Thea, She/Her, 21, unfortunately American. I write what I feel like, for better or worse. That means long (very long) series, but also one-shots or mini-series!
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✦summary: everyone loves golden boy Steve Rogers. Everyone but you. It's alright, though, because he hates you back. But love and hate are closer than you both think.✦
✦warnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, avengers era, no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, pining but they don't know they're pining, idiots in love, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to feral porn, super soldier level smut, (kind of office sex, teasing, dirty talk, dry humping, super soldier stamina, dry orgasms but he's a trooper he keeps going, begging, rough sex, praise and degradation kink, mean!steve, nipple play, manhandling, hyperspermia, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, overstimulation, dacryphilia, dumbification, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smut✦
✦wc: 9.6k✦
✦Author's Note: i love enemies to lovers with sweet men it's so important to me. thank you!✦
There aren’t a lot of rules to being on the Avengers, and the ones that exist are easy to follow. Don’t feed Tony after midnight, he’s like a gremlin. Don’t laugh at Sam’s jokes when they’re not funny, it encourages him. Always listen to Fury, unless you like being stranded in Utah. Don’t touch Natasha’s food. Don’t piss off Banner.
Easy. You’re not a fool, and if you were, you wouldn’t deserve to be here.
A lot of people still don’t think you deserve to be here, but Nat always reminds you that they just don’t know what kind of enemy you’d make. She’d rather have you on their side. Everyone warmed up to Wanda eventually, too. The team already likes you, and none of you have a clean letter.
Almost none of you.
Steve’s is cleaner than a freshly waxed and plucked floor. Steve’s letter is perfect. He’s perfect. He’s the Golden Boy, designed in a bottle to be likable and confident and collected. Camera’s flash and his smile is whiter than the moon, and more blinding than the sun. He claps Tony on the back after a slightly mocking joke, clearly unfazed. He places his hand on Nat’s lower back in the most gentlemanly way possible, and everyone swoons like he’s some movie star.
He sits next to you on one of these panels you’re not allowed to skip—you tried to, and Clint dragged you to the helicopter like some misbehaving child—and ignores you all together. A tiny nod and smile for the cameras. Stiff shoulders that square away from you, like if he blocks you out, you’ll just vanish in the hazy lights.
He’d like it, if that happened. He’d probably throw a fucking party.
Because you don’t know why. You don’t know what you did. But Steve Rogers hates you, and no one even thought he was capable of that emotion.
It started the first time Nat dragged you in, spitting and weary like a feral cat. She’d given Steve and Tony the brief on your powers. Said that you had a good heart—although she hadn’t done an x-ray, so you have no idea how she was so sure—and asked to keep you.
Asked.
Natasha didn’t ask for anything. She said it like a question, and fixed Steve and Tony with the most terrifying glare in the world. Tony had shrugged, and Steve had tried to protest. Nat had crossed her arms and flicked her brows up in a silent challenge. Steve had swallowed, looked at you with a strange gleam in his eyes, and given up. He’d left the room with a grumble, not sparing you another glance. Tony would tell you later—after you annoyed it out of him—that he’d spent a month trying to talk Nat out of you. Like a toy he didn’t want her to be playing with.
You hadn’t said a single word. Natasha hadn’t told him anything about your past. And he still hadn’t wanted you there.
“Rogers,” you murmur, smiling at the flashing lights that—supposedly—have people behind them.
You’ve come to think of them more as vultures. They’d like to pick you apart and eat out whatever kind of black, charred thing you’re made of. You never give them the satisfaction.
Steve says your name, low and flat. His attention flits over, scanning you from the corner of his eye. You catch his gaze, and he looks away just as fast.
You roll your eyes and huff, slumping back in your seat. You drum your fingers on the smooth, deep blue cloth of the table. They gave you a water bottle. Maybe if you drink it fast enough, you can just go pee and skip this whole thing-
“Sit up.”
Steve speaks so low you almost don’t hear him. You frown at his profile—stupid clean jawline and strong features—and slump further in your seat. Just to test him. Just to make him twitch.
There aren’t a lot of things you find pride in. Being able to get under Steve’s skin is one of them.
He notices immediately, and shoots you a glare. You snort, and his eyes narrow.
“I told you to sit up-“
“I heard you.”
“And you didn’t listen?” Someone shouts his name. He turns to flash them that look at me, aren’t I perfect? Smile, and you try not to gag.
“You’re not my boss.” You hiss through your teeth, smiling at the people shouting your name.
Steve makes a low, rough sound in his throat. “I am your boss.”
“No. I work under Nat.”
“Who works for me-“
“Does she?”
Steve shoots you another look, and this time you giggle. He’s still smiling, through every single glare. It looks psychotic.
He doesn’t even try to reprimand you this time. He just sighs dramatically and looks back to the crowd. You sit up, but not because he told you to. You’re not another one of his dogs.
Because there’s one more rule about being an Avenger. About being an American.
No one hates Steve Rogers.
He’s an angel. A blessing. His pretty boy face and classy words and pure heart. He never falters, never gives up, never does anything selfish, never gets off his fucking high horse. He’s so handsome it hurts to look at, and he’s so innocent about it, like blushing virgin schoolgirl who can’t stand seeing a fucking ankle without getting red faced and sputtering. He’s all kind words to everyone, he carries twenties on him to give to homeless people, he donates most of his Avengers salary to charities, he handles every press question with tact and charm, and he looks at you like you’re sulfur coated gum, stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
No one tells you what to do when Steve Rogers hates you. He’s not supposed to hate anyone.
So you must be the fucking problem.
You try not to look at him, for most of the panel. It’s easy when he gets seated on the other end of the table, but whatever fucker was in charge of seating today must hate you. You can’t turn your head without seeing his lazy, kind smile, and you can’t turn out his deep laugh, and god, what if you just punched him in the face on live TV-
Someone says your name, and your head snaps over.
“Yeah?”
Steve tenses. You’re supposed to just nod, or say yes, not yeah. That’s not professional. Shame for him the media trainers gave up on you years ago. You don’t know why Steve still bothers. Everyone still loves you anyway.
And the person who said your name doesn’t deserve professionalism anyway. It’s a slimy man at the front of the question line, with slicked back hair and an expensive watch and teeth that look too big for his mouth. You know what kind of question this is going to be, before he even opens his mouth.
“Hi,” the man smirks at you, and you smile back. It’s the cold, bored smile that you wear like a shield. If the man feels the chill from it, he doesn’t even flinch.
“Hey.”
Steve’s jaw ticks. If he breaks a tooth, maybe you won’t have to deal with this question.
“Hey.” The man echoes back, his gaze dropping back to your tits. “I have to ask, what does it take to get you out of the Avengers compound and out on a date?”
You laugh, spinning your mic and leaning back in your chair. The audience laughs with you. They always do.
Steve doesn’t, and it stabs near your ribs for some useless reason. Sometimes you wonder if your powers just don’t work on him, which would make him even more annoying than he already is.
“More than that,” you say, and the man stands a little taller.
“You wanna give me a step-by-step?” He winks. “I’m a good rule follower.”
“Hm.” You smirk. “I’m sure you are.”
A chorus of teasing jeers comes from the back of the crowd, where all the men always get shoved. They’re less insistent than the fangirls who want to see Steve and Thor’s muscles. The man at the front of the line looks back with a proud grin—he got you to talk, what a miracle—then returns his gaze to you.
“What about if I promise to be a gentleman?”
“Then I’d ask you to cross your fingers,” you say, smiling with so much honey you’re worried your face is going to get glued like this.
The oooooos are louder this time, and you laugh. The man at the front looks like he’s about to fall to his knees. He grabs at the mic stand like a lifeline, staring at you with wide, devout eyes, and you don’t even flinch when Steve rips your mic from your hands.
“She’ll be backstage after, buddy.” His tone is light, but firm. The man blinks at him, like he forgot he was there. “Remember, she’s got a whole panel to get through. Don’t want to distract her too early.”
He laughs. Everyone laughs with him, except for you.
You smile at him with enough venom to burn the super solider serum right out of his big, muscled body. Steve smiles back, with that strange gleam back in his eyes.
It’s only there for you. It’s been two years, and you never learned to read it. The questions move on, and your mic gets turned of while Bruce talks about his favorite kinds of tea. You lean to the side, hissing from the corner of your mouth.
“What the fuck is your problem.”
Steve doesn’t blink. He keeps his winning smile on his face, and you’re sure that to anyone looking on from the crowd, it seems like you’re exchanging friendly jokes.
“This isn’t a dating app.”
“I know that-“
“Didn’t seem like it.”
You scoff. Your smile is starting to hurt your face. “What was I supposed to do, tell him to piss off?”
Steve’s lips twitch down, ever so slightly. “You flirted back.”
“So? I was never going to go out with him, he looked like a fucking sewer rat.”
“That’s rude-“
“Oh, suck my dick.”
You look back to the crowd. Steve mutters your name, and you ignore him. He says it again, firmer this time, and you shoot him a shut the fuck up look.
His nostrils flare. His eyes are so blue, you think you could get lost in them if he wasn’t always trying to forcefully burn you out.
“You-“ He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, shakes his head, and look back out to the crowd. “You’re going to find yourself with a stalker one day. It happened to Nat.”
You almost snort. You’ve heard that story. Nat curb stomped him. “I’m sure I’d handle it.”
Steve’s lip curls. “You have no combat training,” he grunts, and you huff.
Not this again.
“If someone got the jump on you-“
“No one gets the jump on me.”
“Yet,” he gives you a pointed look, and you hold it, unimpressed and bored. “But one day-“
“One day what? I’m just going to lose all my powers? And need Captain America to protect me?” You laugh crudely, and Steve scowls.
“I didn’t say that-“
“Then what were you going to say-“’
“That you need to be careful-“
“And why do you care-“
“I don’t-“
“Really?” You roll your eyes. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“You- You fucking-“
“Steve.” Sam leans over Steve’s shoulder, glaring between you. “People. Watching. Calm down.”
You and Steve both freeze, and glance out to the crowd. Sure enough, almost all the eyes are on you. Shining vultures. For one, at least, picking Steve apart with you.
You smile and wave. Steve sits so tall you think he might be trying to fly away.
“What were you talking about?” The next person asks, and Steve laughs.
Controlled. Always so fucking controlled.
“Nothing important-“
“It looked important.”
Steve shrugs. “We take everything we do here seriously. A conversation about dinner can look like a war meeting sometimes, with how much passion we have for- Everything.”
He waves at the air, and the crowd murmurs. You smirk, because Steve sees the light in that ripple. Only the rising relief. Not the dents it’s leaving in the water.
But you see them. You see them better than anyone. And you know why the people drop it. Tony’s glaring down the table, and Nat is rubbing her face, and you know they heard it too.
You love it when he fucks up. You’re beaming for the rest of the panel, because you know what the headline is going to be in the morning.
Passion, he said.
Idiot.
It happens so fast, and Steve’s the only one surprised by it.
“You two.” Tony points between you in the morning. “My office. Now.”
You smile, shoving your bagel in your mouth and following after him. Steve looks confused. You’re sure he’s never been called to an office before. You’re thrilled to have that first experience with him.
“Tony, what’s going on-“
“No.” Tony points at him with a scowl, and the door locks behind you. “Not a word from you, Cap. This is your fault.”
“My fault?” Steve almost recoils. “How is it my fault, I haven’t even done anything. It’s probably her fault-“
You snort, taking the bagel out of your mouth. “My fault? You don’t even know what we did yet!”
“Well, I know it’s your fault-“
“Because everything is my fault-“
“For stuff like this, yeah. It is.”
“Stuff like this- Like what, you getting in trouble-“
“I’m not in trouble-“
“Oh, you just got called to Daddy’s office because of your good behavior-“
“Can you both shut up?” Tony raises his voice, glaring between you with his nose pinched. “I swear, you’re going to give me a migraine that kills me. And you,” he shoots you a glower. “Never call me Daddy again.”
You smirk. “Why, does it turn you on too much?”
Steve looks at you like he wants to kill you. Tony just looks bored.
“Yeah, it does. Which is annoying.”
“Aw,” you beam at Steve. “He thinks I’m annoying.”
A vein is pushing out of Steve’s brow. If anyone is going to die right now, it’s going to be him, from bursting a vessel. You giggle, dropping in the seat in front of Tony’s desk. Steve just stands behind you, a soldier at attention against his greatest enemy. You tip your head backwards, looking at him under fluttering lashes.
“You should sit down, buddy.”
Something flickers over Steve’s face. “Don’t call me buddy.”
“Don’t stand there like a creep.”
His lip curls. You give him a challenging smile, and he lets out one of those heavy sighs that’s only reserved for you. He stomps over to the chair next to it, and drops down with a scowl at Tony.
“You want to tell us why we’re here, Tony?”
Tony frowns, and glances at you. “Does he not know?”
You shrug. “He’s a little stupid. You know that.”
Tony’s lips twitch despite himself. Steve scowls.
“I don’t know what you two are talking about, or- Planning-“
He cuts himself off, as Tony tosses the printed out article down on the desk. You hadn’t actually seen it yet, but you knew it was coming.
From the look on Steve’s face, though, he really hadn’t realized at all.
“What.” It’s all he says. One clipped, dumbfounded word as he stares at the paper. You sort of want to laugh, but you bite it down. Tony’s looking at you like this is serious. Like he can’t make it go away with a wave of his hand.
Stever grabs the article. You lean over his shoulder, just to piss him off a little more. He doesn’t even bother to glare at you, his fingers digging so deep into the paper it tears. The headline gets crumpled, like he’s crushing it with just his gaze.
Secret Love In the Avengers.
It’s not very snappy. You think they could’ve tried harder, but at least the picture is good. You and Steve both look nice, and you’re staring at each other so intently you can’t even blame them for the minimum effort. With Sam looking bored on Steve’s other side, and you and Steve leaning so close together, there’s no mistaking in that photo who might be seconds from making out.
“Tony,” Steve mutters. “What’s this.”
Tony snorts. “What do you think this is, Cap? A news article about trades with China? No, because less people would be reading that than they’re reading this.”
“We’re hotter than trades with China,” you offer, and you think Tony would laugh if he wasn’t so pissed.
“Why is there a picture of us.” Steve mutters, and Tony rolls his eyes.
“Well, when two people look at each other like they want to fuck, everyone tends to notice.”
Steve’s jaw locks. You sigh, crossing your arms over your chest.
“So what, do you need us to do another release-“
“No.” Tony glares at you. “This is the third time something like this has happened with you two-“
“What?” You snort. “No, it isn’t-“
“Ah.” Tony raises a hand. “Don’t play stupid with me. I’m trying to be generous with third, and I’m not in the mood to hold your hands through feelings right now.”
“Feelings?” Steve spits, fumbling with the paper. “There are no- I don’t know what you think you’re talking about, Stark-“
“Steven.” Tony says flatly. “You. Shut up.”
Steve shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about-“
“Yes. I do. And you do too.”
You raise your hand, frowning between them. “Can I ask what the first and second time were, because I’d remember if this happened before-“
“No, you wouldn’t,” Tony snaps. “Because I have spent millions bribing people out of running these stories, and you never look online to see what people are saying.”
“What people are saying?” You look at Steve. “What are people saying?”
Steve coughs, ears turning red. “Nothing-“
“They think you’re fucking.” Tony says flatly, and your mouth falls open.
“They- What?!”
“You have chemistry, kid.” Tony shrugs. “Every second you’re next to each other, you’re eye fucking so much we all feel like we’re supposed to leave the room.”
You sputter, shaking your head. You can feel you flush, burning up your face. When you look at Steve, he won’t meet your eyes.
He never does.
“Did you know about this?” You hiss.
He sighs, running a hand over his face with a half-shrug. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?! What the fuck does that mean-“
“Means he knew.” Tony says flatly. “Everyone knew.”
“Everyone knew what?! That the whole country thinks I want to fuck Steve?!”
Tony snorts. “You do want to fuck Steve.”
Your face burns. Steve looks up with warning pinch in his brow. “Tony.”
“Don’t Tony me, pretty boy-“
“Just- Not now-“
“Yes, now.” Tony glares between you. “This has gotten out of hand. We get it. You’re both hot. You’d have hot sex. But if you don’t either fuck or cut bait and start acting like adults, you’re grounded.”
Steve scowls. “You can’t ground me, Stark, I’m your boss-“
“Well, I cut the checks.” Tony crosses his arms. “So I think I can do whatever I want.”
Steve and Tony keep glaring at each other. You stare off in the middle distance between them. Your hands don’t feel like they’re your hands. Your feet are planted on the carpet, but not on solid ground. Your head feels like it’s pressing into itself, yet also expanding to something bigger than you can hold onto.
