his hair a little harder before you finally go limp.

You sink back into the pillows with a sigh that feels like it's been pulled from deep in your chest. Pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then your hip, your stomach, he works his way up until his mouth finds yours again, tasting faintly of you in a way that's intimate and a bit dizzying.

"Hey," he murmurs against your lips, and you can feel the smile in it even with your eyes half-closed.

The trembling hasn't stopped entirely, little shivers running through you like echoes of the orgasm. Bucky notices that right away, brow furrowing, like he can't help but worry a little.

"hold on, let me get you some water," you hear him say, watching him through heavy lids as he twists the cap off of the bottle, sitting up a bit to hand it to you, his other hand steadying your back. "Drink this.”

The water hits your throat, the coolness of it washing something in you. He stays close while you drink, and when you hand the bottle back, he sets it aside before stretching out beside you on the bed.

His lips find your jaw first, trail up to your temple, brushing over your hairline in a way that feels almost too tender for what just happened, his breath warm against your skin as he presses another kiss there, then into your hair, like he's content to just lie here and hold you while your body settles.

The closeness wraps around you, his arm draped over your waist, fingers tracing idle patterns on your back that send lazy sparks along your spine.

As the trembling fades, you glance up at him, catching the way his eyes are half-lidded, watching you with that satisfied curve to his mouth.

There’s a confusion in you now. He's still half-dressed, jeans hugging his hips, and the unfairness of it hits you all at once, making you prop yourself up on one elbow, your hand trailing down his chest tentatively, fingers brushing the trail of hair leading lower.

"Wait, what about you?" because this feels lopsided, like he's given everything and taken nothing, and the thought lingers.

He shakes his head as his hand catches yours, bringing it to his lips for a quick kiss on your knuckles. "We don't have to rush the rest… there's always tomorrow, or the day after, whenever you're ready.”

That doesn't sit right, the idea of stopping here, of letting him walk away from this without feeling the same unraveling you just did.

Before you can second-guess it, your mouth forms a pout, lips pressing together in that way you know looks a bit childish but can't help. "But... I need you," you say, the words slipping out bolder than expected, shocking yourself even more, "I need your cock."

Whoa, where did that come from? It's not like you, this blunt courage bubbling up uninvited, heat flushing your face immediately after.

His eyes darken, a slow smile spreading across his face like you've just said something he didn't expect but absolutely likes.

"Say that again?" He slides his hand up your arm to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip as if to coax the words out.

A mix of embarrassment and frustration blooms, and you playfully swat at his chest with the flat of your hand, before your fingers drift lower again, fumbling with his belt buckle.

Avoiding his gaze, you tug at it clumsily. "You heard me."

His larger hand covers yours to undo the buckle with a quiet click, zipper rasping down as he lifts his hips to shove them off along with his boxers in one go, kicking them to the floor where they land in a heap.

He's hard and obviously so, cock springing free and curving up against his stomach, thick and flushed at the tip, veins standing out in a way that makes your mouth go a little dry.

He reaches over to the nightstand drawer, rummaging for a second before pulling out a condom packet, tearing it open with his teeth in that casual, practiced move that speaks to experience without flaunting it.

But before he can roll it on, your hand reaches out, "Wait—I've never, um, put one on before. Can I try?"

A surprised laugh bubbles up from his chest as he hands it over, eyebrows raised in amusement. "You wanna practice on me right now? Like I'm your training dummy or something?"

Lips jutting out again, "Teach me, Bucky… please?" drawing out the please.

He relents with a grin, guiding your hand to him, showing you without turning it into a lecture, "Pinch the tip here, yeah, like that."

His voice hitches when your fingers wrap around him, rolling the latex down slowly, carefully, the warmth of him pulsing under your touch making your breath catch.

Once it's on, he positions himself between your legs again, the weight of him settling over you comfortably, close enough that you feel enveloped, his forearms bracketing your head as he leans down to kiss you.

“You ready?" he murmurs against your mouth. You whisper a yes that's more breath than sound, your hands sliding up his back to pull him closer.

Inch by inch, he pushes in, stretching you in a way that's full and a little overwhelming at first, making you gasp into his shoulder, nails digging into his skin as your body adjusts.

The sensation builds from pressure to pleasure as he bottoms out, holding still for a moment to let you breathe.

"Fuck, you feel good.” The words are muffled against your neck.

The first thrust is steady and unhurried, making you wrap your legs around his waist, heels pressing into the flesh of his ass to urge him deeper.

The headboard taps the wall with each rock of his hips, he finds that angle that makes stars burst behind your eyelids, drawing moans from you that he swallows with kisses.

His own breaths come faster, mirroring yours. "That's it… fuck. Tell me — tell me if it’s too much—"

But it's not. It's perfect, the friction coiling that tension again until you're clinging to him, whispering "harder, please" in his ear.

Immediately he obliges, pace quickening until the room fills with the sounds of skin on skin, your shared gasps.

It builds faster this time, him inside you amplifying everything. You cum with his name on your lips, body clenching around him in waves that pull a deep groan from his throat.

His thrusts stutter as he follows right after, burying his face in your hair while he rides it out, hips pressing flush against yours one last time before he stills.

Somewhere between sleep and waking, you register the sensation of lips moving over your skin, the brush of his mouth along your shoulder, down the curve of your neck. That’s how you know it’s morning.

You stay still and let yourself exist in it.

His lips are softer now than they were in the dark. Curious in a way that feels less like hunger and more like quiet appreciation.

You are aware of your body before you are fully aware of the room. Aware of bare skin against bare skin. Aware of the way the sheets have slipped somewhere near your hips. Aware that you are not wearing anything at all.

There is a quiet exhale against your chest that makes you stir, eyelids fluttering open to a blur of morning light and dark hair bent over you.

“Morning,” he murmurs, sleep still clinging to his voice.

Your brain takes a second to catch up to the situation. To the fact that you are in his bed. That you fell asleep with your legs tangled with his.

You are naked.

He is naked.

You are in his bed.

Oh, also, this is Bucky Barnes.

There is no distance left to pretend this is casual.

“Hey.” His lips trail lower, until they take one nipple into its warmth, until it pebbles.

You open your eyes.

The ceiling above you looks different in daylight. More real. The warmth that had felt so comforting seconds ago now feels dangerously close to exposing something fragile inside you.

This is not something you do.

Not like this.

Not with a senior. Not with someone who walks into rooms and owns them without even trying. Not with someone like Bucky Barnes, who has a reputation that precedes him and a smile that has probably undone half the city.

And definitely not without talking about it first.

He lifts his head slightly when he feels the shift in you, eyes heavy but focused, mouth curving in a lazy smile that looks devastating this close.

“What’s that face for? Did I do something wrong already? Because that would be impressive.”

“No… no, it’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

You do not have an answer that feels safe enough to say out loud. Instead, you trace a line across his shoulder with your fingers just to have something to do, to anchor yourself in something physical.

Last night was not reckless.

It was soft. It was slow. It felt like something building rather than something exploding. There were moments where he had looked at you like you were the only thing in the room, and the memory of it makes your throat ache in a way you do not know how to handle.

But that was night.

Night is easy. Morning is not.

“I’ve just never…” you start, then stop because the sentence feels childish before you even finish it.

“Never what?” he asks gently.

You let out a breath and force yourself to look at him properly. “Never done this with someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“Yeah. You know. Someone… above me. Senior. Someone who has a whole… history.” The last word slips out before you can soften it.

There is a pause. Long enough for you to realize what you have implied.

He studies you for a second, expression unreadable in a way that makes your stomach drop. “A history,” he repeats.

“I didn’t mean it like—”

“It’s fine.” His voice stays even, but something in it shifts just a fraction. “I know what people say.”

You want to take it back immediately. Not because it is untrue, but because it feels unfair in this moment. Because the man in front of you is not the whispered stories or rumors. He is human and still half wrapped around you like he belongs there.

“I just mean,” you try again, “I don’t usually wake up like this. I don’t usually… not talk about things first.”

He searches your face like he is trying to see the shape of what you are really asking. “Are you asking what this is?”

There it is. The question you have been circling since you opened your eyes.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I don’t want to assume.”

His thumb traces a slow line along your hip. “I didn’t think last night felt like an assumption.”

“It didn’t.”

“Did it feel like a mistake?”

The word mistake is a mistake. Because last night felt like the opposite of a mistake. “No,” you say immediately. “No. It didn’t.”

It really didn’t. It felt intentional. It felt chosen. It felt like something that had been building and finally tipped over.

So why does your chest feel tight?

Why does your brain keep whispering that this is exactly how one-night stands begin? Intense, unexpected, and sweet in the morning until reality sets in.

Before you can say anything else, a sharp vibration cuts through the quiet.

His phone.

The sound is coming from somewhere on the floor, probably from his jeans. He groans softly and leans over to grab it, the movement pulling away the warmth that had been pressed against you.

You lie there watching the shift in him as his eyes scan the screen. “Shit, I have to take this,” he says. “Give me two seconds.”

The faint voice from the other side asks him numerous questions about where the hell he is and tells him he will lose his attendance if he isn’t there in ten minutes.

“Fuck — I’m late.” The words are simple. Practical. Normal. But they land like something heavier.

“Late?” you echo, absolutely dreading that you’re stalling him.

“Yeah. I was supposed to be in half an hour ago.” He runs a hand through his hair, already mentally moving into the day ahead. “I didn’t set an alarm.”

Last night definitely didn’t feel like a time where alarms existed.

But mornings come, and they wait for no one.

As he swings his legs off the bed, the sudden absence of him beside you feels enormous. You pull the sheet up instinctively, even though he has already seen every inch of you.

He is moving quickly now, scanning the room for clothes, checking his phone again. “I can drop you off on the way,” he says, distracted but not unkind. “I don’t want you getting a cab this early.”

“It’s fine, I can manage.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He pulls on his jeans, glances back at you. “I’m not just leaving you.”

The reassurance should help. Instead, it tangles with the fear already building in your chest.

As you sit up, the sheet slips down to your waist. The room feels colder without the cocoon of the night around it. You watch him move around the room with practiced ease, like mornings here are routine.

It probably is routine for him.

You hope to God that only covers the ‘waking late’ part and not the ‘because of a one-night stand’ part.

You hate that your brain goes there, but it does. It does because there was no conversation.

It was just skin and warmth and whispered names in the dark.

“Hey,” he says, softer now, noticing the way you have gone quiet. “You okay?”

You nod because that is easier than explaining the way your stomach feels like it is sinking through the mattress.

“Yeah. Just waking up.”

He walks back over, bends slightly so you are eye level. There is something searching in his expression again, something that almost looks like he wants to say more.

“Last night…” he starts, then gives up as his phone buzzes again in his hand.

You take that as a cue to get ready and get the hell out of here.

You tell yourself that is normal. That adults have jobs and responsibilities. That this is not some dramatic movie where the world pauses because two people slept together.

But the fear creeps in anyway. What if it meant more to you than it did to him? What if the softness was just part of who he is?

What if you have stepped into something you cannot handle?

You slide out of bed, gathering your clothes from where they lie scattered. Each piece feels like evidence of something fragile and undefined.

He is already by the door by the time you finish dressing.

You search his face for something. A sign. A clue. A hint that he is about to say, stay. Or this is not nothing. Or we need to talk.

He does not.

He just checks the time again and sighs. “We should go.”

And just like that, you are left with more questions than answers.

It is ridiculous how much power one casual text can have over your entire nervous system.

The pharmacology class becomes ten times harder to sit in when you know it’s Bucky that’s texting you. You wait a full thirty seconds before checking because you refuse to look eager, even if no one can see you.

When you finally glance down, it is exactly what you expected.

Bucky: survived the morning. you alive over there?

That is it. No mention of last night. No shift in tone that would confirm or deny anything that happened between the sheets and the soft early light.

You stare at the screen, rereading the words as if they might rearrange themselves into something more revealing if you look hard enough.

Survived the morning could mean anything. It could mean he is thinking about you. It could mean he is not. It could mean the night was a pleasant distraction before reality resumed its normal rhythm.

Honestly, it was stupid of you to expect that he’d say something over text. At least he doesn’t ghost.

At least he texted.

You tell yourself that if it had meant nothing to him, he would not have bothered. He would have let the day swallow it. He would have gone back to being Bucky Barnes, charming and untouchable, moving from one thing to the next without looking back.

But he texted.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard. Every possible reply feels wrong.

Too warm and you look clingy. Too cool and you risk sounding detached. Too flirty and you might seem like you are assuming something. Too flat and you might seem like you regret it.

Why is this so hard?

Finally, you decide on something light.

You: barely. Caffeine is the reason I’m alive.

You stare at it. Delete it. Type it again with a different emoji. Delete the emoji because that feels like too much. Send it before you can edit it a third time.

The three dots appear almost immediately.

Bucky: that’s concerning. eat something.

Your chest tightens at the simplicity of it. It’s the same tone he uses when he shows up with food because you mentioned skipping breakfast.

You want to read more into it than is there.

You force yourself not to.

You: yes dad.

You cringe as soon as you send it. Now why did you say that? Why are you like this?

His reply comes a few seconds later.

Bucky: don’t start.

You can almost hear the amused warning in his voice. Heat creeps up your neck even though NSAIDs are being discussed right now.

The conversation fades into small exchanges after that. Nothing deep. Nothing that addresses the thing sitting heavily between you like an unspoken question. He tells you medicine rounds ran long. You tell him a patient tried to bribe you with chocolate. He tells you to accept the chocolate next time. You tell him that is unethical. He tells you you are no fun.

It feels almost normal.

Almost.

But beneath every word is a current you cannot ignore.

By the time your class ends and the sky outside has turned that deep dusky blue that makes everything feel a little more fragile, you have replayed every message at least ten times in your head. You have analyzed the speed of his replies, the punctuation, the absence of certain words.

He did not call you baby.

He did not say he missed you.

He did not bring it up.

You tell yourself that maybe he is giving you space. That maybe he is trying not to rush you. That maybe this is what maturity looks like.

But another voice whispers that maybe it did not mean the same thing to him.

That maybe you were one of many mornings.

You hate that thought immediately. It feels unfair. He was soft. He was careful. He had asked you if you were sure. He had not treated you like something disposable.

And yet.

You have heard stories. You have seen the way girls look at him. The way they orbit him like he carries his own gravity.

What if you had stepped into something that was always going to feel bigger to you than it did to him?

By the time you reach the campus courtyard that evening, your chest feels tight with thoughts you cannot shut off.

You had not planned on seeing him, but you know he usually lingers here. A part of you hopes he will not be there so you do not have to figure out how to act. Another part of you hopes he is because not seeing him would feel worse.

He is there.

Of course.

He stands in the middle of a loose circle of friends, laughter carrying easily across the space. Sam is beside him, animated as always, gesturing wildly as he talks about something you cannot hear. A couple of others hover nearby, one of them leaning against Bucky’s shoulder in a way that looks effortless and familiar.

The sight of it makes something twist low in your stomach.

He looks the same as he always does. Relaxed. Confident. At home in his own skin. There is no visible shift that marks him as someone who woke up with you wrapped around him this morning.

Why would there be…

You slow your steps without meaning to. You consider turning around. Disappearing before he notices you. Pretending you are busy.

But then his eyes lift and land on you.

The change is subtle but unmistakable. His body angles slightly in your direction even before he excuses himself. He says something to Sam that makes Sam glance over at you with a knowing grin that immediately makes your face heat.

Bucky makes his way toward you. “Hey.”

You force yourself to meet his eyes without letting the storm inside you show. “Hey.”

“How was your day?”

The question is simple. Ordinary. You search his face for anything that hints at last night, but there is nothing but genuine curiosity.

“It was fine,” you reply, and then immediately hate how flat that sounds. You clear your throat and try again. “Busy. But fine. Yours?”

“Rounds were brutal,” he admits with a small shake of his head. “Chief decided I haven’t stood for 24 hours today.”

His comment makes you laugh despite yourself. “That seems illegal.”

“I’m considering filing a complaint.”

His gaze lingers on you for a second longer than necessary. There is a softness there that makes your pulse stumble, but it is fleeting. You cannot tell if you imagined it.

“You look tired.” He tilts his head slightly like he’s trying to figure something out. “Did you eat?”

The familiarity of the question makes your chest ache. “Yes,” you lie, because admitting you forgot feels too intimate somehow.

His eyes narrow just a fraction like he does not entirely believe you, but he lets it go.

There is a pause, not awkward but not entirely comfortable either. You are hyperaware of the group behind him, of the way laughter erupts suddenly, of the fact that this is his world and you are standing on the edge of it.

“I’ve got a game tonight,” he says after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s gonna run late.”

“Oh,” you say, and hope it does not sound like disappointment. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” He studies your face again, like he is trying to read something you are not saying. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

The question is casual on the surface, but something about the way he says it makes your heart trip.

“Yeah… tomorrow.”

“Okay.” He smiles, that familiar crooked thing that used to make your stomach flip in a lighter way. Now it makes it drop.

He hesitates for half a second, like he might say more. Like he might bridge the gap you are too afraid to cross. Instead, he steps back slightly, already half turning toward his friends.

“Don’t stay up too late,” he adds, almost teasing.

You want to laugh. Instead, you nod.

“Go win your game.”

“Always do.”

He walks back to the group, slipping seamlessly into the rhythm of their conversation. Someone claps him on the back. Someone else throws an arm around his shoulders. He laughs at something Steve says, head tipping back slightly, unbothered.

You stand there like a statue.

Nothing about that interaction confirms your worst fears.

Nothing about it reassures them either.

He did not avoid you. He did not treat you like a stranger. He asked about your day. He said he would see you tomorrow.

And yet the space where a conversation should have been feels cavernous.

You tell yourself you are overthinking. That this is what normal looks like. That not every connection needs a dramatic declaration to validate it.

But as you turn away and start walking, the questions follow you anyway.

Did you move too fast?

Did you blur something that was supposed to stay light?

Are you already more attached than you meant to be?

The next time you see Bucky, he’s waiting for you outside your class. He is just there, eyes scanning the crowd until they land on you, and the way his face shifts when he spots you makes something hopeful spark before you can smother it.

For a split second, everything inside you softens.

He waited. He is physically here.

“Hey.”

You try to keep your expression neutral, like you did not spend half the lecture imagining this exact moment. “Hey. How long have you been standing here?”

“Long enough to hear the professor inside mispronounce drugs. I was tempted to go correct him.”

A quiet laugh escapes you before you can stop it. It feels good. Too good.

“That would’ve gone well.”

“I know. I’m very charming.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Debatable.”

“Ouch.”

You feel easy talking to him like this. Like nothing else is on your mind. But your heart does tighten occasionally, ruining everything.

“Walk with me?” he asks, nodding toward the parking lot.

You hesitate for a fraction of a second, not enough for him to notice, but long enough for you to feel the weight of the decision. You nod anyway.

When your shoulder brushes his, you are hyperaware of it. He does not comment. He just matches your pace.

“You okay?” he asks after a moment, glancing sideways at you. “You’ve been… somewhere else all day.”

“I’ve been in class.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

You force a small shrug. “I’m fine.”

He studies you like he does not entirely believe that, but he does not push further.

When you reach his place, he unlocks the door and steps aside to let you in first. That tiny gesture, that small courtesy, feels more intimate than it should.

The apartment looks the same but also not the same. The familiarity of it hits you harder today. You have been here before, but today it feels different because you woke up in his bed yesterday and left with no answers.

He closes the door behind you and tosses his keys onto the counter.

“Sam’s out,” he says casually, shrugging out of his jacket. “Date night again. I think he’s trying to set a record.”

You nod, even though your stomach flips at the information.

Sam is out. Which means you are alone.

The implication settles between you almost instantly.

“Oh,” you aim for neutral and land somewhere uncertain.

He steps closer without making it dramatic. He always does that, moves into your space like it is the most natural thing in the world. His hand finds your waist, fingers warm through the thin fabric of your shirt.

“I missed you.” The words send a rush of heat through you that you hate for how quickly it responds.

“It’s been one day.”

“Still.”

Before you can think about it, he leans.

The kiss is familiar already, like your mouths have memorized each other. His hand slides up your back, pulling you closer, and your body reacts on instinct, melting into him before your brain catches up.

You let yourself sink into it. Into the warmth and the steady pressure of him. Into the way his hand trails lower to your hip. Into the sound he makes when you kiss him back harder.

But then your brain wakes up again.

Sam is out. You are alone.

He waited for you after class.

Is this because he wanted you, or because he wanted this?

The grip on his shirt loosens slightly, but he picks up on it somehow.

“Hey,” he murmurs against your mouth, not pulling away entirely. “Where’d you just go?”

Nowhere safe.

You step back just enough to create space. “I’m just… tired.” You hate how weak of a lie it is.

You can clearly see him battling confusion. “Tired?”

“Yeah. I didn’t sleep much.”

That part is true. You did not sleep much because your brain just would not shut up.

His hands remain on your waist, not letting go. Almost not wanting to.

“We don’t have to do anything,” he says, searching your face. “I’m not dragging you in here for that.”

The defensiveness in you flares up immediately even though he has not accused you of anything.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I know. I just—” he exhales slowly. “You feel different right now.”

Because you are spiraling.

Because you cannot tell if you are standing at the beginning of something real or in the middle of something casual that you are already too invested in.

Because you keep imagining him bringing other girls here with the same ease.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, which sounds less convincing each time.

He studies you in that steady way that makes it hard to hide. “Talk to me.”

The words are gentle. That almost makes it worse.

What are you supposed to say?

That you are scared you moved too fast. That you are scared he does not see this the way you do. That you are already picturing him getting bored in a week and drifting away like this was just another phase.

You cannot say any of that without sounding dramatic or fucking stupid.

The only sane option feels like distance.

You shift away from him just enough to create it, even though every part of you wants to stay where you are. “I think I’m coming down with something,” you say, reaching for the first excuse that sounds remotely believable. “I’ve felt weird all day.”

The concern on his face is immediate. It wipes away the warmth from a second ago and replaces it with something sharper, focused. “What kind of weird?”

You shrug like it’s nothing. “Just… off. Headache. Maybe.” The lie comes very easily.

He closes the small gap you tried to make, instinct overriding whatever confusion he’s feeling. His hand lifts toward your forehead before you can think of a reason to stop him. His palm settles there, clinical in a way that almost makes you flinch.

“You don’t feel warm,” he says.

Of course you don’t. You’d know if you were febrile. You both would.

“I don’t know.” You pull back a fraction. “I just—” The rest tangles in your throat. “I think I should go.”

He studies you like you’re a case that isn’t lining up with the symptoms. Brows pulling together, jaw tightening slightly as he runs through possibilities that don’t fit.

“You just got here.”

You can feel him trying to reconcile it. Sudden onset vague malaise. Absolutely no convincing clinical picture.

You know he knows.

“I didn’t want to say anything earlier,” you add quickly, filling the silence before he can dissect it. “Didn’t want to make it a thing.”

His gaze doesn’t soften. But there’s less confusion now. More searching.

“You were fine five minutes ago.”

You hate how true that sounds.

“I wasn’t… I just didn’t think about it.”

That part isn’t even a lie. You hadn’t been thinking. Not about consequences. Not about tomorrow. Not about anything but him.

“Don’t be like that,” he says. “If something’s wrong, tell me.”

Something is wrong. It is inside your own head and you do not know how to untangle it without making a mess.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you insist, even though your chest feels tight. “I just need to rest.”

There is a flicker of something in his eyes now. Hurt. Frustration. Maybe both.

“Did I do something?” You hate that you made him think that.

“No,” you answer quickly. “No, you didn’t.”

But you cannot elaborate because the truth is messy and unformed and terrifying.

Reaching for your bag, “I’m gonna go,” you say, keeping your tone as steady as you can manage.

He stands there for a second like he is debating whether to argue. Then he exhales and grabs his keys from the counter.

“I’ll drop you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know. I want to.”

I want to.

The firmness in his voice makes it clear he is not letting you leave alone, and a small part of you is grateful for that even as the rest of you feels like you are sabotaging something you cannot define.

You walk toward the door with him a step behind, the tension between you thick and unspoken.

This is not how you imagined today going.

He had waited for you after class. He had kissed you like he meant it. He had said he missed you.

Yet you are the one walking away.

As he opens the door and gestures for you to step out first, the weight of it settles deeper in your chest.

You are building a wall in real time, brick by careful brick, and you are not even sure what you are protecting yourself from.

Behind you, he locks the door and follows, close enough that you can feel his presence but not touching.

The silence is heavier than any argument that could have happened.

Your phone buzzes halfway through the afternoon. You consider ignoring it just to prove to yourself that you can. That you are not waiting around for him, that your entire mood does not hinge on whatever words appear on your screen next.

You still look immediately.

Bucky: heyy

Bucky: i wanna see you. if you’re feeling up for it. will be near your block after your last class. maybe wait by the entrance? no pressure.

He did not say come over. He did not ask if you are free. He said he wants to see you.

Your brain — traitor that it is — immediately begins its spiral. Maybe he just feels bad about yesterday. Maybe he thinks you were actually sick. Maybe he is trying to smooth something over. Maybe he is bored.

Fuck.

Maybe he just wants you.

You force yourself to be normal.

You: yeah. i’ll be there.

He reacts with a simple thumbs up.

By the time your last class ends, your nerves feel stretched thin. You tell yourself this is stupid. You are not walking into a confession. You are not walking into a breakup. You are walking outside your own building to meet someone who asked to see you.

Still, your palms feel slightly damp.

The doors swing open and voices spill across the courtyard in overlapping bursts of laughter and conversation. You scan automatically for him, heart already climbing into your throat.

It takes less than five seconds to find him.

Not alone.

A small group surrounds him, the kind of cluster that forms around someone people gravitate toward without even meaning to.

Steve stands on his left, animated as always, gesturing with both hands while he talks. Sam leans back against the wall with that amused, observant look he wears when he is about to make a comment no one asked for.

And then there is a flash of red.

She is standing close to him. Close enough that her shoulder nearly brushes his chest.

Natasha.

You have seen her before, of course. It would be impossible not to. Red hair that catches light like it knows it is being watched, sharp eyes that miss nothing, posture that suggests she does not need to raise her voice to command attention.

Right now, her fingers are at his collar. Adjusting.

She smooths the fabric down, straightens it slightly, then taps his chest like she is approving her own work.

There is familiarity in it that feels intimate even from a distance.

Your stomach drops so fast it almost feels physical.

That is not a friendly distance. That is not casual. That is close enough to touch without thinking about it.

Your brain does not wait for logic. It does not ask questions. It fills in blanks you never agreed to.

She fixes his clothes because she has done it before.

She stands that close because she is allowed to.

You are just another girl who showed up for a week.

You take an unconscious step back, already calculating the fastest way to turn around without being obvious. You could say you forgot something. You could pretend you never saw his text, even though you’ve replied to it. You could avoid the humiliation of walking over there like you belong.

Before you can pivot fully, his head lifts and eyes find you immediately.

There is no hesitation in the recognition. The moment he sees you, his expression shifts in a way that feels unmistakable. Something bright flickers there. Relief, maybe. Something softer than the grin he wears with the rest of them.

“There you are.”

Your body freezes mid-retreat.

He steps away from the group without thinking twice, closing the space between you in a few long strides. You have no choice but to stay where you are unless you want to make it obvious you were about to flee.

“Thought you were gonna ditch me.”

“I was literally just walking out.”

“Sure.” There’s just that faint teasing curve of his mouth.

Over his shoulder, you can feel the group’s attention shift.

“Come here.” He reaches for your hand. There’s no time for you to overthink or even think for that matter.

The contact is warm and familiar and it sends a rush of conflicting emotions through you. You let him guide you toward them even though every insecure thought in your head is screaming that you do not belong in this circle.

He says your name easily. Naturally. Not as an afterthought.

Shit, he’s introducing you to them.

But it’s just your name. There’s no label that follows.

Of course there is nothing to add. What would he even say?

This is the girl I slept with.

This is the girl I’m seeing.

This is the girl I don’t know what to call yet.

You force a polite smile as he gestures around.

“You know Sam,” he continues. “That’s Steve. And this menace is Nat.”

Nat’s gaze shifts to you fully now. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you reply, hoping your voice does not betray the way your stomach is still tangled.

Sam offers you an easy grin. “So this is who he ditched us for the other night.”

Heat floods your face instantly.

Bucky shoots him a look. “Shut up.”

“What? I’m just saying.” Sam shrugs.

Steve, ever diplomatic, steps in smoothly. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Finally.

The word echoes in your head.

Finally suggests there has been discussion. Anticipation. Awareness.

You glance at Bucky instinctively, searching his expression for any hint that he is uncomfortable, embarrassed, anything.

He does not look embarrassed.

If anything, he looks almost… pleased.

His hand rests lightly at your lower back now. The gesture is subtle but grounding, and it only confuses you further.

If Nat meant something more, would he touch you like this in front of her?

If you meant something more, would he have said it out loud?

Conversation resumes around you, overlapping. You answer when spoken to. You nod. You laugh at the right moments. But your thoughts keep circling back to the image of Nat’s fingers at his collar, smoothing, straightening, touching.

He does not pull away from you once. If anything, he shifts closer as the minutes pass, angling his body slightly so you are not on the edge of the circle but tucked nearer to him.

Sometime later, he leans down slightly toward your ear. “You good?”

“Yeah.”

His eyes linger on your face for half a second, like he is trying to read what you are not saying.

“Walk with me?”

You nod before you can second guess it.

His hand slides more firmly around your waist this time as he guides you away from the group.

You can feel Nat’s gaze on your back as you leave, or maybe that is just your imagination refusing to calm down.

The motorcycle waits a few steps away, gleaming faintly in the lowering light. He stops beside it but does not let go of you immediately.

“What’s going on in that head?” His voice is softer now that you are alone.

“Nothing.” Nothing feels like the only safe answer.

He huffs out a quiet breath. “You’re terrible at lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Okay.” You can tell he’s still not convinced.

The closeness of him is distracting. His hand is still at your waist, resting just above your pelvis. You can feel the warmth of it through the fabric and it makes your thoughts even more tangled.

“Where are we going?” You want to change the subject.

“It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is when they involve you.”

A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “Wow. I feel attacked.”

“Just tell me.”

He hesitates for dramatic effect, then leans in slightly, voice dropping. “Where else?”

Your breath catches before you can stop it.

“Bucky.”

“My place,” he finishes, like it is obvious.

Of course it is.

The words hit differently now, layered with everything your mind has been chewing on for the past twenty-four hours.

My place.

Is that all this is?

Your heart thuds against your ribs, too loud, too fast. You tell yourself you are being unfair. You tell yourself he invited you to meet his friends. He introduced you. He did not hide you. He did not flinch.

And yet the image of Nat’s fingers at his collar refuses to fade.

“Okay.” You hope he cannot hear the storm building behind the single word.

His hand squeezes your waist lightly before he finally lets go to grab his helmet, and the absence of his touch feels colder than it should.

Bucky’s place feels too quiet for the amount of noise in your head. He drops his keys into the bowl by the counter and turns toward you. There is no visible tension in him, no sign that he feels the way you’ve been feeling.

“You’ve been kinda weird lately… you mad?”

The softness in his voice makes it worse. It would be easier if he were careless.

He reaches for you when you don’t answer, hands sliding to your waist with an easy familiarity. Sitting back onto the couch, he pulls you with him, guiding you until you are straddling his lap, knees pressing into the cushions on either side of his thighs.

It happens naturally, like your bodies already know the choreography.

His mouth finds yours before you can think too hard about it. The kiss is warm. You can feel your breathing get uneven as his fingers resume their path on your body.

His lips trail from yours to your jaw, then lower, pressing unhurried kisses along your neck. Heat spreads beneath your skin where he lingers.

Your hands rest on his shoulders, and for a moment you almost let yourself fall into it.

Almost.

Because the image of Nat leaning in, adjusting his collar with that quiet confidence, flashes again. At the worst possible moment. Because you do not know what you are to him.

“Bucky…”

He hums against your skin. “Mhmm?”

“What is this?”

His mouth stills. “What is what?”

“This,” you repeat, gesturing helplessly between your bodies while still sitting in his lap. “Us coming here. Sam conveniently being out. You kissing me like nothing’s complicated.”

His confusion deepens, and he looks genuinely lost. “I’m kissing you because I want to.”

“That doesn’t answer anything.”

“It kind of does.”

A sharp exhale leaves you in frustration. “No, it doesn’t, Bucky.”

With his hands steady at your waist now, he shifts in his place. “Okay. Then tell me what you’re asking.”

“Am I just… part of something casual to you?” The words finally come, absolutely rushed. “Because that’s what it feels like sometimes.”

His expression changes in a way you cannot immediately name. You know it’s not anger. Probably something closer to disbelief.

“Casual?” he repeats carefully.

“I saw her,” you blurt it out. “Nat. Fixing your collar like she’s done it a hundred times. And Steve said finally, like I’m the last to know something. And you didn’t say anything when you introduced me, you just said my name. Like that’s all there is.”

“There is more.”

“Then what is it? Because from where I’m sitting it feels like I’m the only one trying to figure it out.”

The irony isn’t lost on you, and you don’t give him space or time to respond.

“I don’t do this… I don’t sleep with someone and then just pretend it’s fine without knowing what it means. I don’t wake up next to someone and spend the whole day wondering if I just made myself convenient.”

His hands tighten slightly at your hips at the mention of convenience.

“And before you say I’m overthinking… I know your thing. Everyone knows. You don’t exactly have a reputation for… consistency.”

“That’s a polite way to put it.” He exhales, trying to look as unbothered as possible.

“I’m serious,” you insist. “I don’t wanna be another girl you had fun with until something better came along. I don’t want to be someone in your rotation. I don’t want to feel stupid for catching feelings when you’re just—” you stop at that because the next words just wouldn’t come.

“Just what?”

“Just being you.”

He doesn’t respond. You hate that he doesn’t respond. That’s when you realise you’re still straddling him, still close enough to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, still close enough to feel the unmistakable press of his length against you. Even in the middle of this.

How can someone be turned on in such a situation, you genuinely do not know.

“And don’t laugh,” you add, because his mouth twitches. “If you laugh I will actually leave.”

“I’m not laughing at you… I’m just trying to figure out how you managed to build an entire alternate reality without asking me a single question.”

“I’m asking now.”

“Yeah. After deciding all the answers.”

“Because you never said anything.”

Bucky studies your face, eyes searching in a way that makes your pulse pound. “You want me to say it?”

“Say what?”

“That I haven’t always been great at this.” He nods slowly, almost to himself. “Fine. I haven’t. I’ve dated around. I’ve kept things light. I liked that it was easy. There weren’t any expectations. People knew the deal.”

The honesty stings more than you expect.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“But that’s not what this is.”

The firmness in his voice makes you want to hide yourself, but still you look at him. “Then what is it?”

He looks back at you like he’s choosing his words carefully. Or you think that’s what he’s doing. “Do you remember the first time we talked?”

“Of course I do.”

“I was an ass. I handed you my record book like it was nothing.”

“You were,” you mutter.

A faint smile touches his mouth. “Yeah. I was used to people just… going along with whatever I asked. And then you looked at me like I had personally offended your entire bloodline.”

Despite everything, a reluctant breath of laughter leaves you.

“I — I noticed you before that… I’d heard your answers in rounds. Seen your handwriting in the logbooks. You don’t try to stand out, but you do anyway. I kept waiting for a reason to talk to you that didn’t sound stupid.”

Your heartbeat stutters.

“The record book was the only excuse I had,” he admits. “And then you said yes even though you clearly didn’t want to, and I felt like a jerk the entire walk back to my room.”

That catches you off guard. “You did not.”

“I did.” His gaze does not waver. “Because I knew you weren’t like the others. You weren’t trying to impress me. You weren’t flirting. You were annoyed. And I still kept thinking about you… I’ve liked you since then. Not in a casual way. Definitely not in a ‘let’s see what happens’ way.”

“I kissed you because I wanted you. I slept with you because I thought we both wanted it. And it was never convenient. It was anything but convenient… because every time you look at me like you’re trying to decide whether I’m worth the trouble, it drives me insane.”

Heat rises to your face.

“Nat fixing my collar means nothing,” he adds as an afterthought. “She’s been doing that since first year. Also she’s dating some girl. And Steve said ‘finally’ because he’s tired of listening to me talk about you and not doing anything about it.”

“You talk about me?” The question feels fragile, but absolutely unnecessary and useless from what you’ve been hearing so far.

“Constantly,” he says without hesitation. “To the point where Sam told me to either ask you out properly or shut up… apparently it’s hard being my roommate.”

Your mind struggles to reconcile that with the version of him you built in self defense.