You don’t want to fuck Steve. Sure, he’s all muscles and rugged yet soft features, but there are countless men like that.
There are very few men like that. Well, you could find one. You have one in front of you. But you don’t want to fuck him. He’s annoying. Impossibly annoying and bossy and always up your ass about something, and not in the fun way like you’d prefer-
No. You wouldn’t prefer. You don’t want to fuck Steve. You can have anyone else, you’d rather have anyone else. Steve’s just always there and always making you embarrassed and angry, and maybe you’re into that but it’s none of his business. It’s not like he’d be like that in bed, either way.
You think. Not that you’ve thought about it. He’s too perfect. Too boring. He’s not boring when he’s arguing with you. He just hates you that much. That you make him break. Or you let him show that side of himself. You don’t poke and prod at anyone like you poke and prod at Steve. He’s just fun to get a rise out of. He gets cute when he’s pissy. He sneers your name and it goes right between your legs, but that doesn’t mean you want to fuck him.
You don’t. You don’t. You don’t?
He has big hands, but you don’t want them groping and squeezing all over your body. He’s got a strong nose, but you’ve never thought about it pushing against your clit, just like you’ve never thought about his huge biceps wrapping around your neck while he fingers you stupid. And you’d smile at him, dazed and long fucked out of protesting. And he’d feed those fingers to you while sitting you on his cock, and all that perfection would melt away into something raw. Something real, that’s open and refuses to be stitched close. Something that both of you want to drown in.
Something’s that’s just for you, and Steve, and no one else.
Oh, no.
You want to fuck him.
Tony says your name, and your gaze snaps back over. Your palms are sweating, your face burning, your skin suddenly itchy and your feet restless. You want to fuck Steve. You want to fuck Steve.
He looks at you weird, and you shift in your seat. He can’t know. Ever. This is going to get cleaned up, and Steve will never know that you might, kind of, really want him to just toss you over his shoulder and fuck you stupid. You glance at him from the corner of you eye, and his gaze sears into you. You have to look away.
There’s no way he can know. You’ve barely even known for a minute. Tony only says he knows because he’s an ass. This will pass. It has to pass.
“Figure it out.” Tony tells you, before walking out of the office.
And you will. By never being in the same room as Steve again.
You shoot to your feet, and almost sprint out of the room. Steve calls your name, but you don’t look back. He’s faster, but he’s also respectful. He won’t manhandle you and force you to listen, like you want him to.
God, you really want him to. You’re going to kill Tony for making you realize that, then kill yourself, and no one will ever have to know that—for all your cool, bored smiles and teasing and flirting, for all your powers and siren-like smile—you just want to be fucked stupid by the most righteous, innocent sex-symbol in America.
But then Steve shouts your name again. He’s following you. Why is he following you.
“Fuck off, Steve!” You shout over your shoulder, and he scoffs.
“No, you heard Tony, we need to talk-“
“We really don’t-“
“Yes, we do- Will you slow down-“
You pick up the pace, just to piss him off. Steve groans, and you hear boots hitting the ground behind you. He’s giving chase, and you can barely outwalk him.
Steve grabs your arm before you can even break into a sprint. You thrash, but it’s useless. He’s too strong, and that’s so hot, and you’re going to throw yourself off a bridge about this.
“Let go-“
“No.” Steve drags you down the hall, into an empty conference room. “Not until we talk.”
“There’s nothing for us to talk about-“
“Will you just stop being such a fucking brat and listen?”
Steve raises his voice, stern and commanding. It’s deep, so deep it echoes through you, and your knees wobble. He sees it. His jaw ticks, his grip slackens, and you rip your hand away.
“Brat.” You mock. “What would America think, if they saw their Golden sun talking to a girl like that?”
Steve’s lips twitch. “You are not a girl.”
“Aw. I’m a woman-“
“You’re a problem.” He leans over you, voice dropping to a hiss.
And this is how he always looks at you, but magnified. With a sharper gleam in his eyes, his lips thin and white, like he’s trying to swallow every word. A vein in his brow ticks, and you smile.
“I’m a problem?”
Steve’s throat bobs. “Yes.”
“Hurtful,” you whisper, and he rolls his eyes.
“You’ll live.”
For a long moment, you just stare at each other. He wants to talk, he can talk. You’re not entertaining this. Not just for him to unravel you then keep being a fucking dick.
“You…” He shakes his head, a tiny motion as his tongue flicks over his lips. “You are impossible.”
“You’re impossible-“
“Because you make me impossible,” he sneers, and you lean back slightly.
“I- You-“ You try to scoff. It’s a weak sound. He’s too close, and he smells like pine trees and something spicy, and it’s not fair. “I don’t even do anything-“
“Yes. You do.”
“What, is my skirt too short? Are my shoulders distracting you-“
“You’re distracting me.” Steve presses forward, until your faces are only inches apart. “You always distract me, you fuckin’-“ He closes his eyes, shoulders heaving.
“Steve…” You breathe, and he chuckles.
“Don’t say my name like that,” he rasps. “You don’t fuckin’ mean it.”
You blink, trying to think over the desire, burning in your body. Of course you meant it. You didn’t even want to say it, but he’s so close. It’s intoxicating. You’d think he was drugging you, if that was possible.
Steve’s pressed you against the conference table. His arms are caging you in, giving you no escape from the electricity, almost crackling in the air. You open your mouth, then close it, lost for what to say. You’re worried you’ll just whisper his name again. He drags his eyes open after what feels like a million years, his voice dropping down to something hot and dangerous.
“You never push anyone,” he says. “Like you push me, doll. It’s not… It drives me crazy.”
You swallow, your voice smaller than you want. “You- You push me-“
“Because I can’t help it.” He presses closer. Your noses are almost bumping. “You are beautiful, and insolent, and infuriating-“
“Steve-“
“And you’re so sweet to everyone.” He grabs your jaw, and your hand flies to his wrist. “Everyone loves you, so they think I’m crazy when I say you’re tryin’ to kill me.”
“Everyone loves me because of my powers.” You try to remind him, because if he does this, you won’t be able to stop him. “You- You know that-“
“I do. Trust me,” he murmurs your name, gaze flicking to your lips. “I know. Spent so long blaming them too. All those daydreams had to be because you’re Nat’s honeypot. Thought it was the wrong thing to do, that I was some kind of monster to thinking about you like that, when everyone else already does. But no,” he looks back to you. “It’s just you, doll. I plugged my nose, avoided your pheromones, let Bruce experiment on me to make me immune, did fuckin’ everything, and I still wanted you.”
You take a deep, ragged breath. You have to lick your lips, to stop the spit, and Steve tracks the motion like a predator.
No one wants you. Everyone loves you, but no one wants you. You’re pretty but untouchable. No one can hurt you. If you ask someone for something, they’ll always do it, whether they really want to or not.
But Steve…
He says he wants you. And you really want to believe him.
“How long.” You breathe, and he sighs, bowing his head.
“Since the second I saw you.”
“You…” You scan over his face, looking for any hint that it’s not really him. That he doesn’t really, fully mean it. “You want to fuck me?”
His ears turn red. “I mean- Not just that-“
“But you do,” you breathe, and he sighs.
Stares for a second longer, then nods.
“Okay.” You whisper. Steve looks to your lips, then back to you again.
“Okay?”
You nod. Steve’s grip on your jaw tightens, and your breath hitches. He leans down slowly. So torturously slowly.
Your lips meet, soft and chapped and nervous. You lean up, and he presses down. Your noses bump, and his tongue flicks over your lower lip. Your nails dig into his bicep, and he grunts, and-
Steve snaps.
His other hand flies to your face, and he presses over you, hot and demanding. Your breath hitches, you mouth falls open, and he shoves his tongue down your throat with a groan. You grab the collar of his shirt, yanking him so hard you both stumble back. Your knees hit the back of the table, but Steve’s fast. He ducks down without breaking the kiss, and scoops you up into his arms.
You squeal, but the sound is quickly muffled by Steve’s tongue down your throat. Your laugh is breathless and giddy. He chuckles, pushing further forward, and you pull at the collar of his shirt. He jerks forward, angling his head to deepen the kiss.
“Needy.” He mutters against your lips, and you shove his shoulder with weak hands.
“Shut up, I could still stop this-“
“But you won’t.” He taunts. “You like it, don’t you. Like gettin’ on my nerves, making me lose control.”
Steve pulls away, grabs your knees, shoving them apart with rough, firm hands. You gasp, grabbing at his neck. “Steve-“
“You’re wet under there.” He growls, running a big hand up your inner thigh. “I can smell it. Smell how much you want me, every damn time you’d mouth off.”
Your swallow, pressing your brows tight together. You watch him rub your legs, breathing through your nose like some wanton whore. Steve’s thumb grazes the place where you’re leg meets your core, and your whole body shivers.
He smirks, looking at you under pretty lashes. You try to glare, but you’re panting. His gaze just makes the fire in your core burn brighter, and your tongue flicks over your lips.
“You never said anything,” you whisper, and Steve gives you an amused look.
“You would’ve killed me.”
And you can laugh breathlessly. Ten minutes ago, you would’ve. But now he’s all over you, and you can’t even bring yourself to mock him.
“No,” you brush your lips over his. “I wouldn’t have.”
Steve works his jaw, that raw, strange look flashing over his face. The look that’s yours. That’s only ever been for you.
He leans in, and this kiss is softer than before. Steve massages your hips, settling himself between your legs. You spread them wide to accommodate him, and feel it poking against your thigh. His cock, thick and hard, somehow bigger than you imagined, and you hadn’t been thinking small.
“You feel that.” He pulls your upper lip between his teeth, smiling slightly. “’S what you always do to me. Every day, I’d be walkin’ around so hard I was worried you’d see it. But no.” His kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other. “You’re oblivious, aren’t you honey.”
You hum, tipping your head back. Steve groans, dragging his lips over a pulse point, letting his tongue flick against sensitive skin. One hand slips under your shirt, careful fingers tracing up the line of your spine.
“Steve…” You whisper. “Don’t tease.”
“Oh, but you like it too much when I do.” He rasps. “You love it, love being a sweet little toy for me.”
You whimper, and he reaches around, grabbing a handful of your ass.
“So bossy ‘till I’m touchin’ you,” he sucks on your neck, grinding his bugle into your core. You gasp as the rough friction, and Steve chuckles.
“You- You’re such an ass-“
“You like that too.” He grunts, breath hot in your ear. “You like bein’ the one person that gets me going, that makes me lose it. No one else, doll.” He pushes your ass forward, so your clit is pushed against the thick hardness of him.
A long moan escapes your lips, and you drop your face into his shoulder. Steve grunts, rutting forward, and it’s so fucking hot you can’t think past it. The drawl of his voice in your ear, the strength of him around you, it’s intoxicating. The clothing adding extra friction, his fingers digging into your skin. His hand slips into your pants, deft fingers dragging down your ass to tease right against the drip of your pussy.
“Just you,” he thrusts forward, squeezing your ass. “Only you. So fuckin’ pretty and sassy, drivin’ me insane-“
You whimper, and Steve makes a low sound, taking a deep breath against your hair. The table creaks, with the force of his every thrust.
“So rude of you, sweetheart, to make me try and keep it together when you’re running around, beggin’ to be fucked- God-“
Steve moans, jerking his hips back suddenly. You stare at each other, panting and flushed. He swallows, and there’s a stain blooming on his pants. Your mouth falls open, and normally you’d make fun of him, but fuck. There’s so much of it. You can see white, leaking out of the cuffs of his pants and onto the floor. He came just from that. Just from holding and kissing you.
And he’s still so hard.
You lick your lips, and look back up. Steve’s throat bobs. You smile, fumbling with your pants, and he blinks.
“You’re- Uh-“
“In me.” You point at his dick, about to burst the seam of his slacks, then your core. “You- Do that in me.”
Steve’s hands curl into fists. You’ve never seen his face so red. It’s almost adorable. “Uh- Are you sure-“
“Do you want to fuck me stupid or not?”
He leans back, startled. You hold his gaze, pull down your pants, hike your legs up on the table, and spread them wide.
You could swear you see it twitch, as he takes you in. Head thrown back, your fingers rubbing between the swollen, dripping lips of your cunt. You breathe out his name, dipping one finger into your heat and pumping slowly. Steve takes a rough step forward, grabbing your knees like handles.
“Stop,” he grunts, and you obey.
Steve runs his fingers down your bare thigh, slowly guiding your hand away from your pussy. You grab his shoulder, holding his gaze as he rubs his thumb around your clit. You let out a slow, relaxed breath, and Steve smirks.
“You like that, doll?”
“As much as you did,” you breathe out, and Steve chuckles.
“Ah. Too late for that.” He presses a mocking kiss to your open lips. “You showed me what you want. How bad you want it.”
Steve flicks your clit, and your back arches. He presses back down on the little button, and a long moan rips from your lips.
“I came in my fuckin’ pants,” he whispers in your ear. “And you’re still beggin’ me to fuck you.”
“Wasn’t- Wasn’t begging-“
“But you would,” he coos. “If I asked you to. You’d say please, Stevie and cry for me to stuff this pretty little pussy.” He pushes down on your clit, and you whimper. “Like the good little slut you are.”
God, the hold he has on you should be crime. You choke out his name pathetically, and Steve starts to rub you in thick, unrelenting circles. His free arm wraps around your lower back, holding you in place when his fingers dip down, and start to explore the folds of you pussy.
“So wet,” he mutters, pushing one finger deep into your cunt. You clench around him, and a squelching sound fills the room as he pumps slowly. “Wet and tight.” Steve looks up at you with a smirk. “You think you’re gonna be able to take my cock, doll? Christ, you’re barely taking my finger.”
He pushes in a second one, just to prove his point, and your mouth falls open. He’s right. The burn of his two fingers, it feels like he’s stretching you open with a fist. He slides them in deeper and deeper, his thumb working your clit, and your nails sink into his neck.
“St- Steve,” you gape between your bodies, watching him disappear inside of you. “Steve-“
“Hm?” He gets up to the knuckle, and looks up at you with a smirk.
You try to take a second to catch your breath, and he scissors his fingers, twisting his wrist so it hits a gummy spot inside of you. You cry out, and he silences you with a deep, messy kiss.
“Feel it,” he mutters against your lips, pulling his fingers almost all the way out. “No talkin’ for once, doll. All you gotta do is feel it.”
He slams his fingers back in. You whimper, but nod. Steve hums in approval, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You squeeze and gush around him, and he groans. You barely get a second to compose yourself before he starts to thrust his fingers, deep and hard, and you start to unravel.
Steve’s strong. This is him holding back, and he’s still so strong. You scramble to get a real, firm hold on something, because he’s pummeling your pussy into a drenched, slack oblivion. The pace is brutal, knuckles dragging right over your g-spot over and over, splitting you open in a way that makes you drool.
He makes his mouth busy, trailing kisses back down your throat, then over your shoulders. You moan, leaning your head against his, and he smiles against your skin. Steve draws back to meet your gaze, and through the daze of the pleasure he’s dragging out of you, you smile back.
Your body is rocking, from the brutality of how he’s touching you. Steve’s eyes flick down, but not to where his fingers are being swallowed by your pussy.
He’s looking at your tits.
He licks his lips, watching them bounce under his force. You think he might be hypnotized. Before you can say anything, he reaches up and rips your shirt clean off.
“Steve- Ooh-“
“Shhh.” He gives you a stern look, twisting his fingers in your cunt. “I’ve got you, doll. Just- Lemme-“
Steve looks back to your tits, and his eyes are almost black with desire. You’ve never seen anything hotter, than how he looks at you as he lowers himself down.
He mouths at the curve of your tits, sucking a tiny, dark bruise. You moan, starching at his bicep, but he just drags you closer. Forcing your back to arch, your tits to push into his face.
“Look at you,” he mutters, voice dripping with something close to reverence. “My girl.”
And you blink. Because that wasn’t discussed, but your pussy clenches all the same. His girl.
You don’t get more time to think about it before Steve’s lips wrap around your nipple, and you lose control.
He mouths at you like a starved man. Kissing and licking and sucking, sending tingling, electric sensations straight from your tits to your pussy. He moans every time you squeeze down on his fingers, which just feels like a vibrator right against your sensitive nipples, and makes you lose it all the more.
You’re grinding up into him, thrashing a little like an animal and whimpering in his ear. Steve bites down softly, his thumb staring to make quick, relentless swipes at your clit.
“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You moan, tugging at his short, soft hair. “St- Steve- Too much- I’m gonna- Fuuuck-“
You don’t know why you thought he was going to slow down. Steve switches nipples, biting down before sucking hard, right as his blunt fingertips hit that spot inside of you. You cry out as you cum, your body writhing against his stronger one. He keeps you in place, his hand working you through the orgasm. Pulling every last spasm of your cunt, and a few more after. He kisses your nipples and over your breasts before he draws up.
When it’s done, your eyes are lidded. Steve stares at you, slowly pulling his hand out. He smears your juices over your pussy, thumbing at your clit for a few more, light seconds. You squeak, and he smiles.
“You look pretty when you cum,” he mutters, and you flush.
You’ve been told that before, but this feels different.
This feels real.
You can’t think of anything to say. Steve doesn’t push you to try. He leans forward, cupping your cheek and giving you a smaller, softer look before he kisses you. You melt into him, too dazed from what might be strongest orgasm of your life to protest.
“’m gonna fuck you ‘till you can’t walk.” Steve mutters. “But- Not here.”
You hum in agreement. “Clean up later?”
“Later.” Steve grunts in agreement. “If I don’t get inside of you, think I’m gonna die.”
You giggle. It’s so stupid, but you giggle. Steve huffs out a low laugh, and drags your forward. You’re being carried like a koala in his arms. He kisses your cheek before drawing up to his whole height, and glancing at the door.
“I, uh-“ He gives you a sheepish expression. “I’m gonna have to run.”
You nod—you’re naked, you expected as much—and he clears his throat.
“You gotta hold on.”
“I am holding on.” You pat his neck, and he sighs.
“Doll, I’m gonna be running really fast-“
“I’m holding on tight.”
“Hold on tighter.”
You roll your eyes, and wrap him in the best chokehold you can manage. The asshole doesn’t even pretend to grunt.
“Your boobs are in my face.” He mumbles, and you snort.
“You were eating them like, five seconds ago-“
“Yeah, but- That was just us. What if someone sees-“
“That you’re carrying me naked? Probably that we’re fucking.”
He twists his neck to glare up at you. You smile innocently back, and he sighs.
His breath is warm, over your breasts. It makes you squirm a little, and Steve’s grip on your body tightens.
“You are such a brat,” he mutters, almost in awe. “I stop fucking you for ten seconds, and you’re already talking back again.”
“Oops.” You beam. “You should fix that.”
Steve chuckles. His tongue flicks over his lips. “Yeah,” his voice is dark. A promise. “Trust me. I’m gonna.”
And he runs. He runs so fast you squeal, because you forgot how fast he can be when he’s really trying. You press your face back into his neck to block the wind, and when he stops, you still don’t look up.
The smell hits you first. It’s deep and rich and-
Steve.
You poke your head up, and you’re in Steve’s room.
It’s not what you expected, a military cell where he sleeps and plans way to torture you. It’s… Cozy. There are books on a shelf that slightly poorly put together, and the bed is made but the sheets look thick and soft. There’s a mirror on the dresser, facing the bed, and so much paper you almost don’t know where to look. Drawings of flowers, and rivers, and sunsets. One of a bird, and a few of the landscape of the compound, and so, so many of-
“Is that me?”
Steve grunts, tossing you down onto his bed and starting to strip. You move to your knees, ready to scramble off the bed and get a better look at the drawings, but he gives you a stern look.
“Stay.”
You roll your eyes. “Shut up, I wanna see- Steve-“
He grabs you like you weigh nothing, and throws you right back onto the bed before you’re even on two feet. Your thighs press together, thrilled with the blatant manhandling. Steve notices it, and laughs.
“You like that, huh?”
“Shut up-“
“No, you liked that-“
“Maybe I did.” You stick your tongue out, and he smirks.
“You love bein’ a ragdoll, don’t you. Needy girl, you’re gonna let me do whatever I want to you-“
“You have drawings of me!” You blurt, because you really don’t need him to make you more horny.
Steve shrugs. “I do. So?”
“So?” You fumble, pulling at the sheets. “You- You like me-“
“That’s a shock to you?” Steve gives you an amused look. “I just fingered you in borderline public.”
“Well- You- You-“ You’re sputtering again. Only Steve does this to you. It drives you fucking insane. “You could’ve just wanted to fuck me-“
“Nope.” He shrugs. “I’ve been in love with you for a while. You just get on my last line sometimes, doll.”
And all your protests slip out of your head.
I love you.
He- He said-
“What?” You squeak, and Steve sighs.
“I love you.”
He said it again. “Wh- Why?”
“Why?” He gives you a tired, almost annoyed look. “Why wouldn’t I love you?”
“Because I’m annoying.” You answer immediately. “And mean, and bossy, and- I’m annoying-“
“You said that one already.” Steve starts to walk towards you, and you lean into his gravity, even as your heart beats in your ears.
“How do you know you love me.” You whisper. “It- It could just be my powers-“
“It’s not.”
“But-“
Steve takes your face between his hands, his thumb dragging over your lower lip. You fall silent, and you know you’re staring up at him like he’s the sun, but you’ve never been so warm. You’re afraid to move. To lose it.
“Steve…” You breathe, and he hums. “You- You can’t mean that-“
“I do.” He presses his thumb forward, and your lips wrap around it on instinct. You suck, and his eyes flash with more approval.
It’s embarrassing, how pliable that makes you. How he’d just need to give you one bit of praise after so much mocking, and you might just cum right here. Sucking on Steve’s thumb, naked on his bed, sheets bunched between your thighs.
“I love you because you’re smart,” he says, and useless, embarrassing tears prick at your eyes. “And funny, and kind. You never abuse what you can do to people. You work hard, you drive me crazy, you’re always ready to do anything for anyone else.”
You try to shy away. You’d been wrong. You’re not cumming, you’re getting so hot it feels like a fever, because having him degrade you is less embarrassing than this. Steve’s grip on you face tightens. He’s not letting you get away that easy.
“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs. “And it’s got nothin’ to do with any powers. So I love you, doll. And you’re gonna feel it.”
There’s nothing you can say to that. Tears are pricking at your eyes, hopeless and confused and desperate. You need to see what that feels like. Steve’s love, painted all over you.
“You want that?” He mutters, and you nod. “Words-“
“Please,” you breathe out, the words muffled around his thumb. “Show me.”
Steve smiles. He pulls his thumb away with a pop, and taps your check gently.
“See?” He smirks. “Begging.”
Your eyes narrow, but Steve doesn’t let you spit out a response. He crashes down into a harsh, long kiss that makes your toes curl and thighs rub together. Steve gropes all over your body, pushing you down into the mattress before rolling over and forcing you to straddle his chest.
He’s naked. You don’t know how you missed it—probably the love confession—but the thick, hard curve of his cock slaps against your ass, and his bare chest flexes when you drag your nails over his pecs.
“You’re gonna ride my cock, doll,” he rubs your ass, smiling up at you. “Don’t need you to say anything back. Just show me,” he squeezes your ass. “How fuckin’ bad you need it.”
You look back at it, and your breath hitches. It’s huge. Bigger than any you’ve ever taken, bigger than any you’ve ever seen, even in porn.
“Did you take fucking drugs for that thing?” You breathe, and Steve snorts.
“Yes?”
You glare at him, and he raises his brows.
“You getting on, or not?”
For a second, you think about being petulant. You cross your arms and pout, trying to test how far you can push him. But Steve just snorts, rolls his eyes, and picks you up. You don’t even get to wiggle before he’s forcing you down on his dick, and the air is knocked from your lungs.
Steve sits so deep in your, it might be pushing all the thoughts out of your brain. You gape down at him, making weak noises as your pussy pulses and stretches around him. His fingers dig into your hips, but it’s the only sign that he’s struggling to hold himself back.
“Much as I love you bein’ a brat,” he mutters, massaging your ass. “I’d rather see this.”
He reaches up slowly, tucking air behind your ear. You smile weakly, and he chuckles, settling fully into the pillows.
“Ride it, doll,” he orders, and god help you, you try.
You catch your breath after a long moment that feels like eternity, and start to roll your hips. Steve groans, eyelids fluttering, but doesn’t help you. His hands stay firm on your body, forcing you to use everything you have to grind down onto his dick.
He pushes against that gooey spot inside of you, and you falter with a long moan. You shift, forcing him right against it, and he lets out a sharp breath, but still doesn’t move.
“Feels good, doesn’t it,” he coos, cock throbbing inside of it. “Nice and big, fillin’ up your pussy so good.”
You moan, hips bucking. Steve grunts, thrusting up slightly, and you tip your head back. The friction is good. So good. For a second, back arched and thighs aching, you find a rhythm. It starts slow, rolling and pushing Steve’s cock right where you want it. You look down at him, sweaty and adoring beneath you. His hands wander, his breathing ragged and lips parted.
“That’s a good girl,” he mutters. “C’mon, baby, there you go.”
You keen, and move faster. Your knees are weak, but the need is stronger. You bounce on Steve dick, grabbing at his chest and gasping for air as he splits you open over and over again.
But it’s not enough. You don’t have extra stamina or strength, and he’s so big, and you’re so turned on your body is starting to forget how to move. Every wet, obscene sound makes you glance at where he’s disappearing inside of you, the way your slick is coating his cock when you pull up and his balls are heavy, pushed against your ass when you drop back down. You get hornier, and you want to just let go and allow your eyes to cross and toes to curl, but you can’t. You can’t find the pace.
You can’t cum. You can’t, and pathetic, fat tears stream down your cheeks because of it.
Steve reaches up, brushing them away with a tiny smirk. “Aw, babydoll. Don’t cry.”
You sob, shaking above him as your legs finally get to weak. You’re just squirming above him now, blinking under wet lashes at his teasing, lazy smile.
“Can’t get there all alone, can you,” he pushes you down, slamming his hips up, and you make a choked sound like his name. “Yeah, that’s right. Sweet girl, just a fuckin’ mess on my cock.”
“Ple- Please-“ You blubber, collapsing over Steve’s chest. “God, Steve- Please-“
“Aw. Begging so pretty.” He kisses your brow. “How could I ever tell you no?”
Steve grabs you off his cock, twisting you onto your stomach as he sits up. You’re shoved down into the mattress, your cheek pressed into the cushions by one of Steve’s hands on the back of your neck. The other stays on your hips, dragging your ass high up in the air to present to him.
“Such a mess.” Steve runs the head of his cock between the lips of you pussy, letting it press against your clit before he lines it up at your entrance. “You really needed this, didn’t you?”
He slides in slowly, and your eyes rolls back in your head. He’s impossibly deeper at this angle. You try to press your face into the mattress, to muffle your pathetic sounds, but Steve folds his body over yours, fisting a hand in your hair and yanking it back as he bottoms out.
“Look.” He bites your ear, dragging back before slamming forward, drilling his cock back into your abused, over sensitive pussy. “Look at us, babydoll. Fit so fuckin’ perfect.”
Your eyes dart up, and oh. Oh god.
It’s the most pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Steve wrapped around you, his jaw tight and one hand resting on your hip. You can’t see where he’s fucking you, but you can see how his muscles flex with each thrust. You’re trapped under him, your gaze locked onto his black, fervorish one. There’s no blue left in his eyes, as he hits a pace like an animal. Only hunger and adoration.
“St- Steve-“
“That’s it,” he rasps. “That’s right, say my fuckin’ name- Scream it-“
“Steve!” You cry out, the tears streaming down your face as it becomes far too much. “Oh- Ooooh-“
Steve lets go of your hair, wrapping his massive bicep around your neck. It keeps your head up, keeps your eyes on his. He kisses the side of your head, and you can feel arousal sliding down your thighs as he rolls his hips.
“So pretty,” he whispers. “Look at yourself. Look how fuckin’ perfect you are.”
Your eyes dart over, and an unbearable warmth prickles over your skin. You look more beautiful than you’ve ever felt in your life. Thoroughly wrecked, worshipped, fucked into a drooling mess with swollen lips and glazed eyes. Steve noses at you, smirking against your skin.
“Good, good girl.” His words are thick, his thrusts becoming erratic. “Feels nice, doesn’t it?”
You whimper an agreement, and Steve chuckles.
“You gonna cum for me? C’mon, show me how nice it feels, cum on my fucking cock-“
It’s like he has more control over your body than you do. The orgasm rips through you at his command, and you sob out his name as you fall apart in his arms. Steve grunts, pulling fully out for half a second to roll you on your back. You barely even feel the loss before he’s burying himself right to the hilt, and you can’t remember what being empty feels like.
There’s more than there looked to be. Steve pulls almost all the way out, to try and make more space, but it does next to nothing. Thick ropes of cum fill you up until you can almost taste it. There are wet, messy sounds as it starts to leak out, over your ass and thighs. You can see it in the mirror, dripping down onto the mattress. You’re stuffed up so well, you try to say Steve’s name, but it just comes out a pathetic moan.
He collapses over you with a grunt, and all the edge vanishes. He pulls fully out, cradling you in his arms and kissing over your neck.
“I made a mess.” He mutters, running light fingers over your inner thigh.
You giggle, kicking him away, and he smiles against your skin.
“You gonna talk to me?”
You shake your head, licking your lips. Your voice is gone, from screaming, and you can see him wince when he realizes it.
“I didn’t hurt you-“
You shake your head quickly, and his shoulders relax.
“Okay. Good. I- I’m gonna-“
He tries to get up. You grab him, and yank him back down. He grunts, giving you an incredulous look.
“Honey, it’s everywhere.”
You glare at him. He’s warm. He’s not getting away from you that easy. And you expect him to argue, like he always had before, but he just… gives in.
“Okay. Five minutes.”
He leans back over you, and you lay there. Cuddling.
Like a real couple.
You could be. Steve said he loves you, and he meant it, and that opens a door you’ve never thought about before. A door you never even let yourself think about.
A door you might want to see the other side of, more than you’ve ever let yourself admit.
But now-
You want it. You wanted this, and you want that, and you’re not going to spend another second pretending you don’t.
“About what I said,” Steve mutters, like he’s reading your mind. “Before we- Or- I guess during-“
You roll over and grab his face. He blinks adorably, and you smile.
Steve murmurs your name, and you smile.
“I love you,” you croak out.
His jaw goes slack, and your smile widens. It’s the only thing you can think to say. The only thing you want to say.
And when Steve kisses you, it’s slow. Romantic and loving and deep. He really loves you. Everyone in the world, and the perfect man loves you. He holds you like you’re the only thing in his world. You feel like you’re the only thing in his world.
And he might really be the only thing in yours.
✦End note: i will never back off my "he's mean during sex" agenda✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
✦summary: everyone loves golden boy Steve Rogers. Everyone but you. It's alright, though, because he hates you back. But love and hate are closer than you both think.✦
✦warnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, avengers era, no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, pining but they don't know they're pining, idiots in love, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to feral porn, super soldier level smut, (kind of office sex, teasing, dirty talk, dry humping, super soldier stamina, dry orgasms but he's a trooper he keeps going, begging, rough sex, praise and degradation kink, mean!steve, nipple play, manhandling, hyperspermia, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, overstimulation, dacryphilia, dumbification, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smut✦
✦wc: 9.6k✦
✦Author's Note: i love enemies to lovers with sweet men it's so important to me. thank you!✦
There aren’t a lot of rules to being on the Avengers, and the ones that exist are easy to follow. Don’t feed Tony after midnight, he’s like a gremlin. Don’t laugh at Sam’s jokes when they’re not funny, it encourages him. Always listen to Fury, unless you like being stranded in Utah. Don’t touch Natasha’s food. Don’t piss off Banner.
Easy. You’re not a fool, and if you were, you wouldn’t deserve to be here.
A lot of people still don’t think you deserve to be here, but Nat always reminds you that they just don’t know what kind of enemy you’d make. She’d rather have you on their side. Everyone warmed up to Wanda eventually, too. The team already likes you, and none of you have a clean letter.
Almost none of you.
Steve’s is cleaner than a freshly waxed and plucked floor. Steve’s letter is perfect. He’s perfect. He’s the Golden Boy, designed in a bottle to be likable and confident and collected. Camera’s flash and his smile is whiter than the moon, and more blinding than the sun. He claps Tony on the back after a slightly mocking joke, clearly unfazed. He places his hand on Nat’s lower back in the most gentlemanly way possible, and everyone swoons like he’s some movie star.
He sits next to you on one of these panels you’re not allowed to skip—you tried to, and Clint dragged you to the helicopter like some misbehaving child—and ignores you all together. A tiny nod and smile for the cameras. Stiff shoulders that square away from you, like if he blocks you out, you’ll just vanish in the hazy lights.
He’d like it, if that happened. He’d probably throw a fucking party.
Because you don’t know why. You don’t know what you did. But Steve Rogers hates you, and no one even thought he was capable of that emotion.
It started the first time Nat dragged you in, spitting and weary like a feral cat. She’d given Steve and Tony the brief on your powers. Said that you had a good heart—although she hadn’t done an x-ray, so you have no idea how she was so sure—and asked to keep you.
Asked.