“I have been a guy who keeps things surface level,” he goes on, not flinching from it. “I liked not having to care too much. But with you it hasn’t been surface level. At all. I just… didn’t know how to shift gears without scaring you… so no,” he says, more quietly now. “You’re not part of a rotation. There isn’t one. Not anymore.”

The words make you feel absolutely stupid and make you smile at the same time.

“And if you think I brought you around my friends because you’re temporary… then you really don’t know me as well as I hoped you did.”

Now guilt seeps in because you just built this whole picture in your head that couldn’t be the farthest from reality.

You start to slide off his lap, embarrassment flooding in, but his hands hold you there gently.

“Don’t go,” he murmurs.

“I just— I made a fool of myself.”

The corner of his mouth tilts in a smile. “Yeah… a little.”

“Bucky!”

“I’m not making fun of you.” His grip on your waist tightens, reassuring you. “I like that you cared enough about this to spiral a little.”

Your eyes sting again, but for a different reason.

He shifts subtly beneath you, and the movement reminds you once more of the hard length pressing against you.

“Also,” he adds, voice dropping, “for someone who thinks this is casual, you’ve been sitting on my lap for ten minutes while I’m very obviously not neutral about you.”

Your mouth opens in a soft ‘O’ at the attention he just called to himself.

His grin spreads slowly now. “You get so worked up… and it’s distracting.”

“Distracting how?”

His thumbs trace idle patterns at your waist. “You’re so hot when you’re mad. I’ve been trying to focus on what you’re saying and all I can think about is how badly I want to kiss you again.”

The sincerity in his voice cuts through the last of your doubt.

“I like you,” there’s a finality in his voice. “I just didn’t know how to say it without sounding like every other guy who says it and doesn’t mean it. So I just… didn’t say it… But I’m saying it now. Clearly. I want no room for interpretation. I want this. With you. Not because it’s convenient. Because it’s you.”

The story you built in your head never included this version of him at all, but that’s okay, you get to have first hand experience.

my masterlist !

extras. that was wayyyy longer than i intended. If this flops, I’ll never set foot on tumblr again 😭 been waiting like a month to post this shit lol

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[deanwinchestersunhappythoughts]

i hope you know I'm gonna read this whenever I'm having a shit day AAAAA

[teamackles96]

Kid-Napped

❧ Summary: You wake up to find Dean and your daughter missing.

❧ Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

❧ Wordcount: 876

Main Masterlist | Dean Winchester Masterlist

It had been seven months since you gave birth to your daughter, Charlie.

Dean was a natural at being a father.

He took everything he'd wanted from John—and gave it to Charlie instead. Every bit of patience, every ounce of love, every moment of attention. He looked at her like she hung the stars, like he wanted to talk to her every second she was awake... and even when she wasn't.

He still went on hunts, but not often. And when he did, he Facetimed every night just to see her—just to hear her little noises, to make sure she was okay.

When he got back, he'd carry her around the bunker, talking to her about everything she'd 'missed'. Like she understood every word.

He'd come back from a hunt earlier that day. Charlie had been asleep in her crib, and you'd fallen asleep in Dean's arms not long after.

At least... you thought you had.

You rolled over, reaching for him—only to find the sheets empty. Empty but still warm. He hadn't been gone long.

Frowning, you glanced over at the crib in the corner. Also empty.

You sighed, rubbing at your eyes as you pushed yourself out of bed. You didn't have to search long. The sound of Charlie's soft babbling mixed with Dean's low cooing echoed faintly down the hallway.

Of course. They were in the Dean Cave.

Leaning against the doorway, you found Dean already looking your way. Already looking guilty.

He sat on the carpet with his back against the recliner, a blanket spread out next to him where Charlie's play mat usually was. A blanket draped over something—something that was very clearly moving.

"Hey baby," he said casually. "What are you doing up?"

You folded your arms, raising a brow. "I noticed you weren't in bed," you said, glancing pointedly at him, "so I came to find you." Charlie's little babbles grew louder at the sound of your voice. "Weird thing is," you continued, "Charlie isn't in her crib either."

Dean tilted his head, feigning confusion. "Huh. That is weird."

Your eyebrow lifted higher. "Right? I put her to bed... and now she's not there. Like she just climbed out and walked away."

Dean hummed thoughtfully. The blanket next to him wiggled harder. Tiny fists grabbed at the fabric, tugging it down until Charlie's smiling face peeked out. Dean gasped dramatically. "Charlie! There you are!"

"Dean," you warned, pushing yourself off the doorway and walking over. You dropped down beside him on the floor, trying not to smile.

"I'm sorry," he said, his bottom lip jutting out slightly. "I just wanted to spend time with my little girl."

"Don't use Sam's puppy dog eyes on me," you muttered. "She needs her sleep."

Dean gently offered his finger, and Charlie immediately grabbed onto it with both hands, her tiny fingers wrapping around his.

"I know," he said softly. "I just... I missed her. I hate leaving you two to go on a hunt." His voice dropped, quieter now. "I don't want to miss anything."

Your expression softened. You reached up, running your fingers through his short hair. "You won't miss anything Dean," you said gently. "And she's not going to forget you either." His eyes flicked up to yours. "She loves her dad. She gets so excited whenever she hears your voice."

A small smile tugged at his lips. "She does?"

You let out a quiet laugh. "As if you don't know. I already know she's going to say 'Dada' first—and I hate it."

Dean huffed a laugh. He carefully lifted Charlie into his lap, her chubby hands immediately reaching up to squish his cheeks. "I love you," he murmured, pressing a series of kisses to her face until she squealed with delight.

Then he turned to you. "I love you." He leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

"I love you too," you whispered, smiling against him. "Can we go back to bed now?"

He nodded, standing up with Charlie still in his arms. His free hand found yours, lacing your fingers together as he led you back to your room.

A few nights later, Dean had put Charlie down while you finished the last few pages of your book.

You'd been trying to find a solution. Something that would let Dean be close to her... without waking her up every night and ruining the sleep schedule you'd worked so hard to build.

When you finally walked into the bedroom, you stopped in the doorway.

Dean was already asleep. Still fully dressed in his jeans and signature red flannel, sprawled on his side of the bed. His large hand was gently wrapped around one of Charlie's tiny ones.

Right beside the bed sat a crib attachment you'd set up—a small, open-sided crib that kept her close, within arm's reach.

Charlie slept peacefully beside him, her little chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.

They looked almost identical. Both on their backs, one hand loosely holding onto the other, with their mouths open, soft little snores filling the room.

Your heart aches. You quietly pulled out your phone and snapped a picture.

You got yourself a new photo for your phone wallpaper and Dean found peace for the night.

A/N: Can you tell I like writing Daddy Dean? I just have too many ideas with him!

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Main Masterlist

[deanwinchestersunhappythoughts]

AWWW

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Don't Stop Haunting Me

✦Read on a03!✦ ✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist✦ ✦pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader✦ ✦summary: You and Bucky have a (sort of) quiet arrangement. He takes care of you, and you return the favor. And you've gotten pretty good at pretending you don't want more, but after the Halloween party, it's suddenly a lot harder to pretend. Good thing Bucky is feeling the exact same way.✦ ✦warnings/tags: Thunderbolts!Halloween, friends with benefits, not actually unrequited love, jealousy, fluff, pining, shameless smut (fingering, oral f!receiving, dry humping), no use of y/n✦ ✦author's note: challenging myself to do a quiet love confession. Enjoy!✦

You look insane. 

And there are a few things that could mean. It could be you look like an insane person, dressed in a straight jacket and with bloodshot eyes. That you look like you’re going insane—sunken features and a wild expression—or just look crazy. Mismatched color polka dots and bright orange hair and clown makeup crazy. Children’s birthday party entertainment crazy. 

But what you mean, right now, is that it is insane that you look like this.

You almost don’t recognize the person in the mirror. Her almost bare body looks smooth and curvy, her outfit makes her look like a doll you’d find in a store, and her hair doesn’t look like it was done up by woodland creatures, but a team of people getting her ready to be presented as an ornate gift to someone very important. 

“How did you know how to do this?” You mutter, reaching up to trace your fingers over your hair, and a knife whizzes right past your ear. “Hey-“

“Do not touch it.” Yelena shouts, glaring up at you from the floor. “If you touch it, I start over. I start over, we are late. We are late, Valentina kills us.”

“You would be late.” Ava says from where She’s lounging across the room, looking more boredly amused than anything else. “If I think you two are going to weigh me down, I will just… Not wait.”

You roll your eyes, looking back to the mirror. “Your loyalty is astounding, Ava.”

“It is every woman for herself, on nights like these-“

“John would wait for me.” You shoot her a glare in the mirror, and Ava gives you a flat look.

“Only because he is afraid of you.”

“Yeah, so he would wait.” You frown at your teeth, a small smudge of lipstick trapped on the large front ones. “If you go without us, that means Valentina can drag you around to meet people. You’ll be open, and vulnerable to attack.” You smile at Ava in the mirror. “Is that what you want?”

She scowls, and Yelena clears her throat.

“How long do we do this, tonight. Bucky Barnes said we could vanish around ten, but we all know he will vanish around ten and the rest of us will have to give goodbyes to the fancy people.”

“Not all of us.” Ava hums, and you can feel her gaze. “Some of us are hypocrites, who leave the others to fend for themselves on the battlefield.” 

You don’t acknowledge the jab. If you do, it will be acknowledging the obvious, elephantal truth of it all. 

The events always do end at ten. Valentina used to just let them run as long as people wanted, but then Bob started having panic attacks and you all teamed up to politely ask that she give a cutoff time, just so he could leave without it being rude. 

And maybe politely ask meant threaten with knives and powers.

And maybe you and Bucky have been slightly abusing the cut off time for your own sakes.

But you can’t say that aloud. If you do, it’s admitting what you know they can all see. What Ava’s hinting at, what makes John wiggle his brows until he’s in danger of being punched, what makes Alexei dramatically clap Bucky’s shoulder whenever you both just happen to need the bathroom at the same time, and he comes back with messy hair and his zipper down. 

You think they all believe it’s more than it is. That there’s some great love affair being poorly hidden under their noses. That the only reason you don’t make out on the couch in front of them is because Bucky values his privacy, and you value him. 

Which are both true statements. 

Bucky might be the person who hates these events the most. You’d bet a lot on that, if only because he’s told you explicitly so. 

“I feel like a paraded monkey.” He’d muttered to you last time, a cool metal finger tracing mindless patterns on your arms. “You know she gets cards for me to memorize? Not even Alexei has to do that, and John- Christ, sometimes I think he’s got the charisma of a sock.”

You’d giggled, turning your face up to meet his shining eyes. 

There were moments when he looked at you like this—like you—might mean more than just this. 

But those moments are almost always after he’s bent you over, pinned your arms behind your back, and fucked you until you were seeing stars. 

So you’d call the data skewed. 

“I think that’s rude to socks, Buck.” You’d whispered. “I’ve seen some very charismatic ones.”

He’d snorted, looking up to the ceiling with a small grin. “Yeah, well, I don’t think she’d be giving the socks cards either.”

You’d hummed, and watched him carefully as you spoke. “Do you want my honest thoughts, or for me to just agree and give you a blowjob to make you feel better.”

“Honest.” He’d muttered, but you’d felt his hand flex slightly on your arm. 

“She gives you the cards because people find Alexei charming, and John has media training. Ava’s cool and collected, and she’s got a poker face. Yelena’s the same as you, but people find her amusing because they’re idiots who don’t think she could actually scoop their eyes out with her fingers.”

Bucky had snorted. “That’s gross-“

“I’m not done.” You’d reached up to cover his mouth with a hand, and he’d raised his brows. “Bob is Bob. People worry when they meet him, but then they get pretty fast that he’s mostly just like, a wet dog. You, James, are actually intimidating. And you’re not good at pretending you’re not.”

Bucky had watched you for a long, silent moment, then reached up and grabbed your wrist. Dragged your hand away, gaze never breaking from yours, mouth in a tiny smirk. 

“Are you intimidated by me, doll?”

You’d shaken your head. “Most of the time, no.”

“Most of the time?” His brow had furrowed. “When-“

“Your dick is really big.”

Bucky had barked a startled laugh, and looked at you again. Like you were something to him. He’d rolled on top of you, fingers tracing over your features and eyes shining with a light that seemed brighter than the single, low lamp you always watched each other under. 

“Can I still have that blowjob? It’ll make me feel better.”

Your heart had split, just slightly. 

You know that’s all it is for him. Feeling better. And you can’t resent it, because it’s an honor to be the one he wants to feel better with, the one he trusts to see him like this—in all his scarred, muscled and soft glory—who he can relax with, and just smiled at him. 

And he has such a pretty smile. When it’s real it’s full, and makes his eyes look like the shining sky, and makes a little flickering warmth in your chest swell. 

It’s why you never say no to him. 

He matters to you. So you never want him to stop smiling. 

“Well.” You’d murmured, pressing a hand on his chest. “If it’ll make you feel better.”

You’d rolled back between the sheets. Done a few more things than another blowjob. 

And in the morning, just like every other morning, he’d been gone. 

Which is fine. That’s all it is. A beneficial arrangement, where Bucky gets to let off steam and you get to fuck the man you’re in love with. 

But you are in love with him. You had a crush on him before you met him, and you almost fell to your knees when Valentina brought you in to audition for the New Avengers—he’d been just sitting behind the table, hair soft and blown out, face a lot prettier in person than anyone’s ever warned you—and came very close to passing out when he’d given you the phone call that you were the new choice. 

The first time he kissed you—hungry and a little drunk—you think you saw Heaven for a second. Stars and spinning colors and infinite. 

When he’d walked you back against a wall and touched you, you’d been to Heaven. And he’s sent you back, over and over, whenever you fall back into bed. Or lock a door. Or stare at each other during a meeting, then almost vault over the table like animals in heat once you’re alone. 

So you understand why everyone thinks there’s more, when there’s not. 

Your heart skips and lips pull into a smile, whenever you so much as hear his name. 

There’s not a single clue that he ever thinks of you, except when he’s hard.

You don’t want to know if he does. You don’t need to break your own heart like that at all.

“Yelena, can I let this part down?” You ask, trying to divert the conversation away from you and Bucky.

“No, I said do not touch it. You ruin it, if you just poke at it. What about that is hard to understand?”

You wince slightly. “Sorry-“

“Do you think Bucky is going to have a heart attack?” Ava drawls, and it’s never that easy. “When he sees you in that?”

“I don’t know.” You mutter, eyes trapped on yourself in the mirror. 

On the picture-perfect pinup girl, staring back. Looking like she was dragged out of a calendar or soda ad.

“Oh, you don’t know. You didn’t chose it to try and kill him-“

“I didn’t choose it at all.” You shift on your feet, trying to find a place to smooth your hands over your outfit, but it fits too well. There’s not a single wrinkle at all. 

Yelena frowns from the floor. “Valentina?”

You nod, and don’t miss Ava and Yelena’s exchanged look in the mirror. 

“She didn’t choose our outfits,” Ava says slowly, and you shoot her a dry look.

“I know, I was there when Yelena bullied you into wearing an outfit.”

“Which I still think is stupid-“

“It is not stupid. It is fun. You look terrifying, Ava,” Yelena admires Her handiwork—fake splattered blood on Ava’s suit, covered in a white sheet, because nothing else would stay on her body—with a satisfied expression. “Zombie ghost. I am a genius.”

“Yeah, I’m sure Broadway’s going to be calling you soon-“

“And,” Yelena looks back to you with a small frown. “Why did Valentina choose your outfit?”

“Because I’m me.” You say flatly, and you don’t have to say more. 

The pretty girl hire. You’re not one of the saviors of New York, from the Void. You’re the girl who has pretty powers, and a pretty face, and a pretty voice.  

You’re also very bad at playing your role, unless Valentina interferes. You don’t want to be gawked at, like an animal in a cage. You want to actually help people, instead of turning on a stage like you’re at a car show, but somehow the model and the car.

But doing these are part of the job. Your most important job, as Valentina sees it. 

So of course she chose your outfit. That’s how the whole game is played. 

“I can go shoot her, if you do not like it.” Yelena offers. “And we can all be zombies together.”

“Or we can go ask for her to put you in actual clothing.” Ava adds, saying ask in the way you know she means threaten.

You just laugh softly. “Thanks, but this is actually the negotiated version of the outfit.”

“You’re not wearing pants.” Ava mutters. “What could have possibly-“

“Vegas showgirl.”

Yelena makes a sour face, and Ava sighs.

“Alright. Yes. This is slightly better.” 

You hum in agreement, wrapping your arms around your stomach to stop yourself from touching the hair. And you really do look insane. Like you should be covered in diamonds, or kept preserved on a vintage poster card. It’s far from the most you’ve been exposed to people—you lost the negotiation last Halloween, and ended up a playboy bunny—but it’s different.

You don’t want Bucky to see this. See you painted and dolled up like something out of his younger fantasies. A fantasy you know he has, because you’ve talked about it. He’s told you about his crush on Eartha Kitt and Betty Grable when he was in his twenties. 

Wearing this seems like a fucking pathetic cry for attention. 

Like you’re trying to take the Halloween party, and make it about you. Seduce him, when you both have jobs to be doing. Even if you tell him Valentina made you wear it, that still doesn’t feel like enough. Won’t help you fight off the accusations that you’re dating, or at least have feelings for each other. 

You’re sure everyone else will see it as a desperate play for Bucky’s affection as well. And then, when they finally realize it’s just messing around, it will be too painfully clear that it was never just messing around to you.

That it’s the most important thing in your life. 

That you’ve let go of ever truly having it—having Bucky—but that doesn’t mean you don’t hold him to be less holy. That you don’t love him like your heart will stop beating if you don’t. 

It will be a busy party. 

If you’re lucky, just tonight, you can slip in and out with your dignity intact. 

“This is stupid.” Yelena grumbles as you all take the stairs—everyone will be taking the elevator, and the less people you have to see the better—up to the party. “We have to sneak around our own house.”

Ava hums. “Technically, it’s the governments house-“

“Until the government starts doing dishes, it is not their house.”

You’re inclined to agree with Yelena. It’s strange to walk into the place you usually lie on the couch and watch movies, only to see it filled with senators and rich elites, all wearing glossy, mock costumes that tell you what you already know. You’re not the hosts.

You’re the entertainment. 

“Yelena,” Alexei roars through the crowd, and she sighs dramatically as he barrels towards you. “You look so creepy!”

Yelena will never admit it aloud. 

She stands a little taller at the praise. 

“Thank you. I spent four hours on it, so everyone,” she glares around at the guests, all wearing princess gowns and suits that could be costumes of any man in a movie ever. “Better appreciate my hard work.”

“They will. They will think you are going to eat their brains out.” Alexei claps his hands together with a loud laugh. “You look disgusting, Yelena. Very good work.”

Yelena nods, and points to Ava. “Tell her. Maybe she will let me do her makeup too.”

“You know makeup wouldn’t work on me.” Ava drawls. “And you got to do dollface over there. Show her off, not me.”

You shoot Ava a glare. “I’m good, actually-“

“You do her makeup, Yelena?” Alexei tilts his head at you. “You look very good. Like calendar, on soldier’s wall.”

You flush, picturing your picture on Bucky’s wall, or sitting on his desk. You know that’s not what Alexei meant. It’s still a nice thought, that he’d want you close to him in some way, all the time. 

“I did.” Yelena shrugs. “And her hair.”

Alexei frowns. “How do you know how to do hair? I never taught you at all, hair is like small snakes from the head.”

“I taught myself.” Yelena shrugs. “I grew up with all girls. We did hair, before we all started killing each other to see who was the strongest left standing.”

Alexei flinches slightly, and Ava smirks. 

“You should tell all the assholes that story. They’ll love it.”

Yelena snorts. “They do, that’s true. Strange little freaks.”

“You should make some up,” you mumble, staring at your shoes. “See if they spot the fakes.

Yelena hums in agreement, but you don’t look up to grin at Her or keep joking. 

You saw him. 

While they’d been talking about hair and murder stories, you’d seen Bucky. 

He’s wearing a suit, just like most of the other men, but you could find him in a crowd of black umbrellas, at the bottom of the ocean without your sight or touch or hearing, in a mass of identical Bucky Barnes clones. You’d always be able to spot him, because no one else carries themselves with the same gate, no one else has the perfect hair and beard and jawline that you dream about running your fingers through, and no one makes your breath hitch just from the sight of them. 

It’s always just Bucky. 

And he smiles at you. A small smile, but a real one. He raises his hand in a subtle wave, and you can feel his gaze, searing over your body as he takes in the costume. 

You don’t want to see his reaction. Desire or disgust or confusion or amusement. Nothing will be enough. Nothing will make you feel less bare, to all of it. 

Alexei is pulling Yelena away, to make their rounds and show off their costumes. Yelena’s graphic zombie makeup will keep everyone occupied for a while, the guessing game Alexei tried to play—asking what is my costume without offering a single hint, only wearing a wifebeater tank and pointing to his bald head—will be amusing enough that people will engage, and keep off your back for a while. 

“Miss Piggy.” Ava had guessed flatly, before Alexei and Yelena vanished into the crowd. 

“No, I am not the diva pig, Ava, I am much scarier.”

Ava had smirked. “I don’t think you are. I think you’re miss Piggy.”

Alexei had sighed your name dramatically. “Come on, I am not Miss Pig.”

“Miss Piggy-“

“Guess what I am,” he’d kept looking at you, and you’d blinked at him. 

You’d been focusing on Bucky. Trying to watch him move through the crowd without letting him see you watching. 

Not paying any attention. 

“Huh?”

“Tell him he’s Miss Piggy.” Ava had whispered, and you’d frowned. 

“Okay, um- You’re Miss Piggy.”

Yelena and Ava had burst out laughing, and Alexei had pouted like a five-year-old. 

“I am not- Stop laughing, I am Walter White! Drug lord. American drug lord, I am fitting in, Yelena- Stop laughing-“

Yelena had managed to stifle it, just because they had to go. 

Ava was still giggling, when you found the quiet corner of the room where Bob was hiding. The safe corner, hidden in the shadow, away from the bar and flashing lights. 

Away from Bucky, and the warmth his attention had been spreading over your skin. 

“What’s so funny?” He asked, laughing nervously, and Ava just shook her head.

“Alexei is an idiot.”

“Oh, did he make you guess his costume?” Bob frowns. “I thought he was just… being himself. Which wasn’t right, I think.”

Ava snorts, and you laugh softly, pressing your back against the wall. If you hide, Valentina might not even think to come and grab you. If you sink into the shadows, the night can just drift by without a show or fight. 

“You look nice,” Bob says your name with a smile, and you return it easily. 

“Thanks. You do too.”

Bob glances down to his yellow lion onesie, and shrugs. “It’s like, comfortable. Which is kind of all I wanted? Valentina says it suits me.”

Ava raises her brows. “Being a lion.”

“The cowardly lion.” Bob mumbles, and you frown.

“Bob, she can’t talk to you like that-“

“I don’t really mind.” He shrugs. “I mean, I think she’s just annoyed I won’t murder more people for her. She thinks that’s cowardly.”

“I think it’s cowardly that we haven’t killed her.” Ava mutters, and Bob frowns.

“I mean, um- I think murder is bad, and- We’re all getting along better now, right?”

You give him a sympathetic look. “Better is a little subjective.”

“Well, no one hates each other right now, at least?”

Ava huffs a low laugh. “John wants to shoot her. Yelena’s told me how she fantasizes about shoving Valentina off a roof. I’ve imagined ripping her heart out.” She pauses. “It might be the one thing we all agree on.”

“Bucky thinks about the roof thing too,” you say absentmindedly, still looking through the crowd for him, because you can’t fucking help it.

“Oh, does he?” Ava hums, and you glance over to see her grinning at you.

You sigh. “Don’t-“

“Bob, where did Bucky go?”

“I don’t know, um- He stood with me for a bit, but then he said he wanted to go find someone? And didn’t come back.”

“Interesting.” Ava drawls, and you roll your eyes, ignoring the fluttering feeling in your gut.

“Really? Doesn’t seem it.”

“It isn’t to me.” She shrugs. “This is just very boring, so my standards have been lowered.”

“I didn’t know you had standards.” You shoot her a small smile. “Or that you could get more bored.”

Ava laughs, and Bob clears his throat.

“Well, we could go talk to people about our costumes, if we want-“

“I would rather set myself on fire.” Ava says flatly, and you nod in agreement.

“Oh- Okay.” Bob squints. “Ava, what is your costume?”

“I wanted to be a ghost.” She says flatly. “Yelena thought that was boring and on the nose.”

“And it is.” You add, and she ignores you. 

“So I’m a ghost zombie.”

Bob laughs softly. “Oh. Spooky.”

“Is it?” She gives him a phenomenally bored look. “Boo.”

He yelps as she lurches slightly, and turns a deep red. Ava laughs, and you just stare into the crowd. You can feel people’s eyes flitting over to you, but none of them are quite brave enough to approach when you’re next to Bob. You haven’t successfully hidden, but you’re in the margins. Just far enough out of reach, that maybe the night will be fine. 

You still can’t find Bucky. It’s making your skin and chest feel sore. 

Ava and Bob keep talking about nothing, and you jump in with softer jokes every few moments, but your head is moving too fast to really engage. You don’t want to talk to Bucky tonight. It’s why you were avoiding his gaze earlier. This night is only about the performance, and then the curtains drawing. 

But he looked good, in that suit. 

Too good. 

Other people are going to look at him and want him, good. 

Which isn’t something you think you can handle right now. So you can just ride out the night, curved slightly into your own body, listening to Ava mock everyone in the crowd and Bob try to offer them some grace, while still laughing at Ava’s jokes. It’s already been an hour. Only two left, then you can vanish back into your room and pretend you’re not waiting for Bucky to knock on your door-

Someone calls your name, and you freeze. 

“Shit,” Ava mutters, and before you can grab onto her or beg her to stay, she’s vanished.

You glare at the wall she probably went through, and his between your teeth. “Coward.”

“I, um- Sorry-“

“Not you, Bob.” You sigh, looking back to where Valentina’s marching through the crowd. “Goddamnit.”

“Look at you!” Valentina beams at you, and it’s amazing how bad she can be at making it look real. “Just like I pictured!”

“Aw.” You return her fake smile. “You picture me?”

“Every night in bed.” She snaps back. “And so do they. Stop standing with Bob and go do your job.”

You cross your arms over your chest. “I think I’d rather stand with Bob, actually.”

Valentina sighs your name. “Well, someone has to make the rounds with Walker. And if it’s not going to be my pinup girl, it’s going to be my cowardly lion.” She gives you a sweet smile. “Your choice.”

God fucking dammit. You can’t send Bob out there. Not with anyone, but certainly not with fucking walker. 

“Fine.” You mutter, rolling your neck and pushing off the wall, and Bob frowns.

“You don’t have to-“

“Yes, she does.” Valentina beams at you, showing off her plastic vampire teeth. 

It’s a bit fucking on the nose.

You wonder if Bucky’s seen them. He’d say that she’s making satire pointless. Making it too easy to spot her. Acting like this is all a game, the way she usually does. 

You’ll ask him tomorrow. Once you’re out of the pinup outfit.

When you’re alone. 

“Don’t forget to smile.” Valentina says as you pass her, and you give her an unamused look. 

She just keeps smiling back. 

If you’re all taking a vote, you’re going to third Bucky and Yelena’s throw her off a roof plan. 

“Wow,” John says when you find him near the center of the room. “She really made you the poster girl. I think I had that Barbie, when I was a kid.”

“You had Barbies as a kid, John?”

“I- Shut up.” 

You smirk. “It’s okay, it’s very progressive of you. I’m honored that you trust me-“

“I said shut up.” He snaps. “Shouldn’t you be making fuck-me eyes at Bucky?”

“Shouldn’t you be playing fake-humble with Alexei.”

John scowls. “He’s with Yelena. Have you seen her makeup? It looks insane.”

“Yeah, she might have a backup career.” You gesture to your face. “She did this.”

“Wow. Bucky and I had a whole prep team, like we were chickens.”

“We kind of are.” You mutter under your breath, scanning over John with a frown. 

He’s dressed in brown pants, a vest, and a white shirt. It’s sort of unbelievable someone helped him with it.

“What are you, a… pirate?”

John scowls. “I’m Han Solo. Look, I have a blaster- Don’t fucking laugh-“

You shake your head, grinning around the crowd. “Holy shit, you’re a horrible Han Solo.”

“I am not-“

“You are. Now haul ass, before Valentina starts shoving us at people.”

John grumbles, but trails after you through the crowd. It’s not hard to do rounds with him. There’s always something about John that lets you bare your teeth fully. That lets you snap and bite without consequence, helps you smooth the edge before you have to play sweet, bubbly girl for the people. 

Because that’s most what you spend the night doing, now that Valentina threw you like bait to the crowd. You smile and wave. You keep your expression light, your attention on whatever rich person wants it. Lights dance through the air when people request it, and they all ooooo and aaah while John makes a sharp remark about how they take tips.

You giggle at people who call you pretty, even when it makes you feel sort of fucking sick.

You don’t flinch away, when old men graze the bare skin of your arm. You keep your chin up, and never let your mask of joy fall. 

Not even when there’s a beat of rest, while John is talking about the army with some wrinkled, cane-gripping billionaire.

And your eyes float over the people, and fine Bucky. Just like the magnet that he is. 

Talking to a rich woman with a gossamer gown. A mockery of a costume. A picture of elegance, almost untouchable. Laughing and softly touching his arm, as he smiles at her. 

It looks like only his polite smile. Not his let’s sneak off smile. 

But he doesn’t step back, when she reaches up to the collar of his shirt. 

And you look away, before your dinner can spill out on the floor. 

No promises. 

He made you no promises, and you didn’t hold him to any words, whispered in the dark. When he’s balls deep inside of you, and calling you his girl. Saying you were made for him. 

It’s just talk. Always just talk. 

“You ever want to just stop all this?” He’d asked you once, his words low in the steam of the shower, and you’d frowned at him over your shoulder.

“All of what?”

“This.” He’d murmured, his hands wandering over your sides in the warm water. 

Your heart had dropped to your gut. “Oh, I- I mean, it’s convenient, but if you want to stop-“

“No, not-“ Bucky had sighed, and pressed a kiss to the back of your neck. “Not this, doll. This is the only thing I like about it all.”

“Oh.” You’d flushed. “Then- What?”

“The whole game. The hero gimmick.” He’d kept his lips lightly attached to your skin, grazing over your throat and shoulder gently. “I’ve been playin’ it my whole life. Think I might be getting tired.”

You’d smiled at the wall, and leaned a little back into his chest. “Are you ever not tired, Sargeant.”

He’d grunted in your ear, arm wrapping fully around your stomach. “Don’t rile me up, sweetheart.” His teeth had grazed your ear, and you’d giggled. “You know how that ends.”

“Yeah. I’m so scared of getting fucked from behind in the shower. Terrifying.”

Bucky had chuckled, his mouth wandering over your jaw. “I really should do something about your mouth, baby. I’m trying to talk to you.”

“You are talking to me.” You’d breathed out, back arching as Bucky’s metal fingers dipped between your thighs. “Bucky-“

He’d drawled your name right back. “You want me to stop? So we can chat?”

You’d shaken your head, a little dazed, and he’d hummed. 

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

“But- Mh-“ You moaned softly as he started to rub your clit. “You didn’t- Why do you want to leave-“

“Told you, doll. Just tired.”

"Bucky, if you want to go-“

“You want me to go?”

You’d shaken your head, biting your tongue. If you’d spoken, you would have said something too close to the truth. 

“Guess I’m stayin’, then.” He’d whispered in your ear, and you’d melted further into his arms. “No point in leaving if you’re not comin’ with me, babydoll. Hold on.”

Your hand had flown to his arm, trying to hold him there. Against you. 

In the steam and heat of the moment, his words had flown right through your cockdrunk brain. 

But they’d linger after. 

A bittersweet aftertaste. 

All just talk. 

The party “ends” at ten, but you don’t seek Bucky out. You linger at the bar, turning some neon green drink between your fingers and giving sweet smiles and light conversation to anyone who approaches you. 

You want to see him. You want to go find Bucky, and fall back under the sheets with him at your side.

But something in you feels raw, tonight. Maybe it’s the costume, making you feel like all and none of yourself. Maybe it’s the exhaustion from the parading around. 

Maybe it’s how you’re so unmistakably just a performer, but something about Bucky—in his suit, with his small smiles and a gorgeous woman touching his arm—makes it seem like he could just slip out the door with the rest of the crowd, and nobody would notice until he was long gone. 

You’d notice. 

You’d always notice. 

But you wouldn’t chase him. It’s all he wants, to have something that’s at least a mimicry of normalcy. It’s why he lies in bed with you after sex, while he plays the game of seducing you, why he always has you wash his hair and brush your teeth side by side. The mirage of it. Of this being more to him, just for the sake of playing house. 

If he’s leaving to go chase the real thing, it wouldn’t be love that made you chase him down. It would be selfishness. 

So while you know he’s not gone yet—you can’t stop yourself from turning, and finding him in the crowd just to see him—you don’t want to be a part of the game tonight. 

Everything is all pretend.

It makes the shell of it all so obvious. 

Too real.

So you just sit at the bar, and wait for everyone to disappear. 

They mostly do. 

Bucky doesn’t. 

“You want a jacket?”

You keep your gaze fixed on your drink, tracing a finger over the rim of the glass. “A jacket?”

He shrugs in your periphery. “You look cold.”

You are. The ice in your drink isn’t helping. You almost can’t feel your fingers. “I think Valentina would say it ruins the outfit.”

“Valentina left an hour ago, doll.” You hear fabric shifting from the side. “Even if she didn’t, you shouldn’t be freezin’ yourself for her show.”

You hum, and something warm and heavy drapes over your shoulders. It’s already so warm, enveloping you in a trapped, blooming heat.

It even smells like Bucky. Mint and rain and something a little spicy. 

Hides your outfit from everyone. 

Including him. 

You turn, before you can think better of it. Look at Bucky with a guarded, cautious expression. His face is always so pretty it hits you like a freight car. His attention makes you feel gooey, the heat settling lower than just your skin. 

His tie is a little askew, his expression neutral, but soft.

The top button of his shirt is undone.

There are no lipstick stains on his neck. 

But there could be. And they wouldn’t have been—won’t always be—yours.

“You look beautiful.” He murmurs, and you look back to your drink as your fingers start to tap.

There’s too much electricity. Too much heat. You owe it to yourself not to fall in deeper than you already are. 

“You too.”

“I look beautiful?”

You nod, nails clinking against the glass.

Bucky chuckles. “Thanks, but I don’t think I’m even holding a candle-“

“Bucky.” You mumble, forcing the words out like vomit. “I- I’m too tired tonight.”

He’s silent for a moment. “Too tired to talk?”

“We both know it’s never just talking.”

“Yeah, cause you pull me into a closet.”

“James-“

“I’m teasing,” he says your name with a small frown, scanning over your pleading expression. “We can just talk. We can always just talk.”

No, you can’t.

None of it means anything. 

You look back to your glass, and sit in silence. Bucky doesn’t give up, but doesn’t push it either. You don’t know why this is the hill to die on. Why this feels like a breaking point, after months of sneaking around and letting your heart pine until it was sick. But it’s all just piled up, and you’re dressed like a pinup girl, and he didn’t even try to talk to you. 

You hadn’t wanted him to. 

You’d thought you hadn’t. 

But the top button on his shirt is undone, and it wasn’t your fingers who did that. 

The jacket is on your shoulders, and he can’t see how you’re dressed. It’s almost certainly out of respect. 

It feels like he just doesn’t care at all. 

“I’m James Bond, by the way.” Bucky cuts through your thoughts, and you can still feel him watching you.

“It suits you.” You mumble, and he shrugs.

“Guess so. A gorgeous woman told me I looked beautiful.”

You sigh. “Bucky-“

“No, I- I really am trying to talk to you,” he says your name, his voice filled with something that wasn’t there before. “Didn’t get to all evening. That’s it.”

He says it like it’s the truth. Bucky says everything like it’s the truth, because he never really knows how to properly lie when it’s for his own sake. 

You still can’t. 

Not tonight. Not as long as he’s not really yours. 

“You know you don’t…” You take a deep breath, looking at him with a cautious expression. “You don’t have to talk to me.”

Bucky blinks, just once. “Didn’t think I did. You not wanna talk to me?”

“No.” You say quickly, shaking your head. “I just- I’m- You don’t owe me anything.”

Your eyes flick out to the thinned-out crowd before you can stop them. To the graceful woman, still lingering at the edge of the room, circling like a shark. Trying to sink her teeth into Bucky, before the night is over. 

Bucky follows your gaze. Lets out a long, heavy breath when he realizes where you’re looking.

And it’s an invitation. If he wants to, he can. 

He looks back to you. You look back to your glass. 

“Ah.” He mutters, and the slow word hangs in the air like an axe.

Sweeping down towards your neck. Signaling the end of something that never even started, something that was never yours, something that didn’t even need an axe. It was always just a thin string, and you’d been clinging to it with white knuckles when it was destined to fall apart anyway. 

“What if I’d like to, though.”

Your eyes shoot up, and Bucky’s staring at you with a solemn, open expression. 

“What,” you whisper, and he shrugs. 

“I’d like to owe you something.” He muttered, eyes locked onto yours. “Would you mind? If I did?”

“I, I don’t-“

“Would you mind?”

You shake your head, your voice barely a breath. “No. I wouldn’t mind.”

“That’s good.” He muttered, mouth twitching. “Because I do. Owe you.”

Your lips twitch slightly. “For what, my blowjobs?”

He doesn’t laugh. He just keeps staring at you, making heat blossom through your body until you can’t take it anymore. 

“Bucky-“

“Do you want me to say it now?” He says, voice almost guttural. Like it’s coming from his chest. “Or should I save it for some bigger, more romantic confession later.”

Oh, God. “Now,” you manage to say. “Now is good.”

“Alright.” He reaches tentatively over the bar, taking your hand. “I love you.”

Your eyes are stinging. It’s so stupid to cry over, but it feels like everything is bubbling over, and you weren’t ready. It’s too simple. Too easy, for him to just say it- 

“You always leave in the morning.” You whisper, and he shrugs. 

“Could never guess if you wanted me to stay.”

“Of course I wanted you to stay.” You swallow. “Bucky, I-“

“I know.”

You raise your brows. “You know?”

“I saw you glarin’ daggers at the woman talking to me, doll.”

“Well- I- That’s not-“

“They were just donors.” He shrugged. “Never seen you look that violent before. Sort of did it for me, I think.”

You flush, opening your mouth, and Bucky shakes his head.

“Don’t say it back yet.” He gives you a small grin. “I’d sorta like the romantic version.”

You swallow, biting your tongue, and Bucky’s thumb swipes over your knuckles.

“Can you talk to me now?” He asks carefully, and you nod. 

“Yeah. Or…” Your eyes flick down his body. Linger on the bulge in his pants. “Other things.”

He snorts. “Doll, I didn’t- No, this wasn’t some kind of play-“

“I know.” You smile playfully, twining his fingers between yours. “I still want to, though. Please?”

His jaw clenches, eyes flashing slightly, and that’s really all it takes. 

And you want to say it back. You want to tell him so bad, because you’ve been swallowing it down from maybe the moment you met him. 

But you can show him, instead. You can show him, however he wants. 

With your hands tangled together, as he drags you out the door without a glance back. 

Your lips, slamming against each other as the elevator doors close. 

Bodies pressed tight against each other. Bucky walking you back against the wall as your fingers wind through his hair. A knee pressing between your thighs as he stares down at you with darkened eyes, watching you start to grind against his thigh.

And you are grinding. He’s thick everywhere, and he’s pinned you to his knee, and there’s no shame left in it. You throw your head back and moan, and Bucky makes a low sound and attaches his lips to your throat. 

You’re clinging to him, hands roaming over his shirt. His hands on your hips are kneading the soft skin, and you’re already so high it doesn’t feel like you’re ever going to be able to come back down. 

“This,” Bucky mutters in your ear, a massive hand wandering up your side to play with the straps of your bra-like top. “Has been driving me crazy all night, doll. Never wanted to rip something off with my teeth before.” He chuckles, kissing right under your jaw. “Never wanted anything bad as I want you, though.”

“Jesus,” you breathe out, nails digging into his shoulder blade. “Bucky- Cameras-“

“Everyone knows already,” he mutters, but still drops his hand. “We weren’t exactly good at fakin’ it, you know.”

“You were the one who- Oh-“ You gasp as he starts to suck on a small, sensitive spot near your neck. “You were the one always pulling me around, James-“

“You were addicting, babydoll.” He murmurs, capturing your lips back in a searing kiss. “Can’t blame a man, can you.”

No. 

You can’t. 

Not when it’s Bucky. 

You stumble out of the elevator, trying to keep upright while tripping over every step on the way to Bucky’s room. 

Bucky’s room. This is the door to Bucky’s room. 

You pull back with wide eyes, and he pauses. Hand on the doorknob, breathing heavy, concern all over his face. 

“What’s-“

“Are you sure?” You whisper, nodding nervously to his door, and his shoulders relax. 

He understands. He always understands. 

Bucky tugs you forward into a longer, sweeter kiss. His tongue swipes over your lower lip, and it feels possessive. Claiming. 

A reminder that he’s yours. 

“Always sure of you.” He murmurs, and you melt into his arms. 

“Okay.” 

He pulls back with a smirk, resting his brow against yours. “Okay?”

You nod weakly, and Bucky chuckles. 

“You just wanna fuck me, huh, doll.” His thumb swipes a little bit of drool off your chin, and your mouth falls a little more open.

“The suit.” You breathe, and he raises his brows. 

“Yeah?”

You nod again. “You make a- A really good James Bond. And I-“ Your eyes fall down to that little bit of his throat, thick and strong, exposed from the loose button. “I like it.”

He hums, and kisses the corner of your mouth. “Can’t be more than I love this.” He snaps the strap of your bra with a grin. 

“Bucky-“

“C’mon, sweetheart.” He hauls you over his shoulders without warning, kicking the door open. “I can take care of you, just like my needy girl wants.”

You let out a loud, wanton moan at that. His girl. You’re his girl, and this time, when he says it, the words aren’t nothing. 

They’re everything. 

And Bucky’s always taken care of you. Even if you were shoving him into a closet and falling to your knees, Bucky would still drag you up by your hair and take you against the shelves. 

But tonight, it seems to be all, and only, about you. 

Bucky tosses you down on his bed, and you giggle, crawling back to settle in the pillows. He goes to peel off his shirt, then pauses. 

“You like the costume?”

“Well,” you spread your legs letting your fingers wander between your legs. “I wouldn’t call it a costume, Bucky.”

“Mouthy.” He mutters, attention slowly narrowing in on your fingers, rubbing at the wet spot on your thin bottoms. “Christ, I can smell how fuckin’ desperate you are-“

“Always this desperate for you.” You whine, fluttering your lashes at him. “C’mon, Bucky, please-“

You roll your hips into your fingers, and he groans. 

“Fuckin’-“ He grunts your name, pulling his tie off his neck fully. 

Leaving the rest of the suit on. 

“You know how long I been waitin’ to have you in my bed. To give you everything I wanted to, show you everything you mean to me?”

You smile at him, slowly pulling your underwear to the side. Exposing your glistening, soaked pussy to his lust-blown eyes. 

“I don’t.” You dip your fingers into yourself, and Bucky looks animalistic. Hovering over you, like a predator ready to strike. “Are you gonna just stand there, or show me?”

His jaw ticks, and he moves faster than you can process it. Swats your hand away and shoves a broad finger deep into your cunt. Slams his mouth over yours, pulling your hair to angle you how he wants, and kisses you so deeply you get dizzy in seconds.

“You know,” he mutters, slowly pumping that finger in and out of your soaked cunt. “I think I had a dream like this since the 30s.” He draws up, eyes raking over your body. “Was only able to think up a girl half as pretty as you, though.”

“Kiss ass.” You breathe out, and he hums, dipping down to kiss over the swell of your breasts. 

“Flattery is gettin’ me places, isn’t it though.”

“I- Bucky, just-“ Your back arches as he hits a bundle of nerves deep inside of you. “More, please more-“

“Maybe.” He mutters. “I did say I wanted to talk-“

“You- You can talk.” You strain against his grip on your wrists, trying to reach for him. “Just- more-“

Your words fall into a wanting moan, as he shoves a second finger into you. Starts to slam his fingers in and out of your cunt at an unforgiving rate, his kiss becoming bruising and hands. Your eyes roll back in your head, as he hits that spot inside of you over and over. You’re panting and taking short gasps of air, as Bucky finger fucks you so hard it’s shivering up your spine. He crashes his mouth back over yours, and you’ve never been so lightheaded, felt so good, had him drag this much pleasure from you so fast.

You try to reach for him again. He starts to kiss over your face, voice a taunting drawl.

“No touching, babydoll. Don’t want you to mess up my costume.”

You try to glare at him, but then he hits that spot again, and it comes out in a strangled whimper.

“Think I’m gonna keep you dressed.” He mutters, mostly to himself. “Yeah. Outfit stays on. Never seen anything prettier, babydoll. Only way it could get better is if you were cumming on my damn fingers-“

A spasm shakes your body, and your mouth falls wide open as your orgasm crashes through your body. 

Bucky’s grinning at you, wide and unrestrained, when you come floating down. His fingers have pulled out, leaving you clenching around the air, your arousal dripping down your ass. 

He smears it around with his fingers, tone low and amused. “That easy tonight, sweet girl?”

You scowl, trying to squirm out of his grip. A little because just his fingers against your abused pussy are starting to feel like too much. Mostly because it’s not close to enough, and you want to grab him. Flip him over, and sit down on his cock, and ride it until you’re sore and exhausted. 

Bucky doesn’t budge for a second. His hips have dropped against yours. You can feel his bulge, pressing through his dress pants. Thick, and girthy, enough that it’s had you walking sideways more than once. 

Hard. 

He’s so hard it’s prodding you.

You can’t get out from under him, even to just jerk him off with a hand. 

“You’re getting greedy, baby.” He hums, fingers dragging between the lips of your pussy. “Weren’t you just beggin’ me a moment ago.”

“I- I would never beg.” You snap, and it’s a pointless challenge. You’ve lost it before. 

Bucky’s eyes still gleam, as his hand draws away from your legs. 

“Maybe.” He hums, reaching over to the side of the mattress. Grabbing his discarded tie, all while watching you with a predatory focus. “But let’s see if I can make you wish you had the words to, anyway.”

You flush, going a limp in the sheets as Bucky carefully ties your hands over your head with his tie. He glances down at you when he’s done, checking that it’s comfortable, and wastes no time when you nod. 

Clothing still on—although the shirt has lost another two buttons—Bucky starts to kiss his way down your body. Over every bit of bare skin offered to him. Love bites on your collarbone and shoulder, then on the soft skin under your tits. A hand moving up to cup your breasts as he makes his way down your stomach. 

Over your abdomen. 

On your inner thighs. 

His nose ghosts over your clit. 

Then, with all the warning in the world but none of it enough, Bucky starts to eat you like a man possessed. Lapping at your pussy with long, firm strokes of his tongue, hands keeping your legs spread wide apart. He licks and sucks, tongue plunging in and out of your cunt with wet, sinful sounds. 

Quickly, you can barely pick your head up to watch him. You whine and call his name, pulling at the bonds on your wrists—if only to run your fingers through his hair—but he did the knots well. You can barely budge. 

Your second orgasm rips through you, and you scream. Almost fly off the bed, kept down only by Bucky’s massive hands. He nips at your inner thigh, as you take heavy breaths. Looks up at you with hooded eyes, and a silent question. 

You nod. More. 

He kisses right over your clit, and dives back in. 

He’s ravenous. Unrelenting. Bucky never tires, and by the time your third orgasm is hitting, you’re already a shaking, sobbing mess. You only know his name. Only know how to cry for him, as his lips and tongue work you like an instrument. 

Bucky groans against your pussy, and you hear the bed creaking. Somehow, you manage to muster enough strength to look up. 

And find him humping the bed, face still fully buried between your legs. Massive hips driving up and down shamelessly, his ass in the air, his hand on your thighs gripping tight enough to leave bruises in the morning. 

The fourth orgasm cascades through you like a tidal wave, and you’re not sure if this one ever stops, or if they just start to roll into each other, as Bucky devours you like you’re his favorite meal. 

When he finally stops, you’re boneless. Blinking up at him slowly, chest covered in sweat, thighs dripping with your release. 

Bucky looks at you so gently, and your slick is shining on his beard. 

Your eyes flick down to his pants. To the dark stain, formed on his crotch. 

“I love you.” You whisper, and he grins, wiping the hair stuck to your face. 

“That wasn’t very romantic,” he drawls your name, and you hum, turning your face into his palm. 

“I know.” You mumble. “Still had to say it.”

Bucky is silent for a moment, then leans down. Kisses your brow gently, then leans back up. 

“I need a few minutes, if you wanna…”

He trails off, and you shake your head.

“Too tired.” You mumble, leaning back to watch him carefully. “And we got the morning. Right?”

Bucky’s smile widens, and he nods. “Right.”

He helps you clean up. He’s always helped you clean up, but now there’s a laziness to it. His hands wander your body in all the same ways, in the shower. He still crouches next to you, while you use the toilet. 

But he pulls out a toothbrush, for you to use.

You give him a curious look, and he shrugs. 

“Wanted to be ready.”

You take it with a smile, and lean against him while you both stand in the mirror, his hand resting easily on your hip. Yelena’s going to kill you. 

Your hair is absolutely ruined. 

Bucky keeps you tucked in his side, when you crawl into bed. He turns to look at you, waiting without exception. That’s not new either. 

It’s new to be in his bed. It’s like a massive version of his jacket. If he doesn’t make you, you might never leave. 

And he’s not going to. Suddenly, it’s all just… in the right place. Bucky next to you, until morning. You in his bed, where it feels like you should have always been. 

You don’t ask him how long. You don’t ask him why. Those are all things that can wait, because you have plenty of him. 

Instead, you wiggle closer, and whisper, “Why?”

Bucky’s lips twitch. “Why?”

“Why tonight.” You murmur, fingers tracing over the plates of his right shoulder. “Why now?”

He sighs, a little furrow forming his in brow that means he’s thinking. His tongue flicks over his lips, when he looks back to you, and his voice is deep and careful.

“I’m not sure.” He mutters, words slow. “Just saw you, lookin’ like that. Remembered all the dreams I had, back in the 40s. House and normal shit, you know. It was a thought I’d been having for a while, but- I don’t know. Sorry,” he mutters. “Know it’s not enough-“

“It is.” You whisper, smiling at him gently. “And if you get more, you can tell me in the morning.”

You know you’re double checking for no reason. But Bucky just smiles, and nods.

“Yeah. I can.” He kisses your brow with a grin. “Night, doll. Happy Halloween.”

“Happy Halloween, Buck.” You press your face into his chest, and let out a long, easy breath. “Love you.”

He hums, the sound firm. 

Certain. 

All yours.

“Love you too.”

✦End note: this on is a lot more thunderbolts centered than I thought it would be. I built dynamics by accident. Whoops. I hope you still enjoyed it!✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[deanwinchestersunhappythoughts]

why is this making me cry

[cinnamon-toastiie]

your eyes — dean winchester

when baby daddy!dean's insecurities pop up after the birth of your first daughter

tags: very short/last minute drabble, not spell checked or proofread, baby daddy!dean, new mom!reader, fem!reader, dean and reader have a newborn baby (literally <1 day old), dean's hella insecure, brief depictions of a hospital, second person pov (0.7k words)

"She has your eyes," you mumbled softly, prodding with careful fingers at the blanket swaddling your newborn baby, covering her rosy and crumpled face. She'd barely been alive twenty hours, and was crying for at least nineteen of them. Her eyes blinked open for a few seconds once in a while, showing you a flash of the mossy green you'd fallen in love with before on Dean's scarred face.

"Oh, don't say that," he responded lightheartedly. He was sitting halfway on the cot in your postnatal hospital room. You were hooked up to a hundred and one machines, and so was the little infant you'd just delivered. The only ones he cared about were both of his girls' heart monitors, silently tuning in to the beep, beep in the background that assured him you both were there with him. Steady. Alive.

He'd seen too many loved ones die in the field to not naturally be on constant high alert.

He brushed a calloused pointer finger over her cheek, which was puffed up in tiny fury that she, like her eyes, had inherited from her father. "That's too mean to her."

"What do you mean?" You had never quite been able to wrap your head around the idea of Dean seeing himself as anything other than handsome. In face, in body, in soul and heart.

"Oh, I just wish she'd got yours. Way prettier than mine, huh? They're gonna be like a little blight on her perfect face," he chuckled, not even realizing what he was saying as the thoughts rolled out of him and onto his tongue before he could chew them up and decide if they were or weren't worth saying.

"Dean," you chided softly, head turning to face him. He hadn't met your eyes since the nurse had handed your baby back after washing her off—he'd been too busy staring at the grumpy angel to look back at you. Yours were deep, sunken in from the fact you hadn't slept in at least 48 hours after a full 28 of labour and 20 more of worrying yourself sick over the new baby girl. "Don't say that. I love your eyes, and everyone'll love hers."

"They'll love hers 'cuz they love her," he mumbled in an almost defensive tone, as if he was insulted that you could find anything about him to love.

"And people love your eyes 'cuz they love you," you scolded.

He stared at you blankly, as if expecting the "psych!" he'd shoot at himself if he was in your place. But that never came, just you staring, brows furrowed in adamance that he was, too, lovable.

"I love you. Sam, and Cas, and... and she will," you held up your baby, "and everyone you've saved. Dean, you deserve love. And you have it."

His eyes filled with water, head whipping to the side to show no 'weakness,' especially not after he'd seen you do the strongest thing fathomable—give new life and tearing your own body apart in the process.

"Wait—Dean, please don't cry, you'll upset her," you pleaded, carefully adjusting your hold so you could reach one arm out and pat his back.

As if on cue, your baby started wailing the second Dean did. Her tiny hands balled into chunky fists, thrashing around underneath the wrap. You sighed, tossing your head back, instinctively starting to rock her gently. Not a second of peace with this one, huh?

Dean wiped his eyes and turned back around, wordlessly scooping her up to cradle to his chest, cooing at her (despite the faint cracks in his watery voice). "It's okay, baby, Daddy's here." Her crying lessened upon hearing her dad's voice—he was sure it was because she recognized it, since he had talked to her in your belly for at least two hours a day, every day, since the day you found out you were pregnant.

You grabbed the corner of your hospital blanket, dabbing at her wet eyes as the tears cleared up. Her eyes, now no longer glossy with hysteria, blinked up at Dean. The same green he'd grown to hate in his reflection in the mirror.

The same green he'd learn to love in his reflection in the eyes of his baby.

authors note: writers block is a motherfucker i genuinely have js been posting drafts for WEEKS but ran out so heres a little drabble while i get my shit back together lol

[sweetnesscore]

I'm sorry but the absolute fact that Castiel and Dean will always chose to forgive each other of their crimes because the only person who has the right - the absolute authority- to place judgment and forgiveness upon them is each other makes my brain tingle non-stop

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Goddamn, Manchild

✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦

✦summary: you and Bucky have been at odds since you first met. he can't stand you. you pretend you can't stand him. and if Bucky ever knew how you really felt, you think you might die. not when there's no chance he'd ever feel the same way. right?✦

✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, drinking, no use of y/n, mutual pining, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, drunken and sober love confessions, little plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, sex toys, oversitmulation, squriting, bucky's packing, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink), soft!bucky outside of smut✦

✦wc: 13.5k✦

✦Author's Note: i think i got possessed with this one. was barking to myself writing. Enjoy!✦

He’s the kind of beautiful that makes you want to strangle him.

Bucky walks around your apartment like he owns it, laughing all loud and musical, smiling like he fell out of a movie, running a hand through his hair and forcing you to see his sculpted torso and tanned skin. He barely fits in his shirt as it is, there’s no need for him to show off about it.

You’ve pressed yourself right to the corner of you couch, watching him silently. Watching all of them, but mostly Bucky. And his shining eyes and full lips and thick arms. Those things should be classified as weapons, or at least hazards. It’s too easy to imagine him wrapping them around you, pining you to the couch, handling you like a doll but still so gently-

“You’re staring at me again.” He drawls, and you start.

You give him an unimpressed glare, hoping your flush stays hidden in the low light of the room. “Shut up.”

“So nice to me, sweetheart.” He mocks, leaning a little further down. “Bet you dream about me, don’t you. Up all night with that rabbit Nat got you-“

You shove your foot up, slamming it square on his chest. He’d been getting too close. You’d been able to smell his cologne, and it made your head spin like opium. Bucky laughs again, walking away like you’re not even worth the argument. Your heart stings, but you ignore it. It’s an old bruise. You’re usually good at not pressing it, at pretending it doesn’t exist.

But Bucky exists only to torture you. So it never fully heals.

He’d been teasing about the rabbit thing. It had been a gag gift for secret Santa, and after Nat had even gotten you a very nice pair of shoes when you were in private. But Bucky’s clung onto it, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever thought of. You, with a vibrator. You possibly being able to get off, when you’re the uptight little prude. The one who never brings back hookups, never dates, just sits in corners like an ivy, clinging to the shadows and watching everything else live around her.

You’ve never been fun. Never been someone Bucky would’ve chosen to know. He didn’t choose to know you. You knew a girl who worked with another girl, and that girl had a boyfriend who knew a girl who needed a roommate. You needed a roommate. You had good credit—because you’re boring—and the girl interviewing you had taken a liking to you.

Natasha rode a motorcycle. She worked in a job she was allowed to tell you about—something in black ops, that explained all the wigs in her closet—and spoke five languages. She baked calm down, and went to shooting ranges to calm down, and insisted on getting you a gun license so she’d feel more comfortable with all the hidden guns in the house.

“Hidden guns?” You’d asked, feeling your face blanch. She’d just smiled.

“You’ll never find them all. Let’s go, it’ll be easy.”

It had not been easy. But you understood how—to someone like Nat—it might be. She’d never lost patience with you, but she’d still made it look easy. When you’d gotten home and mumbled that you needed to go shower for an hour, she’d just patted your head like you were a bunny and smiled.

She might’ve been your first real friend in a while. Because it’s not that you’re not… personable. You’re just a little mean tongued. And nervous. And boring, and blunt, and you don’t like leaving the house unless someone grabs the scruff of your neck and drags you. You go to work, and you go home, and that’s mostly it. Your closest friends before Natasha had been co-workers. And you’d been really, truly happy with that.

But interesting people have interesting friends.

Natasha had a lot of friends. And they moved in and out of your apartment like they lived there. 

Tony was a tech titan who you used to watch on the news, and now he left crumbs all over your couch. Wanda was a refugee and artist, and Clint worked in that same black ops thing Nat did. Steve had worked in it, but left to start his own non-profit with Sam. They all went far back, to elementary schools and playgrounds and clubs. They had history, but they were kind to you. Treated you like your little bachelor’s degree and normal person job fit in with their grand showmanship and large personalities that had been sucked right off the movie screen.

Most of them treated you like that.

Bucky didn’t.

Before you’d been introduced to him, Nat had described his as basically Steve’s brother, and it had been a striking endorsement. Steve had been kind to you. He brought you to a movie you’d really wanted to see, and never made fun of your stuffed animal collection. No brother of his could be all that bad, certainly not one even Nat described as charming and kind and not bad on the eyes.

Only one of those things was true.

Bucky Barnes is not bad on the eyes. You’d classify as maybe a medicine for the eyes, a miracle for the eyes, a blessing on a weary and tired viewer. He works in security or something, and it shows in his body. Sometimes he lets his hair grow out, and it’s frames his strong jaw and nose perfectly, all while making you want to run your fingers through each lock. You’re sure it would be like petting a very well-kept dog. He cares for it better than you care for yourself.

He’s got those eyes that knocked all the thoughts out of you, the moment you saw him. They’d sparkled and shone with his polite, white smile, and you’d just been swaying there like a lost scarecrow in a tornado. Your brain had been reduced to a fuzzy TV static and loud blaring noise, like you’d lost your own connection. Bucky had flexed his hand, a silent reminder you were supposed to shake it, and you hadn’t been able to get enough control over your body to even smile back.

His hand had been big. Calloused, with thick fingers and a lot of tiny scars. You’d shivered just at the idea of his touch. It might’ve been warm.

Might’ve been.

If Bucky had ever bothered to touch you at all.

By the time you’d dragged control back into your body, Bucky had given up and moved on. His ears had been a little red, in the moments after. You’d opened your mouth to apologize, make any excuse that would get him to offer a hand again.

He’d turned and walked away. Hadn’t looked at you for the rest of the night.

And when he looks at you now, it’s with something sharp behind his gaze. He never looks at anyone else like that. Never teases or mocks them, either. Acting like their mere presence in the room is a plague on his refined, perfect existence. He certainly never suggests they won’t be able to make it up five flights of stairs or asks if they’re sure they want to go out for the night.

You hate stairs. And you don’t want to go out for the night.

There’s only one thing more powerful than your picky little aversions, though.

The petty, blistering feeling at the top of your chest, that refuses to let Bucky win.

“You’re really coming with us?” Bucky calls your name from the kitchen, and you lift your chin, trying to look down your nose at the massive man.

“I was invited.”

“You’re always invited, you never actually get off the damn couch-“

“Barnes.” Nat walks past him, whacking his arm. “Don’t question miracles.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not a miracle-“

“Yes it is.” She grabs your arm, hauling you off the couch like you weigh nothing. “I’ve been asking you to do this for years, I’m not letting Bucky frighten you off with his Buckying.”

That makes you giggle, and Bucky frowns. You catch him shooting Steve a look you can’t really read, and Steve just shrugs in return.

“I’m not trying to ruin it.” Bucky says, lofty and bored. “I’m just sayin’ she never comes out with us, and it might be a lot for the little doe to be shoved into the jungle or whatever-“

“You’re a poet.” Natasha says, giving him a flat glare. “Go wait in the car.”

Bucky scowls. “The car-“

“If you act like a dog, you wait in the car.”

“I am not acting like a dog-“

Sam raises his hand. “I caught him humping the furniture this mornin’ when he heard about it-“

“Sam.” Bucky hisses. “Shut the hell up before I knock your teeth out-“

“Steven.” Nat gives him a firm nod, and he sighs.

“Yeah, I got it.”

Bucky and Sam aren’t small men, but Steve grabs them by the collar and drags them out of the room without breaking a sweat. Leaving you and Nat in a suddenly very quiet apartment, a lingering smell of spice and pine still clouding the air.

Another reason you hate Bucky coming over. He’s mean to you, and he’s nice to everyone else, and he questions you then leaves the whole room stained in his presence.

“Ignore Barnes.” Natasha says it like an order, and it probably is.

You smile at her. “I always do.”

You think it comes off airy and convincing. Nat looks at you like she’s trying not to either scoff, or laugh. Before you can insist on anything, she’s grabbing your hand and dragging you into the bathroom. You did promise you’d let her get you ready. When you’d told her you could do makeup and prep yourself, she’d snorted and said maybe, but I’ll do it better.

One of the first lessons you learned was not to argue with Natasha when she’s sure of something. You let her sit you on the counter and sort through your makeup bag, finding everything she deems worthy of being on your face tonight. Your outfit hangs on the door, and you did choose that, but after Nat vetoed three others.

It’s nothing special. A short dress and heels that will blend right in a club. It hadn’t been that different from your other suggestions. But it had gotten a curt nod of approval and smirk from Nat, so it had something. You’re smarter than to question what.

“You should talk to Bucky tonight.” Nat says suddenly, and you blink at her in surprise.

“I- What?”

“Make him apologize. For being an ass to you.”

“That’s- It’s fine-“

“No, it’s not.” Nat gives you a firm look, and you sigh.

“I know, but- I don’t really care, okay? That’s just- It’s Bucky, right?”

You give her a weak smile, and this one doesn’t even convince you.

It is just Bucky. He’s charming and sweet and handsome, and he hates just you. So you hate him in return, just for being so perfect and deciding you’re the only person in the world not worthy of his attention. It would be easier if he really was a bad man. If you didn’t know he volunteered with kids and Steve’s foundation, if he didn’t advocate for his fellow veterans, if he hadn’t made his ma’s chicken soup when you and Nat had both caught something last winter, and taken the time to drop it off in person.

For Nat.

Because you’re just… Not worth it for him. Not worth his time, not worth his smiling, barely worth anything more than glowering stares and taunting words. And you’re not weak. You fight back every day, and keep all of your desires and affection buried deep in the pit of your stomach and swollen like an infection around your heart.

He never has to know that you think about him all the time. That you feel yourself bloom whenever your eyes meet, then wither when his gaze snaps away. Whenever he presses his body over yours just to tease you, the heat of his body makes your breath hitch. You spend long days daydreaming about how good a boyfriend he’d be, if he didn’t hate you. Attentive and caring and giving.

Every night you think about how giving he’d be. Flowers and coffee like he brings Wanda for galleries, or for Nat or Clint when they’ve been working late night shifts. He likes watching TV, you know, because he spends a lot of time sitting next to you on the couch and loudly making comments until you threaten to force-feed him bleach. But if that wasn’t the blunt and unforgiving knife of reality, you could just lay in his arms forever.

He could pick you up and carry you to bed. The same bed that you put that accursed vibrated between your legs, close your eyes, and dream of him railing you into the mattress. Fucking you until you can’t stand, until you can’t speak or thing, until your eyes are rolling back and your mouth can’t even figure out how to close, so he kisses you possessively or gives you some of those thick fingers to suck on-

“You should still talk to him.” Natasha’s words are blunt. If she’s noticed how you’ve been working yourself up, she doesn’t say a single word. “Before he does something stupid.”

You snort. “Bucky always does something dumb-“

“No. He does a lot of dumb things. Close your eyes.” Nat picks up an eyeliner, and you obey. “But there’s a difference between dumb and stupid. Stupid is harder to take back.”

You grunt, and you don’t think anything stupid Bucky does is going to have anything to do with you. But something scratches at your brain, and it’s green and bitter. Your fingers fidget in your lap, and you shouldn’t ask, but-

“Is he bringing someone?” You blurt, and just the idea makes you sick. Bucky with some model-type, holding her hips while she grinds onto him, all the honey he’d pour into her ears and down her throat while you just hugged yourself in the corner of the room. Her sitting on his lap in your apartment, you trying to hide the ugliness of jealousy but never being able to spare her more than a crude sneer. It’s the only reason Nat would possibly want you to talk to him. You and Bucky’s childish game of pulling each other’s hair and biting without teeth and seeing who breaks first, it ruins his picture of the perfect suitor. If you keep it up, you’ll ruin this for him, and he deserves to be happy but the thought of him being happy while you just sink into yourself like quicksand makes you want to die-

“Jesus, no.” Nat laughs. “That’s- Never mind.” She shakes her head, still chuckling about some secret you apparently don’t get to be a part of.

“What?” You try to push. “I’ve heard about his- You know. Promiscuity.”

Nat snorts. “From who?”

“Sam.”

“Sam’s an idiot.” She dismisses plainly, and you frown.

“Tony’s mentioned it too-“

“They’re both idiots.”

“Bucky’s told me, he said he leaves all his girls satisfied-“

“Bucky is the biggest idiot of all of them. Open.”

You listen again, and find Nat smiling at you with a strangely soft affection. Like you’re some wet kitten she rescued off the street.

“Put on your dress.” She says, wiping the corners of your slightly pouting lips. “Talk to Barnes.”

At the very least, you manage to follow one of those orders.

The dress is a little shorter than you thought it would be. It rides up your thighs, forcing you to pull it down with every step. In the car you cross your legs and stare at the floor, grounding yourself in the bass of Nat’s loud music as your heartbeat starts to pick up. You’re going out. You’re going out. Spiting Bucky was not a good enough reason to do this, it’s going to be loud and you can dance but not in front of strangers, and you’re going to be even more boring than usual and you feel like a fraud.

“Nice dress.”

Bucky’s voice is a low behind you, his breath fanning on your neck. You almost scream.

“Christ, calm down.” He’s grinning when you whip around, leaning forward in his seat to whisper. Sam and Steve are next to him, one very pointedly staring out the window, the other looking at something on his phone and humming like he’s already trying to drown out you and Bucky’s fighting.

“You scared me-“

“You saw me get in the car, sweetheart. Not my fault you’re jumpy-“

“I am not jumpy-“

“You are. Like a bunny.” His grin widens, and you scowl.

The shifting streetlamps make him look like an angel. Golden halo rays behind his head, long shadows that make him look even more rugged than usual. His lips look fuller, softer, eyes glimmering like a floodlight through the dark, and-

“Shut up.” You snap, turning back around. You can’t keep looking at him. It’s dangerous.

“I was just saying your dress was nice.” Bucky’s breath tickles your neck. You wrap your arms tight around your stomach.

“You also called me a rabbit.”

“Called you a bunny-“

“That’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s-“ He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

You flip him off over your shoulder, glaring firmly out the windshield. You can feel him retreat, but the closeness had lit up your nerves, and now they’re buzzing with hope that he’ll return.

Stupid fucking body. Stupid fucking Bucky.

You refuse to look at him when you arrive. You stumble a little bit in your heels—Natsha insisted on six inch, which is far too tall for anyone—and Bucky catches your arm, holding you upright. You brush his hand off like a fly and march on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of some other comment about how you’re like a baby deer.

When you get inside, you can smell it. The stench of sweat and alcohol and something fruity they probably use to cover the first smells. You cling to Natasha, letting her guide you through the crowd to the bar. She orders you two shots because you need them, and you don’t argue. Between Bucky and the club, you do. 

You down them both without flinching, and Sam whistles from behind you.

“Damn, you took those like a champ.”

You shrug, and Sam elbows Bucky.

“You see that, Buck-“

“Yeah. I saw it.”

Bucky’s voice is lower than usual. Almost sullen. You’d examine him, try to figure out what’s wrong with him, but you’re not supposed to be letting yourself care. He’s not your problem tonight. You’re here to indulge in fun.

You’re already not very good at that as is. Bucky’s consuming presence isn’t going to help.

Another drink might.

You’re three shots in when Nat brings you out to the dance floor. The liquor is pulling you lose, the frayed knot that’s always in your chest going slack enough to allow you to dance. You’re smiling and laughing like a normal person, almost completely able to forget to check where Bucky is in the room.

Near the edge of the crowd, drinking and talking to Steve.

A fourth shot might be needed.

You’re smiling like a fool now. The room is tilted a little, all the colors neon, but they blind out your usual worried and the tilt helps your worries slide off your body. You’re able to forget about Bucky until you notice a girl talking to him, and you take a fifth shot. A sixth, when he vanishes for nine and a half minutes, and your brain starts to map everything he might be doing to that girl.

Seven, when the first stranger asks you to dance and you’re not drunk enough to forget about Bucky and say yes.

Eight, when he tries to kiss you and you shove him away, because his lips aren’t pink enough and he’s not broad enough for you to every pretend.

Nat tries to cut you off there. You slip past her, and take a ninth. The room is just a blur now. You can’t fully remember who Nat is, and why you’re trying to avoid her. There’s a man with his hands on your hips, and he’s got dark hair that looks too greasy for you to touch. Another man calls you sweetheart, but he says it a little wrong and it makes you want to cry. None of them have the right eyes, and the ones that are closer don’t have the right smile.

You feel like you’re going to cry, by the time you’ve rejected the eleventh man. Or only fourth. Numbers don’t feel real right now. Most everything doesn’t feel real.

Everything except Bucky.

Because your own name is just a sound in your head that sounds foreign, but Bucky says it and you know to turn around.

It’s less because it’s your name. More because Bucky called you.

You smile, swaying on your feet, and you’re not even sure where you are anymore. It’s somewhere with a lot of people. Loud music. It’s dark, but bright at the same time, and Bucky looks like a walking dream as he moves towards you. Your vision swims, but he’s made of clear lines and a stern expression.

He’s mad at you. Your face falls, lip wobbling, and you take a step back. You don’t want him to be mad at you. Your heart is already beating in your ears, Bucky’s anger or distain might make it burst.

“Where the hell did you go?” He snaps, and you bow your head.

“I- I dunno-“ You hiccup, hugging yourself tight.

“Nat’s been looking for you, Steve barely stopped her from trying to make the building go into lockdown, and I-“ He cuts himself off, running a hand over his face, and you blink the tears away.

You’re looking up at him under your lashes, and he’s still angry. Some distant voice in your head tells you it’s your fault entirely. That he must’ve been about to go home with someone when they lost you, and now he’s pissed he had to pause his night to find you. You sniff, wiping your nose with your arm.

Bucky’s frown deepens. He takes a step forward, and you try to step back but balance feels like an Olympic feat right now.

His arm loops around your waist, pulling you right against his chest. You stare up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks from feelings you can’t even name anymore. They’re hollow and big and full and made of a million little cuts. They burn in your heart and through your blood, but also freeze in your throat and muscles. You can’t move. You don’t want to move.