Natasha didn’t ask for anything. She said it like a question, and fixed Steve and Tony with the most terrifying glare in the world. Tony had shrugged, and Steve had tried to protest. Nat had crossed her arms and flicked her brows up in a silent challenge. Steve had swallowed, looked at you with a strange gleam in his eyes, and given up. He’d left the room with a grumble, not sparing you another glance. Tony would tell you later—after you annoyed it out of him—that he’d spent a month trying to talk Nat out of you. Like a toy he didn’t want her to be playing with.
You hadn’t said a single word. Natasha hadn’t told him anything about your past. And he still hadn’t wanted you there.
“Rogers,” you murmur, smiling at the flashing lights that—supposedly—have people behind them.
You’ve come to think of them more as vultures. They’d like to pick you apart and eat out whatever kind of black, charred thing you’re made of. You never give them the satisfaction.
Steve says your name, low and flat. His attention flits over, scanning you from the corner of his eye. You catch his gaze, and he looks away just as fast.
You roll your eyes and huff, slumping back in your seat. You drum your fingers on the smooth, deep blue cloth of the table. They gave you a water bottle. Maybe if you drink it fast enough, you can just go pee and skip this whole thing-
“Sit up.”
Steve speaks so low you almost don’t hear him. You frown at his profile—stupid clean jawline and strong features—and slump further in your seat. Just to test him. Just to make him twitch.
There aren’t a lot of things you find pride in. Being able to get under Steve’s skin is one of them.
He notices immediately, and shoots you a glare. You snort, and his eyes narrow.
“I told you to sit up-“
“I heard you.”
“And you didn’t listen?” Someone shouts his name. He turns to flash them that look at me, aren’t I perfect? Smile, and you try not to gag.
“You’re not my boss.” You hiss through your teeth, smiling at the people shouting your name.
Steve makes a low, rough sound in his throat. “I am your boss.”
“No. I work under Nat.”
“Who works for me-“
“Does she?”
Steve shoots you another look, and this time you giggle. He’s still smiling, through every single glare. It looks psychotic.
He doesn’t even try to reprimand you this time. He just sighs dramatically and looks back to the crowd. You sit up, but not because he told you to. You’re not another one of his dogs.
Because there’s one more rule about being an Avenger. About being an American.
No one hates Steve Rogers.
He’s an angel. A blessing. His pretty boy face and classy words and pure heart. He never falters, never gives up, never does anything selfish, never gets off his fucking high horse. He’s so handsome it hurts to look at, and he’s so innocent about it, like blushing virgin schoolgirl who can’t stand seeing a fucking ankle without getting red faced and sputtering. He’s all kind words to everyone, he carries twenties on him to give to homeless people, he donates most of his Avengers salary to charities, he handles every press question with tact and charm, and he looks at you like you’re sulfur coated gum, stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
No one tells you what to do when Steve Rogers hates you. He’s not supposed to hate anyone.
So you must be the fucking problem.
You try not to look at him, for most of the panel. It’s easy when he gets seated on the other end of the table, but whatever fucker was in charge of seating today must hate you. You can’t turn your head without seeing his lazy, kind smile, and you can’t turn out his deep laugh, and god, what if you just punched him in the face on live TV-
Someone says your name, and your head snaps over.
“Yeah?”
Steve tenses. You’re supposed to just nod, or say yes, not yeah. That’s not professional. Shame for him the media trainers gave up on you years ago. You don’t know why Steve still bothers. Everyone still loves you anyway.
And the person who said your name doesn’t deserve professionalism anyway. It’s a slimy man at the front of the question line, with slicked back hair and an expensive watch and teeth that look too big for his mouth. You know what kind of question this is going to be, before he even opens his mouth.
“Hi,” the man smirks at you, and you smile back. It’s the cold, bored smile that you wear like a shield. If the man feels the chill from it, he doesn’t even flinch.
“Hey.”
Steve’s jaw ticks. If he breaks a tooth, maybe you won’t have to deal with this question.
“Hey.” The man echoes back, his gaze dropping back to your tits. “I have to ask, what does it take to get you out of the Avengers compound and out on a date?”
You laugh, spinning your mic and leaning back in your chair. The audience laughs with you. They always do.
Steve doesn’t, and it stabs near your ribs for some useless reason. Sometimes you wonder if your powers just don’t work on him, which would make him even more annoying than he already is.
“More than that,” you say, and the man stands a little taller.
“You wanna give me a step-by-step?” He winks. “I’m a good rule follower.”
“Hm.” You smirk. “I’m sure you are.”
A chorus of teasing jeers comes from the back of the crowd, where all the men always get shoved. They’re less insistent than the fangirls who want to see Steve and Thor’s muscles. The man at the front of the line looks back with a proud grin—he got you to talk, what a miracle—then returns his gaze to you.
“What about if I promise to be a gentleman?”
“Then I’d ask you to cross your fingers,” you say, smiling with so much honey you’re worried your face is going to get glued like this.
The oooooos are louder this time, and you laugh. The man at the front looks like he’s about to fall to his knees. He grabs at the mic stand like a lifeline, staring at you with wide, devout eyes, and you don’t even flinch when Steve rips your mic from your hands.
“She’ll be backstage after, buddy.” His tone is light, but firm. The man blinks at him, like he forgot he was there. “Remember, she’s got a whole panel to get through. Don’t want to distract her too early.”
He laughs. Everyone laughs with him, except for you.
You smile at him with enough venom to burn the super solider serum right out of his big, muscled body. Steve smiles back, with that strange gleam back in his eyes.
It’s only there for you. It’s been two years, and you never learned to read it. The questions move on, and your mic gets turned of while Bruce talks about his favorite kinds of tea. You lean to the side, hissing from the corner of your mouth.
“What the fuck is your problem.”
Steve doesn’t blink. He keeps his winning smile on his face, and you’re sure that to anyone looking on from the crowd, it seems like you’re exchanging friendly jokes.
“This isn’t a dating app.”
“I know that-“
“Didn’t seem like it.”
You scoff. Your smile is starting to hurt your face. “What was I supposed to do, tell him to piss off?”
Steve’s lips twitch down, ever so slightly. “You flirted back.”
“So? I was never going to go out with him, he looked like a fucking sewer rat.”
“That’s rude-“
“Oh, suck my dick.”
You look back to the crowd. Steve mutters your name, and you ignore him. He says it again, firmer this time, and you shoot him a shut the fuck up look.
His nostrils flare. His eyes are so blue, you think you could get lost in them if he wasn’t always trying to forcefully burn you out.
“You-“ He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, shakes his head, and look back out to the crowd. “You’re going to find yourself with a stalker one day. It happened to Nat.”
You almost snort. You’ve heard that story. Nat curb stomped him. “I’m sure I’d handle it.”
Steve’s lip curls. “You have no combat training,” he grunts, and you huff.
Not this again.
“If someone got the jump on you-“
“No one gets the jump on me.”
“Yet,” he gives you a pointed look, and you hold it, unimpressed and bored. “But one day-“
“One day what? I’m just going to lose all my powers? And need Captain America to protect me?” You laugh crudely, and Steve scowls.
“I didn’t say that-“
“Then what were you going to say-“’
“That you need to be careful-“
“And why do you care-“
“I don’t-“
“Really?” You roll your eyes. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“You- You fucking-“
“Steve.” Sam leans over Steve’s shoulder, glaring between you. “People. Watching. Calm down.”
You and Steve both freeze, and glance out to the crowd. Sure enough, almost all the eyes are on you. Shining vultures. For one, at least, picking Steve apart with you.
You smile and wave. Steve sits so tall you think he might be trying to fly away.
“What were you talking about?” The next person asks, and Steve laughs.
Controlled. Always so fucking controlled.
“Nothing important-“
“It looked important.”
Steve shrugs. “We take everything we do here seriously. A conversation about dinner can look like a war meeting sometimes, with how much passion we have for- Everything.”
He waves at the air, and the crowd murmurs. You smirk, because Steve sees the light in that ripple. Only the rising relief. Not the dents it’s leaving in the water.
But you see them. You see them better than anyone. And you know why the people drop it. Tony’s glaring down the table, and Nat is rubbing her face, and you know they heard it too.
You love it when he fucks up. You’re beaming for the rest of the panel, because you know what the headline is going to be in the morning.
Passion, he said.
Idiot.
It happens so fast, and Steve’s the only one surprised by it.
“You two.” Tony points between you in the morning. “My office. Now.”
You smile, shoving your bagel in your mouth and following after him. Steve looks confused. You’re sure he’s never been called to an office before. You’re thrilled to have that first experience with him.
“Tony, what’s going on-“
“No.” Tony points at him with a scowl, and the door locks behind you. “Not a word from you, Cap. This is your fault.”
“My fault?” Steve almost recoils. “How is it my fault, I haven’t even done anything. It’s probably her fault-“
You snort, taking the bagel out of your mouth. “My fault? You don’t even know what we did yet!”
“Well, I know it’s your fault-“
“Because everything is my fault-“
“For stuff like this, yeah. It is.”
“Stuff like this- Like what, you getting in trouble-“
“I’m not in trouble-“
“Oh, you just got called to Daddy’s office because of your good behavior-“
“Can you both shut up?” Tony raises his voice, glaring between you with his nose pinched. “I swear, you’re going to give me a migraine that kills me. And you,” he shoots you a glower. “Never call me Daddy again.”
You smirk. “Why, does it turn you on too much?”
Steve looks at you like he wants to kill you. Tony just looks bored.
“Yeah, it does. Which is annoying.”
“Aw,” you beam at Steve. “He thinks I’m annoying.”
A vein is pushing out of Steve’s brow. If anyone is going to die right now, it’s going to be him, from bursting a vessel. You giggle, dropping in the seat in front of Tony’s desk. Steve just stands behind you, a soldier at attention against his greatest enemy. You tip your head backwards, looking at him under fluttering lashes.
“You should sit down, buddy.”
Something flickers over Steve’s face. “Don’t call me buddy.”
“Don’t stand there like a creep.”
His lip curls. You give him a challenging smile, and he lets out one of those heavy sighs that’s only reserved for you. He stomps over to the chair next to it, and drops down with a scowl at Tony.
“You want to tell us why we’re here, Tony?”
Tony frowns, and glances at you. “Does he not know?”
You shrug. “He’s a little stupid. You know that.”
Tony’s lips twitch despite himself. Steve scowls.
“I don’t know what you two are talking about, or- Planning-“
He cuts himself off, as Tony tosses the printed out article down on the desk. You hadn’t actually seen it yet, but you knew it was coming.
From the look on Steve’s face, though, he really hadn’t realized at all.
“What.” It’s all he says. One clipped, dumbfounded word as he stares at the paper. You sort of want to laugh, but you bite it down. Tony’s looking at you like this is serious. Like he can’t make it go away with a wave of his hand.
Stever grabs the article. You lean over his shoulder, just to piss him off a little more. He doesn’t even bother to glare at you, his fingers digging so deep into the paper it tears. The headline gets crumpled, like he’s crushing it with just his gaze.
Secret Love In the Avengers.
It’s not very snappy. You think they could’ve tried harder, but at least the picture is good. You and Steve both look nice, and you’re staring at each other so intently you can’t even blame them for the minimum effort. With Sam looking bored on Steve’s other side, and you and Steve leaning so close together, there’s no mistaking in that photo who might be seconds from making out.
“Tony,” Steve mutters. “What’s this.”
Tony snorts. “What do you think this is, Cap? A news article about trades with China? No, because less people would be reading that than they’re reading this.”
“We’re hotter than trades with China,” you offer, and you think Tony would laugh if he wasn’t so pissed.
“Why is there a picture of us.” Steve mutters, and Tony rolls his eyes.
“Well, when two people look at each other like they want to fuck, everyone tends to notice.”
Steve’s jaw locks. You sigh, crossing your arms over your chest.
“So what, do you need us to do another release-“
“No.” Tony glares at you. “This is the third time something like this has happened with you two-“
“What?” You snort. “No, it isn’t-“
“Ah.” Tony raises a hand. “Don’t play stupid with me. I’m trying to be generous with third, and I’m not in the mood to hold your hands through feelings right now.”
“Feelings?” Steve spits, fumbling with the paper. “There are no- I don’t know what you think you’re talking about, Stark-“
“Steven.” Tony says flatly. “You. Shut up.”
Steve shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about-“
“Yes. I do. And you do too.”
You raise your hand, frowning between them. “Can I ask what the first and second time were, because I’d remember if this happened before-“
“No, you wouldn’t,” Tony snaps. “Because I have spent millions bribing people out of running these stories, and you never look online to see what people are saying.”
“What people are saying?” You look at Steve. “What are people saying?”
Steve coughs, ears turning red. “Nothing-“
“They think you’re fucking.” Tony says flatly, and your mouth falls open.
“They- What?!”
“You have chemistry, kid.” Tony shrugs. “Every second you’re next to each other, you’re eye fucking so much we all feel like we’re supposed to leave the room.”
You sputter, shaking your head. You can feel you flush, burning up your face. When you look at Steve, he won’t meet your eyes.
He never does.
“Did you know about this?” You hiss.
He sighs, running a hand over his face with a half-shrug. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?! What the fuck does that mean-“
“Means he knew.” Tony says flatly. “Everyone knew.”
“Everyone knew what?! That the whole country thinks I want to fuck Steve?!”
Tony snorts. “You do want to fuck Steve.”
Your face burns. Steve looks up with warning pinch in his brow. “Tony.”
“Don’t Tony me, pretty boy-“
“Just- Not now-“
“Yes, now.” Tony glares between you. “This has gotten out of hand. We get it. You’re both hot. You’d have hot sex. But if you don’t either fuck or cut bait and start acting like adults, you’re grounded.”
Steve scowls. “You can’t ground me, Stark, I’m your boss-“
“Well, I cut the checks.” Tony crosses his arms. “So I think I can do whatever I want.”
Steve and Tony keep glaring at each other. You stare off in the middle distance between them. Your hands don’t feel like they’re your hands. Your feet are planted on the carpet, but not on solid ground. Your head feels like it’s pressing into itself, yet also expanding to something bigger than you can hold onto.
You don’t want to fuck Steve. Sure, he’s all muscles and rugged yet soft features, but there are countless men like that.
There are very few men like that. Well, you could find one. You have one in front of you. But you don’t want to fuck him. He’s annoying. Impossibly annoying and bossy and always up your ass about something, and not in the fun way like you’d prefer-
No. You wouldn’t prefer. You don’t want to fuck Steve. You can have anyone else, you’d rather have anyone else. Steve’s just always there and always making you embarrassed and angry, and maybe you’re into that but it’s none of his business. It’s not like he’d be like that in bed, either way.
You think. Not that you’ve thought about it. He’s too perfect. Too boring. He’s not boring when he’s arguing with you. He just hates you that much. That you make him break. Or you let him show that side of himself. You don’t poke and prod at anyone like you poke and prod at Steve. He’s just fun to get a rise out of. He gets cute when he’s pissy. He sneers your name and it goes right between your legs, but that doesn’t mean you want to fuck him.
You don’t. You don’t. You don’t?
He has big hands, but you don’t want them groping and squeezing all over your body. He’s got a strong nose, but you’ve never thought about it pushing against your clit, just like you’ve never thought about his huge biceps wrapping around your neck while he fingers you stupid. And you’d smile at him, dazed and long fucked out of protesting. And he’d feed those fingers to you while sitting you on his cock, and all that perfection would melt away into something raw. Something real, that’s open and refuses to be stitched close. Something that both of you want to drown in.
Something’s that’s just for you, and Steve, and no one else.
Oh, no.
You want to fuck him.
Tony says your name, and your gaze snaps back over. Your palms are sweating, your face burning, your skin suddenly itchy and your feet restless. You want to fuck Steve. You want to fuck Steve.
He looks at you weird, and you shift in your seat. He can’t know. Ever. This is going to get cleaned up, and Steve will never know that you might, kind of, really want him to just toss you over his shoulder and fuck you stupid. You glance at him from the corner of you eye, and his gaze sears into you. You have to look away.
There’s no way he can know. You’ve barely even known for a minute. Tony only says he knows because he’s an ass. This will pass. It has to pass.
“Figure it out.” Tony tells you, before walking out of the office.
And you will. By never being in the same room as Steve again.
You shoot to your feet, and almost sprint out of the room. Steve calls your name, but you don’t look back. He’s faster, but he’s also respectful. He won’t manhandle you and force you to listen, like you want him to.
God, you really want him to. You’re going to kill Tony for making you realize that, then kill yourself, and no one will ever have to know that—for all your cool, bored smiles and teasing and flirting, for all your powers and siren-like smile—you just want to be fucked stupid by the most righteous, innocent sex-symbol in America.
But then Steve shouts your name again. He’s following you. Why is he following you.
“Fuck off, Steve!” You shout over your shoulder, and he scoffs.