Bucky’s big hand is splayed on your back, and you don’t want to go anywhere you can’t feel him.

That voice from before reminds you that’s not allowed, so you wiggle a little.

Bucky holds you tighter, and you surrender in a split second. His frown deepens, and you think you’re still crying. Your cheeks are certainly burning, and your throat feels oddly tight.

Gentle fingers brush under your eyes, and you hum softly. Bucky’s nostrils flare, those fingers brushing hair from your face before cupping the back of your head, forcing your gaze onto his.

“Jesus, woman.” He mutters, those beautiful eyes scanning over your slack face. “How much did you have to drink.”

“I dunno.” You breathe. His brow furrows.

“Best guess.”

You shrug, shaking your head, and Bucky sighs. You want to shrink and hide from him, from his obvious annoyance and disappointment. It’s nothing new, but it’s raw like this. You can’t figure out anything, let alone how to pretend like his hatred doesn’t bother you. You try to turn and hide your face, but Bucky just pulls it right back.

“Over five?” He prompts, and his voice is so soft. Like he’s trying to coax the answer out of you.

“I- I don’t know.” You whine slightly, and he sighs.

“Yeah. Alright.” Bucky’s throat bobs, and he looks up. Glances around you, his hands never leaving your body.

You stare up at him in the dark. You’re not supposed to be looking at him, but it’s impossible. He’s magnetic, and beautiful, and you’ve never been this close to him without one of you trying to claw at the other.

But your fingers cling to the fabric of his shirt, and it’s not to draw blood. You just don’t think that if he walks away you’re going to be able to stand up.

Bucky looks back down at you, and his tongue flicks over his lips. His thumb drags slowly over your cheekbone, leaving a little trail of fire in its wake. Your breathing gets shallow, your eyes fluttering. Everything feels like a lot. Like you’re so high in the atmosphere the air is starting to get thin. Bucky’s brow furrows, and he works his jaw like he does when he’s thinking.

You’ve always wanted to reach up and touch the lines that form on his face, when he worries. They’re deep, and still handsome, but they only ever mark that he’s stressed. He shouldn’t be. It’s only you, and you’re nothing to him.

He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, his hand dragging down to cup the back of your neck. You tip your head back, waiting for him to do something. Kiss you. Bite you. Slam you back against the wall and relieve the ache, building up between your thighs. Maybe just smell you and let his lips brush over a sensitive spot on your neck, teasing you like always until you’re crying and begging for him. 

Instead, Bucky just sighs. He pulls you forward, twisting you until you’re in front of him. His arms cage you to his chest, and he’s almost herding you down the hall.

“Where’re we going?” You tip your head back, and find him glowering at everyone around you.

They’re all moving so fast, stumbling in your path then scrambling away under Bucky’s glower. His eyes flick down to yours for a second, and maybe it’s the delusions of grandeur and liquor, but you could swear they soften slightly.

“We’re gettin’ you home.” He mutters, shouldering the door open. “You need to sleep this off.”

You wrinkle your nose as the chill of night air hits you. “But it’s cold-“

“Car will be warm.”

“But we don’t have a car-“

“We’re taking Nat’s.”

You scoff. “Nat would never give you her car-“

“Well, she did.” He grunts, voice dropping under his breath. “You’d never give me your car.”

“I don’t have a car.” You snap, and Bucky chuckles dryly.

“Yeah, I know.” He opens the door, giving you an amused look. “Up and in, baby.”

Your whole world stops for a second. You feel like you’re floating, a ditzy smile crossing your face, and you start to giggle because he called you baby. Bucky called you baby, like you matter to him, and he’s touching you.

Bucky sighs when you don’t move, and bends down. He scoops you up and drops you in the car like you weigh nothing. You’re still giggling when he closes the door and walks around the hood, sliding into the driver’s seat. For a second you stop, looking out the club with a frown. The world is still hazy, but you can see the neon sign, and it feels like you’re forgetting things that are very important-

“They’re all goin’ back to our place.” Bucky grunts, and you look over to find him staring at you with one of those stone-faced, unreadable expressions that he only uses around you. “It’s closer, cab will be cheaper.”

You frown. “Why aren’t they riding with us?”

“’Cause we’re going back to yours.”

“Why?”

“’Cause.” Is all Bucky offers. He starts the car before you can ask another question, and puts his arm around your seat to back out of the spot.

Nat has a back cam. He just always does it like this, and you’ve always chalked it up to his big, responsible man thing. Usually when the arm is around you, you glare out the window and pretend you can’t feel how close he is. How his fingers brush your upper arm, or how his smell gets stronger.

Tonight you can’t really remember why you do that. And Bucky does really smell good.

You turn your cheek, pressing it into his bicep. Bucky freezes, the car jerking to a stop, and you can feel his attention. It sparks a tiny fire in your core, and seeps down between your thighs. Your lips graze his skin, and he coughs.

His fingers dip down, brushing near your collarbone. You hum happily, and the car starts moving again.

When you’re out of the parking lot, Bucky doesn’t remove his arm like usual. You’re grateful. If he did, you might have chased it right into his lap.

“You have fun?” Bucky breaks the silence, voice gruff.

You nod, turning to watch him drive. He always does it in a way that’s almost unfairly attractive. He holds the wheel lazily, like he knows it’s under his control. You want him to hold you like that.

Bucky clears his throat. “You, uh- You did good.”

“Good?” You murmur, not fully understanding the praise.

You know it makes you throb, and press your thighs together. Bucky’s eyes flick to the motion, and his throat bobs.

“Yeah.” His grip on the wheel is white knuckled. “Good.”

Silence settles again, and you let yourself stare at him. He’s beautiful. So beautiful it makes you unsure that he’s real. You’d like to trace the line of his jaw, hear his smooth, deep voice again. Hear it say your name, because it’s the only thing that reminds you that you’re real. You can’t remember why you ever deprived yourself of this. Of him, and all his quiet glory. He’s a loud man, but never boastful.

He’s only really boastful to you. When he fixes the shower for Nat or someone brings up his army service, he waves them off and laughs, and you’ve always loved that about him. You love most things about him, even when he’s being insufferable. You sort of love that he’s insufferable, too. You’re not that easy either. And if you wrapped around him, you’re hoping he’d be too chivalrous to cut you off. He could mock you all he wants, you’d just hide your face in his neck and breathe him in. Grounding. Handsome. Impossible to resist.

Your fingers are itching, to touch that sad little furrow. There’s nothing for him to worry about. The world revolves around him.

“Saw you got some numbers.” He grunts suddenly, and you pause.

“Numbers?”

“Phone numbers.”

“Oh.” You reach for you bag, checking that the hard line of your phone is still there. It is. You don’t know what he’s talking about.

“You gonna call any of them?”

“Any of who?”

Bucky gives you an exasperated look, then double takes slightly. His worry lines deepen. It makes you pout, grabbing at your own hands to stop them from reaching for him.

“The guys.” He says slowly, frowning at the road. “That you were talkin’ to.”

Oh. Phone numbers. “No.”

His brows raise. “No?”

You shake your head, and Bucky prompts you with an oddly tight voice.

“Why?”

They’re not you. Even your drunk brain seems to know it’s bad idea to say that. “I didn’t want them.”

“Hm.” Bucky taps his hand on the wheel, shooting you a strange look. “Why?”

You can’t tell him that, but you also can’t think of a good excuse this time. You make a lame, half-hearted sigh, and turn your face back into his arm.

He doesn’t push it. He doesn’t talk for the rest of the drive. His thumb drags little circles on your upper arm, lulling you into a half-sleep only interrupted by the bump of the road. You’re not sure how much longer you’re in the car, and when it stops you can’t really remember what you’re supposed to do now.

Bucky helps. He slides away from you, squeezing your thigh in a silent reassurance before he steps out of the car. Your hand traces over where he’d touched you. Bare skin on skin, hands still light and gentle. He seems to have burned his handprint into you, and it spreads until you’re tingly and weak-kneed.

The door on your side opens, and his voice is low in your ears.

“C’mon, pretty girl.” A strong arm loops around your stomach, pulling you back. “Let’s get you in bed.”

You hum, and let Bucky guide you. You trust him completely, with all your heart and not a single question.

He handles you carefully. Guides you inside, holds you steady in the elevator, takes your keys  from your shaking fingers and opens the door. You’re sent to take a shower, but start to trip over nothing the moment Bucky lets go of you, so he sighs and draws you a bath.

“How am I gonna stand?” You mumble, sitting on the toilet while he runs the water. “Or rinse.”

Bucky grunts. “I’ll help.”

You hum in approval, and start to pull off your dress. Bucky makes a strangled sound, eyes flying up to the ceiling, and you’ve never seen his face so red.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting ready for a bath?” You frown at him, and he groans.

“You- Fuck.” He takes a heavy breath through his nose, closing his eyes. “Just- Keep your underwear on, alright?”

You nod, trying to ignore the heavy sting that he doesn’t want to see you naked. Bucky won’t even fully look at you as he helps you into the tub. He leaves the room while you sit helplessly in the water, barely moving until he returns. You wrap your arms over your chest, suddenly consciously that maybe you’re not pretty enough for him to look at you. You pull your knees to your chest and sniffle, just waiting for him. You don’t even know why he left in the first place. You wanted him here.

Bucky sighs, when he opens the door to find you crying.  

“Christ, I leave you alone for five seconds- Hey, woah-“ He kneels on the bathmat, hand flexing before he reaches out and wipes away your tears. “It’s alright, you’re alright. Don’t cry, sweetheart, you’re okay-“

You bite down a sob and turn your face, pressing it right into his shoulder. Again, Bucky stiffens. His arms hover for a second, breathing shallow, and you think he’s going to shove you away.

But he doesn’t. After that single, million year heartbeat of a moment, he grabs you. Holds you tight into his body, cradling your head and rocking you back and forth. The water flows under you, pushing up on the lip of the tub. A little bit flows over, splashing his pants.

He doesn’t seem to mind.

“C’mon, baby.” He murmurs, slowly starting to rise. “Let’s get you to bed.”

You nod, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. When he gets you on your feet, he stops for a second. His lips brush near your ear, and an electric rush dart through you. Then, fast but certain, he kisses the side of your head.

It’s so quick you’d think you imagined it, if you couldn’t feel the burn of his lips long after he pulls away. You reach up to brush it, when Bucky deposits you on your bed. You watch him move around the room like he belongs there.

He does.

He’d belong with you, if he wasn’t such a massive butt about your existence.

“It’s your fault, you know.”

Bucky glances up from your dresser, fisting a shirt in his hands. “What?”

“You.” You say, because it’s that simple.

He’s the reason you’re drunk. That you didn’t score tonight, that you’d been crying, that you have to be coddled like a baby.

Not that you mind that last one. It’s wonderful, having him touch and speak to you like he cares.

It’s still all his fault.

“What’s me?” He says, and you roll your eyes at the ceiling.

“All of it.”

Bucky says your name, and you wave him off with a dramatic sigh. You can hear him pad slowly across the room, and when he pulls you up gently you flop over his body. A useless ragdoll he’s trying to get a shirt onto.

But the harder you make it, the longer he’ll stay. The longer he’ll be nice, and touch you, and-

“I love you.”

Bucky stills. Your words hang in the air, but you don’t understand why. You’ve said far worse things to him, and he must have known. You know. You’re pretty sure Nat does too, with all the looks she’s always giving you after Bucky teases you and you flush, or you bicker and he marches away with a scowl.

It’s not some grand confession. You love him like the seasons turn and the sun always rises. It’s a deep, mechanical part of you that can’t be rewired, and you know because you’ve tried. But Bucky’s leans back and stares at you like the sky is falling.

“What?”

His voice is a croak, and you frown at him.

“I love you.” You say it slower this time. Maybe you’d slurred the words, and he hadn’t understood. “It’s your fault, because I love you and you’re just… There.”

He blinks at you slowly, obviously still not understanding. You roll your eyes, and flop back down.

Bucky coughs, grabbing your knee as if to steady himself. He’s sitting down, and it’s not like he’s in love. The world is perfectly under his feet. You’re the one suffering.

“I’m here?”

“All the time.” You whine, and his grip on your knee tightens.

“But you love me.”

“Mhm.”

“So why’s it problem that I’m here-“

“Because you never do anything.”

You can hear the frown in his voice. “I do things. I do lots of things-“

“You never touch me.” You prop yourself on your elbows, glaring down at him. “You just- You’re there, and you don’t like me and it- It makes me-“

“Makes you what.” Bucky’s voice is deep, his eyes dark on yours, and you stick your tongue out at him.

“You don’t get to know.”

“I don’t get to know?” He snorts. “No, you can’t just- You can’t say that kinda stuff then-“

“I wish you’d touch me.” You tell the ceiling.

Bucky grunts. “Yeah, I’ve heard. But-“

“Think I could cum just from listening to you talk.” You hum, your voice sounding like a faraway dream.

Your eyes are getting heavy, and Bucky’s gone completely silent. The words start to float out of you, like steam escaping through windows, into the warm, open sky.

“I’d like to touch you, too. Put you in my mouth, or just- ride you.” You sigh. “I want everything. I’d do- Do anything you told me too if you asked. Anything.” You look back up at him, your lip wobbling again. “But you never ask me. Why don’t you ever ask me?”

Bucky’s gaping at you, and he shakes his head, his voice a low croak. “I, uh- You’ve never-“

He swallows, glancing down, and you follow his gaze.

He’s straining through his jeans, shifting uncomfortably. You giggle, flopping back down. Your eyes start to droop, the room fading in and out. Bucky rises over you with a sigh, pulling the blankets up.

“’S nice.” You murmur. “You. Bein’ here.”

You yawn, and Bucky’s laughs. Under his breath, like an inside joke he won’t bring you into.

“Yeah. I know.” His hand grazes over your cheek, and you hum sleepily, eyes closing.

His lips press to your forehead, and it’s like a spell. The world, slowly and easily, starts to slip away.

“Sleep well, baby.” He mutters, and under that command, you do.

He’s not there when you wake up, and you have to be okay with that.

You don’t know how you’re ever going to face him again anyway. There’s a fog hanging over your brain, but it’s not thick enough that you can’t remember last night.

Bucky saw you naked. He was in your room, and put you to bed, and you-

You told him you loved him.

That you wanted him. That you could cum just from him talking to you.

You have to move. You have to change your name and move as far away as possible. Maybe Siberia, or Russia, or Romania, or somewhere he’ll never find you again. Because you told him you loved him, and now he’s gone.

He left a water on your bedside table. Mocking you with the fact that last night was real.

You force yourself to sit up, rubbing your temples, and take the glass. If you’re never going to see Bucky again, and you don’t plan to, there’s no need to spite him with ignoring it.

When you stand up, it takes a few deep breaths to start moving. Nat isn’t home yet, and she probably won’t be for a while. That gives you plenty of time to wallow before you vanish forever. You can spend the morning moping and cursing yourself, then worry about consequences.

You make cereal and put on coffee. Stare at the little bits floating through the milk, and try not to think about Bucky. If he’s thinking about you.

If he is, you don’t want to imagine what. That you’re a whore for throwing yourself at him, a fool for think he’d be open to such a confession—from you of all people—or maybe just the same as he always did. Maybe he’d known the whole time, and he just thinks you were gutsy to say it aloud when he so clearly wants nothing to do with you.

Nothing at all, but taking care of you while you’re drunk. Giving you a bath and putting you to bed, handling you like something precious and kissing the side of your head.

That could have been just more mocking. The same game he’s always played, accusing you of wanting him then laughing. Like he’d already known.  

But playing that game while you’re out of it isn’t Bucky’s style. He likes you biting back, sometimes he dangles comments over your head and grins when you snap at them. So there’d be no reason for him to play when you weren’t even able to a join him. But then there’s no reason for  him to act like that at all.

It’s too early to be thinking this much. You put all your hopeful bets on Bucky having somehow forgotten everything, so you don’t have to move.

The door opens down the hallway, and you glance up. It’s early for Nat to be back.

But it’s not Nat that calls your name through the house.

“Where’d you- Hi.”

Bucky walks into the kitchen, and you stare at each other. He’s wearing his clothing from last night, his hair mussed, two paper coffee cups in his hands. You swallow, and he coughs, glancing around the kitchen.

“I got you coffee.” He mutters a little bitterly, and you follow his gaze to the rumbling coffee machine.

“Oh.”

“You don’t have to- It’s here.” He puts it on the counter, and you nod, focusing back on your cereal.

You’re both silent for another long moment. There air is thick, like a swamp at the height of summer. You’re not sure how you remember to speak.

“How’d you know I was up?”

“Your door was open.” He mutters. “Made sure it was closed before I went out.”

“Did you-“

“On the couch. Just, uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, eyes locked onto yours. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone, and- I think we, uh- You said some things. That we should talk about.”

You rip your gaze away as you flush, but if you’d had any hope of pretending you’d been too drunk to retain the night and just hoping he’d leave you be, that ruins it.

Bucky’s eyes narrow. He walks forward, until he’s right at your side. You can feel his presence buzzing through you, and swallow.

“You remember.” His voice is low, and he leans further down before you can protest. “Don’t lie to me. We’ve both been lyin’ way too much.”

You don’t dignify him with an answer. With even a glance.

Bucky leans closer.

“You said you wanted to touch me.” He’s almost growling in your ear. “You said you wanted me in your mouth, that you wanted me to ride you, that you’d do anything I told you-“

“James.” You hiss, twisting to glower at him.

Mistake.

He looks hungry. His eyes are blown out, only inches from yours, his tongue darts over his lips when you look down at them. He’s watching you like a dog that’s finally been told it can have its bone. Your grip on the counter tightens. It’s hard to stay upright.

“Full name.” He hums, the corners of his lips tugging up. “I’m in trouble.”

“You’re being a dick-“

“Yeah, but you like it.”

“I- You-“

“You love it.”

You freeze at that word. The air feels thin now. Your face is burning, and Bucky’s as collected as ever. Like this is all still just a game to him.

“Fuck you.” You spit. It takes everything you have.

Bucky doesn’t even flinches. “Yeah, you want to.”

Your mouth falls open, and he leans in closer.

“You meant it, right? Everything you said?”

Denying seems pointless. You try to anyway, but your lips barely prepare for the word no before Bucky’s giving you a stern look—don’t lie to me—and your voice dies.

He says your name, and it’s the same voice he used last night. Lighter, gentler, man trying to tend instead of force. You weren’t any match for it last night, but that doesn’t seem to be the drink’s fault. You give in just as easily right now.

“Yes.” You breathe.

Bucky’s eyes flash. “All of it?”

“Bucky…”

“Do you want me.” His voice is demanding now, and you try to look away.

He catches your chin, pulling you back. Forcing your gaze onto his, onto those beautiful, enchanting eyes.

You nod, and he hums in approval. The sound settles, molten and warm in your tummy.

“Do you love me?”

His words sound so sincere and taunting at the same time. You can’t look away, so you glare, and he chuckles.

“Come on, baby.” He brushes his lips over yours, his voice becoming something low. Something dangerous.

You don’t even bother to move away this time. You’re breathing in your chest, your stomach filled with too much desire to do much else. The brush of his lips let you taste coffee and mint, and his grip on your chin is commanding. You’re only putty in his hands. A lost cause that doesn’t really want to be found.

“Don’t make me fuck it out of you.”

Bucky’s eyes gleam, and he’s playing again. He knows he has you, that you want to be had.

His hand drags slowly, gently, on your waist. His fingers dip under your shirt, the soft touch making you gasp. You lean forward, and Bucky leans back. He tilts his head slightly, something stern still in his gaze. You blink hopelessly, trying to figure out what, and he squeezes your hips. It’s grounding and electric, and he presses back forward as you go still below him.

“Do you want me to fuck it out of you.” He growls, and your mouth falls open with a whimper.

Permission. He was holding himself on a leash for your permission.

Doubt drains from your head, far down south where a warm, summer storm is brewing between your thighs.

You spread your legs slowly, and grab his hand on your hips. Push it slightly down, until his attention follows.

Bucky’s jaw clenches, and his hand on your chin drops. You watch as he moves so tantalizingly slow, brushing the band of your panties before dragging down the seam at the apex of your thighs. He rubs you over the fabric, and your hips buck into the touch.

“Fuck.” Bucky hooks two of his fingers, tearing your underwear in one rip. “You’re so wet. Soaked through the panties, soaking my fucking fingers.”

You moan, pressing your face into his shoulder. Bucky dips his fingers into your heat, smearing the arousal all over your pussy, and you shake.

“Bucky-“

“You got this,” he spanks your pussy, then drags the mess down your inner thighs. “’Cause I’m here? Or just from thinking about me?”

“B- Both.” You mumble, trying to keep still as the broad pads of his fingers find your clit, rubbing in slow, tantalizing circles.

He hums. “You think about me a lot?”

Pressing hard on the sensitive button. Your knees give out, and you’re only caught by his arm around you’re lower back.

“Careful, baby-“

“All the time.” You whimper the confession, looking up at him with big, teary eyes. “Think about you all the time, Bucky, you’re- You’re so- Oh my god-“

Bucky yanks his hand from your pussy, grabbing your jaw and angling it back for a kiss.

It’s slower than you thought it would be, with how he crashed over you. You’d been expecting rough and harsh, all spit and ownership. Instead there’s a certainly behind it—a rough passion that’s demanding and hot—but it’s slow. Bucky doesn’t use his tongue until you open your mouth, and he hums in satisfaction when you grab at his hair, tugging slightly.

He grabs your ass, hauling you up on the kitchen counter. His hands wander your body lazily, tracing the softness of your hips and curve of your spine. He chuckles when you arch into the touch, deepening the kiss. Stars swim behind your eyes, and you realize you’re still grinding up into his torso.

“Bucky.” You plead, and he presses another tiny kiss to your lips, taking his sweet damn time.

“Off.” He tugs at the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms to help him.

He leans back when you’re uncovered, and this time he isn’t trying to cover anything else. He palms one of your breasts, licking his lips before he takes the nipple between his fingers and rolls it. You squeak and his eyes dart up, almost studying how you shiver and blink at him.

“So reactive.” He switches to the other breast, and your fingers dig into the nape of his neck. “Almost came before I even really touched you, sweetheart. If you can’t hold it, you’re gonna be a fuckin’ wreck before I’m even done with you.”

You shake your head, face heating further. “It- It’s been a long time-“

“Yeah, but that’s not it.” He drags his hand down, over your abdomen. Back between your thighs. “You got that little toy keepin’ you satisfied-“

“Not satisfied.” You breathe, head lolling to the side as Bucky resumes his tight circles on your clit. “Not you, Bucky, fuck-“

He groans, dragging you back into a deep kiss. You give him everything you have in return, nipping at his lips and yanking his hair. Bucky groans and picks you fully off the counter, walking you both to your room and kicking the door shut.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy.” He grunts between kisses, his own steps getting a little uneven. “The stuff I wanna do to you, no way we’re covering it in one night. Years to make up for, gotta ration it.”

“Years?” You pull back, and Bucky grins.

“Oh yeah. You’re not the only one who’s not satisfied, babydoll.”

“But-“

“Ah.” He kisses you, lowering you onto the bed. “Nope. Not now.”

You frown up at him. “Bucky, you said we needed to talk-“

“And now I’m sayin’ not now. And if my memory’s right,” he grins down at you. “You’re the one who said she’d do whatever I want.”

You flush, crossing your arms over your chest, and Bucky laughs. He pulls his shirt off, and you almost fall backwards on the sheets like it’s an atomic blow.

There have been glimpses. Moments. You’ve been to the pool with him before, and he’d been shirtless there too.

But he hadn’t been standing over you, massive and radiating power. You hadn’t been close enough to trace your fingers over the scars littering his muscle, remnants from his time in the army. You reach up in a trace, tracing one closer to his pant line, and he flexes under your touch. A low sound rumbles through him, and he catches your wrist with a warning look.

You giggle. “You’re not the only one who’s sensitive.”

Bucky’s eyes flash, his voice dropping impossibly low. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak.”

Your shift in the sheets, more desire building in your already aching pussy. Bucky’s attention darts to the movement, and his throat bobs. Every muscle in his body strains, and you give him a sweet smile.

“Prove it.”

Bucky makes that deep, growling sound again and grabs your face between his hands. He presses over you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and this is the kiss you’d been expecting from before. Rough and starved, almost marking you as much as kissing you. He bullies you down into the mattress with his weight, and you spread your legs wide to accommodate him.

“You’re so soft.” He mutters, kneading your thighs as his mouth starts to trail hot kisses down your neck. “Thought about touchin’ you like this forever, about how beautiful you’d be under me. And let me tell you, baby,” he nips under your jaw. “Better than I managed to dream.”

You grind up below him, trying to chase a little more friction. You keep meeting the rough fabric of his jeans, and the drag is beautiful, but it’s still not enough.

“Needy girl.” Bucky drags your legs apart, pressing his hips firmly over your core. The sudden pressure does the trick, and you moan, tipping your head back in brief relief. “Yeah, you like that. Feels so good and I’m not even doin’ anything.”

“Bucky, don’t- Don’t tease-“

“But it’s so fun.” He coos, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You get all nervous, makes me want to stuff you up with cock and see how you squirm-“

You make a loud, wanting sound, trying to fuck your hips up into the air. But Bucky’s heavy. You can only claw at his shoulders, and it just makes him tease more.

His rolls his hips, dragging the bulge in his jeans over your burning core. Your mouth falls open, and he kisses you, sneaking and arm tight around your back.

The forced arch of your back makes your legs open widen, giving him further access. He starts to rut against your bare pussy, and it’s perfect torture. Your arms are tight enough around him to choke, but it doesn’t slow him down. Bucky dry fucks you, your pussy throbbing desperately for release, arousal trickling down your ass and every thrust filling you with a burning pleasure.

You hadn’t been lying. It’s been a long time. But that’s not the only reason why you’re already so close to the edge again. Bucky’s body is everywhere around you, his thick arms holding you tight, his lips wandering over your neck and cheeks, leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. The friction is everything, he’s everything, and you don’t have enough restraint to fight it.

The orgasm is sudden and harsh, shaking your whole body. You claw at his back, twitching and whining in his ear. You didn’t know you could cum that hard, hard enough to make eyes close from the overwhelming sensation, and it’s just from dry humping.

Bucky groans in your ear and pulls back suddenly. His eyes are lidded, expression lustful, and his palm flexes near his bulge like he’s forcing himself not to rub it. Your breathing is uneven, your pussy still aching, and you reach down to try and rub your clit until he collects himself.

He catches your wrist and pins it to the mattress, shaking his head. “You just fuckin’ came, baby.”

“I- I know- I just-“ You try to turn, and Bucky slaps your cheek lightly. Forces your attention back to him.

“You’re a big girl. Use words.”

You want to glare at him, but something about the slightly mocking order makes your pussy throb. Bucky raises his brows, and you barely manage not to drool.

“Want more.” You mumble, and he grins.

“And?”

“And?”

“You what?”

You stare for a second, then roll your eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”

Bucky smirks, squeezing his hold on your wrist. “’S alright. We’ll get there.”

You stick out your tongue, and he hums.

“That’s not very nice, baby. Think we need to work on your manners.”

“My manners are fine-“

“You’re a brat.” He teases, and you flush.

“I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. You’re a wet, needy little fuckin’ brat.” Bucky starts to move your hand between your legs, and you pretend to try and pull away.

He sees the challenge, and yanks it down. Presses it against your core, making you shake. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky laughs.

“Look at you.

“You really still got that vibrator?”

You nod, and he pulls your hand up. kisses your knuckles, eyes sparkling. 

“Grab it.”

You scramble up the moment he lets go of you, yanking open your bedside drawer and pulling out the pink rabbit. Bucky grabs your hips before you can roll back over, pulling you backward with your ass in the air. You twist to look at him and find his attention entirely fixed on your core. On the mess between your legs.

He’s almost in a trance, as he drags two fingers through your pussy lips. You flutter, overly sensitive from before, and Bucky shoves his fingers right into your pussy.

You go limp, at the sudden stretch. Bucky’s fingers are everything you’d imagined they’d be, and more. Rough in all the right place, deft and thick, crooking right at the edges as he finds your g-spot faster than even you can sometimes. He hums like he’s figured out something interesting and kisses the curve of your ass. He starts to rub the tips of his fingers, massaging that happy, spongey place inside you, and you moan into the sheets.

“Bu- Bucky-“

“You’re tight.” He mutters, kissing between your ass and pussy, the tiny patch of skin that sends a shiver up your spine. “And wet. Gonna feel real good around my cock, babydoll. Got a perfect pussy for me to fill up.”

You make another desperate sound, and Bucky presses further in.

“Oh, that sounds good to you, doesn’t it. Getting stuffed full of my cum, being my pretty cockslut. I’d make you walk around with it after, wear a skirt so I can fuck you again whenever you run out. Fuck you until it’s stained on your legs, until everyone can fuckin’ smell it. ‘Till they know you’re mine.”

Your pussy clenches at the possessive promise, and Bucky groans.

“You wanna be mine, don’t you sweet girl.”

“Ye- Yes-“

Bucky yanks his fingers out of you unexpectedly, and you almost scream in frustration. You try to twist around again to chew him out, but he grabs the back of your neck and shoves you into the sheets. You go limp, trembling as tears prick at your eyes. Bucky arms snakes around your stomach, his thumb resting under your clit. Never touch it, or where your pussy is fluttering, desperate to be filled.

“Say it.” He grunts, and you shake your head. You’re not that easy.

Bucky doesn’t seem in any rush to give up though. He spanks your pussy, and you cry out in a mix of pain and delight.

“Say it.” He orders, and your hands fist in the sheets as he spanks your pussy again. You grind against him, chasing more, and he pinches your clit hard.

You almost fly out of your skin, a lewd, garbled plea escaping your lips as another orgasms rushes through you. This one is shorter, but no less consuming. You clench around nothing, mouth hanging stupidly open, and Bucky sucks near your throat, his teeth brushing and making the pleasure all the more intense.

“Fuckin’ brat.” He mutters, awe almost coating his voice. “I’m a damn saint, making you cum again when you’re so greedy. When you got this hungry little pussy, begging to be stuffed with cock, and I’m letting you go first.”

“Please,” you try to flip over, but Bucky’s hold on you is too strong. “Bucky, please- Please just fuck me.”

“Oh, I will.” He kisses under your ear, voice silken and taunting. “But not now, babydoll. Then we would’ve brought this out for nothing.”

“What’s-“

A buzzing sound fills the air, and your eyes widen.

“Bucky, wait-“

“You know, you get more sensitive after you cum.” Bucky drawls, dragging the thick tip of the rabbit up and down your pussy. You try to focus on your breathing, squeezing your eyes shut as your body starts to get swept away in a wildfire.

“God, fuck-“

“Quiet.” He grunts. “I’m trying to talk, sweetheart. Be good.”

You nod, biting on your lower lip, desperate to listen well. To be good.”

“Like I was saying.” Bucky drawls, shoving the vibrating dildo up against your clit, then yanking it away. “You get more sensitive. And I was thinking all night about your little confession. That you can cum just from listening to me talk.” Bucky hums, dragging the head down to rest right over your entrance. “I like a challenge, but I’m got enough on my hands with you today. And since I’m so nice.” He pushes the thick length a little inside you, and your pussy clenches around it. “I’m gonna give you some extra hands. Extra sensitive,” he gives your clit a series of tiny hits, shoving the rabbit in deeper. “Some fake fuckin’ cock to get you ready for the real thing, and me.”

Bucky drags you back into his lap, right as he shoves the dildo home. You almost scream as the smaller bit presses over your clit, the thicker part driven right against where Bucky already knew your g-spot was.

“Bucky- Holy shit-“

He pulls your face to the side, silencing you with a deep kiss as you shake. You’ve already cum twice. That’s more than usual, and you’re not sure if you’ve got another.

You don’t get to tell him that, though. You don’t think he’d care to hear it right now, and fuck, do you want to see him try.

“I said quiet.” He growls when he pulls away, and before you know what’s happening he’s shoving the same fingers that had been in your pussy into your mouth.

You melt immediately, sucking on them as your eyes flutter. Bucky groans in your ear, moving his free hand to hold the rabbit inside your gushing, oversensitive pussy.

“Good girl.” He drawls in your ear. “Didn’t even have to ask, you just knew didn’t you. Fuck, you suck my cock half this good I’m not gonna be able to last ten minutes.”

You moan, and Bucky kisses the corner of your jaw before continuing.

“I know you’d like that. What was it you said? That you wanted to touch me? When this is done we can get you on your knees. If you behave.” He nips at your sweaty skin. “I’ll let you suck my dick. I’ll even fuck your face if you ask real nice. I hope you’re nice, baby, cause I can imagine it. You crying, lips around me, fucking your fingers while you choke on my cock. My pretty baby, my sweet fuckin’ doll loving me so much.”

You slump back against him fully, hips rolling uselessly, and it’s more subtle this time. The heat building at the bottom of your tummy, winding tight and made of a strange pressure.

“You’re gonna say it.” He coos in your ear, and your pussy starts to fight against the rabbit. Like it knows you can barely take it.

But you can’t lend it much energy. You like this position well enough.

“After you cum for me again, I’ll fuck you. Fuck you properly like the brat that you are.” Bucky groans, pressing his nose into your hair. “Walking around, making me feel like I’m the asshole for wanting you, for loving you when you’re snapping off at me,you’re a mouthy fuckin’ thing, aren’t you babydoll. Lotta bark but,” he pushes his fingers further into your mouth. “Not even a little bit of bite.”

Your eyes roll back, head pressing into his shoulder, and you give him a silent look of pleading that’s only met with a mocking grin.

“So pretty like this, sweetheart. Stupid and quiet, I ain’t even fucked you yet. Won’t clean you up after you’re done, just let you walk around with it dripping. Maybe I’ll fuck you until it sticks. Until you’re mine.”

Your back arches, and you’re so close. You can feel Bucky’s dick twitch against your ass, and somewhere in the distance your thoughts manage to collect enough to tell you that he removed his bottoms at some point.

“Fuck, ‘course you’re into that. Shouldn’t have expected more from you, with how much you love this. You’re close, baby.” His lips tease the shell of your ear. “So close.”

You whimper, grinding down onto him as the dildo vibrates, and Bucky groans. He pins you down to his lap with a hiss, fingers flexing on your stomach.

“Shit- You can’t just-“

He presses his mouth where your neck meets your shoulder, kissing and sucking as his dick throbs against you, and his dirty talk becomes mumbled and deep. 

“My pretty fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for it, cum for me, babydoll, come on, fuckin’  show me how much your greedy pussy wants my dick-“

The pressure breaks like a flood. Your pussy gushes so hard it pushes out the rabbit, and your head flies back as you grind into the air. Bucky moans, fully moans, and starts to rub your clit back and forth with the palm of his hand. You grab his wrist, spasming and trying to chase it and escape all at once. You whine as it becomes all too much, batting at Bucky’s hand.

He stops, collecting your release on his fingers.

When he presses them against your lips, you open. Hum as he feeds your own juices to you. All you can do is lap at his fingers and look at him under fluttering lashes, and he smiles.

“Good girl.” He coos, and your body seizes up again. You moan around his fingers, and Bucky laughs.

He pulls them out, turning your head for a gentle, deep kiss. You’re boneless and cockdrunk, only able to let him give and give whatever he’s willing. You can’t even try to drag him close.

Bucky rolls you over, making sure your back is pressed into the mattress as he kisses you lazily. He rises up after a few moments, his gaze raking down your body, and you flush. If you had more strength, you’d cover yourself. You’ve never been good at being looked at.

But there’s nothing expect awe and affection in Bucky’s eyes. He traces a hand over your every curve and softer spot, rising slowly on his knees to part your legs.

“You’re a miracle, baby.” He murmurs, pumping his cock in his hands and for once, you feel like one. “Look at what you do to me.”

You do, and you might be about to burst into flames.

Bucky’s thick. Long, but not enough to worry you, and thick. He’s going to drag, be able to get balls deep and make you feel him everywhere.

You’re drooling, and he sees it. He smirks knowingly, and you wrinkle your nose.

“Come on.” He teases. “Say it, and it’s all yours.”

You shake your head, and Bucky hums. Crawls back over your body, notching his cock right at your entrance. His hovers his lips over yours, not quite fully kissing.

“Say it.”

When you find your voice, it’s raspy and broken.

“No.”

“But you know you want to.” He presses the first inch inside, and if you’d had any worries about not being able to take more, they’re knocked away with how good he feels.

You were right. He’s an even bigger stretch than his two fingers, and it perfect. There’s a slight ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the closeness. By how well he fits, how much you need more of this brimming, explosive pleasure already threating to take you over.