“No, you heard Tony, we need to talk-“
“We really don’t-“
“Yes, we do- Will you slow down-“
You pick up the pace, just to piss him off. Steve groans, and you hear boots hitting the ground behind you. He’s giving chase, and you can barely outwalk him.
Steve grabs your arm before you can even break into a sprint. You thrash, but it’s useless. He’s too strong, and that’s so hot, and you’re going to throw yourself off a bridge about this.
“Let go-“
“No.” Steve drags you down the hall, into an empty conference room. “Not until we talk.”
“There’s nothing for us to talk about-“
“Will you just stop being such a fucking brat and listen?”
Steve raises his voice, stern and commanding. It’s deep, so deep it echoes through you, and your knees wobble. He sees it. His jaw ticks, his grip slackens, and you rip your hand away.
“Brat.” You mock. “What would America think, if they saw their Golden sun talking to a girl like that?”
Steve’s lips twitch. “You are not a girl.”
“Aw. I’m a woman-“
“You’re a problem.” He leans over you, voice dropping to a hiss.
And this is how he always looks at you, but magnified. With a sharper gleam in his eyes, his lips thin and white, like he’s trying to swallow every word. A vein in his brow ticks, and you smile.
“I’m a problem?”
Steve’s throat bobs. “Yes.”
“Hurtful,” you whisper, and he rolls his eyes.
“You’ll live.”
For a long moment, you just stare at each other. He wants to talk, he can talk. You’re not entertaining this. Not just for him to unravel you then keep being a fucking dick.
“You…” He shakes his head, a tiny motion as his tongue flicks over his lips. “You are impossible.”
“You’re impossible-“
“Because you make me impossible,” he sneers, and you lean back slightly.
“I- You-“ You try to scoff. It’s a weak sound. He’s too close, and he smells like pine trees and something spicy, and it’s not fair. “I don’t even do anything-“
“Yes. You do.”
“What, is my skirt too short? Are my shoulders distracting you-“
“You’re distracting me.” Steve presses forward, until your faces are only inches apart. “You always distract me, you fuckin’-“ He closes his eyes, shoulders heaving.
“Steve…” You breathe, and he chuckles.
“Don’t say my name like that,” he rasps. “You don’t fuckin’ mean it.”
You blink, trying to think over the desire, burning in your body. Of course you meant it. You didn’t even want to say it, but he’s so close. It’s intoxicating. You’d think he was drugging you, if that was possible.
Steve’s pressed you against the conference table. His arms are caging you in, giving you no escape from the electricity, almost crackling in the air. You open your mouth, then close it, lost for what to say. You’re worried you’ll just whisper his name again. He drags his eyes open after what feels like a million years, his voice dropping down to something hot and dangerous.
“You never push anyone,” he says. “Like you push me, doll. It’s not… It drives me crazy.”
You swallow, your voice smaller than you want. “You- You push me-“
“Because I can’t help it.” He presses closer. Your noses are almost bumping. “You are beautiful, and insolent, and infuriating-“
“Steve-“
“And you’re so sweet to everyone.” He grabs your jaw, and your hand flies to his wrist. “Everyone loves you, so they think I’m crazy when I say you’re tryin’ to kill me.”
“Everyone loves me because of my powers.” You try to remind him, because if he does this, you won’t be able to stop him. “You- You know that-“
“I do. Trust me,” he murmurs your name, gaze flicking to your lips. “I know. Spent so long blaming them too. All those daydreams had to be because you’re Nat’s honeypot. Thought it was the wrong thing to do, that I was some kind of monster to thinking about you like that, when everyone else already does. But no,” he looks back to you. “It’s just you, doll. I plugged my nose, avoided your pheromones, let Bruce experiment on me to make me immune, did fuckin’ everything, and I still wanted you.”
You take a deep, ragged breath. You have to lick your lips, to stop the spit, and Steve tracks the motion like a predator.
No one wants you. Everyone loves you, but no one wants you. You’re pretty but untouchable. No one can hurt you. If you ask someone for something, they’ll always do it, whether they really want to or not.
But Steve…
He says he wants you. And you really want to believe him.
“How long.” You breathe, and he sighs, bowing his head.
“Since the second I saw you.”
“You…” You scan over his face, looking for any hint that it’s not really him. That he doesn’t really, fully mean it. “You want to fuck me?”
His ears turn red. “I mean- Not just that-“
“But you do,” you breathe, and he sighs.
Stares for a second longer, then nods.
“Okay.” You whisper. Steve looks to your lips, then back to you again.
“Okay?”
You nod. Steve’s grip on your jaw tightens, and your breath hitches. He leans down slowly. So torturously slowly.
Your lips meet, soft and chapped and nervous. You lean up, and he presses down. Your noses bump, and his tongue flicks over your lower lip. Your nails dig into his bicep, and he grunts, and-
Steve snaps.
His other hand flies to your face, and he presses over you, hot and demanding. Your breath hitches, you mouth falls open, and he shoves his tongue down your throat with a groan. You grab the collar of his shirt, yanking him so hard you both stumble back. Your knees hit the back of the table, but Steve’s fast. He ducks down without breaking the kiss, and scoops you up into his arms.
You squeal, but the sound is quickly muffled by Steve’s tongue down your throat. Your laugh is breathless and giddy. He chuckles, pushing further forward, and you pull at the collar of his shirt. He jerks forward, angling his head to deepen the kiss.
“Needy.” He mutters against your lips, and you shove his shoulder with weak hands.
“Shut up, I could still stop this-“
“But you won’t.” He taunts. “You like it, don’t you. Like gettin’ on my nerves, making me lose control.”
Steve pulls away, grabs your knees, shoving them apart with rough, firm hands. You gasp, grabbing at his neck. “Steve-“
“You’re wet under there.” He growls, running a big hand up your inner thigh. “I can smell it. Smell how much you want me, every damn time you’d mouth off.”
Your swallow, pressing your brows tight together. You watch him rub your legs, breathing through your nose like some wanton whore. Steve’s thumb grazes the place where you’re leg meets your core, and your whole body shivers.
He smirks, looking at you under pretty lashes. You try to glare, but you’re panting. His gaze just makes the fire in your core burn brighter, and your tongue flicks over your lips.
“You never said anything,” you whisper, and Steve gives you an amused look.
“You would’ve killed me.”
And you can laugh breathlessly. Ten minutes ago, you would’ve. But now he’s all over you, and you can’t even bring yourself to mock him.
“No,” you brush your lips over his. “I wouldn’t have.”
Steve works his jaw, that raw, strange look flashing over his face. The look that’s yours. That’s only ever been for you.
He leans in, and this kiss is softer than before. Steve massages your hips, settling himself between your legs. You spread them wide to accommodate him, and feel it poking against your thigh. His cock, thick and hard, somehow bigger than you imagined, and you hadn’t been thinking small.
“You feel that.” He pulls your upper lip between his teeth, smiling slightly. “’S what you always do to me. Every day, I’d be walkin’ around so hard I was worried you’d see it. But no.” His kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other. “You’re oblivious, aren’t you honey.”
You hum, tipping your head back. Steve groans, dragging his lips over a pulse point, letting his tongue flick against sensitive skin. One hand slips under your shirt, careful fingers tracing up the line of your spine.
“Steve…” You whisper. “Don’t tease.”
“Oh, but you like it too much when I do.” He rasps. “You love it, love being a sweet little toy for me.”
You whimper, and he reaches around, grabbing a handful of your ass.
“So bossy ‘till I’m touchin’ you,” he sucks on your neck, grinding his bugle into your core. You gasp as the rough friction, and Steve chuckles.
“You- You’re such an ass-“
“You like that too.” He grunts, breath hot in your ear. “You like bein’ the one person that gets me going, that makes me lose it. No one else, doll.” He pushes your ass forward, so your clit is pushed against the thick hardness of him.
A long moan escapes your lips, and you drop your face into his shoulder. Steve grunts, rutting forward, and it’s so fucking hot you can’t think past it. The drawl of his voice in your ear, the strength of him around you, it’s intoxicating. The clothing adding extra friction, his fingers digging into your skin. His hand slips into your pants, deft fingers dragging down your ass to tease right against the drip of your pussy.
“Just you,” he thrusts forward, squeezing your ass. “Only you. So fuckin’ pretty and sassy, drivin’ me insane-“
You whimper, and Steve makes a low sound, taking a deep breath against your hair. The table creaks, with the force of his every thrust.
“So rude of you, sweetheart, to make me try and keep it together when you’re running around, beggin’ to be fucked- God-“
Steve moans, jerking his hips back suddenly. You stare at each other, panting and flushed. He swallows, and there’s a stain blooming on his pants. Your mouth falls open, and normally you’d make fun of him, but fuck. There’s so much of it. You can see white, leaking out of the cuffs of his pants and onto the floor. He came just from that. Just from holding and kissing you.
And he’s still so hard.
You lick your lips, and look back up. Steve’s throat bobs. You smile, fumbling with your pants, and he blinks.
“You’re- Uh-“
“In me.” You point at his dick, about to burst the seam of his slacks, then your core. “You- Do that in me.”
Steve’s hands curl into fists. You’ve never seen his face so red. It’s almost adorable. “Uh- Are you sure-“
“Do you want to fuck me stupid or not?”
He leans back, startled. You hold his gaze, pull down your pants, hike your legs up on the table, and spread them wide.
You could swear you see it twitch, as he takes you in. Head thrown back, your fingers rubbing between the swollen, dripping lips of your cunt. You breathe out his name, dipping one finger into your heat and pumping slowly. Steve takes a rough step forward, grabbing your knees like handles.
“Stop,” he grunts, and you obey.
Steve runs his fingers down your bare thigh, slowly guiding your hand away from your pussy. You grab his shoulder, holding his gaze as he rubs his thumb around your clit. You let out a slow, relaxed breath, and Steve smirks.
“You like that, doll?”
“As much as you did,” you breathe out, and Steve chuckles.
“Ah. Too late for that.” He presses a mocking kiss to your open lips. “You showed me what you want. How bad you want it.”
Steve flicks your clit, and your back arches. He presses back down on the little button, and a long moan rips from your lips.
“I came in my fuckin’ pants,” he whispers in your ear. “And you’re still beggin’ me to fuck you.”
“Wasn’t- Wasn’t begging-“
“But you would,” he coos. “If I asked you to. You’d say please, Stevie and cry for me to stuff this pretty little pussy.” He pushes down on your clit, and you whimper. “Like the good little slut you are.”
God, the hold he has on you should be crime. You choke out his name pathetically, and Steve starts to rub you in thick, unrelenting circles. His free arm wraps around your lower back, holding you in place when his fingers dip down, and start to explore the folds of you pussy.
“So wet,” he mutters, pushing one finger deep into your cunt. You clench around him, and a squelching sound fills the room as he pumps slowly. “Wet and tight.” Steve looks up at you with a smirk. “You think you’re gonna be able to take my cock, doll? Christ, you’re barely taking my finger.”
He pushes in a second one, just to prove his point, and your mouth falls open. He’s right. The burn of his two fingers, it feels like he’s stretching you open with a fist. He slides them in deeper and deeper, his thumb working your clit, and your nails sink into his neck.
“St- Steve,” you gape between your bodies, watching him disappear inside of you. “Steve-“
“Hm?” He gets up to the knuckle, and looks up at you with a smirk.
You try to take a second to catch your breath, and he scissors his fingers, twisting his wrist so it hits a gummy spot inside of you. You cry out, and he silences you with a deep, messy kiss.
“Feel it,” he mutters against your lips, pulling his fingers almost all the way out. “No talkin’ for once, doll. All you gotta do is feel it.”
He slams his fingers back in. You whimper, but nod. Steve hums in approval, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You squeeze and gush around him, and he groans. You barely get a second to compose yourself before he starts to thrust his fingers, deep and hard, and you start to unravel.
Steve’s strong. This is him holding back, and he’s still so strong. You scramble to get a real, firm hold on something, because he’s pummeling your pussy into a drenched, slack oblivion. The pace is brutal, knuckles dragging right over your g-spot over and over, splitting you open in a way that makes you drool.
He makes his mouth busy, trailing kisses back down your throat, then over your shoulders. You moan, leaning your head against his, and he smiles against your skin. Steve draws back to meet your gaze, and through the daze of the pleasure he’s dragging out of you, you smile back.
Your body is rocking, from the brutality of how he’s touching you. Steve’s eyes flick down, but not to where his fingers are being swallowed by your pussy.
He’s looking at your tits.
He licks his lips, watching them bounce under his force. You think he might be hypnotized. Before you can say anything, he reaches up and rips your shirt clean off.
“Steve- Ooh-“
“Shhh.” He gives you a stern look, twisting his fingers in your cunt. “I’ve got you, doll. Just- Lemme-“
Steve looks back to your tits, and his eyes are almost black with desire. You’ve never seen anything hotter, than how he looks at you as he lowers himself down.
He mouths at the curve of your tits, sucking a tiny, dark bruise. You moan, starching at his bicep, but he just drags you closer. Forcing your back to arch, your tits to push into his face.
“Look at you,” he mutters, voice dripping with something close to reverence. “My girl.”
And you blink. Because that wasn’t discussed, but your pussy clenches all the same. His girl.
You don’t get more time to think about it before Steve’s lips wrap around your nipple, and you lose control.
He mouths at you like a starved man. Kissing and licking and sucking, sending tingling, electric sensations straight from your tits to your pussy. He moans every time you squeeze down on his fingers, which just feels like a vibrator right against your sensitive nipples, and makes you lose it all the more.
You’re grinding up into him, thrashing a little like an animal and whimpering in his ear. Steve bites down softly, his thumb staring to make quick, relentless swipes at your clit.
“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You moan, tugging at his short, soft hair. “St- Steve- Too much- I’m gonna- Fuuuck-“
You don’t know why you thought he was going to slow down. Steve switches nipples, biting down before sucking hard, right as his blunt fingertips hit that spot inside of you. You cry out as you cum, your body writhing against his stronger one. He keeps you in place, his hand working you through the orgasm. Pulling every last spasm of your cunt, and a few more after. He kisses your nipples and over your breasts before he draws up.
When it’s done, your eyes are lidded. Steve stares at you, slowly pulling his hand out. He smears your juices over your pussy, thumbing at your clit for a few more, light seconds. You squeak, and he smiles.
“You look pretty when you cum,” he mutters, and you flush.
You’ve been told that before, but this feels different.
This feels real.
You can’t think of anything to say. Steve doesn’t push you to try. He leans forward, cupping your cheek and giving you a smaller, softer look before he kisses you. You melt into him, too dazed from what might be strongest orgasm of your life to protest.
“’m gonna fuck you ‘till you can’t walk.” Steve mutters. “But- Not here.”
You hum in agreement. “Clean up later?”
“Later.” Steve grunts in agreement. “If I don’t get inside of you, think I’m gonna die.”
You giggle. It’s so stupid, but you giggle. Steve huffs out a low laugh, and drags your forward. You’re being carried like a koala in his arms. He kisses your cheek before drawing up to his whole height, and glancing at the door.
“I, uh-“ He gives you a sheepish expression. “I’m gonna have to run.”
You nod—you’re naked, you expected as much—and he clears his throat.
“You gotta hold on.”
“I am holding on.” You pat his neck, and he sighs.
“Doll, I’m gonna be running really fast-“
“I’m holding on tight.”
“Hold on tighter.”
You roll your eyes, and wrap him in the best chokehold you can manage. The asshole doesn’t even pretend to grunt.
“Your boobs are in my face.” He mumbles, and you snort.
“You were eating them like, five seconds ago-“
“Yeah, but- That was just us. What if someone sees-“
“That you’re carrying me naked? Probably that we’re fucking.”
He twists his neck to glare up at you. You smile innocently back, and he sighs.
His breath is warm, over your breasts. It makes you squirm a little, and Steve’s grip on your body tightens.
“You are such a brat,” he mutters, almost in awe. “I stop fucking you for ten seconds, and you’re already talking back again.”
“Oops.” You beam. “You should fix that.”
Steve chuckles. His tongue flicks over his lips. “Yeah,” his voice is dark. A promise. “Trust me. I’m gonna.”
And he runs. He runs so fast you squeal, because you forgot how fast he can be when he’s really trying. You press your face back into his neck to block the wind, and when he stops, you still don’t look up.
The smell hits you first. It’s deep and rich and-
Steve.
You poke your head up, and you’re in Steve’s room.
It’s not what you expected, a military cell where he sleeps and plans way to torture you. It’s… Cozy. There are books on a shelf that slightly poorly put together, and the bed is made but the sheets look thick and soft. There’s a mirror on the dresser, facing the bed, and so much paper you almost don’t know where to look. Drawings of flowers, and rivers, and sunsets. One of a bird, and a few of the landscape of the compound, and so, so many of-
“Is that me?”