“Just say it, pretty girl. Say it for me.”

You shake your head, and Bucky pushes further in, and your hands fly into his hair like they were pulled there.

He groans, rutting into you, and bottoms out. You didn’t know you could feel this good. Be this full. Bucky moans in your ear, and you breath slowly, trying to adjust.

“You feel so good.” He smashes his lips over yours, the kiss demanding and long. “Knew you’d feel this good, always knew you’d feel this good, Christ-“

You roll your hips up, and it makes Bucky jerk. He slams into you, knocking the air from your lungs, and your toes curl in delight.

He barks your name, grabbing your jaw, and you beam at him.

“More.” You breathe, and Bucky’s eyes widen in slight surprise.

He recovers fast.

“Yeah?” He pulls out slowly, then slams back in, his tip kissing your cervix. “You like that? Like being fucked like a toy?”

You moan happily, and Bucky laughs.

“Thought you might surprise me, babydoll, but no.” He taps your cheek, and you open without a thought. “You’re just the pretty cockslut I thought you were.”

He drags all the way out again, but this time pushes in slower. You whine, but he doesn’t even acknowledge you, setting a slow pace that feels good, but is far too much. The roughness made you numb with a good, fuzzy sensation, but this makes you feel it. Bucky’s cock dragging against your gummy walls, the press of him over your g-spot and heat of him, right over your clit.

You can barely take it. You’re already so fucked out from the other orgasms, you’re barely able to hold onto Bucky properly. You think you might be about to black out from pleasure, but no part of you wants him to stop altogether, and how you’re trapped somewhere between paradise and hell.

“Look at you.” He grabs one of your breasts, palming it as he thrusts smooth and deep. “Nobody else does this to you, do they. Makes you feel so good, gets you so stupid on their cock.”

You shake your head, and Bucky taps your mouth again.

“Words.”

“Bucky…”

“Want to hear you, sweet girl.” He kisses your cheek, words pure filth in your ears. “Here you scream for me while I fuck you, hear how much you love it.”

“Can’t-“

“Yes, you can.” He slams a little firmer, giving you a pointed look. “Good girls listen. And when they listen,” he repeats the motion, holding your gaze. “They get filled up.”

You whimper, but nod. Bucky smiles in satisfaction, returning to his torturous speed from before.

“Anyone else do this to you?” He grunts, and you shake your head.

“No- No. Never, Bucky, only you-“

He groans, picking up his pace. “That’s fuckin’ right. No one fucks you like this, I’m gonna ruin you. If you wanna cum you’ll have to find me, I’m the only one who plays this perfect fuckin’ pussy- Shit-“ He groans, jaw clenching as he hits a little deeper than before. “Nobody takes care of you like me-“

“No one.” You echo, and you’re rewarded with another rough slam. “No one, Bucky, only- Only wanted you, needed you- Fuck-“ You cry out, pressing your cheek into his jaw. “You and your thick cock, needed you so bad-“

“I know. I know, babydoll, but I’m here now.” He kisses you quickly, speeding up again.

It’s enough to make you start to feel it again. Not slowly building, but being dragged out. The tip of Bucky’s cock drags through you, and that hot feeling in your core starts to fill up again. 

“Wanted to do this for so long.” He groans in your ear, and a loud moan escapes your lips. “You really got no idea, I thought I was gonna lose it every time I saw you, thought you’d never let me- God-“

You clench around him, and Bucky angles your hips up, allowing him to hit deeper. You moan, and he kisses the back of your neck, sucking a dark mark.

“My girl.” He mutters possessive, and you babble an agreement. “My smart, mean fucking baby, drunk on my cock. Prettiest girl in the world, mine-“

You moan, and Bucky cuts himself off with a groan. He kisses you again, then rises over you. Bracing his arms on either side of your head as he looks to where he’s fucking into you. Your gaze follows, and the warmth in your gut flares at the sight.

It’s the most vulgar, pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Bucky’s thick cock, sliding in and out of you with ease. Precum and your own need for him shining on the thickness of him, his chest flexing with restraint as he forces himself to keep the same pace. You watch his cock vanish into your body, and feel him deep inside you, and God-

You look up, checking if Bucky’s as strangely moved by that as you are, and find him staring at you. The moment your eyes meet, he grabs your jaw, pressing you back down into the pillows with a rough kiss. You’re unable to do anything but take it all. Bucky’s tongue pressing down your throat, his lips moving expertly over yours, his cock fucking every word but his name out of your head.

“Look at me.” He rasps when he pulls away, and you nod.

His eyes are almost wholly black, and shining. Tears prick at yours, but Bucky leans down, kissing them away before going faster again.

His balls start to slap on your ass, his cock pumping in and out of you until it’s all you can think about. Bucky deep inside you, lighting you up, how you can feel a rush up your spine with his every thrust. A lewd, wet sound is filling the room as he pounds into you. Your pussy burns and spasms every time, but it’s too good to fight.

Bucky’s too good to fight. You don’t know why you tried for so long.

“Bucky-“ You breathe, and he grunts.

“You’re close, sweetheart.” He mutters, and you don’t know how he knows, but he’s right.

You’re about to snap again. To lose it from how he’s fucking you like you’re a doll and the love of his life, all at once. You grab his wrist, squeezing tight.

“Pretty girl,” he teases. “Gonna soak this cock like a good girl, aren’t you. Give it to me, baby, show me how much you love it-“

“Love you.” You breathe out, and Bucky freezes.

Balls deep, he stills. His cock throbs in protest, but he doesn’t seem to care. 

You blink at him, praying you didn’t ruin it. Bucky swallows, and rasps out your name.

“What?”

“I- I love you- Oh.”

He jerks into you when you say it, and you almost fly out of your skin.

“Fuck, Bucky- I- I love you-“

It happens again, but you don’t think he’s doing it to mess with you. He can barely seem to control himself, his attention almost feral as his cock jumps inside you.

“I- I love you- Oh my god-“

Bucky dives over you, kissing you like he’s trying to steal the words from your mouth. Like he can taste them.

“Damn right you do.” He grunts, cock dragging inside you as he starts to fuck you, shallow and brutal. “Love you, love you so much, you’re-“

He kisses you, and somewhere through the floating, hazy dreamworld his cock is fucking you into, you think he’s run out of words.

Bucky’s fucking you like an animal, because there’s nothing left for either of you to say. He pulls your hips back up to that angle from before, returning to that pace from before that pulled the confession out of you. You’re in incoherent, babbling mess, tugging at the sheets and watching Bucky above you like he’s God.

“Good girl.” Is all he’s grunting out, but it’s deep and every word of a noise than anything else. “Mine, my good fucking girl, gonna fill you up, you’re-“ He moans, doubling over your body as his thrusts become short and harsh. “You’re perfect-“

From nowhere, you find the strength to reach up and grab Bucky’s face. You pull it down, kissing him with every word you’re too ruined to say, and he moans.

Bucky slams home, muttering your name against your lips like a prayer. You can feel him everywhere. Hot and sticky, pumping deep into your own heat, coating your walls, dripping out and running down your ass. When Bucky starts to move again, slow and lazy, he presses it deeper, spreads it everywhere.

It’s hot on your clit, and Bucky’s still jerking and spraying inside of you. You’ve never been this full, it’s addicting. Your brain is empty, body alight with the feeling, Bucky’s cum so thick and demanding that you could swear you feel it washing through your whole body.

He reaches between your legs to rub your clit.

You get there all on your own.  

Your vision goes white, as you cum. You’re so out of it you feel it the same way you feel a cool breeze. Light and relieving, washing over the heat inside you and pulling a happy sigh from your lips.

Bucky kisses you, and this time it’s only sweet. All his mean words and taunts so easily dissolve as you reach up, running your fingers through his hair. He smiles against your lips, and you smile back.

“Told you I’d do it.” He mutters, and you shove his chest with a weak laugh.

“Shut up.”

He grins, moving up to kiss your brow, then the side of your face. He’s still buried inside you. Neither of you are in a rush to move any time soon.

“You mean it, though.” He pauses, moving back over your body.

There are those worry lines again. You reach up with a tiny smile, and soothe your fingers over them. Bucky hums, leaning into your touch, and you smile.

“Yeah.” You whisper, and his shoulders sag.

“Thank god.” He presses his face between your breasts. “That would’ve been bad.”

You laugh, running your fingers through his hair, and he wraps his arms around your body. He’s slid out a little, but you’re still connected to him, and you never want to move again.

“How long?” He mutters against you, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “Cause mine was when I saw you.”

You flush stupidly—he’s inside you—and mumble, “Me too.”

Bucky frowns. “But you were always- “

“And were you any better?”

He snorts, leaning up to peck your cheek. “Fair shot.”

“I know.” You snip, then, “You- You meant yours, right? I mean- What you said while…”

You trail off, because you didn’t imagine it. I love you and mine, too sincere to just be dirty talk.

Bucky rises back over you, gently guiding your gaze back to his. He smiles when your eyes meet, and kisses the tip of your nose.

“With everything I fuckin’ got.” He mutters, and you smile.

“Good.”

“I know. I mean, I did really well for myself- I’m complimenting you, woman!”

You’d shoved him, and Bucky grabs your wrists, wrestling them down into the mattress. He looks at you with a rough, fond exasperation.

“You’re a gremlin.”

“You like it.” You beam up at him, and he lower back down, kissing you lightly.

“Tough curse.” He mutters. “But I’m enjoying it.”

You roll your eyes at him, and he grins. Beautiful and all yours.

“Can we stay here for a while?” You ask, just because you want to have this, and sit in it. “Please.”

Bucky nods, and you feel your heart shine like it’s been given new batteries. Beating out of your chest and comfortably all at once, as Bucky rolls you both onto your sides, wrapping tight around you.

“We can do whatever you want.” He mutters, rubbing your hips and kissing the marks on your neck.

You relax, because you believe him. About all of it.

And now, you have him with you for all the time in the world.

✦End note: big fan of that horny old man in every universe.✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[deanwinchestersunhappythoughts]

HOLY CHUCK

[wvffles]

repose ❀

pairing; soldier boy x wife!reader word count; 0.2k 🎀 summary; you can always count on your husband to lift the weight off your shoulders. (kind of literally in this case) tags/warnings; established relationship (married), pregnant!reader, fluff, soft feels notes; more sappy lovesick husband ben <3 just a baby drabble to get back into writing, it's been a minute ;_; + I imagined this being in the same universe as holly jolly headache but can be read as a standalone 🌸 ♪ now playing; much better off — smokey robinson

ben masterlist ♡ main masterlist

You let out a content sigh, your shoulders sagging in relief as you lean back against your husband. “Y’know I’m pretty sure it’s those sounds that led us here sweetheart.” He teases, murmuring the words against your head.

A soft chuckle escapes you, warm and tired. “Hey I’m waddlin' around with this heavy ass melon of a belly, feels nice to have that weight off for a moment.”

Only a few weeks away from your due date, you couldn’t wait for this pressure to be alleviated for good (and to meet your sweet baby of course). For now, you have Ben to help you—super strength and all.

He stands behind you, his arms wrapped around your frame and under your pregnancy bump. He’s lifting it gently, carefully holding your stomach up but certainly not enough to hurt you. It fills you with pure relief.

“Can’t believe she’s almost here already.” You say, leaning your head back against him and closing your eyes. “Feels like a dream.”

He smiles, slow and thoughtful before leaning to kissing your cheek softly. He's glad there's no one around to call him a sap, but he wouldn't care either way (maybe just glare at them).

He never thought he’d get to have this.

A lovely wife, a kid on the way, a home. He’d accepted the grim fate he always envisioned long ago, but he’s here now, grateful to be holding his growing family close. “Speaking of, we should get you to bed, hmm?”

“Just a little longer.” you whisper, voice full of exhaustion and your eyes already closing.

He’d stay forever if you asked, and he wouldn’t want it any other way.

end note; he'd be so down bad for his wife, I just know it. thanks for reading !! 🫶🏽

[dollfacies]

biting bf!dean’s bicep

⟢　ྀ𓈒♱⃓ the morning light peeks through the curtains in a soft, golden glow. dean is still half-asleep next to you, an arm tossed loosely but protectively over your waist with the other tucked beneath a pillow. you’re laying on your side, staring at the face you fell inlove with when your gaze slowly drifts down to his strong physique—his biceps. warm, big, and unfairly solid.

you’re not that fully awake either, brain still not functioning properly, but just enough that you quite consciously begin to lean in, pressing your lips to his arm first—then experimentally, bite him. dean twitches immediately, one eye cracking open where he can meet your almost guilty (not guilty) gaze. his brows furrow and he makes a face down at you where your mouth is still attached to his skin.

“.....the fuck?”

you crack a small smile, playing innocent like you didn’t just sink your teeth into a six foot something man who looks like he can throw a car. dean looks down where you bit him, spotting a barely there mark—evidence of your teeth that was there a few seconds ago. if you had to guess out of context on why he was staring at you like that—you’ve just severely, offensively insulted him and three generations of his bloodline.

“did you just bite me?”

“uh-huh.”

“....why?”

a pause. just silence for a moment as you smile proudly, “you’re strong.” you shrug unapologetically.

dean raises an eyebrow, letting a short snort slip, eyes closing shut again as he yanks you closer to him, your hand resting on his bicep.

“weirdo,” he mutters, voice softer now. and best of all? when you bite him again, he just lets you.

[deanwinchestersunhappythoughts]

me

[midnightfragment]

hii!

if u haven't already can you pls do deans ver of being married to him headcanons?

thanks if u do! stay safe <3

𝜗ৎ Being married to dean winchester (headcanons)

˖ ࣪⊹ a/n: loved imagine this! tysm for your request!! Hope u enjoy it:) ♡

Also, u can find sam's version here

He always tries to keep his wedding ring visible all the time, gets angry when you 'forget to put it on'

Dean loves to refer to you as his wife and show that you two are married, in any situation.

in a diner? "One burger for me and one for my wife" doctor's office? He's smirking at the receptionist while sliding your insurance card over like "That's my wife right there". He's annoying and you love it.

Dean doing that classic “arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side” move whenever you’re walking anywhere together. protective af even when you’re just going to grab coffee. especially when you’re just going to grab coffee. “nobody looks at my girl like that” babe it’s a barista

breakfast in bed on random Sundays. he burns the bacon exactly once a year on purpose so you’ll tease him about it forever. the rest of the time it’s fluffy scrambled eggs, toast and coffee exactly how you like it (he memorized it on date three and never forgot)

he still gets lowkey grumpy when you go on hunts without him. “I’m not saying you can’t handle it, I’m saying I’d rather handle it FOR you.” you roll your eyes, he sighs dramatically, then packs your bag himself anyway — extra salt rounds, your favorite knife, tampons just in case, a tiny note that says “don’t die. love you. -D”

forehead kisses. so many forehead kisses. good morning, good night, you’re stressed, you’re happy, you just walked into the room, he’s proud of you — forehead. kisses. he cups your face with those big rough hands like you’re made of glass he’s terrified of breaking

the way he says “c’mere” when he’s tired. just pats his chest once like it’s a command and a plea at the same time. you crawl on top of him, he wraps both arms around you like a human weighted blanket, buries his nose in your hair and mumbles “you smell like home” before he’s out cold in thirty seconds

wearing your hoodie when you’re gone on a solo errand. he’ll deny it to his dying breath but Sam has photographic evidence of Dean Winchester curled up on the couch in your oversized hoodie sniffing the collar like a weirdo.

always touching you. hand on your lower back when you walk through doors, thumb brushing your knuckles when you’re sitting next to each other, playing with your wedding ring when he’s thinking. he’s convinced if he’s not touching you some monster is gonna snatch you away (he’s only half joking)

sings terribly off-key in the shower but only love songs from the 80s. you catch him belting “I Will Always Love You” at full volume and when he sees you he just winks and keeps going louder. menace

remembers every tiny detail bc he thinks you are so cool and unique, your coffee order, the way you like your pillows, that one story about your childhood dog you told him ONE time four years ago. brings it up casually like “yeah like when your dog ate your homework in third grade”

protective husband glare at anyone who even breathes in your direction wrong. but also the softest eyes in the world when it’s just you two. the duality of man

“I got you” is his entire love language. monster? “I got you.” bad day? “I got you.” panic attack at 3 a.m.? he’s already pulling you into his lap whispering “I got you sweetheart, breathe with me”

still flirts with you like you’re on the first date. winks across the room, calls you “gorgeous” when you’re wearing his flannel and nothing else, growls “damn baby” when you walk out in date-night clothes like he didn’t marry you already

every anniversary he tries to do something “normal”. candlelit dinner (he cooks), slow dancing in the kitchen to Zeppelin on low volume, ends up making out against the counter like teenagers. “we’re allowed to be sappy once a year right?” yeah babe. you’re allowed

[garfieldsladybird]

just wanna mention for every fandom.

Start reblogging. Reblog.

Why are you not re-blogging? You think the fandom is dead, that no one’s interacting anymore, no one’s doing anything, no one’s writing, no one’s posting. ‘Everyone was so hyperfixed on that character, Where is the writing?’

People are writing. People aren’t reblogging. People aren’t giving some good feedback to motivate the writers that are putting their hard work, time, effort into making this piece that you were reading.

‘oh, it’s just too much work. You don’t wanna click that button and then click a few tags.’ Then you’re gonna have to suffer and not see a lot of writing from a lot of people because the only way this fucking app works is if you reblog.

I see so many pieces of work with 59 likes and 1 blog, I just saw one that had 690 likes and it had 9 reblogs. Even 1,000 likes and only 59 reblogs too. It’s devastating to see for the community of Tumblr. And I’ve been here for like five years, the way this app works is if you re-blog.

There’s so many people that are writing. There’s so many amazing things that I see and I try my best to reblog every single one that I read. That’s what I love doing because sharing someone’s piece of work is just beautiful because it allows me to show it to more people.

I reblog. And the beauty of it is;

I get notifications that this person liked it and this person liked it, and then that post continues to get more views, more likes and reblogs. All just because one person, reblogged it.

so please, if you are a part of Tumblr and you love reading your favorite writers fics, or love reading about your favorite character, please do your job and reblog it.

And if you don’t like re-blogging because you don’t want to do that on your account, then you can make another account and put all of the things that you read on that account. You can do separate things, like fic recs.

You can figure it the fuck out if you want people to actually be writing for a character you love. The writers are writing, you ain’t helping them share their work.

Reblog. It ain’t hard.

[time-for-my-weekly-spanking]

Honestly, it’s giving “you’re not cool enough to be on my blog” … dude, we literally are a bunch of weirdos (affectionate) thirsting on fictional characters… I mean, come on. Reblog your writers.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 59 - Blink Back To Let Me Know

✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist✦ ✦Chapter 58 - Chapter 60✦ ✦pairing: Dean Winchester x female!reader✦ ✦summary: Dean looks for you✦ ✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action, smut, no use of y/n✦ ✦author's note: sometimes there's a chapter i just love writing. this is one of them.✦ ✦Chapter Title from Always by Panic! At The Disco✦

Dean knew. Something was wrong.

She didn’t meet them at the drop point, she wasn’t back at the motel, and she wasn’t picking up the phone. Even with the Feds still looking for them, Dean made Sammy stick around for almost a day looking for Her, because something was wrong.

Sam thought she might’ve just headed back Herself—stay split up, a little bit safer while they’d be searching for all three of them—but she wouldn’t do that. It would be a whole other crime, to steal a car. And She didn’t hitchhike. Plus, if She was safe on the road somewhere, She’d pick up the goddamn phone.

And Dean could see it in Sam’s eyes, every time he insisted that something was wrong. The doubt. The words he was biting back—probably for Dean’s sake—that maybe She was gone, but wasn’t in danger at all.

Smart kid, not saying them aloud. Dean would punch his damn lights out.

Bobby and Jo pulled into town before Sam could convince Dean to give up and go back. Her sending Jo back with Cas had worked, and they’d come to find them, and look at that, She wasn’t with them. Bobby hadn’t seen Her, Jo hadn’t heard from Her, and She was in danger.

“Where’d you last see her.” Bobby grunted, sitting on the edge of motel mattress. “See her with your eyes, Dean. Not guesses, solid location.”

“In the station.” Dean grunted. He’d been pacing for the past hour, trying not to smash another chair against the wall. “I told you, she snuck in, we talked, and before they dragged her out they told me we were doing Moxyprose.”

Bobby frowned. “What’s-“

“It’s an old code they had, from when they hunted together.” Sam explained, watching Dean with a worried expression. “They taught it to me, and we’ve used it for escapes, but- Dean, if the last thing you saw of her was in the station-“

“Don’t say it.” He gave Sam a warning glare, tone clipped and short. “She made it out. Something just grabbed her, and we’re over here sitting on our asses like idiots, trying to figure out if she’s in danger when you know this life, you know everyone’s always trying to- That they’re all trying to take a slice of her, and we should be looking for her, we should be ripping up the fucking planet-“

“Dean.” Bobby said firmly, and Dean snapped his jaw shut. “Sit down.”

He didn’t. He crossed his arms and held Bobby’s glower, because he should understand. If anyone should be grabbing the scissors and cutting the fabric of reality open until they found Her, it should be Bobby. He knew. He knew that everything was always trying to take Her away, he knew that the world was dulled and rusted and sharp when She wasn’t here, that everything felt sick when they didn’t have Her.

Dean’s palms were sweating, and his heart was pounding and squeezing like it had an infection. His breathing had gotten shallow, because his head kept running away with ideas of where She might be. If the Leviathans or Eve grabbed Her, at least they wouldn’t be able to kill Her, but people had gotten creative about hurting Her before. Heaven wasn’t really dealt into the game right now, but maybe after the plane they were trying to move back onto the table. God wouldn’t take Her until She meant it, but those were rules he’d made up for his own, twisted game. Sammy could be right. She could be one of the seared, raw bodies being pulled from the fire, and Dean could taste ash and bile. He might be about to vomit, all over the cheap motel carpet.

Bobby was grabbing his shoulder, and Dean blinked, his jaw almost wired shut. Bobby gave him a tight smile, and Dean could see it in his eyes. The heaviness, the draining of color that came with determination, to cling to whatever they could find.

“We’re gonna find her, son.” He grunted, squeezing his hand. “Between all of us, we can find her. But you ain’t doin’ her any favors by losing your head at Sam about it.”

Dean swallowed, but nodded. He shot Sam a look, when Bobby backed away, and Sam shook his head. There wasn’t an apology needed, even if Dean felt like he should give it. He was being a bit of an ass.

But his world was crumbling, under his feet. Sam, at least, seemed to understand that.

Dean didn’t feel like he was going to have a grip on a single damn thing, until he got Her back in his arms.

Bobby forced him to call the search in Pennsylvania. If She was still in the state, she would’ve found them by now. He put out a call to hunters in the area—orders to look for Her, but not engage in case she was going nuclear again—and dragged them back to South Dakota. Dean wasn’t allowed to drive. He kept trying to go a hundred on the backroads, and his vision was blurring and tinted with red and yellow. Bobby said he needed sleep.

He needed Her.

A lump formed in his throat, as he watched the tree line zip past. She couldn’t have been one of those bodies. Dean would know. Somewhere deep in his body—just to the right of his heart—he’d feel everything unravel if Her eyes went empty and Her chest stopped rising. The world felt wrong now because She wasn’t there, but Dean knew the difference between missing and gone. He’d known it when Dad had vanished, he’d known it when yellow-eyes snatched Sammy, he’d known it every time She’d walked away.He had something that prickled over his skin and pulled him. That told him there was still something out there, calling him to come find them when they were just out of sight. Like a fucked up game of hide and seek Dean wanted to stop playing forever.

He knew that gone settled over his chest like a rock. He’d felt that for the first time when he was four. When he watched another building born, and Mom didn’t walk out.

And then an image flashed through his head. Her body like Mom’s, all twisted and burnt. Her bright eyes burnt out of Her head. Her voice gone forever, just drifting on the wind where Dean couldn’t catch it, and-

“Pull over.” He grunted, and Sam frowned.

“Dean, we’re on the freeway-“

“Breakdown lane. Now.”

Sam sighed, but moved over. Dean stumbled out of the car, and threw up all over the yellowing grass. His vision swam as he tried to purge the thoughts out his throat.

She wasn’t gone. He’d know if She was gone.

Sam didn’t ask questions, when they hit the road again. Dean silently dared him to, but instead he just got a look of pity, and that was worse. Nothing bad was sticking to them. This was a nightmare, but Dean was going to wake up. He’d find Her, because he had to. Because that’s what they did.

They got lost, and Dean had a compass that pulled him back to Her side, and they kept going together. All the way down.

She wasn’t fucking gone.

“There are a lotta people who might want her. For a lotta reasons.” Bobby stood in the library with his arms crossed, thinking aloud. Dean was across the room, Sammy on a laptop, Jo manning the phone and watching the news on mute. Their best hope right now—without a single damn lead—was looking for the shit that always got left in Her wake. Sudden gardens, miracles, strange weather and storms as the sky cried for Her.

Dean wasn’t allowed to be in charge of that either, because he kept trying to investigate everything that might be a sign. It didn’t matter if he knew in his gut that it wasn’t. He couldn’t slip. Couldn’t trust his instincts, have them be wrong, and let Her wash right past his fingers like running water. He needed to be Her bucket. To hold and catch Her while she tumbled around through Her own head.

He’d been put on brainstorming duty. Partially because of his still healing ankle, and partially because Bobby said he knew Her, and he did. But he also didn’t want to think about what might be happening to Her. He just wanted to find her, and bring Her home safe.

“It’s probably not anything lower on the pecking order than an Alpha.” Dean grunted. “No run of the mill monster would even get a hand on her.”

“You don’t hit the ocean.” Cas nodded in agreement, petting Indy in his lap.

She’d come down from their room, to try and get some attention. She’d mostly been nosing at the lion, trying to draw it out of the dresser. Neither she, nor Dean, had been successful without Her there. Dean didn’t even have a name for the thing, and he certainly wasn’t going to name it without Her there. But he also couldn’t neglect it. She’d put his head on a spike, if She came back to the baby being starved. 

It had sniffed Dean’s hand last night. Progress.

He felt homesick. He was in his own room, and he felt like he wanted to go home.

“With everything out there,” Bobby grunted. “There’s no sense tryin’ to sort what’s in the same punching class as an Alpha and what’s gonna leave her be. Sam, I know you got that spreadsheet-“

“We’ve sorted things pretty well, but- It’s based mostly on, um-“ Sam mumbled Her name, shooting Dean a nervous look. “You know how she has her systems, and she explained it to me, but- I don’t really think I can explain it to you-“

“Show it to Cas.” Dean muttered, nodding in his direction.

Sam swallowed, but listened, and Cas read the screen for about five seconds before nodding slowly.

“She’s organizing their solar power.” He said knowingly. “You should not look for anything weaker than the Eastern Seaboard.” He looked to Dean, pride shining in his eyes. “I have been watching movies. About human. There is a lot of power, only some of you can hold it in your hands.”

“I know, buddy. We get greedy.” Dean gave Bobby a firm look. “She sorted by the power she could see in them, is my guess. Sammy, if they got classes or something-“

“They do.” Sam sighed. “But- Dean, I don’t think a monster grabbed her. Nothing expect the Leviathans probably could, and there wouldn’t be any motivation-“

“Could’ve been Eve.” Jo suggested. She’d been oddly quiet, frowning at her own screen as they spoke.

Dean nodded, fisting his hands to keep from punching a wall. If Eve had Her, they needed to move faster. “We should call Rowena again, see if she’s got one of those GPS spells for Mommy Dearest-“

“You guys were fighting.”

The room went silent, at Jo’s soft words. They weren’t an accusation, but they felt like a blade being driven into Dean’s ribs. She was giving him a look, like she knew she didn’t even have to say the other part aloud. Dean knew what she was getting at. They all did.

“Yeah.” He said, holding Jo’s gaze. “We were.”

Jo just hummed, and looked back to her computer. Sammy was glaring at her, and Dean was willing to bet they’d agreed not to say anything about it. Cas was watching Dean with a tight expression. He could probably see the pressure, winding up in Dean’s chest like a ticking bomb.

Dean whistled, and Indy shot off the table.

“We’re going out.” He told no one, and stomped away.

He couldn’t be in that room, while they were all thinking it. He could hear their doubt, feel the tension that signed over all their skin. The question none of them were brave enough to just goddamn say to his face.

And She wasn’t here. But She hadn’t left Dean.

She wouldn’t. She’d promised. She’d pinky promised. She wouldn’t leave him now, She wouldn’t, She had to be in danger because Dean knew that she had a habit of running, but they’d been breaking habit together. And She wouldn’t go now, when they were finally getting things right. She wouldn’t leave Sammy with his soul still cracked and bleeding, she wouldn’t leave Jo when she’s barely gotten her back, she wouldn’t leave Bobby without goodbye because he’d worry, and she wouldn’t leave Cas in his toddler-like state, and she wouldn’t leave Indy or the baby lion and She wouldn’t, She wouldn’t leave, She wouldn’t leave Dean.

They’d been fighting, but they’d gotten through arguments far bigger, things far worse. This wasn’t any disagreement they hadn’t had before, and even when She’d left she’d always told Dean she was going.

If She’d gone off hunting Leviathans, she would’ve gone back to the house, grabbed Indy, then left.

Wherever She was, she didn’t want to be there. And Dean wasn’t going to hear a goddamn word about it.

He hadn’t really slept since they lost Her. He could swear he was starting to see the world spin and hear his own blood move through his body, when they finally picked up a lead. It was Bobby who found it, combing through public reports and arrest records. Sam and Dean were presumed dead, but the public was still on the watch. Sam had mentioned a few times that if someone had Her it was the Leviathans—the still had their meatsuits, the only reason they’d give up is if they had what they’d wanted—but She’d said the Levithan’s didn’t like being near her.

Claire had suggested that maybe it was just humans.

“I mean, they’d get the jump on her better than a monster, right?” She’d looked around Bobby’s study hopefully. “She’d see anything else coming.”

Dean had glared at her. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

“But I want to help-“

“You got school in the morning, kid.” He’d pointed to the hall. “Bed.”

Claire had scowled, and stomped away. Dean had exchanged a look with Bobby.

Dammit, the kid wasn’t wrong.

Bobby started to comb through the reports, to see what people had been working on their case. They sent a few names to Eileen—she knew those men of letters assholes, that had stalked her all around the world—but came up with nothing. She sent them an internal report from the FBI she’d gotten her hands on, and Bobby damn near broke Dean’s door down at 1am.

“The name.” He’d shoved the paper into Dean’s hands, eyes bagged but wild. “Look at the name on the report.”

Dean rubbed his eyes and squinted. His fingers curled, wrinkling the paper, and he looked back to Bobby with a slack jaw.

That was Her last name. Her family’s last name.

The first name was redacted. Dean called Frank, and they got into the federal database by the end of the afternoon. Frank hadn’t asked for an explanation. He was just happy to help the crazy, interesting one and take down the government in one move.

Dean got a profile on his phone, and swallowed. They had it. And given the circumstances, it could be fucking worse.

He didn’t even need to look at the name. He recognized the face. Recognized the echo of Her features, and remembered how that same man had looked in the dark of the creepy chamber-dungeon.

The agent was her brother. Roman. He’d been leading the operation to catch Sam and Dean. And they didn’t deal in coincidences.  

“You sure-“

“Deadly.” Dean muttered, staring at the paper on the table. “Same name. Same face. And Clarie was right, who the hell else could get the jump on her?”

Bobby grunted, glaring down the photo. “You think he slipped her outta custody?”

“I think she never made it to custody.”

“Would they be keepin’ her in a cell?”

“They’d put her in their house.” Bobby answered Jo’s question, glancing between her and Dean. “You both been there. Think it could hold her?”

They both nodded, Jo making a sour expression and Dean fisting the report in his hands. He really didn’t want to think about it. About how they might be locking her in the chamber-dungeon, in Her childhood room like she was a doll, somewhere worse he hadn’t even gotten to find her.

“They’re witches.” He muttered, tossing the report into the trash. “We should call Rowena.”

Bobby scowled. “How the hell is Rowena gonna help-“

“We need immunity.” Dean snapped. “I want to run in there, guns drawn, you know I do, but-“

“We slip up.” Jo mumbled, sitting slowly down. “We lose her.”

Dean nodded, his stomach churning. He didn’t even like to hear the idea. They wouldn’t lose her. It didn’t matter how powerful Her family was, Dean had gotten her back from Hell, from Heaven twice, and he was ready to rush God himself. A bunch of smug douchebags with money and magic wouldn’t be able to hold Her. Not out of Dean’s reach.

“Basic protection.” He said to Bobby, arms crossed and words firm. “Then we go.”

Sam and Jo were in charge of getting the help from Rowena. Claire volunteered to help with the spells themselves, and Dean let her. He understood needing to do something. How just sitting there and letting everything happen could drive someone out of their damn mind. Claire was going to have to stay with Jody while they went to Chicago. Her only companion was going to be Cas, which probably wasn’t great for her as it was. Dean could offer her something, in exchange for not trying to sneak with them in the trunk.

“It’s just people, I’ve seen worse-“

“It’s not just people.” Dean muttered, shaking the bowl of food under the dresser.

He and Claire had been sitting on the floor for the past hour, trying to get the lion cub to come out. It didn’t seem open to anyone but Her, and that was the one damn thing Dean couldn’t offer right now.

“Fine, witches. I’ve dealt with witches, I even know some magic now-“

“Claire.” Dean gave her a firm glare. “You can try all you like, I’m not letting you even near the car.”

Claire pouted. When she did it, her nose made the same wrinkle as Her’s. Dean needed to stop letting them interact. It was dangerous.

“I know you want to help.” He sighed, running a hand over his face as he set the cat food down. “But these aren’t the kinda people anyone wants to tangle with.”

“But they’re just people-“

“Exactly. They’re just people, and that makes them more dangerous.”

Claire frowned, and Dean swallow. He tried to choose his words carefully. Didn’t need to give her nightmares.

“Monsters all got a formula. Most of them kill for food, makes them easy to hunt. Gets complicated when they got other motivations, but at least you always got a one-up on them. Silver bullets, salt, iron, whatever.” He gave Claire a heavy, resolved look. He wasn’t bending on this. She needed to understand why. “Hell, even if we gank a demon at least we know what they were after. They like to yell about it like their evil plot a damn business pitch. But humans- We ain’t supposed to hunt humans. And when we gotta tangle with them, it’s ‘cause there a kinda evil we can’t ignore. You get that?”

Claire nodded, her head a little bowed. Dean grabbed her knee. Squeezed gently, giving her a reassuring look when she finally met his gaze.

“We’re gonna be fine. Just no place for a kid.”

Claire’s expression was open and nervous. When she spoke, her voice was soft.

“Do you think they’re hurting her?”

Dean swallowed. Claire’s hand rested over his, like she could tell he needed as much grounding as she did.

He wished more than anything, that he could just say no and mean it. That there wasn’t a stone, sinking into the pit inside of him. Making it feel like he was drowning in himself, the air oddly thin in his lungs but thick on his skin.

“I don’t know.” He rasped. He didn’t want to lie. “But I’m gonna get her back. Promise.”

Claire nodded. She didn’t ask to come with them again.

And Dean decided that even if he wasn’t bringing Her home for his sake, for Sammy’s, for Bobby or Jo’s, he was doing it for Claire’s. The kid had lost enough. Dean wasn’t going to let her lose more.

He packed lightly. His gun. The scalpel. Excalibur had vanished with Her, but he’d get it back and use it. Everything he’d need, to kill whatever stood in his way.

Nothing was going to stop him from getting to Her. The sky could fall, and Dean would carve his way through the collapsed Heavens to return to Her side. Her creepy family were barely walking corpses now, as far as he cared.

Deam was going to get Her home.

The drive was mostly quiet. Bobby was watching the road pass them in shotgun, and Dean had a feeling he was memorizing the path. Sam was knocked out, and Jo was listening to something in her headphones. The roads were long and winding, but that meant they were headed to the right place.

“We’re close.” Bobby grunted, and Dean gave him a curious look.

“Thought you’d never been here-“

“I haven’t. But that road back there, you go down for five minutes and take a left, you’ll hit the spot where I found her.”

Dean’s grip tightened on the wheel as he glanced in the mirror, then checked their street. They were still twenty minutes out, and that was with him going fifty and ignoring stop signs.

“She was so small.” Bobby grunted, so quite Dean almost didn’t hear. “This scrawny thing covered in mud, soaked to the bone. No jacket, shoes on her hands. She’d pulled her pajama pants over her feet like damn shoes. Didn’t even fight me when I picked her up. Went limp like a damn possum. Thought she might’ve been dead.”

Bobby’s voice got thick on those last words, and Dean’s vision blurred a little. She’d been eight. Eight years old and wandering in the rain, probably just grateful Bobby hadn’t taken he right back to the prison She’d only just escaped. He would’ve been eleven. Somewhere across the country, probably watching TV and watching Sammy, knowing what Dad did and still not understanding just how evil things could get. People could get.

He wondered if She would’ve trusted him. If Bobby hadn’t kept them separated, if they’d met her before her powers started showing, when she still wasn’t speaking. If Dean could’ve smiled at Her, and she would’ve felt safe.

He hoped so. He’d always keep Her safe. Didn’t matter if it was this life, one of those other worlds, or just a shared dream. Dean was Her shadow. He had one damn job, and he wasn’t going to fail.

The house was just as creepy as he remembered. Cold, tall, iron fence, wrought and spiked on the top. Guard at the gate, watching them pull up like a bouncer, not even bending down when Dean rolled the window.

“This is a private property.” The man said, tone bored and flat. “Turn your car around and leave.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Open the damn gate.”

“Sir, I am only going to ask one-“

“So am I.”

The guard paused, really, fully looking at Dean for the first time. At his glare, his elbow learning causally out the window, and the gun in his hand.

His eyes widened, and he reached for the weapon Dean had already clocked on his belt. He didn’t get the chance to grab it before Dean slammed the car door open, the sharp edge catching the guard right in his crotch. The man doubled over with a groan, and Dean slid out of the driver’s seat, clicking his safety off and grabbing the collar of the guard’s shirt. He pushed at Dean’s chest, trying to pry his hands away, but Dean didn’t flinch. He pressed the barrel to the guard’s temple, walking him back against the gate.

Another door closed behind them, and Dean saw Jo from the corner of his eyes, holding a crowbar she’d grabbed from the trunk. He jerked his head, and she moved right to his side. Slammed the metal into the man’s knee, making him howl in pain and buckle over.

“Guys, that doesn’t seem needed-“

“Shut up and get us in.” Dean barked over his shoulder, and Sammy sighed.

There was some clacking, as Sam slid into the guard’s booth and tried to open the gate. It was taking a damn long time. Dean glanced over, and found Sam’s face in a tight frown.

“What?”

“It’s password protected.” Sam sighed, lips pressing in a tight line. “Really well. And I’m guessing there’s some magic and warding connected to it, which I don’t even have an idea for how to break.”

“Alright.” Dean grunted, looking back to the guard. “Open it.”

“No.” The man spat. Dean just sigh.

“Fine. You got two knees. Jo-“

“Woah, woah- wait-“ The man blanched further, whimpering as he raised his hands. “You don’t’ understand, I let you in, I’m dead-“

“Well I got news for you, pal.” Dean pulled him up further. “You don’t let us in, you’re also dead.”

The man swallowed. “You’re crazy-“

“You’re the one who chose this job. Tough shit. Jo, other knee.”

Jo nodded, raising the bar, and the gate creaked.

They all froze, and the gate slowly dragged itself open. Dean looked to Sam, and Sam shook his head. Not them. Which meant-

“They, um-“ The man coughed, looking up at Dean with a fearful expression. “They’ve been expecting you. Welcome, De- Dean Winchester. You may proceed when ready.”

A chill ran up Dean’s spine, and he glanced at Jo. She had a pinched brow that matched the tension in Dean’s head. The tightness in Sammy’s jaw.

Could just be an intimidation tactic. No matter what, it wasn’t good.

They got back in the car, and pulled slowly up the driveway. Hopefully someone would go back for the guard. Poor asshole had been put in a tough spot, but Dean didn’t have the time to stop and do first aide. She was just up the road. He was going to be able to see Her, touch Her, set her free.

The house was just as he remembered too. Creepy and massive, with that sense of dread hanging in the air around it. The presence of it alone seemed to threaten being swallowed whole. Dean triple checked his locks on Baby’s door. They were warded, magic locks that She’d done a few years ago. He trusted they’d hold. He still wasn’t going to take any chances.

No one was waiting for them on the steps like last time. Dean lead the way, everyone else close behind him. When he glanced back, Sammy was looking around the grounds with a curious, worried expression, and Bobby’s features were set in unreadable stone. He exchanged a look with Jo, and her lips pressed in a tight line.

“You think they’ll all be here?” She muttered, fingers tapping on her gun, and Dean shook his head, saying Her name.

“She told me most of them got other places, other shit to do. They only got together for big shit.”

Jo hummed. “Don’t think this is big shit.”

“I think.” Dean grunted, placing his hand flat on the door. “That I don’t care if it’s the whole cult or just her damn brother. Nothing’s stopping us from getting her out.”

Jo nodded, and Dean made sure Bobby and Sam were right behind them before he shoved open the door. It was heavy, a hell of a lot heavier than he’d expected, and he had to throw his whole body weight into it. He stumbled into the dais, raising his gun on quick instinct, and was met with two, crude smiles.

Lillian’s features had always been thinner. She’d smiled a few times, when Dean had last been here, and it had always felt like watching a snake try to be human. But Roman was worse. Roman looked a hell of a lot like Her, but with sharper, more carved features. When She smiled mockingly, it was made of winter and glacial ice, beautiful but untouchable and cold. When Roman smiled the same way, it looked like someone had cut the expression into his face.,

Dean clicked off the safety again, as everyone filled in behind them. He raised his gun higher, aiming it at Roman’s head.

“Where is she.”

Lillian laughed, and Roman’s smile got a little wider.

“Hello, Winchester.” He said, clasping his hands. “You’re a little early. We assumed your pea of a brain would take longer to put everything together.”

Dean grunted, his grip tightening on the gun. “I’m not fucking around, bitch-“

“We know you think that.” Lillian purred. “But your usual, brutish threats won’t work on us.”

“You wanna bet?” He hissed, raising the gun higher, and Lillian’s scanned over Dean like he was an amusing slab of meat.

“Oh, I’d love to. But don’t play below my worth, boy.”

Dean’s jaw felt like it was going to snap, and Bobby cleared his throat.

“I think you’ll find we don’t scare as easy as you vultures are used to. We got cavalry, and we ain’t afraid to use it-“

“What, the angel who’s lost his mind?” Roman cut Bobby off with a taunting sneer. “We are the ones you’re not used to, old man. You might be the apex hunters, but you are still animals. We are the chosen bloodline of God-“

“But God ain’t happy with you right now, is he.” Dean raised his brows lazily, forcing himself to keep calm and not just shoot and march for her. “I got a memo, the big guy put your blessing on hold after the Raphael shit. And in case you didn’t hear, I killed your new patron angel. Helped kill your last one, too. Makes that two to zero. Makes you nothing more than some pearls and cufflinks with a few spells.”

Roman’s eyes narrowed, and Dean felt a flare of smug satisfaction. They hadn’t expected them to know that. They were one point up.

“We have been working to get back in our Lord’s favor.” Roman said cooly. “My sister and her… Methods were dealt with. As we deal with all things that stand in our way. Ego. Foolishness. Pests.”

He looked around their small group, lip curling like he’d smelled something foul.

“I know you, Winchester. Her Man. Vessel of Michael.”

Dean gave him a mocking grin. “Look at you. Running my fan page.”

Roman ignored him, examining the rest of them. Dean should maybe learn to grown twenty feet taller. To shield all of them from view.

“I don’t know who you are.” He mused, looking over Jo, and she gave him a venomous smile.

“Your mom.”

“Hm. Spitfire.” He tilted his head. “Usually rough bitches fit well on . Do you have a bloodline?”

Jo flipped him off, but she’d gone pale. Dean stepped to the side, blocking her from view. If they didn’t need to play this carefully, he’d put the bullet through Roman’s skull for even thinking that shit.

Lillian hummed, continuing as Roman and Dean started each other down. “The big one must be Samuel. The Devil’s vessel. You look soft for being Lucifer’s human match, boy-“

“Hey.” Dean barked, sliding his gun to Lillian’s throat. He really should’ve brought two. “You don’t talk to him.”

Lillian just looked mildly amused, her attention turning to Bobby.

“And I assume you are the pervert who stole our young girl, turned her into the… Thing that she was.”

Bobby didn’t even frown. When he spoke, Dean had never heard his voice so cold.

“I didn’t steal nothin’ you didn’t lose. I found a kid and took care of her. And I’ve heard about you. Heard about your boy.” He raised his chin. “I kept my girl alive. More than you could even claim with your own litter, ain’t it.”

Lillian’s expression turned murderous, and Roman put a hand on her arm, speaking low enough Dean was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to hear.

“Do not engage with them. Fighting a rabid dog is a losing game, and they will be gone soon enough.”

Roman turned back with a polite smile as Lillian stood a little taller, and Dean swallowed. He’d guessed they’d be planning something. He really hadn’t wanted to think about what.

“I assume.” Roman drawled. “That you’re hoping to see my sister.”

Dean’s jaw tightened, his gun lowering slightly as his arms went weak. Confirmation. She was here, and alive-

“Don’t get too excited.” Roman smirked at him, and Dean scowled.

“Take me to her. Now.”

“I wouldn’t give orders, Winchester. You’re lucky we are killing you where you stand-“   

“Try.” Dean growled, taking a step forward. “Strike me down. See how it works out for you. ‘Cause I’ll come back, I won’t stop hunting your ass until you give me my girl back, and trust me.” He dropped his voice, making it almost a growl. “You’ll wish you’d fuckin’ run when you’d had the chance.”

Roman swallowed. Dean saw it, the tiniest bob of his throat. He recovered quickly, but Dean still knew. Whatever they had up their sleeve, it wasn’t enough that even their smut asses were confident.

“You may see her.” Roman said cooly, holding Dean’s glare. “But only so we can get this over with, clean. Lillian.”

He nodded to his aunt, and she sighed, marching down one of the halls. Dean exchanged a look with Sam, and the kid grimaced. They were thinking the same thing.

Whatever they’d done to Her, this wasn’t going to be easy.

But they also weren’t known for rolling over and showing stomach. Dean would have his throat ripped out, first.

He focused on the path, as Roman led them through the house. He’d need to know the way out, and it was a good distraction from his brain working overtime, trying to figure out what they could’ve done to Her. Most spells didn’t work on Her, at least not the same as anyone else. She couldn’t be drugged the normal way either, or even really the magic way. Dean had heard of souls being controlled—She’d told him about it, one of those nights where he’d just wanted to be close to Her and hear her voice—but they couldn’t do soul magic without the Scalpel, and it was burning a hole in Dean’s jacket.

Her soul was too big to be controlled anyway. She was too much for even God to hold in his hands. Dean only got Her because she bent into him, because they were soulmates, because he was chosen. He was a lucky son of a bitch that way, but it was a once in a lifetime lottery he’d won. No one else would ever be able do the same. Hell, Dean didn’t even control Her. Nothing could. She was wild like the forests, the oceans, the chaos of the universe itself.

His head came up with a million, hateful ways they might’ve gotten their claw into Her. He was braced to see Her bloody and bruised, to start shooting without much care for consequences, with only the sole thought of getting to Her side.

But that hadn’t prepared him at all, for what they actually found. 

Roman opened the door to a sun parlor with a smirk. Dean walked past him slowly, hit with blinding light and a flat warmth that burned on his face. The glass ceiling was inlaid with gold, the little round tables made of marble and the room covered in vines and flowering plants. Dean swallowed, when he recognized Her mother. Sitting in one of the fancy chairs, smiling at someone hidden behind another plant.

Dean moved like he was in a dream. Sunlight floated through the room, little bits of pollen and flower petals almost suspended on an invisible wind. His grip went slack on his gun as he walked forward. Time felt like it had slowed to a honey-glazed crawl.

He felt Her before he saw Her. Felt his heart skip and his head spin like he was a little drunk, the world getting technicolor like that first time She’d walked into the coroner’s office. Something to the right of his heart pulled, and he let out a deep, rattled breath.

She was here.

Sitting across from Her mother at the table, examining a chess board with Her little thinking furrow. Dean smiled to himself. She looked like a fairy. Her hair loose and shiny, glowing like a halo in the sun. Her skin looked soft, the dress they’d given her flowing over Her body like a second skin, not a single bruises or wound on her perfect body.

Sam called from behind him, worry in his voice, but Dean ignored him. He could barely think of everything but Her, of the spell she’d always cast on him just by existing.

Dean breathed out Her name, and She looked up. Bright, beautiful eyes met Dean’s and he grinned, warm Silver light flooding through his body.

Then She tilted her head, the wrinkle in Her brow deepening, and something struck Dean square in the chest. Knocked the air from his lungs, the world flipping and an instinct deep in his bones howling wrong. He wasn’t sure how he knew, before She’d even opened her mouth. He just knew. She’d never wear a dress in that style. She’d never be this quiet when She saw him, she’d never just play chess with Her mom. Play chess like a normal person, too, when Dean had spent years watching Her bait Sammy into playing her version of the game, where she moved the pieces at random based on a story she’d made in Her own head, and won every time.

Dean almost fell forward, trying to grab Her like he could still protect her. Bobby grabbed his arm, yanking him back.

He said Her name, voice louder and firmer than Dean’s.

She leaned a little back, and Dean felt his blood go cold.

And She didn’t even speak. She just looked to Roman, silent and curious, and he smiled.

He said Her name like it was made of slime, instead of flowers. Dean wasn’t sure how he was still conscious.

“These people say they know you.” He cooed. “Do you recognize them.”

She looked to Jo, then Sammy. Her frown deepened, when Her gaze slid to Bobby. Dean didn’t want Her to look at him. He didn’t want to know the answer.

When She did, he could swear something flashed in Her eyes. A flare, being shot up through the dark.

But it wasn’t enough.

She shook Her head, still not saying a damn word.

Something cracked in Dean’s ribs.

He didn’t see anything other than red, hear anything over the blood rushing in his head. He shoved Bobby away, marched right over to Roman, and slammed the smug bastard back against the wall. Roman grinned up at him with a reddened, maddening glint of satisfaction. Dean was going to kill him.

“What the fuck did you do?!” He roared, pressing his gun to Roman’s temple.

Roman laughed in his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about-“

“You son of a bitch-“

“Dean.” Sam called, and Dean just shook his head.

“No, I’m gonna fuckin’ rip you to shred, you tell me what you did-“

“We didn’t do anything.” Roman drawled, holding Dean’s glare with a smirk. “She doesn’t know who you are, Winchester. I’m sure you had fantasies, and I understand, the slut does pull out imagination-“

Dean pulled the man back by his collar, and slammed his skull against one of the trellis. “That’s your sister, you sick motherfucker-“

Roman laughed in his face. “Oh, sensitive little puppy, doesn’t like sharing his slutty toys-“

Dean hit the butt of his gun onto Roman’s temple, hard. Roman’s eyes went unfocused, and Dean pressed his elbow hard into the man’s windpipe. He was still laughing, spitting in Dean’s face, and he could hear Bobby and Sammy shouting for him, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything but fixing Her, and killing Roman.

“What did you do.” He hissed, and Roman gurgled another mocking laugh.

“You’ll never- You’ll never fucking know.” He whispered back, eyes shining. “You’re barely more than another body for our garden, boy.”

The pull to the right of his heart roared, and Dean left his instinct take over. He pulled back to sock Roman’s grin off his face, ready to split his head right open. But something caught his elbow, and yanked him back. Roman took a sputtering breathing, grabbing his neck and still wheezing with laughter as two men Dean recognized as Her cousins wrestled him to the ground. Another few had gotten Sam, Bobby, and Jo. Dean’s vison danced with spots, as larger pushed his head into the pavement, the other sitting square on his chest. He struggled, but the men were heavy and he hadn’t really slept in over a week. The one at his head grabbed the back of his neck, yanking it up and slamming it back down.

His vision was moving in and out of darkness. He was either about to throw up or a black out. There was a faint click of a gun, and he tried to open his eyes. Just to look at Her, to see her one more time, even if She really wouldn’t be able to see him back. But the one on his head turned him, pressing his face into the ground, and a sickening crack echoed in his head as sticky warmth flooded out of his nose. The cold barrel of his own gun pressed to the nape of his neck, and Dean thrashed, but it was no use-

A horrible, broken scream ripped through the air, followed by an explosive bang. Suddenly the weight was gonna. Dean rolled over, struggling for air, and the glass roof was gone.

Not gone. Shattered on the floor, with large slices lodged into Her cousins bodies. On had planted in Roman’s thigh, another sliced a gash on Her mother’s arm.

But Dean was untouched. When he sat up and looked over, Sam, Jo, and Bobby didn’t have a scratch either.

And She was the only one standing, the glass moving out from around Her in a pattern like a stone dropped in a lake. She blinked in confusion, swaying slightly on Her feet. Dean scrambled up, trying to reach Her. To catch Her before she fell.

He rasped Her name, and she looked at him with that furrow in Her brow. The plants all around Her were withering, drooping down and loosing petals. She opened Her mouth, shaking Her head at nothing, and Dean stumbled forward. She was distressed. She needed him.

Her mother grabbed Her wrist, and pulled Her back. She went rigid, but didn’t fight.

“You need to lie down, darling.” Charlotte murmured, brushing away the hair stuck to Her face. “Come on. Your brother can deal with this.”

“I- I don’t-“ She shook Her head. She still hadn’t looked away from Dean. “This isn’t-“

“I know. We were just in the sun too long. Come on.”

Charlotte tugged Her back again, and she stumbled slightly, but followed.

She looked back over Her shoulder. Looked at Dean.

He smiled at Her, even as his chest ached. She blinked in confusion, and there it was again. The flare.

She knew him. Somewhere under whatever spell they’d cast on Her, She still knew Dean. He was sure of it.

Dean looked to Roman, gripping on of the glass covered tables and running his hand over the wound She’d left in his thigh. He rolled his neck, quickly pushing out the ache Her cousins work had done, and smirked.

“You try and kick us out again.” He drawled, and Roman looked up with narrowed eyes. “And I bet she’s gonna do a hell of a lot worse than that.”

Roman scowled, but Dean saw the color drain from his face.

Dean saw the fear.

“She acting like a child. There is nothing about you that she’d care to throw out her destiny for-“

“You willing to take that bet?” Dean said lazily. “’Cause I love a good gamble, but that?” He whistled. “That’s just easy money.”

Roman grunted, watching Dean carefully. “What do you want.”

“We stay in this creepy joint.” Dean shrugged. “Long as we damn want.”

“No. This is our scared home, I will not let my family be tainted by acting as a little- Hunter motel-“

“Then kill us.” Jo cut in, bored and flat, eyes gleaming with challenge. “Kill Dean. And see how she reacts.”

Roman stood a little taller, probably about to sneer something that was going to make Dean punch him again, but was saved by Sam cutting in.

“If she’s really forgotten us.” The kids said, soft and clear. “Then there shouldn’t be any problem with us staying and making sure. Right?”

Roman worked his jaw. Looked between the four of them furiously, shaking his head like he could deny the corner he’d been backed into.

He didn’t have a goddamn choice.

“Elias.” He snapped at one of the cousins who’d avoided being wiped out by the glass. “Give them a room.”

Elias nodded, and Dean shot Sam a look. Sammy shrugged, tipping his head slightly. This was the best they could hope for.

And it wasn’t awesome, but it was better than nothing. Their room was near the kitchen—between the cots and single, dingy and scraped up dresser, Dean was pretty sure they’d been given some servants quarters—but it fit all of them, and it was private. They did a sweep for bugs and found nothing. Sam checked for wards and found one that the kid recognized as similar to a one-way mirror, so Dean covered it with a blanket and hoped that did the trick. They needed all he edge up they could get, if they were going to bring Her home.

“What do we think got her?” He grunted, unpacking the duffle they always kept in Baby’s truck. “I mean, she didn’t know who any of us were, that’s no light magic, that’s worse than when Sam got whammied by Becky-“

“But Becky tried to whammy her too, remember?” Sam frowned at the air, sitting rigidly on the edge of his tiny bed. "And it didn’t work. I mean, I don’t think anything should work. Not like this. Not on her.”

Dean grunted an agreement, and Bobby sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Michael and Lucifer were able to mess with her in the cage. If these weirdos got another angel on their side, maybe they’re pullin’ something like that.”

“There aren’t any archangels left expect Gabriel, and he’s said he wants nothing to do with this-“ Dean cut himself off, Bobby’s words sinking in. “Wait, you knew about that cage shit-“

“She’s my kid, Dean. She tells me things.”

“What about that psych ward thing?” Jo jumped in, looking at Sam hopefully. “She told me the whole nine yard, ‘s where you found the kid, and they had some kinda shroom shit, if we’re bettin’ it’s a drug-“

“No, that’s the same stuff that Becky used on me, and- Dean, you remember how she reacted to it-“

“But these people ain’t Becky.” Bobby muttered, giving Jo an approving look. “And that plant, it can do somethin’ to her. Just weaker. But-“

“Her family’s got big mojo.” Dean nodded slowly, putting Bobby’s pieces together. “If they’ve got that plant, they’d probably be able to do a hell of a lot more than some d-list demons and witches.”

Sam was still frowning, not looking fully convinced. “But what if it’s not that? What if we go on a goose chase, guys, I don’t think we have time to be looking into ifs-“

“We got plenty of time.” Dean grunted. “We’re gonna be here as long as it takes.”

No one argued. Because they all knew. Eve could be running around out there, knocking open new doors. The Levithan’s could keep doing whatever the fuck they were planning, and Crowley could make a move to globalize Hell. Dean didn’t give a shit. He cared Her. The rest of the world could find someone else to put out the fires. Dean wasn’t leaving until he had Her back.

Sep. 11 - 2011

Princess,

I don’t like your family. They’re fucking douchebags. Had a conversation with your meatsack of a dad, and he kept grumbling about hunters being ‘good for nothing mutts’. Jokes on him, I’m going to marry his daughter.

Bobby’s being real calm about this. I’m worried he’s gonna snap and kill them all. I might snap and kill them all. Can’t believe you’re related to these people. You’re a perfect angel. You’re better than an angel. You’re like a fairy mermaid angel princess goddess the best. Ever.

You deserved better than them. Than this. Any of this. And I’ll give you whatever the hell you want. If you’d just goddamn remember

I’m not mad at you. It’s not your fault. I love you, sweetheart. Hope some part of you still remembers that.

Yours,

DAW

Dean hadn’t slept that night. He mostly stared at the ceiling and tried to breathe through his nose. He hadn’t really been able to smell Her apple, in the sunroom, but he’d also been sort of distracted. He grabbed his blankets and pulled them tight around his body, trying to mimic the form of Her body. He pressed his face into the fabric, and squeezed his eyes shut. All he could see was Her panicked, confused expression. She’d known him. She just hadn’t been sure how.

He should’ve grabbed Her there, when he had the chance. Just swept Her into his arms and run. He didn’t think they’d let him that close again. Not unless he slipped in himself.

And he wasn’t wrong. The first day was pretty damn slow. Dean got up with heavy eyes, running a hand through his hair and waiting for Jo to wrap up in their one, tiny shower. Christ, he hoped they were at least keeping Her somewhere better than this. In the kind of wealth She deserved, even when She didn’t want it.

“These people got servants.” Bobby grunted, coming back from poking around the kitchen. “Nice folk, said we could take whatever we wanted.”

Dean nodded, glancing over to Sammy. The kid hadn’t gotten out of bed, and was holding his pillow over his face like he was mimicking headphones. Dean sighed. They might not have four pairs of hands today.

“I’ll show you and Jo what I can.” He muttered, taking a paper cup of coffee from Bobby’s hands. “But it’s not much. Didn’t get the grand tour last time, and this place- It’s fuckin’ huge.”

Bobby grunted an agreement, and Dean stood with a groan. Those beds were stiff.

“You alright, Sammy?” He muttered, crouching down near the head of the kid’s bed.

It was way too small for him. His needlessly large legs hung off the sides, and his arms flopped like he was made of string.

Sam pressed the pillow tighter over his face, voice low. “Gonna try to research, but- It’s loud.”

Dean sighed, and nodded. He patted Sammy’s shoulder gently, and stood back up. There wasn’t much they’d get done today anyway.

After Dean’s shower, they wandered. Looking for Her—although they weren’t really seeing anyone—but also just trying to get their bearings. This place was a maze. Dean stumbled into the ballroom from last time, and frowned out at the grounds. They looked even bigger in the summer. Like he could walk for a year and still be on the property. Jo poked around through the halls, and found that library and study She’d said she got the scalpel and watch from. Dean didn’t like that place. It was cold, and gave him a chill up his spine like someone was watching.

Bobby went through the doors on the ground floor, and found a massive cellar. Jo started to map everything on paper, but they ran out of space quickly. Dean felt like they were running through a labyrinth. Every once in a while they’d run into a cousin, and they stare at each other with a taut distain before backing slowly away. News had likely spread fast about the sunroom. No one seemed willing to look Dean in the eyes for more than a few seconds.

Jo had taken a few books from that library, and hauled up with Sammy to try and comb through them for something that might help. The kid wasn’t moving much, but he was up, and that was all Dean could really hope for. He stole the kid some painkillers, from one of the fancy bathrooms on the top floors. It looked like the good stuff, and that was what Sam needed.

“I’m going to call Rowena again.” Sam muttered as soon as he’d downed the meds, glancing back to his open laptop. “Rowena, Rufus. Bobby, if you give me the number for that guy you know, Garth-“

“Put it in your phone already.” Bobby said, sorting through Jo’s book. “Shit, these things are rare. You think they got those tracker spells on ‘em.”

“Could always remove them.” Dean shrugged, peering at Sam’s screen. “What’re you reading, djinns? We’d notice if it was a djinn, Sammy-“

“Not if it’s a new kind.” Sam argued. “Eileen sent me a link, she ran into someone who said they heard about some new hybrids popping up, like the-“ He made a face. “Yeerks.”

Dean hummed, drumming his fingers on the table as he read. “Djinn venom- Venom? Those things got venom.”

“Apparently.” Sammy sighed, and Dean wrinkled his nose. Gross.

He and Bobby moved off to keep looking for Her, but Her family seemed to be messing with them. They seemed to have her barricaded.  They’d run into more cousins, pass by Roman or Lillian and their glowers, even end up in the same room as Delilah—Her other sister—but never see Her. Dean had a feeling they’ve were playing hot potato. Tossing Her around, just to keep Her out of Dean’s sight.

But he’d find Her. He always did.

They got stuck in a few clipped conversations with some relatives. Delilah asked them why they didn’t just leave, and Dean didn’t bother to answer. One of Her uncles stopped Bobby and started talking about how droll the hunting life must be, how women on the road do go down easy, He winked at Dean, then strolled of, and Dean realized his hand had curled into a first.

“These people are demons.” He muttered. “Worse than demons. At least demons I can have a beer with. I wanna smash a bottle over that son of a bitch’s head.”

Bobby grunted in agreement, fidgeting with the cuffs of his sleeves. “Wanted to knock his lights out. But- I’d like to dunk each of the these prim and proper asshole in a vat of their own damn medicine.”

Dean grunted an agreement, poking his head into another room. Empty. “Can’t believe she’s related to them. Like if Sammy and I popped out of Dolly Parton.”

Bobby snorted. “Think you might have better odds of that than you think. I’ve heard about your cowboy fetish, Dean.”

“It’s not a- That-“

Bobby raised his brows, and Dean sighed.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered, Bobby.” He said, almost pleading. “C’mon.”

Bobby chuckled, but nodded. “Fair enough.”

There as a slight pause, comfortable and long. Dean only broke it because of the thought scratching at his throat. He’d said it as a joke, but it didn’t feel like one. He sort of needed to know.

“You ever think about what might’ve happened?” He asked, staring down the hall as Bobby gave him a questioning look. “If, you know. She hadn’t run away.”

Bobby didn’t answer immediately. He ran a hand over his beard and let out a heavy breath, face pressed tight and brows furrowed.

“I don’t like to think ‘bout it.” He finally grunted. “She was a shell when I found her. Didn’t speak. Didn’t look me in the eyes, barely even moved for the whole first week. I told you, Dean, I thought she was damn dead. And that was before she started gettin’ strong. When they’d only just started treatin’ her like a prisoner. And I don’t know what she’s told you, about before that ritual, but-“

“They thought she was a freak.” Dean murmured, thinking of a long faded dream. “They were asses, called her a freak, they-“ He swallowed, shaking his head. “You know about Lillian?”

“What, the saggy bitch that greeted us so warmly?” Bobby said dryly, and Dean chuckled.

“Yeah. Her.” Dean said Her name, soft and reverently. Like it should be said. “She told me that Lillian hated her, ‘cause of something that went down with her son. And maybe I’m goin’ crazy, but- You saw how Roman was…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t want to. All these people saw Her as some combination of a whore and an untouchable second coming of the Virgin Mary. They saw Her the way Dad had seen her. The way he’d tried to make Dean see Her.

But she was soft. She was made of water lilies and sugar and soft sighs and shy smiles. She had shiny eyes that went all doe-like when Dean kissed her, and she cried over butterflies, and the sunshine made her look like she was just a floating beam of light given a form for Dean to hold. And She’d hold him back, burying Her face in his neck like he was the safest place in the world. She wasn’t made to be in this massive, cold place.

The longer Dean wandered these halls, the more he was sure. This place wasn’t for Her. She wasn’t hard cut diamonds or high glass ceilings. She looked like it, but that was from afar. Her beauty was like one of those garden statues—high up on a pedestal, clean and so perfect it felt wrong to touch—but that wasn’t Her. She loved sinking into the mud with him, because She was the wealth of the wild. The sparkling rainbow light on water, the emerald of the leaves in the sun, the bounty of wildlife and music and wealth of spilling gardens and oceans. She was a beauty that was going to outlast everything. That would one day over take the walls of this very mansion, dandelions growing out of the floor and birds nesting in the windows.

And they wanted to contain Her. To cut Her into a shape that could fit in a ring.

Dean’s fury must have been bleeding out of him, alive in the air like electricity, because Bobby gave him a strange look.

“If I could.” He said lowly. “I’d kill every single one of them. And I’d use a violence in be that I don’t got anywhere else. Anywhere but when I think of her, and them, and what they did.”

And Dean understood. Bobby had a thirst in him, same as Dean. Same as Sam, and Dad, and Jo and Eileen. Same as anyone who got into this life. But killing these people, it wouldn’t be like hunting. Something in them was allowed to stay human with that. As long as they didn’t take it too far.

If Dean killed these people, it would be all blood and guts. He’d rip them out with his bare hands and not blink when their insides splattered on his face.

Dean wanted to kill them because they deserved it. There wasn’t any of those morality games she and Sammy liked to play. No nuance about baby monsters and good demons. Just bad fucking people, that Dean wanted to die.

He didn’t like the feeling. It hurt more than anything else, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Not even in the slightest.

By the second day, the rage was boiling under his skin. They were hurting Her, and Dean couldn’t even find Her, let alone save her. Every cousin he ran into, he wanted to rip their damn eyes out. Grab them and demand answers, but that would escalate. They’re retaliate. Dean would get sucked into a fight, and She’d save him, but it would upset Her again. Dean didn’t want to upset Her, and he didn’t want to give them a reason to pull Her further away.

“You smell that?” He muttered to Jo, sometime around noon. She’d been searching with him, while Bobby took book duty.

“Smell what.”

“Dunno, it’s-“ He took a deep breath through his nose, frowning at the air. “Not good. Like bad pie.”

Jo rolled her eyes. “You think everything smells like pie.”

“No, I don’t. And it’s bad pie. Like- Rotten fruit.”

She took a deep breath through her nose, then shook her head. “I don’t smell anythin’, Dean. C’mon we gotta keep movin’.”

Dean grunted, but followed Jo further down the hall. He could swear he was smelling something, he just couldn’t pin what. It was sickly sweet, almost putrid. One time he’d gone to a farmer’s market with Her, and there had been some asshole who’s last mango had been out in the sun all day. They’d attracted flies, started oozing out of the booth, and She’d been too sweet and bought it. Dean had rolled down the windows in the cars, complaining the whole way home about it.

It had ended up worth it, when She’d washed it and cut off all the rotting parts. Put them out in Bobby’s garden, poured cinnamon on the good bits, and fed it to Dean with a proud expression. He’d made Her eat a few bites as well, and She’d giggled when he’d poked Her nose with some of it.

He missed Her. They were in the same damn building, and Dean missed Her like he’d miss his sight if he went blind. There was some color back in the world, now that he knew where she was. But it wasn’t enough. He needed to be able to see Her. Touch Her.

To make Her remember him, because every time he stood still for too long, he just thought of Her looking at him like he was a stranger. It crept up on him through the rest of the day. Through the brief run in with Her father, where he looked at them like they were bugs under his shoe. Dean thought the asshole was lucky Bobby wasn’t there, then thought about how they made Her forget about Bobby, then swallowed down a taste of bile. He couldn’t even properly enjoy the kitchen’s excellent food. It all just tasted like ash.

The third day was filling up his lungs like smoke. If they didn’t get a lead soon, Dean was going to start shooting things.

“You’re the Man.” A voice said from behind them, and Dean and Jo whirled around with their guns raised.

A man with sparkling eyes and similar features to Roman, but longer and softer like they’d been shaped from clay, was grinning.

He had a smile closer to Her’s. Full lipped and sugar coated.

Dean did quick math in his head, running through all Her briefing about Her siblings.

“Alexander?” He guesses, and the man dipped his head.

“Good job, Man of God-“

“Just Dean’s fine.” He muttered, and Alexander hummed, glancing to the gun.

“Does that have to stay in my face?”

Dean shrugged, and Alexander hummed.

“Fair enough. Has anyone ever told you you’re rather paranoid?”

“Only around people that want to kill me.”

“Hey. I don’t want to kill you. I think only Rome wants that.” Alexander smiled. “But you seem very… Big. Big people are hard to kill.”

Jo frowned, exchanging a look with Dean. “Don’t you have… Magic?”

“Yeah. But that’s like- A lot of work. Especially a spell to kill someone. Gross.” Alexander wrinkled his nose, and Jo snorted.

“What, are you like the lazy one?”

“That’s what my brothers say.” Alexander shrugged, and Dean snorted.

“You know, I got an angel I think you’d get along real well with.”

“Hm. Is it my sister’s?”

“One of them.” Dean said dryly, lowering his gun carefully. “If you’re not big on this whole thing, you think you can answer some questions for me?”

Alex shrugged. “Maybe. I mostly wanted to get a look at you up close, never seen a Man of God before. Didn’t think I’d have to talk.”

“Well, you can keep looking while you talk.”

“But no touching.” Jo smirked, lowering her own gun. “That’s when Princess gets jealous.”

Dean shot her a glare, grunting Her name when he looked back to Alexander. “Where is she.”

“Inside somewhere.”

“Where specifically-“

“I don’t know, I don’t hang out with her. She’s all weird and quiet and boring, Norah said she was a loud bitch, but Norah also likes lying.” Alexander sighed Her name. “She’s like a doll.”

Jo gaped at him. “Because she’s cursed.”

“Oh. Maybe.” Alexander shrugged. “They don’t tell me anything.”

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. This guy might be useless. “Alright. Whatever. What about Norah, what’s she doing right now.”

Alexander titled his head at the air. “I don’t know. She got in a lot of trouble after the Raphael disaster, he still isn’t answering our calls-“

“Probably ‘cause I killed him.” Dean said flatly, and Alexander laughed.

“Wow. Big shot over here. No wonder Norah got herself banished get you, you’re dangerous-“

“He likes Scooby Doo and can’t sit still without his girlfriend.” Jo said flatly, ignoring Dean’s glare. “You might not know where your sister is, but do you know where she is sometimes? Like, do you ever see her through the day or something?”

“Of course I see her.” Alexander scoffed. “She’s at breakfast, and dinner, always wandering around the gardens until Mom drags her back inside, in Her room crying and staring out the window-“

“Crying?” Dean cut in, something to the right of his heart squeezing. “She’s been crying? Why, are they hurting her-“

“No, she’s just dramatic. Delilah and Abby say she’s been having nightmares or something.”

“Or something-“

“Dean.” Jo grabbed his arm in warning, stepping forward with her eyes locked on Alexander. “Do they ever try bringing her to the library? She likes books.”

“Rome doesn’t want her to read.” Alexander said, and Dean was going to knock someone’s teeth out. “They usually spend the day out by the pond. She likes it there.”

Jo nodded, saying a soft thanks and keeping her grip tight on Dean. When Alexander turned she gave him a pointed look, and he rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, good work.”