Steve grunts, tossing you down onto his bed and starting to strip. You move to your knees, ready to scramble off the bed and get a better look at the drawings, but he gives you a stern look.
“Stay.”
You roll your eyes. “Shut up, I wanna see- Steve-“
He grabs you like you weigh nothing, and throws you right back onto the bed before you’re even on two feet. Your thighs press together, thrilled with the blatant manhandling. Steve notices it, and laughs.
“You like that, huh?”
“Shut up-“
“No, you liked that-“
“Maybe I did.” You stick your tongue out, and he smirks.
“You love bein’ a ragdoll, don’t you. Needy girl, you’re gonna let me do whatever I want to you-“
“You have drawings of me!” You blurt, because you really don’t need him to make you more horny.
Steve shrugs. “I do. So?”
“So?” You fumble, pulling at the sheets. “You- You like me-“
“That’s a shock to you?” Steve gives you an amused look. “I just fingered you in borderline public.”
“Well- You- You-“ You’re sputtering again. Only Steve does this to you. It drives you fucking insane. “You could’ve just wanted to fuck me-“
“Nope.” He shrugs. “I’ve been in love with you for a while. You just get on my last line sometimes, doll.”
And all your protests slip out of your head.
I love you.
He- He said-
“What?” You squeak, and Steve sighs.
“I love you.”
He said it again. “Wh- Why?”
“Why?” He gives you a tired, almost annoyed look. “Why wouldn’t I love you?”
“Because I’m annoying.” You answer immediately. “And mean, and bossy, and- I’m annoying-“
“You said that one already.” Steve starts to walk towards you, and you lean into his gravity, even as your heart beats in your ears.
“How do you know you love me.” You whisper. “It- It could just be my powers-“
“It’s not.”
“But-“
Steve takes your face between his hands, his thumb dragging over your lower lip. You fall silent, and you know you’re staring up at him like he’s the sun, but you’ve never been so warm. You’re afraid to move. To lose it.
“Steve…” You breathe, and he hums. “You- You can’t mean that-“
“I do.” He presses his thumb forward, and your lips wrap around it on instinct. You suck, and his eyes flash with more approval.
It’s embarrassing, how pliable that makes you. How he’d just need to give you one bit of praise after so much mocking, and you might just cum right here. Sucking on Steve’s thumb, naked on his bed, sheets bunched between your thighs.
“I love you because you’re smart,” he says, and useless, embarrassing tears prick at your eyes. “And funny, and kind. You never abuse what you can do to people. You work hard, you drive me crazy, you’re always ready to do anything for anyone else.”
You try to shy away. You’d been wrong. You’re not cumming, you’re getting so hot it feels like a fever, because having him degrade you is less embarrassing than this. Steve’s grip on you face tightens. He’s not letting you get away that easy.
“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs. “And it’s got nothin’ to do with any powers. So I love you, doll. And you’re gonna feel it.”
There’s nothing you can say to that. Tears are pricking at your eyes, hopeless and confused and desperate. You need to see what that feels like. Steve’s love, painted all over you.
“You want that?” He mutters, and you nod. “Words-“
“Please,” you breathe out, the words muffled around his thumb. “Show me.”
Steve smiles. He pulls his thumb away with a pop, and taps your check gently.
“See?” He smirks. “Begging.”
Your eyes narrow, but Steve doesn’t let you spit out a response. He crashes down into a harsh, long kiss that makes your toes curl and thighs rub together. Steve gropes all over your body, pushing you down into the mattress before rolling over and forcing you to straddle his chest.
He’s naked. You don’t know how you missed it—probably the love confession—but the thick, hard curve of his cock slaps against your ass, and his bare chest flexes when you drag your nails over his pecs.
“You’re gonna ride my cock, doll,” he rubs your ass, smiling up at you. “Don’t need you to say anything back. Just show me,” he squeezes your ass. “How fuckin’ bad you need it.”
You look back at it, and your breath hitches. It’s huge. Bigger than any you’ve ever taken, bigger than any you’ve ever seen, even in porn.
“Did you take fucking drugs for that thing?” You breathe, and Steve snorts.
“Yes?”
You glare at him, and he raises his brows.
“You getting on, or not?”
For a second, you think about being petulant. You cross your arms and pout, trying to test how far you can push him. But Steve just snorts, rolls his eyes, and picks you up. You don’t even get to wiggle before he’s forcing you down on his dick, and the air is knocked from your lungs.
Steve sits so deep in your, it might be pushing all the thoughts out of your brain. You gape down at him, making weak noises as your pussy pulses and stretches around him. His fingers dig into your hips, but it’s the only sign that he’s struggling to hold himself back.
“Much as I love you bein’ a brat,” he mutters, massaging your ass. “I’d rather see this.”
He reaches up slowly, tucking air behind your ear. You smile weakly, and he chuckles, settling fully into the pillows.
“Ride it, doll,” he orders, and god help you, you try.
You catch your breath after a long moment that feels like eternity, and start to roll your hips. Steve groans, eyelids fluttering, but doesn’t help you. His hands stay firm on your body, forcing you to use everything you have to grind down onto his dick.
He pushes against that gooey spot inside of you, and you falter with a long moan. You shift, forcing him right against it, and he lets out a sharp breath, but still doesn’t move.
“Feels good, doesn’t it,” he coos, cock throbbing inside of it. “Nice and big, fillin’ up your pussy so good.”
You moan, hips bucking. Steve grunts, thrusting up slightly, and you tip your head back. The friction is good. So good. For a second, back arched and thighs aching, you find a rhythm. It starts slow, rolling and pushing Steve’s cock right where you want it. You look down at him, sweaty and adoring beneath you. His hands wander, his breathing ragged and lips parted.
“That’s a good girl,” he mutters. “C’mon, baby, there you go.”
You keen, and move faster. Your knees are weak, but the need is stronger. You bounce on Steve dick, grabbing at his chest and gasping for air as he splits you open over and over again.
But it’s not enough. You don’t have extra stamina or strength, and he’s so big, and you’re so turned on your body is starting to forget how to move. Every wet, obscene sound makes you glance at where he’s disappearing inside of you, the way your slick is coating his cock when you pull up and his balls are heavy, pushed against your ass when you drop back down. You get hornier, and you want to just let go and allow your eyes to cross and toes to curl, but you can’t. You can’t find the pace.
You can’t cum. You can’t, and pathetic, fat tears stream down your cheeks because of it.
Steve reaches up, brushing them away with a tiny smirk. “Aw, babydoll. Don’t cry.”
You sob, shaking above him as your legs finally get to weak. You’re just squirming above him now, blinking under wet lashes at his teasing, lazy smile.
“Can’t get there all alone, can you,” he pushes you down, slamming his hips up, and you make a choked sound like his name. “Yeah, that’s right. Sweet girl, just a fuckin’ mess on my cock.”
“Ple- Please-“ You blubber, collapsing over Steve’s chest. “God, Steve- Please-“
“Aw. Begging so pretty.” He kisses your brow. “How could I ever tell you no?”
Steve grabs you off his cock, twisting you onto your stomach as he sits up. You’re shoved down into the mattress, your cheek pressed into the cushions by one of Steve’s hands on the back of your neck. The other stays on your hips, dragging your ass high up in the air to present to him.
“Such a mess.” Steve runs the head of his cock between the lips of you pussy, letting it press against your clit before he lines it up at your entrance. “You really needed this, didn’t you?”
He slides in slowly, and your eyes rolls back in your head. He’s impossibly deeper at this angle. You try to press your face into the mattress, to muffle your pathetic sounds, but Steve folds his body over yours, fisting a hand in your hair and yanking it back as he bottoms out.
“Look.” He bites your ear, dragging back before slamming forward, drilling his cock back into your abused, over sensitive pussy. “Look at us, babydoll. Fit so fuckin’ perfect.”
Your eyes dart up, and oh. Oh god.
It’s the most pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Steve wrapped around you, his jaw tight and one hand resting on your hip. You can’t see where he’s fucking you, but you can see how his muscles flex with each thrust. You’re trapped under him, your gaze locked onto his black, fervorish one. There’s no blue left in his eyes, as he hits a pace like an animal. Only hunger and adoration.
“St- Steve-“
“That’s it,” he rasps. “That’s right, say my fuckin’ name- Scream it-“
“Steve!” You cry out, the tears streaming down your face as it becomes far too much. “Oh- Ooooh-“
Steve lets go of your hair, wrapping his massive bicep around your neck. It keeps your head up, keeps your eyes on his. He kisses the side of your head, and you can feel arousal sliding down your thighs as he rolls his hips.
“So pretty,” he whispers. “Look at yourself. Look how fuckin’ perfect you are.”
Your eyes dart over, and an unbearable warmth prickles over your skin. You look more beautiful than you’ve ever felt in your life. Thoroughly wrecked, worshipped, fucked into a drooling mess with swollen lips and glazed eyes. Steve noses at you, smirking against your skin.
“Good, good girl.” His words are thick, his thrusts becoming erratic. “Feels nice, doesn’t it?”
You whimper an agreement, and Steve chuckles.
“You gonna cum for me? C’mon, show me how nice it feels, cum on my fucking cock-“
It’s like he has more control over your body than you do. The orgasm rips through you at his command, and you sob out his name as you fall apart in his arms. Steve grunts, pulling fully out for half a second to roll you on your back. You barely even feel the loss before he’s burying himself right to the hilt, and you can’t remember what being empty feels like.
There’s more than there looked to be. Steve pulls almost all the way out, to try and make more space, but it does next to nothing. Thick ropes of cum fill you up until you can almost taste it. There are wet, messy sounds as it starts to leak out, over your ass and thighs. You can see it in the mirror, dripping down onto the mattress. You’re stuffed up so well, you try to say Steve’s name, but it just comes out a pathetic moan.
He collapses over you with a grunt, and all the edge vanishes. He pulls fully out, cradling you in his arms and kissing over your neck.
“I made a mess.” He mutters, running light fingers over your inner thigh.
You giggle, kicking him away, and he smiles against your skin.
“You gonna talk to me?”
You shake your head, licking your lips. Your voice is gone, from screaming, and you can see him wince when he realizes it.
“I didn’t hurt you-“
You shake your head quickly, and his shoulders relax.
“Okay. Good. I- I’m gonna-“
He tries to get up. You grab him, and yank him back down. He grunts, giving you an incredulous look.
“Honey, it’s everywhere.”
You glare at him. He’s warm. He’s not getting away from you that easy. And you expect him to argue, like he always had before, but he just… gives in.
“Okay. Five minutes.”
He leans back over you, and you lay there. Cuddling.
Like a real couple.
You could be. Steve said he loves you, and he meant it, and that opens a door you’ve never thought about before. A door you never even let yourself think about.
A door you might want to see the other side of, more than you’ve ever let yourself admit.
But now-
You want it. You wanted this, and you want that, and you’re not going to spend another second pretending you don’t.
“About what I said,” Steve mutters, like he’s reading your mind. “Before we- Or- I guess during-“
You roll over and grab his face. He blinks adorably, and you smile.
Steve murmurs your name, and you smile.
“I love you,” you croak out.
His jaw goes slack, and your smile widens. It’s the only thing you can think to say. The only thing you want to say.
And when Steve kisses you, it’s slow. Romantic and loving and deep. He really loves you. Everyone in the world, and the perfect man loves you. He holds you like you’re the only thing in his world. You feel like you’re the only thing in his world.
And he might really be the only thing in yours.
✦End note: i will never back off my "he's mean during sex" agenda✦
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I’ve asked you a writing question before and now I have another sorry but how much research you do usually go through before writing your longer series? For example the Bucky security guard one or Ben’s soldier boy one, did you have a storyboard before actually executing your writing or was it all go with the flow. I’m basically the latter with all my writing which is probably where I’m stumping myself
Hi! I talk about this a little bit here, but to get a little more specfic for "research", i only write for shows/stories i feel i know pretty much by heart. I make up a lot of my own lore, esp for the larger stories, but i feel i have to know the canon before i meddle with it. if i'm unsure about something i look it up, but that's kind of the only research i do. I hope this helps ! <3
May I know how long it usually takes you to finish a request just out of curiosity not trying to pressure you or anything thanks for your work and effect mwahh
honestly pretty long, and it depends on what kind of request. if it's just small smut then it's likely to be faster, if it's a long, full story, maybe a few months. i feel bad about the wait time but i never want to pump out something sloppy just for the sake of doing it. i hope that answers your question, and thank you!
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on a03!✦
✦summary: Affection and relationships are the ruin of many a good woman. You're very careful, not to fall into that trap. Unfortunatly, Bucky might be the only one who can make you... stumble a bit.✦
✦warnings/tags: thunderbolts!bucky, no use of y/n, soft and yearning Bucky, no description of reader, fluff, light angst, love confessions, thunderbolts stay silly, smut (fingering, dirty talk, praise kink)✦
✦wc: 8.9k✦
✦Author's Note: I love silly romcom tropes like they're so important to me. Enjoy✦
You love Bucky Barnes, and it is none of his goddamn business.
It’s not a small kind of love. It’s the love that lives in your eyes, searching every room to see if he’s there. Your hands that can’t help but linger when you’re allowed to touch him, every brush of his skin electric against yours.
It’s in the steam of the shower and your bedsheets, who know every fantasy you’ve made up in your head. All the ones where you’re allowed to be with him, and it makes sense, and your whole life doesn’t blow up horribly because your heart beats simply too fast at only the sound of his name.
“Do the tie again.” You tell him, standing in the doorway of his dressing room. Your palms are already sweaty. You blushed at the sight of him.
You need to get it together.
There are all kinds of these events. Valentina drags the team around to parade like her own person diamonds, and you make sure the diamonds don’t stab or shoot anyone while being paraded.
You’ve already confiscated three guns, two knifes, and John’s shield—which you told him not to bring five fucking times—and you haven’t even seen Yelena or Bob yet.
Bucky, of course, is making your life stupidly easy. He’s smuggled no weapons—although you look at his arms, and his chest, and he’s the weapon, and that shouldn’t make you feel so fuzzy—and he’d been waiting obediently for you to come in, hands on his hips and a small smile on his face.
“You look nice.” He offers, and you laugh.
“The handler at the zoo does need to look presentable for the show.”
Bucky’s lips twitch a little higher, and you point your pen at his neck.
“Tie.”
He grunts, and gets to work in a second. The tie was fine. He’s just too perfect, and you needed to find something wrong for your sanity.
“Are you just hovering?” He asks, watching you carefully, and you shrug.
“I’m wherever the night needs me to be.”
“Hm.” His tongue flicks over his lips, and he turns back to the mirror. “None of us like these things, you know.”
“I don’t like them either-“
“And sometimes.” He drawls. “They make us feel like meat-“
“Bucky.” You say firmly, and he meets your gaze in the mirror.
Drawls your name, an amused smirk on his face.
Your heart does a stupid little fumble, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Hard, to stop yourself from drooling.
The only person who must know about your… situation is Valentina. You don’t know how she knows. What she thinks of it. But she must be punishing you for being such a fool by making Bucky look like that.
Edible. The suit is too tight on his arms, perfectly fit on his torso, his hair long and soft and his eyes glimmering with teasing light, and you feel a little dizzy-
Bucky says your name, sounding a little more concerned this time.
You pinch your wrist behind your back—fucking get it together—and stand a little taller.
“I’ve talked to her.” You say lightly, glancing over your shoulder to check no one’s in the hall. “I can’t try again too soon, she’ll get angry.”
Bucky grunts. “Let her be angry-“
“No. Not-“ You take a steadying breath. “Angry, angry. Like If you can’t get them in line, I can start looking for someone who will.”
You echo Valentina’s words, a thin chill running up your spine. Bucky’s gone still, his hands hovering at his tie, and you wonder if he cares.
If the threat means nothing to him where it means the whole universe to you.
You need this job. You’ve worked for it, you survived brutal application process, the training period where the New Avengers were treating you like a rotten au pair they wanted to drive out of the house, the public scrutiny and surprising amount of foul press about your body, your hair, your personality and relationships.
Valentina threatens to fire you every month. You think it’s her way of saying she likes you.
But you’d gotten close to the team. They tell you their problems like you’re going to wave a magic wand and fix them, and you haven’t helped yourself by actually doing that.
From their point of view, they go to you and complain about something trivial. Alexei wants more missions in snowy areas, they remind him of Great Mother Russia. John needs everyone to stop calling his hat stupid. Ava thinks the tea in the kitchen tastes like ass, and would like it corrected, please.
Usually, you have to tell them to say please. The only ones who always say please are Bob and Bucky, and they barely ask for anything anyway.
But if you get that please, you wave a magic wand.
You research until you uncover a drug cartel in northmost Alaska for Alexei. You make threats and ambush column writers on the street for John, even run a fucking propaganda campaign to make his dumb beret come back in style. You rewrite a whole contract with the tea company for Ava, and barely get a thank you in return.
But you’re not magic. And even if you were, there’s one wish your magic wand can’t grant.
Changing Valentina’s mind.
Bucky had asked you to talk to her about the events. He asked because they send him for the big request, like he’s their fucking dad or something.
And you tried. You did.
Valentina said no. And her threat wasn’t a playful, look at how amazing I am for hiring you joke. It was real.
She won’t bend on it. And now you look at Bucky hopelessly, begging him to understand.
“I can try again in a few months.” You mumble, shifting on your feet. “But- Not now.”
“No, it’s fine. They’ll survive, but-“ Bucky frowns, turning around from the mirror. “Are you okay?”
You blink at him, a lump building in your throat. Something is stinging behind your eyes, your head spinning, and you nod weakly.
Bucky says your name, taking a step forward.
You take a step back.
You are not a damsel or foolish civilian girl for him to comfort. You are a grown woman, who can handle being in trouble with her boss alone. Bucky’s reaching out like he’s going to try and catch you, his eyes so strangely soft, and your stomach does a flip.
You don’t need his pity.
You don’t need him.
“I’m fine, James.” You snip, and Bucky’s hand freezes. “Fix your tie.”
“I- Uh-“ He glances down. “Already did?”
You shrug, raising your chin. “Then fix it again.”
You turn on your heels before he can say anything else, and march out of the dressing room.
It’s one of the rules you have for yourself. You’re not supposed to be alone with him. Not for more than ten minutes. Your hands get all sweaty, and he sees right through you, and it jeopardizes everything.
You can’t be in love with Bucky. You are, but you can’t be.
It puts your job at risk, and your job is your life. It’s getting you out of college debt, it gives you health insurance, it paid for your parent’s house and your sibling’s college, and soon it’s going to pay for you to have a home, which is almost unheard of in your generation.
Loving Bucky is a distraction. A pipe dream through a straw, flimsy and pointless. You will not risk your fucking life just so that the pretty, sweet, strong man will like you back.
Your dumb body and heart get all giddy in his presence, but you know better. You are better.
Love like this—mind numbing, world moving love—is for schoolgirls. You’re stronger.
Bucky does not need to be privy to the fact that you love him. He’s lucky he knows you like him. If you loved him a little less, you might’ve been able to pretend you didn’t care about his existence at all.
You’d tried that, when you felt the love start to bloom. There had been a whole week, where you ignored him entirely.
It had made you sick. Literally. You’d lost sleep and stopped eating, your thoughts entirely devoted to just missing him—his dry humor, his smile, his small, silent acts of kindness and his face, oh his face—and it had gotten so bad you’d called out with the flu by Friday.
Then you went to the doctor. And you didn’t have the flu. You just missed Bucky.
He’d visited you on Saturday, while you lay in your bed like some Shakespearian heroine, lamenting and tormented by your devotion. He brought you soup, his Ma’s recipe, because he hates you.
“Can I ask you something?” He’d said while you devoured the soup straight from the container, your stomach deciding to cooperate in his presence.
You’d hummed around a noddle, and his lips had twitched.
In the light, he’d been looking at you like you mattered to him. Like you were cute.
Bucky’s hand had flexed on the mattress, as you blinked up at him. He’d looked away, tongue darting over his lips, and spoken low words.
“Did I do somethin’ to you?”
You’d choked on a noodle. “What?”
“Just- before you got sick. We hadn’t been talking.” He’d sighed. “You left the room, when I walked in. And if I did somethin’, that make you uncomfortable or whatever, I’m sorry.”
That had been the moment. The out. If you were smart, you would’ve told him you needed space, or that he did make you uncomfortable, and it was best if you just didn’t speak for a while.
But he’d looked so sad. Almost nervous, his lips in a tight line and a flush on his ears.
So you’d shaken your head.
Because you’re weak, and so in love with him it’s pathetic, and if he asked you’d open up the sky with your bare hands, no please required.
“No. We’re okay.” You’d offered him a small smile. “Just really wasn’t feeling well.”
Bucky had nodded, and grinned. The kind of grin that lit up in his eyes and make your whole chest sing with delight. You made him happy. You made him smile.
“Alright. Good.” He’d kissed your sweaty brow, and lightning had sparked through your body.
You’d leaned into the touch, just barely.
Bucky, by a small mercy, hadn’t noticed at all.
“Feel better, doll.” He’d said before he left, his tone something close to tender and hopeful.
You had within the hour.
It had been the last straw.,
You were in love with him. There was no outrunning it or stomping it down. But you don’t stay alone with him for too long. You don’t give him special treatment. You tell no one, and deny any accusations.
Jealousy isn’t allowed. He’s not yours to be possessive over.
That doesn’t stop the sting, as you watch him talk to some rich lady across the room. She’s dressed like a bird, all feathers, her lips more like a beak, long nails like talons. You fight off a sour expression, when she reaches up to brush something from his shoulder.
There’s nothing there. You pressed his suit, and he’s a clean man.
You could rip her talons off her fingers and feed them to her. That would be a nice lesson.
That you’re not allowed to teach.
He’s not yours.
You turn back to the bar, taking a heavy breath through your nose and ordering another drink. The only upside of these parties is that you’re allowed to get wasted. You’ve got the team trained on good behavior, the worst that happens anymore is Alexei trying to grab the band’s microphone so he can tell a story. You can handle that drunk or sober.
Right now, it’s going to need to be drunk. When you turn back to watch the party, Bucky’s still talking to the bird.
You down your glass in one gulp, and push off the bar. You won’t fall into this trap. It’s not her fault she got his attention. Not his fault he’s entertaining it.
It is entirely your fault, for daring to look and letting your heart tell you he’d stay silently loyal to a love he doesn’t even feel in return.
You glide through the crowd, putting as much distance as you can between yourself and them. You can get through this. You’ve done it a million times before, and you’ll do it a million times again.
“You’re allowed to have fun at these, you know?”
You sigh, giving Yelena a flat look.
She materialized at your side. You’ve gotten used to it.
“I am having fun.”
That gets an amused smirk. “You look like someone kicked your puppy.”
“I’m tired-“
“We are all tired. That is why we drink.” She clinks her glass against yours. “But you are sad drunk. Be happy drunk.”
“I’m trying.” You grumble under your breath, taking another large swig, and Yelena laughs.
“You know what your problem is?”
“No.”
“You are angrier than Barnes at joy.” She points Bucky out in the crowd, and you bite your tongue until it bleeds.
You never lost track of him in the crowd. You don’t think you could if you tried. But it still feels like you’re being ripped open, to see that he’s letting the bird touch him. She’s tracing her finger over his tie, tilting her head and smiling like a wolf ready to eat him alive, and you’re going to fucking throw up-
“At least he is letting loose.” Yelena hums, and you force your face back into an indifferent mask. “Even if it is with a woman dressed like a duckling.”
You choke on your drink, covering your mouth with your hand. Yelena looks up at you with delight in her eyes, watching you try to wipe the bit of champagne that escaped your lips.
“She laughs! I have never seen you laugh, it is weird. Disturbing-“
“Shut up.” You mutter, wiping the last drops from your cheek. “You’ve heard me laugh before.”
“Have I? I think I would remember the witch experiencing joy.”
“I am not a witch-“
“You are magic and mean.”
“I’m not mean-“
“Not to us.” Yelena shrugs, grabbing some cheese off a wandering server. “But to everyone else. Bucky Barnes says you tried to talk to Valentia about these dummy parties.”
You swallow. “I did, but- Yelena-“
“It is okay. He says you tried, and though he is untrustworthy fool, I believe him.”
You nod, taking the cheese Yelena’s offering you, then frown. “Bucky’s not untrustworthy-“
“No. About most things.” She takes her cheese in one bite, speaking through the mouthful. “He will not be going home with duck-woman tonight. We will see you in the morning?”
“You’ll see me in an hour, I’m going back to the Watchtower with you-“
“Hm. No you are not.” Yelena smiles knowingly. “Turn on your location. It is safer.”
You gape at her, unable to get another word in before she’s walking away. You don’t know why you’re surprised she knows. Of course she does. She’s Yelena.
But it makes your fingers curl on your glass, your eyes darting back to Bucky and the duck.
She’s draped herself over him, cooing and batting her eyelashes. He’s barely looking at her at all.
Bucky’s scanning over the room, a tight frown on his face. Then, for a split second, your eyes meet.
You rip your gaze away, downing what little was left of your champagne. Yelena was right.
There’s no way you’re going home tonight.
Some would call it unhealthy. You call it a survival technique.
“Another one?” The bartender asks you as you return, nodding to your empty glass.
You smile and giggle, leaning over the counter, making your voice all airy and high. “You remember me?”
The bartender’s smiler widens, and you twirl your hair.
He’s nothing bad to look at. Rich skin and deep, gentle eyes. Nice, thick arms. Short hair. Smells like some thick, amber cologne that won’t give you a migraine.
He’ll do just fine.
By the time he’s done, you’ll still be thinking about Bucky. You’ll probably picture him, as this sweet bartender fucks you like an animal. You’ve gotten good at not calling Bucky’s name, too, so you can probably squeeze out two or three rounds.
It’s a band-aid on some internal bleeding. It’s a show that fixes nothing, but at least the illusion makes everyone else see what you need them to.
You don’t care about Bucky at all.
And you certainly don’t look for him one more time before the bartender takes you home.
The bartender is the latest in a long, long line. It’s nothing you’re ashamed of, nothing you bother to hide.
Even if only Yelena will say it, the rest of the team certainly knows. Fuck, even Valentina and Mel know. Last summer you went to a conference, and Mel joked that you’ll tear your way though half the crowd before midnight.
“Do you think I’m some kind of slutty Cinderella?” You’d joked, and she’d smiled.
“Is it bad if I say yes?”
You’d laughed it off, and you know those kinds of jokes are supposed to hurt, but it’s barely even a paper cut. You know why you sleep around, and if people think you’re just a whoreing man-eater, there’s more power and mystique than being a starry-eyed, lovelorn idiot over one old man.
The system works. You fuck around, and no one even thinks you might be interested in romance.
In a life with Bucky, where you roll over and he’s always on the other side of the bed. Where morning sex is slow and loving, drizzled in honey and adoration, rather than just one more quick fuck before you march out the door.
He’d be soft. Gentle. You’ve seen how he handles fragile object, how he arranges everything so meticulously and touches everything he finds important with such care.
You’d like to be something he finds important. You’d like to be the most important thing in his life. His doll, smiling at him and leaning your chin on his shoulder, listening to all his problems and sitting in his lap to whine about your own. Finding yourself under him in bed with your arms pinned up, giggling while he kisses all over your neck then gasping when he moves to your breasts.
That’s the move Bartender pulled last night. And it felt fine. Nice enough. You’d moaned a little louder than you needed to—only slightly over-performing—but you really hadn’t hated it. Hadn’t hated him.
Eventually, you’d gotten sick of it and flipped him over. Pinned his hands and rode his cock until you came with a tiny, pleasant shiver, then jerked him off until he stained your tits.
“Call me later?” Bartender asks, and you give him a sweet smile, looking up from your shoes.
“Sure. Bye!”
“Wait, you don’t have my number-“
You’re already out the door. Fixing the straps of your dress as you walk down the hall, calling your ride without a glance back.
Nobody says anything when you get back to the tower. Alexei high fives you, but that’s the only reaction at all.
Bucky isn’t there, though.
Why isn’t Bucky there.
“Where’s Barnes?” You say, causally as possible, and John grumbles.
“Thought being the keeper was your job, not ours-“
“He’s in the gym.” Ava drawls over John. “He’s been there all morning.”
You nod, grabbing your coffee, and mutter that you’re going to go get changed. You’re not going to check on him wearing the clothing. He’s not your top priority.
That’s the whole illusion.
You take a long, hot shower, and the Bartender really was good, but you’re still aching.
You’re thinking about Bucky.
About him in they gym all morning. How even a super soldier gets sweaty after a while, even if he doesn’t lose stamina. How he’s going to be panting and grunting, his hair stuck to his brow and neck, maybe his shirt will be off and you’ll get to see his broad, thick chest-
Your fingers had wandered between your thighs, and you’ve pressed yourself back up against the wall. Angled your hips up, your legs spread shamelessly wide, short moans falling from your lips as the water pelted against your clit. You slide two fingers in and out of your pussy, picturing Bucky in the shower with you.
“Needy fuckin’ baby.” He’d murmur in your ear, body folded over yours. “You’d be soaked without the water, wouldn’t you. Ready for me when I so much as look at you, my perfect little slut-“
You moan him name into the shower, and the Bucky in your head chuckles.
He’d graze his lips over your jaw, crook his thick fingers deep inside your weeping cunt, start to brutally rub on that gummy, sensitive spot. You’d call his name again and he’d kiss you, rough and deep, and your legs would give out as you came all over his hand-
You slump down to the floor, turning your head to avoid the fall of the water. Your clit throbs, your body still shaking, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
Fantasies help too. The tend you over, stop you from doing something stupid.
But they can be dangerous too. Because you get dressed and go to find Bucky—which is normal, because it’s your job—and find him twice the mess you pictured.
He’s shirtless alright. Shirtless and wearing loose shorts. There’s a feralness, to the way he’s punching the bags, a wild glint in his eyes and his hair flying around his face. He hasn’t even bothered to put it up, and with how his chest is heaving, he’s been at this a while.
All morning. Ava said.
You swallow the drool, letting your eyes rake over his flexing muscles, his shining skin, his sharp, clenched jaw. Christ, how you’d like all that brutal attention turned on you. He could throw you around like that punching bag, rearrange your guts and grab you until you bruised, just as long as he kissed the bruises after.
You’re supposed to be doing your job.
Just for today, you let yourself stare for more than a second before dragging yourself together and clearing your throat.
Bucky catches his punching bag, turning to you immediately. You smile at him, and his jaw flexes.
“You’re home.”
“Obviously.” You shrug, glancing at the bag. “Ava says you’ve been here all morning.”
He grunts, releasing the bag and slowly pulling off his gloves.
Bucky never wears gloves. Not when it’s just a workout. You’re surprised the bag isn’t broken.
“Couldn’t sleep.” He mutters, and you frown.
“Nightmares? I can get another appointment with Dr. Indira-“
“No. The meds are fine. Just-“ He sighs, giving you an unreadable look. “Couldn’t sleep.”
You blink at him, tilting your head slightly. Bucky’s spent years getting back to a tolerable sleep schedule. You helped with every appointment, with every new med and strategy. It took months to get right, and if it’s not working anymore-
“I’m fine.” Bucky repeats firmly, and you scowl.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Could hear you thinking, doll.”
You stick your tongue out, digging your nails into your arm. “Shut up.”
He chuckles dryly, unhooking the bag from the ceiling. “You back for the day?”
“I’m always back for the day, it’s my job-“
“You weren’t doin’ your job last night. Maybe you’re seein’ the guy again.”
You flush at that, turning your chin up to hide it. When Bucky turns to look at you, you glare at him, and his mouth twitches.
He raises his brows in silent challenge. You can’t help yourself. It’s Bucky giving you the bait.
“I don’t see people twice. You know that.”
He snorts. “Yeah. I do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean-“
“Nothin’. I’m agreeing with you-“
“You didn’t say it like you were agreeing with me.” You snap. “You said it- You- Yeah. I do.”
You drop your voice to mimic his sardonic, dismissive tone, and Bucky gives you a look of almost mocking delight.
“You’re not good at impressions, are you?”
“I’m not- You just said it like an asshole-“
“You think I’m an asshole?”
“I think you’re like an asshole.” You sneer, and Bucky’s grin widens.
You don’t know what’s gotten into him this morning. You’ve been sleeping around for almost two years now. If he had a problem with it, he’s never so much as glared at you after.
He’s barely even looked at you. Everyone else teases or lets it go, but Bucky doesn’t even turn your way. Because you’re nothing but a friend to him, just like he’s supposed to be to you.
But now he’s taking a large step forward, looking at you with a strange glint in his eyes that makes your heartrate jumpstart. You take heavy breaths through your nose, trying to keep it together. You can keep it together.
Even with Bucky towering over you, all muscle and intense, blue eyes, you have to keep it together.
“That hurts my feelings, doll.” He mutters, leaning slightly down.
You’re not touching, but you can feel the heat rolling off his body. It’s almost an aesthetic, making your head empty and mouth hang slightly open.
Keep it together.
“Then stop being like an asshole.” You manage to snap. “And I’ll stop hurting your feelings.”