“That’s what happens, when you ain’t threatenin’ everyone like an attack dog-“

“You wanted to threaten him.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t.” Jo said, looking down the hall with a frown. “How far you think we gotta walk to find a pond?”

Dean sighed, shoving his gun back into his pants. “Might as well get going and find out.”

Not that long, was the answer. They’d been walking through the ground for maybe five minutes—which was still too many minutes for one house—when Jo shoved him, pointing through the apple grove they’d wandered into. The woods got thick, but they were very much still on the property. And there was a path cleaving through the overgrown bristle, leading down a slope. Dean nodded, taking the lead, and they started through the woods. That was another three minutes, then-

Dean stopped in his tracks, swallowing a lump in his throat.

She was there. With a few other women—her mother, Deliliah, Roman’s wife and a few cousins—sitting on the bank, She was right there. There in the water, the long skirt they’d put her in pooling around Her as she stood knee deep in the water. She was staring out up at the sky, and from his angle of the higher ground, Dean could see Her every perfect feature. She was glowing like she was leaking light, the lush trees bending down the borrow just a little and birds nestled high in the branches, watching Her with the awe she deserved. 

Her eyes fluttered open, and She looked right up to an eagle one of the highest spots. She whistled, clear and high through the air, and it lept into the air. Soared in a circle, before coming down to land on her shoulder. She let it butt Her head, then whistled again. It dove into the water, then surged back up, plastic caught in its beak. It dumped it on the shore, before returning up to its perch. Dean felt kind of dizzy.

He said Her name without thinking. She turned around with that same, confused from the sunroom. All the woman on the beach looked up with glinting, hawk-like eyes, and Jo swore under her breath. Dean needed to stop being enchanted by Her and just focus on getting her out, but she was also pretty fucking enchanting. And he’d always liked watching Her run around with animals. It was cute.

But She still looked at him like she wasn’t sure who he was. Like She knew, but couldn’t place a name. Dean waved to Her, as Charlotte stalked up the path. She lifted a hand, and softly waved back.

“You should not be here.” Charlotte hissed when she approaches, and Dean looked down his nose with a cold glower. “This is no place for men-“

“Really? ‘Cause I didn’t see anything about no boys allowed on your clubhouse. You see one, Jo?”

Jo shook her head, glaring at Charlotte. “No. I didn’t.”

“Well, you should not be here either.” Chalotte snapped. “It is no place for others to be in the presence of the Bride. And,” she gave Dean a cold look. “She does not wish to see you.”

Dean snorted. “She doesn’t wish to see me? You really think that card is gonna work? You wiped me from her brain-“

Charlotte said Her name cooly, lifting her chin. “Chose to return home and make amends with her family.”

Jo coughed, shaking her head. “You- You think she’d ever chose this?”

“She did.”

“No, I know her, she’d fuckin’ cut off her hand before she’d come back here-“

“She came back once.” Charlotte shrugged. “She must have realized that the hunter life was fun, but not sustainable. That mess with Purgatory, it opened her eyes-“

“You mean the mess you caused?”

Charlotte blinked at Dean, recoiling slightly. “I- I do not know what you’re talking about-“

“You’re the one who sold her out to Crowley and Raphael.” Dean spat, advancing on Charlotte slowly. “You were the only person who knew how to mess with her wards, the only person we’d let into the house who could’ve betrayed us. Everything would’ve been fine, if you had fucked her like that. You got her hurt, you almost killed her, I almost lost her because of you and now you’re trying to take her again?” He spat every word, leaning down to sneer in Charlotte’s face. “Jo’s right. She would’ve died before she came back here. And she would never.” Dean sneered, his heart pounding his hands. “Chose to forget anything about her life. Let me see her. Now.”

Charlotte swallowed, her voice small but unwavering. “I did not turn her over to the demon.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me-“

“I did not think,” she raised her tone, holding Dean’s gaze. “That Norah would’ve done such a thing to her own sister. But she was desperate, and- And if it leads to my bug being brought back to me-“

“She isn’t back.” He roared, and he could swear the trees shook. “She isn’t- You don’t know her, you don’t know what the hell she’d want-“

“Dean, I know it can’t be hard to let go, but not all romances are meant to be-“

“It’s not a romance, she’s my-“ He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Fuck this.”

Dean shoved past Charlotte, marching down the hill to the pond. She had been watching him from the water with an unreadable expression, but if She didn’t want him there she’d tell the birds to peck out his eyes or water to pull him under. Instead Dean shouldered his way through her little self-appointed entourage and into the water, and the current carried him forward. He waded through the mud and sand without much resistance. His jeans weighed him down, but his pull to Her was stronger. He just needed to touch Her. He just needed to be sure She was real, to know he hadn’t lost her yet.

He called Her name, and she looked up at Dean like she didn’t know what he was. Like he’d come from some far off planet, and She wasn’t sure what to make of him. But She let him grabs Her hands, and he held them between their bodies as She only stared.

“You know me.” He pressed their brows together, searching Her gaze for any recognition. Squeezed Her hands three times, his voice barely a croak. “Please, Princess, you know me. You gotta remember, please.”

His voice cracked, and She just stared up at him. There was noise from the shore, and he was sure he didn’t have much time.

“Baby.” He grabbed Her face, running his thumb down her nose. “It’s me. It’s just me, it’s- I’m your Dean. You know me, c’mon-“

Her breath hitched, and Her lips tugged into a tiny pout. That furrow in Her brow deepened, and Dean soothes it with a firm rub.

Jo was calling him from the bank, but he didn’t turn around. She was warm and gorgeous under his hands. He could smell Her apple again, faint through a new, leafy soap she’d hate. He couldn’t afford to waste a single second.

She looked past him, though. And Her wrinkle returned, Her hands flying up to Dean’s shirt. She grabbed him tight, opening Her mouth, then closing it. Shaking Her head, then looking back to Dean.

“She was on my hands.” She murmured, and Dean almost fell to his knees.

“Yeah, sweetheart, I think she was. You saved her, you brought her back, you- You know us-“

“And you…” She shook Her head, like she was trying to clear a fog from Her head. “You’re…”

“You can do it.” Dean pressed over Her, holding Her tight and steady. “I know it’s hard, baby girl, but you can do it. You know me.”

“I- I don’t- I can’t-“

The world slipped from Dean’s hands. Everything turned to a blur of color and light, and suddenly he and Jo were back in the room. Sammy and Bobby were frowning at them from the table. Dean’s jeans were still went, his hands still in the air like he was holding Her face.

He didn’t say a word for the rest of the night. No one asked him to. When he took a shower he didn’t bother to make the water warm, and when he went to bed he tried to cling to that smell of Her apples, still drifting like a phantom through the air.

I can’t. She’d said. I don’t.

Dean groaned, tossing an arm over his brow. His ankle was starting to hurt again. She’d be mad he’d been running on it, agitating it before it was better. But he hadn’t been able to feel it, shot up on the adrenaline.

He could sure as shit feel it now. He was going to be hobbling all day.

“Think it’s Eve’s drug.” He grunted in the morning, not looking up from his food. “When I was close to her yesterday, I could smell something. Like bad fruit.”

Sam hummed an agreement across the table. “That’s what it smelled like at the ward, but- I don’t know, I’d have to smell her myself-“

“Then we’ll find her today.”

“Dean, after yesterday I don’t think they’ll let her anywhere near you.”

“I’m surprised they let him get that close for that long.” Jo muttered. “But her mom wasn’t lookin’ well, so she wasn’t helping with their little spell. The hell did you say to her?”

“Nothing.” Dean set down his spoon, looking up to Sammy. “And don’t worry. We’ll find her.”

They wouldn’t bring Her back to the pond, after yesterday. Dean was pretty sure their best bet was going to be somewhere quiet in the house. Where there wouldn’t be many people to distress her, where they could stash her while they tried to work out what to do. He’d made their presence a little hard to ignore. Made it clear they weren’t just going to roll over and fuck off.

“This place is so big.” Sam muttered as they walked through the halls. “And cold.”

Dean just shrugged. “Well, we’re gonna get her and be outta here. Just shake a little.”

Sam sighed, and Dean could feel the kid’s gaze burning into his neck.

“What.” He grunted, and Sam shrugged.

“Nothing.”

“Sammy-“

“Do you think it’s Eve?” Sam blurted. “Because she’s the one who’s made this drug. But that doesn’t make any sense, because Eve wants to kill,” Sam said Her name, talking faster and faster. “And her family wants her to marry God. They lose everything, if she doesn’t marry God, but she can’t marry God if she’s dead. And Eve probably can’t kill her, if she marries God, so- I don’t know, this is all just really weird, right? I mean, Jo told me about her mom, and I remember her being kind of- You know, stuck up? But I didn’t think she was going to betray us like that, or do this-“

“Charlotte’s claiming she just made the mistake of telling Norah.” Dean grunted, looking firmly at the hall ahead of them. “And she seems to think,” he said Her name, forcing through the lump in his throat. “Chose to be here. That she wanted to forget.”

“Yeah, see, that’s what I’m talking about.” Sam said Her name with a frown. “She’d never forget you, definitely not on purpose-“

“We were fighting.”

“You guys fight all the time.” Sam dismissed. “We all fight all the time, that’s what happens when you work in a- a constant death and fighting factory.”

Dean snorted at that, and Sam stood a little taller.

“You know she wouldn’t forget you, right? Not over a fight.”

“Yeah. I do.” She pinky promised. “You’re right about the fishy stuff all over this, by the way. But Eve isn’t the only one with that drug.”

Sam frowned. “She made it. And you’re the one who said-“

“I know what I said. Now I’m saying, maybe it’s Crowley.” He shrugged. “I mean, he had a supply right. The demon and witch stole it for Becky’s potion.”

“They did.” Sam muttered. “That’s- That’s a good point. But how would Crowley benefit from her marrying God?”

Dean grunted. He didn’t want to keep having a conversation about Her marrying God, and who the hell knew why anyone did anything. A whole lot of politics had gotten into hunting, and he wasn’t a big fan of it. Next thing they knew the angels were going to be running a general election, and looking for vessel endorsements or something. And he’d get a lecture from Her and Sammy about how important voting was, and end up casting a ballot or GABRIEL 4 PREZ based on his pro-human platform. He missed being unknown to everyone and legally dead. At least if they lived in the Minnesota woods, Dean would only have to vote for a schoolboard. He could deal with that. That would be easy.

He and Sammy split up to look for Her. He’d made a list of all the spots in the house he thought She might go for some quiet, and given a little less than half to Sammy. He’d taken the bigger slice to up his own odds, sure, but they’d been so close yesterday. She’d almost known him. Dean could’ve sworn she’d known him.

But his rooms were empty. He wandered hall after hall, ducking away from passing cousins and glancing in every corner to see if She’d huddled near the walls. But he found nothing, and head back to find Sammy with a sigh.

He heard their voices first, and froze in the hall.

“You like ballet?”

“I like most of that kind of stuff. It’s all very… organized. It’s soothing.”

“What about opera?”

“I like that too. It takes a lot of training, it’s very impressive-“

“What about cartoons?”

Sammy sighed. “That’s not my thing. But my brother likes them. You’d like him.”

Dean leaned against the wall, breathing through his mouth. She was in there. In there and talking to Sam, calm and normal. He wanted to storm in and grab Her, but she might freak out. He wasn’t sure he’d get that far, either, on his ankle.

“You have a brother?” She asked, and Dean closed his eyes tight.

“Yeah. Older. He’s the best.”

“Is he like you?”

Sammy snorted. “Not at all. But trust me, you’d love him a lot. And- He loves you.”

She hummed, and Dean could picture Her frowning at her hands, fidgeting with her sleeves. “Is he here too?”

“Uh… Yeah. You might have met him. Yesterday?”

“Oh.”

“If he scared you, I promise he didn’t mean to-“

“They took him away.” She said softly, and Dean felt his heart leap to his throat. “He- He went away from me. But he’s still here.”

“Yeah, um- He’s around here, somewhere. Looking for you, actually.”

“He wants to find me?” She asked softly, and Sam laughed again.

“You have no idea.”

A silence fell between them, and this might be Dean’s moment. He could march in all heroic, grin at Her an announce that he was there to sweep her away. Even if She never remembered anything, Dean could learn to live with that. He’d just work at it, do anything he had to for Her to fall for him again. He’d give Her everything and never demand anything back, just that she give him a chance, one more chance to keep her safe-

“He was pretty.” She said suddenly, and Dean froze. “And he- He had a voice.”

Sam snorted in a way Dean didn’t appreciate. “Yeah. A lot of people have voices.”

“I know, but his was…”

“Please don’t say what you’re thinking. I just stopped having to deal with this, I can’t do it again. I- How about animals. Do you like animals?”

She fell for Sammy’s bait, and Dean exhaled. He fumbled in his jacket for a second, looking for the scalpel. When he grabbed it, he angled it up carefully, trying to capture Her reflection.

And there She was. Just as bright and Alive as last time.

But She was turning. Pushing. And Her light didn’t look like it had been tampered, but there was a misty fog wafting over it. Like a veil over a lake in the morning, so thick it seemed like Dean could grab it with his hand. And under that, Her soul was burning. Burning and pushing, blinding even through the fog. If they needed confirmation, this was it. Her family had done something to Her soul, and Dean was pretty sure their hunch was right.

He slid off the wall, stepping into the doorway with a lazy smirk. They both looked up at him, Sam mildly amused and Her eyes wide.

“This is Dean.” Sam drawled, gesturing to Dean’s super casual, relaxed, pose. “In case you didn’t do introductions.”

She nodded, pulling Her knees up to Her chest. She was flushed, looking at Dean like he was going to advance on Her. Try and eat Her alive.

It made his heart deflate. He’d never hurt Her. Ever.

“Hi, Dean.” She breathed, and he dipped his head.

“Princess. Sammy,” he grunted, the smell of Her apples rushing him through the air. It was like She was putting out freaking pheromones, and Dean was supposed to just keep being normal and docile and act like he didn’t want to carry Her to the car and run. “I gotta talk to you.”

Sam nodded, standing slowly. They exchanged soft goodbyes, while Dean tried not to roar. That tactic hadn’t worked great the first time. Maybe if he gave it another shot-

Sammy grabbed his arm, and pulled him out of the room.

She hadn’t looked away from him for a single second.

“It’s the drugs, dude.” He muttered, glancing over his shoulder. “You were right, it’s like they doused her in them or something-“

“Awesome.” Dean grunted, ignoring the ache in his ankle. “How do we snap her out of it.”

Sam sighed. “I- I don’t know. All the other times she’s gotten hit with it, I think she just broke herself out. Or-“ Sam gave him a look. “I think she still knows you, Dean. You should try to talk to her again, Jo said it looked like you were close-“

“I scared her.” Dean shook his head. “No. I’m not doing that again.”

“Dean-“

“No.” He snapped. “Find another way, Sammy, ‘cause I can’t- I’m not doing that again.”

Dean didn’t say the part about how if She didn’tremember him and didn’t want him, his legs might just give out and never work again. His ankle had been numb to reach Her. It would shatter, if there was no more Her to reach. If She’d only chosen him because he was there. Because he was Her option, and not because she’d forge mountains and part seas to find him, in every single life, all the way down.

If She came to him, he’d do whatever She asked. Always. If not, he was going to have to find a way to survive, because he sure as hell wasn’t going to live. And until then, they needed to figure out how the hell to break Her out of this drug.

One of the most annoying things about Her being the one in danger was that She was the one in danger. Anything that put Her in danger was the kind of thing they needed a miracle to crack, and She was the only miracle they had walking around on sexy legs. Sammy was smart, but he was low on batteries from the soul damage. Jo and Dean weren’t stupid, but they weren’t her, and Bobby couldn’t do everything himself.

“How the hell are we supposed to track the lore when it changes every fuckin’ week?” Jo muttered, scrolling through the spreadsheet. “None of these words even sound real-“

“Because you’re looking at the Spanish translation.” Sam tapped the screen, and Jo blinked.

“Why do you have a Spanish translation-“

“To optimize accessibility and practice our Spanish.” Sam shrugged. “We also have an Italian and Arabic one.”

“They’re smarter than us, Jo.” Dean flopped onto his cot, the whole thing creaking under his weight. “Don’t question it.”

Jo snorted, but Sam just rolled his eyes.

“Dean, if you’re going to bed we can find somewhere else-“

“’m not going to bed.” He grunted, rubbing his eyes. “I’m taking five, then Jo and I are gonna go look for their stash.”

“Oh, well- Don’t burn it all if you find it, I think she’ll want to look at it-“

“If Eve had enough to be dealing it like she’s college student, we can find some for studying somewhere else.”

Sammy was frowning, when Dean forced himself up. “But- Maybe it would be better to know how they’re doing this to her, in case they try to do it again-“

“Nah, I’m with Dean.” Jo drummed her hand on the table, giving him a tight smile. “There’s gonna be other chances. We’re not riskin’ this at all.”

Sam’s frown deepened, but he let it go. When Bobby got back from a call with Jody, Dean and Jo packed out with guns and matchsticks. They’d been searching the place already. Gone into studies, libraries, an indoor pool that Dean would’ve been a lot more excited about if it wasn’t owned by Her evil family, and bedroom. They hadn’t found anything, but that meant they knew where not to look.

And Dean had an idea already. These people liked dramatics.

It didn’t get more dramatic than a secret fuckin’ cult dungeon.

“You remember what the plant thing was actually called?” He muttered, staying a step in front of Jo as they made their way to the chamber.

Jo shook her head. “No one’s tellin’ me shit. Know it’s native to hell-“

Dean paused, turning around. “It’s native to hell?”

“Uh… Yeah?” Jo gave him a confused look. “What, you ain’t been thinkin’ of that-“

“I thought it was one of Eve’s little, I dunno, experiments-“

“Maybe it is. I dunno, I just chase the smoke, follow her Holinesses directions-“

Dean said her name with a scowl. “No, but- When she was dealing with Becky- Crowley said that demon stole the plants from him-“

“Yeah. ‘Cause they’re native to hell.” Jo frowned. “Maybe Sam’s right, dude, you need to lie down-“

“I’m fine.” Dean grunted, turning back to the hall. “There’s just something… I don’t know. Wrong about this.”

“Yeah, our best friend has been drugged into a fuckin’ dress-up doll-“

“No. I mean- Yes, but-“ Dean shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Sam had been right, thinking about motivation. There was none, not for any of their players right now to help Her family. And Dean could’ve sworn that this plant thingy was Eve’s, not Hell’s, but he also didn’t pay attention to half the briefings he got. When Sam gave them he tried to distract Her, and when She gave them a lot of the bigger words sort of faded into the background as he thought about how pretty and smart She was. He could pay attention, when he needed to. But the longer, lecture type things always took too much time, and he had to sit still, and he’d remember the key details just well enough to do his job anyway.

Or he thought he would. Now he was just fucking confused.

Dean stopped in front of the Chamber entrance, Jo right behind him, and sighed up at the closed, stone doors. They were sealed, and didn’t budge when he shoved them.

“Stupid magic.” He muttered, and Jo grunted an agreement.

“You really think-“

“Yeah. ‘S where they keep all the creepiest shit.” Dean pressed his shoulder against the wall, then groaned when his weight slipped.

He twisted his ankle, and pain shot through his leg like lightning. He doubled over with a shout of pain, gritting his teeth, and Jo barely kept him from hitting his head on the hard floor.

“Jesus, you fuckin’ dumbass-“

“Maybe it’s a bloodlock.” He muttered, shouldering Jo away to glare at the wall. “Needs family blood. Remember Alexander, he seems like the kinda guy to give us blood, c’mon-“

“Dean, you need to sit down-“

“I’m fine.” He snapped, starting back up the stairs. He was sort of limping, but it was fine. He’d had worse. “Not dead yet, kid, come on- Jo-“

She’d yanked him back by his collar, twisting him around and pushing him down to the steps. Dean groaned, rubbing his neck, and Jo glared down at him with her arms crossed.

“You’re being an idiot.”

Dean scowled, but Jo didn’t give him the chance to speak.

“You think she’s gonna be happy when she wakes up to find your ankle busted again? She’ll kill you, Dean, and you know it-“

“She won’t kill me.” He grumbled, and Jo rolled her eyes.

“You’re right. She’s just going to try to heal you, you ain’t gonna let her, then she’s gonna start cryin’.”

Dean flinched, feeling like Jo had struck him across the face. “Hey-“

“No. You can use that you don’t know what you’re talking about voice on Sam, and you can tell anyone else to keep their nose out of your business, but not me.” Jo leered down, voice dropping. “I know everythin’ about you Dean. I know what you’d do for her, I know how stupid you can be, and I know how big your dick is.”

Dean’s eyes widened—that couldn’t be true—and Jo pushed on.

“I also know that she’s gonna forgive you for anythin’. And she’ll be more worried about you bein’ safe and happy than bein’ pissed at you. But I’ll be pissed at you. I can make your life hell, Winchester. I’ll cut off your balls if you break her heart.”

“I’m not going to break her heart, I love her-“

Dean cut himself off, and Jo gave him a satisfied smirk, standing back up. Dean swallowed, sitting taller, hands fisting on the steps at his side.

“Jo-“

“You’re gonna rest for the day.” Jo said haughtily. “While Bobby and I get in to burn the stash.”

“Jo-“ He tried to stand, but just groaned and collapsed back on his ankle. “Hold on-

“You can help Sam research how to snap her out, prince charming.” Jo patted his head, like he was a fucking dog. “C’mon. Let’s get you down.”

Dean didn’t have much of a choice but to let Jo help him up and back to the room. She was going to be pissed at him, when She saw his ankle, but that didn’t give Jo the right to boss him around. What kind of leverage did she even have. Dean had just said he loved Her, but that was a perfectly normal feeling to experience in Her presence.

But Jo could also tell Her that he loved Her. And Dean had a whole plan for that. And even if Jo kept her mouth shut, she had sharp proof of the food tree now. Dean was nowhere near the top. He was going to follow Her around forever, as a shadow should, and Jo was probably also going to be there, keeping an eye that he didn’t make Her cry.

He never wanted to make Her cry. The world felt like it was bleeding, when She was in pain or upset. Dean sometimes felt like he was dying, just because She was in pain. He was trying to convince Her to retire, to give up the things that made Her fall apart in his arms.

Maybe Jo could be on his side about that. If he got in her favor, she could endorse him. Dean would need to be on good behavior, but he could do that. He only snuck out of their room once, when Sam took a long, middle of the day nap. He hobbled to the closest library and tried to get a  clear picture of where the hell this plant actually came from.

He didn’t find much. He wasn’t even sure what the damn thing looked like. The most progress was made looking at mind control spells, and how to break out of them. A befuddlement just needed to be punched out of someone, but that was off the table no matter what. Some needed counter-spells or antidotes, which would be a question for Rowena. Almost all of them had a footnote that strong enough willpower could simply break themselves out, like Sammy with Lucifer. But even Sammy had struggled against Becky, and whatever they were hitting Her with had to be more potent than that bitches date-rape drug.

Dean sighed, and closed the last book. He looked up to ceiling with a groan, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his face. There had to be something. There had to be something.

Something shuffled in the background. Dean sat up, reaching for his gun. When he scanned over the gloom of the library, it was nothing but him and the shelves.

His heartbeat was oddly steady, for the prickling sensation over his skin. All the colors in the room where running together and turning softer, like watercolor. His grip tightened on the gun, and he sat a little taller.

Dean called Her name into the dark. He was met with only silence.

But when he took a deep breath through his nose, he could’ve sworn he smelled apples.

He managed to get back to the room before Bobby and Jo. Sammy was still out—he probably would be, for the rest of the night—and Dean took the computer, trying to find just one safe method to break her out.

The door opened around 10pm, and Bobby and Jo returned with sunken, tired expressions, ash-tipped fingers, and a bag.

“What’s in the-“

“Our shit.” Jo tossed it at his feet. “Your sword. Her jacket and knives. They’d shoved them in a weird little room, creepy as shit.”

Dean unzipped it slowly, taking out Her jacket with a light touch. Like he was handling silk.

It still smelled like Her. He held it tight to his chest, like a child’s blanket. He couldn’t afford to let go of anything more.

“Did you-“

“Whole thing.” Bobby grunted. “Took some of that kid’s blood like you suggested. Reckon we got about twelve hours before they realize, you got-“

“No.” Dean muttered. “Nothing. But- If it comes down to it-“

“We kidnap the damsel.” Bobby sighed. “Hope she brings herself back.”

Dean nodded, gritting his teeth. He didn’t like it. She might scream, might cry, might struggle and he was going to feel like the biggest asshole on the planet. But they weren’t going to leave Her here. Dean would turn himself into a ghost before he just abandoned Her. He’d rather haunt this creepy place for all of time, before he ran around out there knowing She was caged like a damn bird.

“We got any idea who their dealer is?” He asked, closing the laptop, and Jo sighed.

“Lotta conflicting things down there. Took a picture of the plant, gonna send it out and see if we get any hits, but- I think you might be right about crossed wires.”

Dean raised his brows, and she sighed.

“Whole place smelled like shit.” She muttered. “Like-“

“Leviathans.” Dean finished, and Jo nodded.

“Yep. But they don’t got a reason to be pro-Bride, not as far as we know-“

“We don’t know shit.” Bobby grunted, sitting down on his cot. “These things ain’t like anythin’ we ever tangled with. Whatever the hell they want, it’s not cut and clean.”

Dean grunted an agreement, and he might be about to break his jaw. These were the things She wanted to keep hunting, and they were selling Her back to her family to marry God. There were other hunters. Other people, that could handle this. She was a prime target, apparently their most wanted, and running into the line of fire had gotten Her kidnapped and drugged.

He couldn’t fall asleep again. Between his ankle and the shit racing around his head, there was no way he was going to. At some point his legs started to ache, and he needed to stretch them or he was going to punch something. He thought about doing laps in the room, but it was too small, and everyone else was sleeping pretty peacefully.

Dean was ready to endure in silence. He wasn’t a little bitch, he could take a cramp.

Then something creaked outside. Softly, barely a floorboard. He reached for his gun, then paused.

He could smell it again. Her apples.

Dean limped over to the door, opening it slowly to avoid waking the rest of them. His heart did a flip before he even saw Her, something to the right of it pulling him forward. It was like a magnet. Begging him to attach himself to the only thing he knew, the only place he belonged.

She’d pressed Herself to the opposite wall, Her hands tucked behind her back. Dean slid out into the hallway, closing the door behind him before leaning back against him.

He offered Her a small smile, and She flushed furiously, gaze dropping to his chest. Dean wanted to grab Her chin and tip it up. To watch Her eyes get glazed and blown out, maybe kiss just the tip of Her nose. But She looked like a frightened doe, and he wasn’t going to repeat the pond. That had been too harsh, too fast. It hadn’t worked.

This time, Dean just waited. His hands stayed where She could see them, tight across his chest. He didn’t stop looking at Her, but he didn’t charge forwards either. He just offered everything he had. Every bit of fond affection and love for Her, open on his face as She kept staring at his chest.

Her eyes darted up again. Dean raised his brows, and She hugged herself tight. Hitched breath. Fluttering eyes. He chuckled softly, tipping his chin up, but still didn’t speak. He’d stay right here, even if he grew into the walls and floors like the vines over the sunroom. Like everything that bent into Her. He’d gladly turn into a tree, just to be another part of Her world. He’d grow tall, have thick leaves to shield Her from the sky and storms. He’d be silent and strong, be Her favorite place for shelter.

But with how She looked at him, some part of Dean wondered if he already was.

“I…”

Her voice was only a whisper, and Dean leaned forward, trying to hold onto the sound. Like he could take it and put it on a cassette tape, that he’d keep in his heart and play over, and over, and over until the cavity of his chest got ripped open.

“I don’t know why I’m here.” She murmured, and he smiled sadly.

“I know, Princess.”

“I- I think-“ She blinked up at him in the dark, and Dean felt like his heard was going to pound out of his damn chest. “I think I wanted to see you.”

He shrugged. “You’re seein’ me right now. Like the view?”

She flushed, and his grin widened.

“I’m teasing, baby-“

“There are eyes here.” She said suddenly, urgency creeping into Her tone, written all over her face. “I don’t… I don’t want them to find you.”

Dean swallowed, glancing around the seemingly empty hallway. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “There are no eyes in my room.”

He coughed. There was no way in hell they were going to Her room, when she didn’t even know who he was.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He muttered, and Her face fell.

“You’re right, I- I’m sorry-“

“Are there eyes outside?” Dean pushed up off the wall. He couldn’t let Her go. “We, uh- We could go for a walk.”

She blinked at him, slow and cautious, then nodded slowly. “I’d like that. Please.”

Dean grinned, feeling like he was glowing from within. He offered his arm, bowing down. “Your majesty.”

Her smile returned, shy and sweet, and when She took Dean’s arm he felt like he was breathing for the first time in weeks.

She was here. Right here, and touching him. If he was brave, he could just pick Her up and run her out to the car. Get Her away now, and pray She’d forgive him.

But She was looking up at Dean like he was a walking fantasy. And he didn’t want to shattered this strange, fragile and beautiful moment.

With no clue who he was, She was still trusting Dean. In the dead of night, She’d showed up just to see him.

He was going to hold that like water in his hands. Carefully, knowing it would slip away, but savoring every single second.

“Your brother is nice.” She said softly, as they walked down to the grounds.

Dean chuckled. “Yeah. He’s pretty awesome.”

“He told me about monsters. It was interesting.”

“You, uh-“ Dean frowned. “You didn’t know about monsters?”

She frowned at the air, hair blowing in the wind. It made Her look like a painting, but Dean was pretty sure even that would never be able to capture all of Her beauty.

“Just- Your family is pretty big on magic.” He added. “Just thought they might’ve… Mentioned it. Or maybe you remember something…”

“I don’t know.” She breathed out, and Dean swallowed.

“Well, what do you know?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Dean missed a step looking at Her, and put the wrong weight on his ankle. He grunted at the pain, stumbling slightly, and She caught him against her chest.

His face was pressed right above Her breasts. And he’d been trying real hard not to think about that, to not disrespect Her trust. They’d had that fight about him not fucking Her when she’d still been Her. Dean had been too caught up on trying to find Her to think about how she’d been wandering around for weeks, thinking he didn’t want to jump her and fuck her like a dog. He wanted Her all the time.

Dean wanted Her so bad he didn’t think he’d ever truly wanted anything else, when you weighed them against Her.

Dean’s love for Her was the weight of a black hole. He’d never be able to have enough, never be able to let go once he was given. It only grew, and grew, and grew. 

And his face was pressed into the swell of Her breasts, and She was running her fingers through his hair and sitting them down on the grass. He folded himself over Her, unsure if he was using Her as a pillow or trying to make himself a blanket.

It could be both.

They could just be everything for each other, if She’d allow it.

“You’re hurt.” She said softly, and Dean swallowed.

“Sorry.”

“You… You shouldn’t be walking if you’re hurt-“

“I’m not walking.” He rolled off of Her, into the soft grass. “I’m sitting.”

Son of a bitch, Dean needed to get Her outside more often. Between the wind and the moonlight and the stars over Her head, he felt like he was looking into the eyes of Heaven herself. She was frowning, that little wrinkle tight in Her brow, and he could barely breathe.

He reached up and ran his thumb over it. Her breath hitched, Her fingers wrapping around his wrist in the grass, and he grinned.

Even if She didn’t remember him, he still had it. He still had Her.

“Don’t worry about me, Princess.” He hummed. “I’m sturdy.”

She tipped Her head at him, eyes darting down to his ankle. “If you’re sturdy, how did you hurt yourself.”

“I was fighting with a pretty girl.” He drawled. “Opened a door. Wasn’t paying attention. Bear trap.”

Her lips drew into a tiny pout. “A pretty girl.” She echoed, and Dean almost snorted.

“Yep. The prettiest.”

“Oh.”

She wasn’t looking at him anymore. Dean really shouldn’t laugh, but She was adorable. He reached up and brushed hair from Her face, making her eyes dart back. Her lips wobbled a little, and he smiled softly.

“What’s wrong.”

“Nothing.” She said, far too quick, and Dean gave Her an amused look.

“Nothin’, huh.”

She nodded tightly. “That’s what I said.”

He couldn’t stop his snort that time. “Alright, bossy. What’s not wrong.”

That earned him a glare, and he just grinned wider. Dean tapped Her nose, and it scrunched up like a bunny. He laughed, and She batted his hand away, flushing all pretty.

“Sorry, Princess-“

“Why are you calling me that?” She said suddenly, and Dean paused.

“Because.”

“Because why.”

“Because.”

“That’s-“ She shook Her head, wrinkle returning. “That’s not an answer-“

“You never answered my question.” Dean challenged, flipping his hand to tangle their fingers together. She blinked at him, but didn’t pull away. “We can play a game. Answer for an answer.”

She stared at him for a second, and Dean’s heart seized a little. If She pulled away, he might never be able to get up off the ground.

Instead She let out a slow breath, and nodded.

“Okay.”

“Awesome.” Dean grinned, pulling on Her hand. “You gotta lie down. So it’s even.”

She frowned, but didn’t argue. She lowered Herself onto the grass at Dean’s side, their shoulders pressed together and knees bumping. Dean turned and grinned at Her. She smiled nervously back, and he squeezed Her hand three times.

Everything was fine. She was here, so everything was fine.

“I asked first.” He prompted. “What do you know?”

She frowned, looking back to the sky. There was a long silence, before She finally breathed out, “I- I don’t know.”

Dean sighed. “Princess-“

“I don’t know.” She repeated, looking back to him with a desperate shine in Her eyes. “I- I don’t know anything, I’m not sure of anything I- I keep-“ She pulled Her lip between her teeth, grip strangling Dean’s hand.

He muttered Her name, and she shook Her head, voice wavering and pleading.

“I feel like I just woke up from a dream.” She whispered. “But I- I also feel like I’m in a dream. And I keep- I keep having nightmares, but I don’t know where they’re coming from, and I keep having dreams the feel more real than when I wake up, and I- I don’t know.”

Her voice cracked, and Dean reached over, rolling onto his side to touch Her face. Her eyes fluttered shut, when he ran his thumb down Her nose. Same as before. Same as always.

He was going to fucking kill Her family. He didn’t care if Charlotte really thought She wanted this or not. No one hurt Her like that and just kept walking around, looking to hurt Her again.

“What’s the-“

“I get a question.” She cut him off, eyes shooting open and voice still small.

Dean chuckled, but nodded. “’Course. My bad. What was it- Why do I call you Princess?”

She nodded, and Dean shrugged.

“’Cause you’re a Princess.”

“I’m not-“

“You are.” You’re my Princess. That sounded creepy. “You’re a Princess in here.” He poked Her ribs, a little to the right of Her heart, and she squeaked, trying to roll away.

Dean held Her hand tighter, tugging Her back down with a grin. When he poked Her again, Her feet came up to plant on his knees, trying to kick him away as She giggled. Dean hauled Her up with the leverage, rolling her on top of his body. She straddled him with wide eyes, fitting just as perfectly around him as always, and looked down at him with wide eyes and flushed face.

He grinned up at Her, grabbing her hips in a very respectful spot and rubbing them gently.

“My turn.” He hummed, squeezing lightly.

She leaned over him, palms flat on his chest. Looking at him like he was a savior again. Like even when She didn’t remember, she still knew he was Her’s.

“What’s the first thing you do remember?” He asked gently. He needed a bigger picture. “After it felt like you woke up.”

Her brow furrowed as She thought, words slow and careful. “There… There was a man.”

Dean hands stilled, but he nodded for Her to keep going.

“He made me drink tea. And he… He showed my mother how to make it. They said it would help me. That it would make the pain go away.”

Dean swallowed, words tight around the lump in his throat. “Does it?”

“No.” She breathed. “It just makes me feel small.”

Dean grunted. “Was he British?”

She shook Her head. “American. And he had… Very white teeth.”

Leviathan. “He give you a name-“

“That’s your third question.” She cut him off with a glare, and Dean snorted.

“Yeah, alright. You get two. Hit me.”

She hummed, scanning over him in the dark. Dean held Her gaze. He had nothing to hide.

“Do you know Edgar?” She paused, then added. “That was his name.”

Dean swallowed. “Yeah. I think I might.”

“Hm.” She leaned up, tracing the lines in his shirt.

She wasn’t meeting his eyes again. Maybe he’d asked too many case questions, lost his shot to pull her out of the drug-

“The blonde woman you’re with.” She cut through his thoughts, siren-like and nervous. “Is she your pretty girl?”

Dean barked a laugh. He couldn’t help it. She pouted, flushing and bowing Her head, but Dean wrapped an arm around her lower back before she could climb away.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t-“

“It’s alright, that’s just-“ He shook his head, still snorting. “Jo would laugh at that too. Laugh and barf, probably.”

“Is Jo-“

“She’s my friend.” Dean said firmly, sitting up, holding Her in his lap. “That’s it.”

“Oh.” She was still flushing, but Dean didn’t miss the twitch of Her lips. “Okay.”

Dean laughed under his breath, grinning down at Her. She was settled between his legs, pulling on the collar of his shirt as She watched him. Dean had never realized how much She stared, but usually it was only in stolen moments. When they had a locked door and only the two of them in the universe.

That was when She gave him doe eyes. Bigger than usual, shiny, hopeful and attentive. The ones that made Dean feel big and important. The eyes he knew only he had ever gotten, because no one else had Her like this, because She’d chosen Dean-

Ah.

Dean swallowed as it him, his mouth salivating and hand tensing on Her waist.

Those might be Her sex eyes.

“It’s your turn.” She whispered, and he cleared his throat.

His voice was a lot hoarser than he wanted.

“Why’d you come looking for me, sweetheart?” He muttered. “You don’t even know who the hell I am.”

Her tongue darted over Her lips, and Dean swallowed, feeling himself mirror the movement. She looked down to his mouth, then back to him, and he offered Her a sad smile.

She was beautiful. He could live a thousand lives, have Her every time, and still never get over how gorgeous She was. How lucky he was, just to exist near Her in time.

“I…” She breathed out, and they’d gotten so close Her hair was tickling his face. “I think I’ve been dreaming about you.”

Dean laughed under his breath, reaching up to drag his hand through Her hair. She pressed Her brow against his, and he felt the snap in his ribs from before burn. Fuse itself back together, from the heat of Her chest against his.

Soulmates.

“I’ve been dreaming of you too, baby.” He murmured, holding Her gaze. “Every damn night.”

She made a soft, sweet sound, and looked back down to his lips. Dean took a ragged breath, trying to drag himself back by his own neck. He couldn’t kiss Her right now. She wasn’t herself, but She felt like herself, and talked like herself, and looked like herself and smelled like herself and was giving him those goddamn Bambi sex eyes.

“Ask me why I’m here.” He rasped, and She nodded, pressing further against his body.

“Why are you here?” She whispered.

“Because I lost my girl.” Dean leaned up, holding Her gaze. “And I’d go anywhere, do anything to get Her back.”

He moved Her down onto the grass, flipping their positions. She let out a shaky breath, looking up at Dean like he was better than all the stars over their heads.

“Ask me why.” He muttered, and She nodded.

“W- Why?”

“Because I love her.” His voice broke. He didn’t care. “Love her more than anything. And I know that there’s nothing they could ever do to me, that would make me stop loving her.”

She blinked at him, throat bobbing, and there it was again. That flare. That signal through the dark.

She knew him.

Dean smiled down at Her, and he could see Her brain moving. Almost hear it. Her eyes were darting over him, her grip on his shirt tightening, and She was shaking her head again. Trying to push off whatever fog he’d seen over Her soul. Trying to remember.

”It’s okay, Princess.” He said softly. “You’re okay.”

She blinked at him. The flare got brighter, Her breath warm over his lips.

“Dean…”

He swallowed, and nodded. She looked down to his lips, then his chest, and he grabbed Her hand. Held it against him, and squeezed once.

She blinked at their tangled fingers, and frowned.

Squeezed back three times, looking back up to Dean with wide eyes.

They were so close. Her lips brushed his, and Dean closed his eyes, trying to let the electric feeling sink into him, rewrite him entirely, guide him like a current home, just like every single time-

A voice tore through the night. High and shrill, haunting through the wind.

Her mother.

Calling Her name.

Her eyes widened. She shoved Dean’s chest, and he could’ve stayed over her but he let himself be moved. She was afraid, he could almost smell it off of her. Her knew better than to trap Her when she was afraid.

“You- You have to go.”

He shook his head, reaching to take Her hand. “No, just- Come with me-“

Her mother called again. Charlotte’s voice was getting louder. Closer.

“Sweetheart-“

“No, no, I- I’m not supposed to- They’re going to- Dean-“

He said Her name, louder and firmer, but She was already shrinking away. Curling into a tight ball, covering Her ears with her hands. The wind was picking up. Dean couldn’t reach Her, and

“You can’t- You- Don’t take him- No- No-“

He shouted for Her, and something slammed into him like a train.

Dean made a choked sound, blinked, and-

He was back in the room. Again.

But this time there was a burning feeling in his chest. He could still smell Her apples, stronger than just a lingering perfume or delusion. Dean wiped his face, half smacking himself across the face, and pulled the collar of his shirt down slowly.

There was a handprint on his chest. Fingers splayed on his pec, the palm closer to the center. Like the one Cas had left, when he’d pulled Dean out of Hell. He traced the lines, wincing at the sting. It didn’t hurt fully. More sensitive than anything else.

His ankle felt a lot better. At least there was that.

“What’s that?” Sammy’s voice was rough, the kid blinking at Dean from bed.

Dean muttered Her name, glancing over to the door. Like she might just appear.

“She… Burned you?”

“No, she- She came to see me, and we- We were-“ He cut himself off, his throat starting to ache. “We were so close.”

“Dean-“

“She almost remembered.” He looked back to Sam, fisting the collar of his shirt. “She was so close, and I- I said I-“

He shook his head, gritting his jaw. Sam watched him with those sad puppy eyes, but Dean didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want the lecture about feelings or magic. He knew how he loved Her. He knew She had to feel it too. And they’d been so close.

“I’m gonna take a shower.” He grunted, yanking his shirt over his head. “Go back to bed, Sam.”

“Wait, Dean, she- She wouldn’t just leave a mark on you-“

“Sam.” He barked, shooting him a firm glare. “Go back to bed.”

Dean stalked to the bathroom without another word, feeling Sam’s sad gaze even after he slammed the door. He might’ve told Her. If they hadn’t been interrupted, he might’ve said that they were soulmates. Selfishly. Just to get Her back.

He banged his head against the wall, letting the cold water rush over his face. So close. They’d been so damn close, then She’d been so afraid, of just Her mother-

Don’t take him.

That wasn’t something She’d say about Her mother. And they’d been outside, under the sky, and Dean was a goddamn idiot.

He slammed his first against the tile, shaking out the pain. The moment She settled with him, everyone just  kept trying to take Her. Dean was Her soulmate, he was the one She wanted, that was all he goddamn had and God was trying to take it away from him. Dean was going to kill the son of a bitch. He had Excalibur back. It could kill most anything, and there was only one way to find out if God was one of those things. Death had even said it. That one day, God would die.

Something pulled at Dean’s head. Death. Another one of his lovely, cryptic and enlightening conversations. One the moors, when he’d said there was no cage that could hold Her or something. That She hadn’t broken out of hell because Dean had called her. That She’d marked him or something, and now She’d always come when he called.

He remembered Her drawing on his forehead in a dream, a long, long time ago. Dreams that were real. That had really been Her. And he’d called for Her when she was in Europe, and when Death had risen, and when She’d been in Hell. And She’d always come back.

She always came back to him.

Dean had an idea. A stupid, reckless idea, but they were on the clock, and it wasn’t like they didn’t deal in stupid ideas for a living. Between what She and Sammy would probably come up with, Dean’s idea was pretty sane.

He didn’t bother to brief  Bobby, Jo, or Sam. They’d try to stop him, and he couldn’t afford that.

“The family has breakfast,” was all he grunted. “Every morning. And she’s always there.”

Bobby nodded. “You think we just run in and grab her?”

Dean shrugged. Bobby took that as an agreement. Wasn’t Dean’s fault.

They’d already packed before sunrise. Dean had told them about what she’d said. About the tea. If that’s how they were drugging Her, they’d need to go early. Before the family realized their stocks had been destroyed, and they called Edgar for more.

Sammy had wanted to talk about the Leviathans working with Her family more. Dean had decided they didn’t have the damn time.

He led the charge into the dining hall. He slammed open the doors and winced at the light pouring through the windows. There were high ceilings and a long, wooden table like some movie. A buffet was set up across the room on thick, pastel cloth. Cousins and aunts and uncles were milling around, most of them not even paying them any attention.

Dean found Her immediately. Standing near one of the buffet tables, staring at a slice of pie with a pretty frown. Her sister-in-law was talking to Her, holding a baby. She looked to the baby, and Her eyes softened slightly. Her sister-in-law kept yapping about something probably unimportant, and Dean was willing to bet a fair amount that she wasn’t paying any damn attention.

He started across the room, calling Her name. His voice echoed off the walls, and the room fell silent.

Good. He needed attention, for this to work.

“What the hell are you doin’, boy-“ Bobby snapped, grabbing Dean’s shoulder, but Dean pushed him off.

He only looked at Her, as he advanced. She didn’t cower away. She took a step forward, shaking but certain.

Roman moved in Dean’s path, shoving him back.

“We might be putting you up, Winchester, but that doesn’t mean you get the right-“

“Right to what?” Dean sneered, shoving him back.

Roman wasn’t much more than show-muscle. He tripped over his feet, almost going down with one push. Dean smirked.

“Right to come and ruin your little plan?” He mocked, advancing another step. Roman stepped back. “You think you’re a big fucking man, you can’t even protect your sister from mutt-hunters, can’t hide her from out dumb little brains, can’t make her forget about me with magic. Some damn witch. Can’t even make a potion she,” he jerked his head. “Could mix up in her sleep.”

“I’m warning you. Back off.” Roman tried to puff up his chest. Dean laughed.

“Oh, you’re warning me, rich boy. I’ve carved up things tougher than you with one hand behind my back, I’ve seen shit that would make your fancy lunches come up, slept in beds that you’d cry like a bitch about. And you know what.” He lowered his voice, forcing the words out like vomit. He had to say them. He still didn’t want anyone else to hear. “I fucked your precious sister in all of them. Defiled the Bride, cum inside of her, maybe knocked up your prize mare with my dirty hunter blood. Better hope your God doesn’t notice. Better hope he doesn’t blame you, or see how much of a fuckin’ creep you are and think you did it-“

Roman’s fist flew, and connected with Dean’s jaw. He welcomed the pain, laughing as the ache started to bloom. Roman’s face twisted in rage, and he jumped on Dean with another hit, right to his stomach.

Dean didn’t fight back. Half because of the plan, and half because he deserved it. He’d need to pour bleach on his tongue, after saying that shit. Talking about Her like all she was good for was breeding, like she was some cattle Dean had stolen. He was a fucking dog, he was getting suckered and beat up and he was just laughing, choking on his how spit and laughing because he deserved it. For failing in the first place, for daring to love Her at all.

There was shouting all around them. A lot of shattering things and bangs, further fights breaking out. A few cousins had joined in Roman’s beating of him, and Dean couldn’t fight back if he wanted to anymore. He could feel the earth shaking under him, and there was only a split second he had to make this work before She blew her fuse.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, and prayed. Prayed for Her to come back to him, come back because he needed Her, come back because he loved Her, come back because they said all the way down, and Dean was getting his shit kicked into the Earth, and he needed Her if his damned soul was ever going to see any light at all.

Nobody screamed. There wasn’t anything breaking, any blinding flash of light.

Everyone just… Stopped.

And Dean felt it. He didn’t need to see Her, because everything inside him was flooding with Silver, and it was like seeing a porchlight on as he came home.

Flowers grew under his hands. Against his cheek. All the weight vanished from his body, and he rolled over to see Roman and Her cousins being carried up by the wind, and dropped onto the floor. They were knocked out and motionless. Most of Her family was, with the exception of a few confused looking babies. 

And She was glowing. Silver-eyed and shining, the world almost neon around Her body and thick roots growing out from where She stood, breaking up the marble and reaching all the way to the walls. Lush plants grew all over the walls, and the windows had turned into waterfalls, making rainbow light dance around the room. Sam ran his hand under some water, and jumped back when it shimmered and started making bubbles, each one filled with a sparking rainbow fish swimming happily around. Jo poked a root with her shoe, and a bunch of butterflies rushed the air with a flutter. Bobby pulled one of the kids from it’s knocked out mom, set it carefully on the table, and a new bush grew around it like a cradle.

Dean said Her name gently, taking a slow step forward. The Silver flickered, and She swayed on her feet.

“Easy, baby.” He muttered, offering out a hand. “You’re good. We’re good. It’s just me- Look-“ He held out a hand. The one with the matching scar to Her’s. “You know me, Princess. You’re okay.”

She blinked at him, and the Silver dimmed, then went out. Her face was tight, eyes still glassy and unfocused, but Dean took another step and she moved forward. Like Her body knew.

He’d never hurt Her.

“Dean?” Her voice was high. Distressed.

“That’s right, it’s me- Woah, go slow-“

She was almost running towards him, clumsy and nervous. He caught Her quickly, trying to get them balanced, but She yanked on his shirt. She looked feral. Shaking in his arms with fear, looking around the room, frantically shaking Her head.

“Dean, I- I don’t- Why are we here, what- What happened-“

“Hey, hey.” Dean grabbed Her face between his hands, pulling Her attention. “Breathe.”

She did, uneven and quick, and he swallowed.

“You don’t remember?”

She shook Her head, and Dean pressed their brows together. Sammy hadn’t remembered either. He should’ve expected that.

“I’ll explain later, alright.” He muttered, squeezed Her gently. “You trust me?”

She nodded, and Dean kissed Her brow, then pulled Her tight to his chest.

“Bobby-“

“You take her now.” Bobby grunted, watching them with a strange shine in his eyes. “We’ll block ‘em in here, mess with some signals, make sure they’re too occupied to chase. See if they got files on talkin’ to the Leviathans. Anything that’ll give us a leg up right now.”

Dean nodded, bending down to hook under Her knees. She was still shaking, and they couldn’t waste time. She wrapped Her arms around his neck in a second, burying Her face in his shoulder. Dean started to the door, giving Sam and Jo quick goodbyes as they watched worriedly.

Bobby clapped him on the shoulder, when they passed, pausing his path.

“Get her home.” He said. “And stay safe.”

“Thank you.” Dean said, for too many things, and Bobby gave him a tight smile.

He looked down to Her, throat bobbing. Ran a hand through Her hair gently, and Dean felt Her relax. Bobby sighed, and pulled away with another nod to Dean. Dean returned it, grabbed his bag, and set out to the car.

Home wasn’t far, but he headed a little North first. Make a confusing trail, in case they were being followed. There was always a chance there had been some people who weren’t at breakfast. That Her family had a backup spell, or sleeper agents, or something that was going to be going after them. Dean needed to get back to the safety of home, but he couldn’t let them know where home was.

Charlotte already knew. Norah did to. But they hadn’t seen the Creepy Doll-Girl of her sister, and Charlotte did care about Her. And she hadn’t snitched enough that her family had been snooping around the house.

Could never hurt to be more careful.

She’d hadn’t spoken since they hit the road. Dean kept his hand steady on Her thigh, and she leaned into him with shaking breathes and Her face buried in his arm. When She finally spoke, her voice was so small Dean almost thought it was part of the song he’d put on.

“What happened?”

He glanced down. She still wasn’t looking at him. Dean turned down the radio. “What?”

“How did we get there?” She mumbled, playing with Dean’s fingers. “I- I remember the station. We fought, and the fire started, then I saw demons, and-“

“You saw demons?”

She nodded, and Dean frowned.

“Huh.”

“But- That was my family.” She breathed, wrapping Her hands over his. “Why were we with my family?”

Dean swallowed, choosing his words slowly. “They grabbed you. Drugged you, some stronger version of what Becky gave Sammy. Made you forget who you were. You’d been there little over a week, when we found you.”

“Oh.”

“You’re alright though.” He grunted, more for himself. “You didn’t do anything, just kinda wandered around and stood in some water. And we got you out.”

She nodded, but didn’t sound convinced. “How did you know to look for me-“

“’Cause I always look for you.” Dean said, words short. He wasn’t going to play that game. “And I knew you wouldn’t have just- Up and left.” You wouldn’t have left me.

She hummed, squeezing his hand three times. Dean flipped it, and squeezed back the same. Everything was fine. He had Her, so everything was really fine.

“Thank you.” She mumbled, and he nodded.

“Always. All the way down.”

 She was silent again. Dean looked over, and found Her staring at  where they were holding hands. He ran his thumb over Her knuckles, and she looked up.

Son of a bitch.

Her eyes were glossy, Her attention hopelessly open and almost devout. Dean wasn’t sure how he could stand to be on the other side of it. It sort of felt like the ocean changing all its currents to move in his direction.

He cleared his throat, and looked back to the road. But he could still feel Her. Prickling over his skin, daring him to look back. She shifted, getting closer. Her breath was warm on his neck, Her knee bumping into his thigh as she almost crawled against him. That wasn’t safe passenger practice. She should put on Her seatbelt, Dean could be a reckless driver and that was when he’d gotten and full four hours and didn’t have a living goddess trying to climb him like a tree.

He needed to tell Her to sit down. It had been a long week. Now wasn’t the time.

But Dean was only a man.

He glanced over, and tried not to choke on the air.

Those were the Bambi sex eyes.

Dean really wished he’d never noticed them. He was never going to get anything done again.

“Princess…” He muttered, knuckles white on the wheel. “You- Uh- Hey.”

“Hi.” Her breath fanned over Dean’s neck, sending a shiver through his body.

Fuck. “You need to go to the bathroom?” He offered, and She shook her head.

Goddamnit. He was a gentleman. He wasn’t going to cave, She was tired, and they needed to the adult thing and get sleep and talk first, and She smelled so good, and looked so soft, and Dean hadn’t even kissed Her yet and she kept looking at him like that, and-

He said Her name. She was putting him under a spell he was too happy with. She shouldn’t mean it right now, they didn’t even have a bed for him to treat Her properly-

“Dean…” Her nose grazed near his jaw. They were lucky this road was empty. “I- I need-“

He grunted Her name again, and she pulled back with a nervous, flushed embarrassment on Her face.

Dean couldn’t have that.

He reached up, wrapping his arm around Her shoulder and pulling her right back. She squeaked, but slumped over his chest. Her hands landed near his crotch, nails brushing Little Dean through the fabric, and he grunted. Looked over to find Her breathing shallow, eyes completely blown out.

“What do you need, baby girl.” His voice was gravelly, and Her lips parted.

“I- I don’t know.” She whispered. “Tell me what to do.”

Dean’s swore under his breath, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the road. “Princess…”

“Please.”

And damn him. Damn him past hell, Dean couldn’t deny Her. Not when She asked so nice and pretty. Not when She needed him.

Not for anything.

“We gotta keep driving.” Dean reminded Her gently, but he was already slowing the car down. “And I need to be able to see the road.”

She nodded, just leaning closer. Dean took his arm off Her shoulders, looking between Her and the street as he fumbled with his belt. She was just watching him, not a hint of doubt in Her eyes. She gasped when he pulled himself out of his jeans, already half-hard from Her little show of pleading.

Her thighs pressed together, as Dean stroked himself. She seemed transfixed, head titled, scooting closer but never asking him for more.

“You wanna…” He prompted, nodding down to his lap.

She looked at him, nervous but so certain. She nodded, crawling as close as their positions would allow, licking split off Her lips. Dean’s cock twitched, throbbing at the idea of Her.

He reached around Her shoulders as slow as he could, trying to give Her one last out. But instead of taking it, She crawled fully onto the bench, getting on all fours. Dean’s hand fisted in Her hair, looking from her ass to her almost determined expression. She was a goddamn walking sin, and Dean was going to indulge Her until he got sent back to Hell. Maybe She’d visit him from super-heaven, if he made this good enough for Her.

“Say what you want.” He grunted, and She looked up at him with glossy eyes.

“You.”

No hesitation. Dean’s dick got impossibly harder. He was worried he was already losing brainpower. 

“Spit on it.” He muttered, and She obeyed. Dean hissed, when the cool wetness hit him, biting down on his cheek to keep focus. “Good girl.”

She smiled at that, and Dean chuckled under his breath. Rubbed his hand down Her neck, letting his voice get low and rough.

“Oh, you like that don’t you.” He teased, watching Her ass push higher in the air as she squirmed against nothing. “Yeah. You like bein’ a good girl for me.”

“Dean…” She whined, and he hummed.

“Yeah, I know. I know you need it. But I gotta drive, Princess, I told you.”

“I’m sorry-“

“You’re doin’ nothing wrong.” He cooed, squeezing Her neck lightly. “You’re being good. Just needy, and we talked about that, right? It’s okay to want something."

She nodded, and Dean shot Her a look.

“Say it.”

“It- It’s alright to want something.” She mumbled, trying to look away.

Dean tugged Her right back. “There you go. Wasn’t too hard, right?”

She whimpered, looking down to Dean rock-hard cock, and he laughed.

“Heh. Didn’t even think about that.” He guided Her attention up, making sure he could see Her pretty flush in his periphery. “You wanna suck it, Princess?”

“Yes.” Her voice was breathier than he’d ever heard. “Please.”

Dean took a heavy breath through his nose, running his fingers up into Her hair. “So suck it.”

He’d tried to steel himself. To be ready for it. Hell, it was even his hand, guiding Her down over him. But nothing was going to prepare him for it. How She took him between her lips like a pro, how She hummed happily when he pressed on Her tongue, how warm and wet Her mouth was.

“Fuck…” He groaned, tipping his head back until he could only see from under his eyelashes. “Son of a bitch, you feel so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. My pretty girl, already drooling all over my cock-“

She moaned again, and Dean had to pull her a little up so he wouldn’t blow it early.

“Lick the tip.” He grunted, and her tongue flicked against him. “Hell yes, shit- Now open big, baby, c’mon-“

Her jaw unhinged, and Dean watched Her ass wiggle in the air as he pushed Her back down. Her nose bumped his abdomen, Her hips rolling back so she was almost  fucking the door, and Dean’s whole body was made of fire.

“Suck it. Suck it like its candy, sweetheart, show me what you’ve got- Fuck-“

She started to lick and suck him like he was a lollipop, and Dean hand slipped on the wheel. He managed to catch it, but Baby had swerved a little too hard.

“Jesus, you’re-“ He moaned Her name, scanning the road for a spot to pull over. “You can suck some cock, sweetheart, can’t believe you’re fuckin’ mine-“

Her moan vibrated around him, Her ass hitting against the glass as she squirmed, seemingly unable to stop chasing relief but unwilling to move even a little effort away from Dean. He could feel his balls getting tight, and when he risked a glance down She was drooling around him, taking him fully in his mouth over and over, letting Dean slam against the back of Her throat and swallowing around his head. Her grip slid down, and Dean was sure She didn’t even realize it, but Her fingers pressed against his balls and he was going to goddamn explode.

“Fuck it.” He grunted, slamming the hazards and pulling off the side.

She grunted at the swerving movement, but didn’t stop blowing him until he pulled Her up, dragging Her into a deep, hot kiss. She tasted like sugar and his pre-cum, and Dean didn’t know that could be so fucking hot but he was pretty sure he wanted to live on it now. Live on Her.

“We’re moving.” He grunted against Her lips, and She immediately went limp, letting Dean ragdoll Her into a better position. She gasped when he flipped Her into the driver’s seat, fumbling under the bench so he could move it back a little, giving Her extra space away from the wheel. Dean yanked off his flannel, tossing it in the back before grabbing the long folds of Her skirt, bunching them up and pressing them into Her hands.

“Dean-“

“Hold them.” He ordered, and She nodded frantically, already spreading her legs in offering.

Dean groaned at the wet spot on Her panties. He could see slick leaking out the seams, and he kissed Her knee, giving Her a tiny smirk.

“Oh, baby.” He cooed, slowly dragging his hand down the inside of Her thigh. “You’re soaked, aren’t you. Fuckin’ desperate for some cock.”

She whimpered, trying to pull the skirt over Her face, but Dean guided it back down with gentle, firm hands.

“Answer me.”

“I’m- I’m not-“

“You’re doing so well.” He dragged his thumb along the line of Her panties, and her sensitive skin shivered under just that slight pressure. “I know it’s hard, sweet girl. But- Open your mouth.”

She did, just the tiniest bit, and Dean chuckled.

“More.”

Her lips parted fully, eyes darting down to where he was kneeling in front of the passenger’s seat. He laughed.

“Not that. You already did too much work there.” Dean kissed the inside of Her knee, then pulled her leg over his shoulder, pushing the other one to the side. Putting Her on full display to him, every beautiful damn inch.

He gave her his thumb, pressing it between swollen lips and forcing himself not to blow it when she took him without a thought. Glazed, drunken eyes shining on his as She sucked on his thumb, her tightly wound body sinking further into the seat. Dean pulled away. kissed down Her leg. Pressed one soft one right over Her clit, through Her underwear. Another sweet sound left Her, and Dean repeated the motion, flicking slightly with his tongue. She bucked up into his face, and he grinned, slowly kissing back up Her other leg. He only got to Her thigh with the angle, but rested there for a second, watching Her gape at him.

“You want me to take care of you?” He murmured, and She nodded quickly.

“De- Dean- Please-“

“I’m gonna eat you out, Princess.” He muttered, rubbing Her open thigh. “Wanna do it through your panties, do it until you ruin them, until you cum on my face. Then I’m gonna take your panties.” He kissed Her knee again, watching her chest start to rising and fall, breasts swelling and eyes fluttering, the best damn thing he’d ever seen. “And fuck you until you’re strangling my cock. You good with that?”

She nodded, and Dean grinned.

“Awesome. Hold on here.” He grabbed Her hands gently, moving one into his hair and the other onto his shoulder. “And tell me how it feels. Can you do that for me, Princess?”

“Ye- Yes.” She sounded unsure. Dean believed in Her.

“Good girl.” He winked, and dove right in.

If he was a better man—or maybe a worse one, depended on who you asked—he’d just live here forever. In his car, between Her legs, feasting like a goddamn king. He’d get drunk on Her little sounds, how they built like music as he worked Her open carefully. She was priceless. Needed to be handled well. And Dean was getting pretty damn good at handling Her.

He started with a firm lick up Her core. Open mouthed with a groan, savoring the way he could feel Her quiver under his hands already. He shoved Her legs a little wider and repeated the motion, ending it with a kiss on Her clit. Another. A third one, letting his teeth graze slightly. She pulled at his hair, but he was taking his time. There was never any rush to leave paradise.

“De- Dean- Oh my god.” She moaned when he wrapped his lips tight around Her clit, sucking nice and hard. “That- That’s- Deeeean-“

Oh, that was good. The high whine in Her voice, like she was already losing it. He moaned, flicking his tongue against the soaked fabric, and She bucked frantically into his face. Dean shoved Her leg down, angling his jaw to work harder against her pussy as he moved down. It would be hard to tongue fuck her like this, but he could get creative.

Dean kissed over Her fluttering entrance—Little Dean twitching for a turn—then latched back onto Her clit, letting his chin offer pressure as he gave tiny, quick licks against that sweet button.

“Yes- Yes-“ Her voice was getting higher, a little more babbly. Right where he wanted Her. “Fuck- Fuck, Dean- Dean-“

He hooked his fingers around Her panties, pulling them down so the center was pressed between Her pussy lips and over her clit. Dean rubbed the fabric back and forth, moving his tongue and lips with the motion, and She shrieked in pleasure. Her hand on his head was pushing him closer, and Dean happily let Her. She tasted earthy and rich, Her heat smeared all over his face, body shaking under him with delight.

Dean threw everything he had into it. He lapped at Her, pulling the soaked panties down tighter and letting Her fuck herself into them, making out with Her clit, open-mouthed and unrelenting. She’d stopped talking a minute ago, just yanking at his hair and making gasps that sounded like his name. He looked up to find Her panting, looking down at him under fluttering lashes, all those musical sounds leaving wet, swollen lips.  

Dean was sick of the barrier between him and fully feeling Her.

He ripped off Her panties, pulled Her hips down, and spat on Her clit before rubbing it once, and pressing his tongue flat. He drew a figure eight against Her before flicking up and down, pinning Her against the bench until she was clenching around nothing and humping his face.

She was right on the edge. Dean shoved two fingers into Her drenched heat, crooked them against Her g-spot, and rubbed in firm rhythm with his tongue.

That did it.

She screamed, seizing up under him, and Dean almost got suffocated by thighs wrapping around his head. It only made him work harder. He wanted Her limp when this was done. Fucked happy and stupid, too blissed out for any pain.

With how She was gushing on his face and moaning incoherently, she was probably already halfway there.

Dean shoved Her panties in his jeans, then grabbed Her chin lightly, tipping her head up for a gentle kiss. She moaned, lips parting in a second, and he couldn’t resist pressing in just a little. Pushing his tongue over Her’s, making her taste how delicious She was, giving her another way to understand why he’d never trade her for anything.

She pulled on his shirt, and Dean pushed up. For a moment they just watched each other in the dark, chests heaving. Dean let his hand wander up Her stomach, marveling in how she shivered and grabbed his wrist, but didn’t stop him for a second. He braced a hand over Her head, palming Her tit, and her back arched.

“Dean-“

“Feel it.” He grunted, and She nodded, nails digging into his wrist.

He dragged back down, resting himself right over Her pussy. It was still soaking, hot and ready for him, and he grinned down at Her flustered face.

“There you go.” He dipped his fingers slightly inside, and she clenched. “It’s nice, isn’t it.”

She nodded, and Dean pulled his hand away, replacing the pressure with his knee. She started to grind mindlessly into him, eyes fluttering and dazed, and he tapped Her chin with a fond smile.

“Look at you.” He muttered. “Beautiful. Need it so bad you can’t stop, can you, sweetheart.”

“Ye- Yes.” She tipped Her head back, grabbing at the wheel as Dean pressed further forward. “Need you, Dean, please- Just- Just-“

“Just what?” He lowered down, brushing his lips over the shell of Her ear. “Fuck you?”

She whimpered, nodding mindlessly. Dean guided Her head gently to the side, forcing her to meet his gaze.

And how could be deny the visage in front of him. Leaving a stain on his jean and panting his name.

Dean kissed Her, and she hummed, giving into it immediately. He rose a little up, just enough to pull his pants down to his ankles. He kicked them off with his underwear, clambered over Her, and notched himself right at Her entrance.

She gasped, and Dean just caught Her hand from slamming on the horn. He guided it around his neck before grabbing the base of his cock, rubbing it between Her pussy folds. She blinked up at him, hips rolling to try and meet him, and Dean groaned.

He crashed back down to kiss Her, and she started tugging at his shirt again. He helped her guide it over his head. Broke the kiss for half a second before pressing back down, keeping their lips connected for every second he could manage. He grabbed Her skirt, pulling Her into his lap. Spread his legs wide, keeping a hand firm on Her lower back as she ground into his crotch. Their kisses were turning quick and frantic, his cock rubbing between their bodies as they humped. Dean took a ragged breath, leaning back to get the dress over Her head. He ran his hand up Her spine, watching her back arch and grinning as Her tits pressed right into his face.

Dean unhooked Her bra, tossed it into the back, and kissed the soft point on Her neck.

“Gorgeous.” He muttered against Her skin. “Fuckin’ gorgeous. You’re so pretty, baby, it drives me insane.”

“Dean…” She pressed Her cheek against him, and he reached up to tug lightly at his amulet, still around Her neck.

“My girl.” He grabbed Her ass, landing a light slap that made Her moan in his ear. “Bein’ so good and patient for me, waiting for my cock. Think you’re ready now, aren’t you?”

“Yes- Oh my god-“

She squeaked as Dean pulled Her up, hugging him tight as he held Her over him, then slowly started to guide Her down.

Dean hissed, leaning his head back to watch Her face contort and squeeze with pleasure as he bullied every inch into Her.

“That’s it.” He muttered, rubbing Her back. “Easy, baby, you can take it-“

She mewled, head lolling as She sank fully down. Dean sucked a breath between his teeth, kissing Her cheek and wondering if he could get away with just staying like this forever. With Her tight and hot around him, squeezing him like a damn vice and looking like artwork in his lap.

“Fuck, yeah.” He muttered, grinding his hips experimentally. She hugged him tighter, whimpering in his ear. “I know, Princess, I know. Feels so good, doesn’t it. Nice and full, and you don’t even have to do anything. Just sit there and look pretty.”

He kissed all over Her face, wrapping his arm fully around Her lower back. She got wiggly, and it was a tight space. He’d need to have fun with that later.

“You’re doin’ so well.” He started a slow, careful pace, rolling his hips and holding Her tight against him. “Always fit me so perfect, like you were made for me. You’d let me fuck you any day, wouldn’t you sweetheart. Let me do this,” he thrust sharply, pressing against Her cervix, and a blissful, broken sound escaped Her lips.

Dean had to do that again. He was pretty sure he could get off just listening to Her moan, and having the sound vibrate around him was a whole other beast.

“Christ.” He grunted, the car getting sticky hot as Dean fucked up in a harsher rhythm. “You feel how fuckin’ hard I am, Princess? I’m already fuckin’ losing it for you, look,” he grabbed one of Her hands, planting it flat over the scar She’d left before. “That’s my heart, baby girl, that’s you, that’s what you make me feel,” he slammed up, a hot cry escaping Her lips as her gummy walls sucked him further in. Dean groaned. “My good fucking girl, letting me fuck you nice and stupid-“

She moaned and started to chase him. Pushing down onto his cock in thick, long rolls of Her body. Dean grabbed Her hips, helping her move a little faster. She already wound so tight above him, the hottest wreck he’d ever seen, and he laughed, pussydrunk and dazed.

“That’s my girl, my girl, my pretty fuckin’ baby. Look at you, so goddamn gorgeous, making a mess on my dick, my needy fucking Princess-“ Dean was rambling, but who could blame him.

He had Her, riding his dick with a wrecked expression and tears of need streaming down Her cheeks. She was chanting his name like it was the only word She knew, Her tits bouncing in his face and nails scratching at his chest. Wet, obscene sounds filled the car as he slid in and out of Her soaked pussy, and every time he hit that spot inside Her she’d squeeze around him.

“You’re cryin’, sweetheart.” He kissed Her cheeks, and she made a dazed, happy sound. “I know, big cock is almost too much, isn’t it? But you’re doing perfect. Singing for me so well,” He slammed up, drinking in Her guttural moan, the sight of Her trembling body. She was so tight he almost couldn’t think, her soft breasts pressed right to his chest. And Dean knew that little O mouth and glassy expression.  “You’re need to cum, don’t you, Princess.”

She cried out, writhing around him, but Dean pinned Her firmly back down.

“Easy. Just let go.” He dragged his hand down between Her legs, rubbing Her clit in quick, tight circles.

Her body jerked, pussy flexing around him. Dean grit his jaw and kept his rhythm, fucking Her shallow and firm against her G-spot.

“Feel it, baby.” He growled in Her ear. “Feel how good it is, how bad you need it. You can cum, sweetheart, do it for me, show me how much you love this, all you gotta do is feel it-“

Her mouth opened in a silent scream as Her body seized up, and Dean grabbed the back of Her neck, dragging Her into a messy, wet kiss as he let the tension inside himself snap. He groaned down Her throat as he rutted up into Her. His eyes fluttered and Her pussy just kept strangling him until his vision was starry, his release was building up at his base in a thick white ring.

She was clinging to him as She came down, pussy still fluttering around his sensitive, softened cock. But he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. She felt too good.

“You did so well, baby girl.” He muttered, kissing the side of Her head. “Did perfect.”

She hummed, heart slowing under his hand. She was already boneless, but She quickly became a deadweight, and Dean forced himself not to laugh when he realized She’d fallen into a peaceful, deep sleep.

He’d never fucked anyone so good he knocked them out before. Not while he was still deep inside of them, and they weren’t even in a bed.

He kept a blanket in the back. Dean swaddled Her in it, and thought about carrying Her to the back, but she shifted and made a little sound of distress, so he just settled Her carefully in the front. Let Her use his lap as a pillow, petting Her head as he started the car, and started back home. He’d carry Her to bed when they got there. Let Her sleep for a year, if that’s what she needed.

The sky was pretty bright above them. Dean flipped it off.

“You can’t have her.” He muttered, and he could swear it shone a little brighter. “Yeah? You try and take her. See how it ends.”

The road got a little longer. Dean rested his hand on the back of Her head, hiding Her peace from God’s view.

“She chose me. And trust me, buddy. I don’t care who the hell you are. You grab her, scare her, or even fucking see something happen to her and just watch like a pussy? You look at her without permission?” He glared up at the sky. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

✦End note: She got dicked down!! Took a massive L then a huge W confusing week for our girl - If you like this story, please reblog, like, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)

[deanwinchestersunhappythoughts]

processing so many things all at once right now istg but oh my god thea:D i fucking love this:D