He laughs again, a low, deep sound that lights a fire in your gut. “Wouldn’t it be nice, if it were that damn easy.”
You blink at him, for once completely lost in the conversation. “What?”
“Nothin’.” He shrugs, leaning in a little closer.
His breath is warm and minty on your face. He takes up your whole vision, demanding every ounce of your attention, and all you can try to do is keep your breathing steady. Bucky’s eyes rake over your body like an inspection, landing near your throat.
On a hickey, you’d forgotten to cover with makeup.
You open your mouth to make a lame excuse, but he’s already moving.
Bucky reaches up his metal hand, and drags his thumb over the mark. Over your collarbone, then your sternum, then your neck. His touch is feather light and taunting. Your breath catches, your eyes fluttering against your will. Bucky hums, his hand wrapping fully around your throat. Your body reacts like a magnet, leaning into the touch.
He drags his attention back to your slack, hopeless face, your parted lips and glossy eyes.
His hand is just resting on your throat. His tongue darts over his lips, but you can’t imagine what he’s thinking. Why he’s doing this to you, when he’s never once looked at you like he is now.
Like you’re something tantalizing he needs to taste.
Like he’s hanging onto himself by a thread, and isn’t sure if his grip will slip before the string just snaps.
You try to say his name, to make him realize what he’s doing. How close he’s gotten, how your knees are threatening to give, if he doesn’t look away now. But it just comes out a shaky exhale, and Bucky looks hungrier.
Bucky doesn’t do this kind of thing. Not to you. He’s your friend—you cling so desperately to the fact that at least he’s your friend, at least he doesn’t hate or desire you, at least you’re the only one being broken—but now his breath is fanning over your flushed face, his eyes blown out like he’s just as stranded in the dark as you are, his fingers digging into the nape of your neck like he’s trying to leave a mark.
All you’d have to do is lean a little forward and your lips would meet. Every secret fantasy—in the dead of night, until the shower so even the walls don’t hear your shame—would be real.
You can’t let this be real.
Bucky’s eyes flick down to your lips. His nostrils flare, moving slightly forward until your knees and chests bump.
With every bit of resolve you’ve got, you move a hand up to his chest.
He goes rigid. Frozen like he’s waiting for you to shove him or drag him closer. Your fingers curl in the cloth of his shirt, as his grip slackens on your neck.
“Bucky…” You whisper, not even sure what you’re begging for.
He makes the hard choice for you.
Bucky lets go of you, stumbling back as if repelled. He frowns, blinks at you once, then just… leaves.
Walks out of the gym without another glance in your direction, swaying and stranded in the room.
Alone. Just like you wanted.
The air around you so, so cold.
You don’t stop thinking about it.
A week passes. Work resumes like normal, and Bucky behaves as if nothing happened at all.
Technically it wasn’t anything. Nothing HR would care about, at least. In a workplace of assassins and mercenaries, getting choked is more of a don’t be such a fucking pussy thing.
Which isn’t amazing legally. But Bucky didn’t hurt you. If you’d shoved him, you’re sure he would’ve let go.
But you hadn’t shoved him. He’d just stared at you with that look—the one now seared into your memory, that makes your thighs press together and thoughts work overtime—then left.
On missions he’s treating you the same as ever. Small grins and low, sarcastic jokes that make you both smile. Once in the kitchen he taps your shoulder and passes you tea without a word. John walks in a second later, shouting about how he wants a better parking spot—which is ridiculous, you don’t have parking spots, it’s a limited garage with two hundred parking spots and like eight people who use them—and Bucky puts a firm hand on your shoulder before you can stand up and start fixing it.
“Make him ask.” He mutters, low enough for only you to hear. “You gotta start makin’ them say please.”
You snort, breaking off a piece of your muffin. “You ever teach a toddler raised by wolves manners?”
He frowns. “Children don’t get raised by wolves-“
“They do in stories.”
“What stories-“
“The Jungle Book. Phineas and Ferb, but- Those are ocelots.”
Bucky hums, tongue flicking over his lip. “Y’know I met an ocelot once-“
“You met an ocelot-“
“In 19… 86?”
You snort. “Old man.”
“Shut up.” He nudges your knee with his, and the whole world stops for a second. “But yeah, I met one. Reminds me of someone.”
“Yeah?” You give him an expectant look, and he smirks.
“Walker.”
You giggle.
Like a fucking ditzy idiot, you giggle, and John cuts off his rant to look at you like you just vomited.
“What was that sound.”
“She laughed, John.” Bucky says dryly, taking a long drink of his coffee, and John frowns.
“No, I’ve heard her laugh, she laughs like a swamp witch-“
Your mouth falls open. “I do not-“
“Yes, you do, it’s all-“
“Walker.” Bucky grunts, giving John a silent, firm glare.
John scowls. “Whatever. Stop flirting with her so she can fix my damn parking spot.”
You flush, the usual biting tactic not working at all. Beside you, Bucky doesn’t even talk. He excuses himself as soon as John starts asking why Yelena’s scooter even needs a spot over his bike, leaving the space next to you just as empty and cold as before.
He probably just didn’t want to listen to John. You don’t either, you’re just being paid a disgusting amount of money that depends on going to Yelena and buying her five cakes in exchange for her moving her scooter five feet to the left.
Bucky might’ve already forgotten about the gym. Everything would be easier if he did. No complex conversations or dynamic. Just your livelihood safe, and Bucky not thinking about you.
Which is fine. Everything, as always, is perfectly fine.
You go out that weekend. There’s a club several blocks over where you know the bartenders and you usually get free drinks. You just need to not be in the tower. To not be near him, and remember that you are, in fact, capable of surviving silent love.
“You’re dressed up.” Bucky mutters as you stand at the elevator, and you laugh.
“Look at you, being observational.”
You only get a grunt in return.
“I won’t be out late,” you sound like a fucking mom, sliding on your heels and giving instructions about how to care for four grown adults. “Bob might forget where his meds are, in the new spot-“
“Top right cabinet.” Bucky mutters, and you nod.
“Don’t let Yelena drink coffee past seven, she’ll be up all night. Switch her to tea. If Alexei is looking for me, tell him I rented all the movies on the TV, and tell John I ordered his gun part-“
“We’ve got an event tomorrow.” Bucky says suddenly. “Save the seals. In Philly. We gotta leave early-“
“No, we don’t.” You grab your bag, not looking him in the eyes.
That always makes you want to stay. Forgetting Bucky—the point of this whole thing—is impossible when you look in his stupid, beautiful eyes.
“I got us out of it.” You tuck your phone in your bag, rolling out a crink in your neck. “And it was Save the Sea Lions.”
Bucky doesn’t respond. You usually don’t let yourself look back, but then he says your name.
“What time are you gonna be home?”
You swallow. His eyes are shining on yours. There’s a pull in your chest, that hurts to ignore.
But you’re good at it. And if you drink enough, you won’t be able to feel it at all.
“I don’t know.” You shrug. “Don’t wait up.”
You turn and walk away. He can’t be allowed to call you back. You’d always return to his side.
The night is just as awful as you expect. You drink too much, and find someone with blue eyes that can artificially feed the love ringing in your ears. It’s under the beat of every song, and on the tip of your tongue as they fuck you into a mattress.
You leave long before dawn, and far after midnight. Call a car and fix your hair in the backseat, like anything matters at all.
When the elevator dings, you touch the wall to keep yourself walking steady.
There’s a lamp on, in the living area. You poke your head in to check it’s not Bob.
It’s not.
It’s Bucky.
He looks you up and down, taking in the disaster like it’s a book. You smile at him. He doesn’t smile back.
His eyes land on a hickey near your jaw. His tongue flick, his brows knit.
And you thought you were good. That even after the gym, you were good.
But Bucky stares at you like you’re nothing. Not gutter trash or a buzzing fly.
Just thin air he’s trying to look right through.
He turns off the light, and walks past you again. Your shoulders brush, and the world shakes.
And you’re alone again. Which isn’t the end of the world.
Your heart is doing this strange, boiling roll about how it is the end of the world. Burning and howling like you’re flaying it alive, when it is perfectly fine.
Everything, even as your chest starts to absorb that cold, hollow space, is fine.
It’s not fine on the roof.
Everything is all in it’s perfect place, and then… the roof.
You go up there to listen to the city. To lean over the edge and watch the lights blink, and wonder if you’re really this small. It’s where you get dramatic, and listen music and pretend you’re important. Where you cry when you need it, your tears carried away in the wind. Where you whine to the sky about how much you love Bucky, and how pathetic it is, then go back inside and go about your business.
It’s a good thing you hadn’t quite gotten to that last stage yet, when you heard the door close behind you.
That’s where everything started to crumble apart.
Bucky says your name, and you glance over your shoulder, not hiding your surprise.
“What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.” He shrugs, holding up his phone. “Called three times.”
“Oh. No service-“
“Yeah, figured that out.” He stops at your side, leaning over the wall. “But you’re here.”
“I’m here.” You pause. “Where did you think I was?”
“Don’t know.”
“Did you need something-“
“Not really.”
“Bucky-“
“Just wanted to know where you were.” He mutters, glaring out at the city. “Didn’t know that was a crime.”
You don’t have anything to say to that. You try, opening and closing your mouth, but everything you can think of is mean. You don’t like being mean to Bucky, not when something in the air feels raw. Looking at his shoulders, it’s like he’s about to snap. You want to help. To make it better for him.
For this, you’re not sure how.
“You like it up here?” He asks, and you nod.
“I- I like seeing the people.”
“Course you do.” He mutters, dragging his gaze up to the sky.
“Wha-“
“There used to be more stars.” He cuts you off, brows knitting tight. “You woulda liked that too.”
You stare at him. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was drunk. “I like the stars now just fine. All three of them.”
That gets a low laugh, even if he shakes his head. “Nah. In the 40s, it was different. You woulda loved that.”
“The 40s? Where I would’ve been property-“
“Not that part, but- The sky. The water was cleaner, the air-“ He sighs, looking back down to the city. “Never mind. Forget it.”
You swallow, trying to make your voice softer. “Do you ever want to go back?”
“To the 40s?” He snorts. “Fuck no. There are just- Some things. That I think that you would’ve liked.”
“Oh.” You watch his jaw clench in the dark, fidgeting with your fingers. “What would Yelena have liked?”
Bucky shrugs. “I dunno.”
You blink, lost for words again. Bucky takes over the silence first.
“You really never see any of them twice?”
“Any- Huh?”
“Your… people.” He clarifies, a bitter look on his face. You frown.
“My hookups?”
He grunts, and you shake your head.
“No? I don’t even get their names.”
“But you fuck them?”
“Oh- Um-“ You flush, looking back out to the city. “Yeah?”
“Hm. Seems unsafe.”
“I share my location with Yelena, and I’m pretty sure Valentina put an implant in me, so I think I’m safe.”
It’s a joke. Bucky doesn’t laugh. “Why don’t you bother to date ‘em?”
You feel his gaze burning into you. It’s hard to speak in an even voice. “I- I don’t know-“
“They gotta have something for your attention.” He mutters, but it sounds like it’s mostly to himself. “The hell are they doing that isn’t up to your bar? What is up to your bar?”
It’s impossible not to look at him now. His gaze is demanding, and your heart starts to flutter under the attention.
“Why do you care?” You try to snap. It sounds weak.
Bucky chuckles to himself. “Why do I care, doll? You got the fix for everything.” He leans a little forward.
Your lips are inches away. His forearm is pressed against yours, and the sky is so big over your head but it’s all narrowing down.
It’s Bucky. Just Bucky. So close, closer than before, close like he wants to be touched. Like that could be allowed.
His eyes shining on yours in the dark.
His voice, deep and mocking and enchanting you like a bee to flowers.
“What’s my fix for this?” He looks back to your lips, his tongue flicking out. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do, ‘cause I feel like I’m losing my goddamn mind.”
You stare at him, voice small. “Bucky, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about-“
“I know.” He sighs. “Just- Tell me no.”
“No-“
He reaches up, thumb brushing over your lips, and your whole head goes quiet.
“Tell me to walk.” He mutters, gaze dragging back to yours. “Now. Please.”
You should. If your brain was working, it would’ve given him what he wanted.
But every thought but Bucky has left the building. And now it’s just your heart, singing his name.
You kiss him. It’s a movement like a wave, rising up until your lips are comfortably pressed together, every movement so natural you’d think you’d kissed a million times before.
Bucky cups your face, return every bit of passion in a second. You melt into him, your bodies moving like you were made for this, the heat spreading from his touch and taste straight to your core.
You grind forward, and Bucky moans your name.
It flips a switch. You’re not just a flame, kindled and alight in his arms.
You’re not supposed to do this.
You pull back, and Bucky freezes. You open your mouth, trying to find an apology, to beg him to convince you that this is a good idea.
But Bucky just lets you go.
You both stare at each other. You take a small step closer, asking him to catch you.
It’s not fine. You can’t breathe, if he walks away. You’re supposed to be stronger than that, but the world is going to fucking end, if Bucky leaves you here alone again.
“Why.” He rasps, and you shake your head.
“Bucky-“
“If you’re not- If this isn’t what I’ve been reading-“
“No, it’s-“
“You kissed me-“
“I know-“
“And you-“
“I know!” You scream, taking a stumbling step back. “I know, Bucky, I know- I just can’t!”
“Can’t what?” He takes a step forward. “Just tell me you’re not interested, I told you I’d walk-“
“But-“ Your hands wring, unsure what to do if they’re not allowed to touch him. “I don’t want you to walk.”
“But you shoved me-“
“I know.” You whisper. “I’m sorry.”
Bucky just stares at you, and you bow your head, hugging your chest tight. He’s going to walk. This time, he’s going to walk away-
“Can you give me the reason?” He mutters, and when you risk a look up, he’s hunched into himself like a kicked puppy. “I mean- I can try and help work it out, maybe change something-“
“No, it’s not-“ You swallow. “You don’t need to change anything Bucky.” Tears prick at your eyes. “You’re perfect.”
He nods, then mutters, “But you don’t want me.”
“I just- It’s-“ You take a shaking breath, looking up to the sky before you speak. “I’m negotiable, okay. I worked really hard to get where I am, and I- I’m not like you. Valentina can find another version of me, who doesn’t fall in love with her superheroes, and then everything- everything- That I have worked for is gone.”
You give him a pleading look, begging him to understand.
Bucky looks like you shot him. You don’t realize why until it’s too late.
“You love me?” His voice is rough, and your heart drops to your stomach.
“I- That’s- That wasn’t my point-“
“But you do-“
“I’m trying to say I shouldn’t-“
“But you do.” He mutters. He says it like it’s a miracle, and not your greatest curse. “You love me.”
“Well, don’t fucking say it like that.” You snap. “Of course I- You’re you.”
“And you’re you.” He counters, taking a step forward.
Your legs can’t seem to will themselves to step back. “Yeah. That’s my whole point-“
“It’s allowed.” He mutters, and you blink.
“What?”
“Us. Dating.” His eyes might be searing into your soul. “I checked.”
“Oh- Okay.” You frown slightly. “Why did you check?”
“Because.” Bucky’s hovering over you again. Both of you clear under the open sky, the heat from his body radiating onto yours, his hand slowly rising up to trace your waste. You want to murmur his name, but you can’t remember how words work.
Again, it’s all just Bucky.
“I can’t survive another hour.” He mutters, tracing a hand over your face. “Pretending I don’t need you like oxygen.”
Your mouth falls open. Bucky presses closer.
“It kills me, doll. Bein’ your friend kills me, ‘cause I’m lucky you’re just nice enough to pretend we’re better than a pack of feral animals with muscles and powers, but then you’re strong and kind and always so goddamn pretty, and I’m your friend but you’re my whole damn world.”
“Bucky-“
“I don’t ask you for anything.” He mutters, leaning down until your lips brush. “’Cause there’s nothing I want from you that I got any right to have. I want all your smiles, doll. Those cute snorts and glares, when you’re sad and hide it like it’s not making the whole place feel wrong, when you’re getting lost and you need someone to hold onto, hold onto me. Anything you need, I’d get. Anything. I’ll even let you keep fucking around with all that asses that can’t keep you satisfied for more than a night, if that’s what you need. But,” he drops his brow against yours, voice thick. “I want your mornings. Please.”
You can’t think enough to speak. If you do, you’ll break the moment and you want it to last forever.
“We can keep it secret.” He’s sinking down. Getting on his knees. “Or if Valentina threatens to sack you, I’ll threaten to walk. Just-“
“Bucky.” You whisper, because there’s only one answer you can give.
He stares at you desperately, your fingers combing through his hair. You’re tired of being alone.
And his body, pressed against yours is so warm.
“Okay.” You whisper, and his throat bobs.
“Okay?”
You nod, and smile.
Bucky smiles back.
And you’re under open sky, but you don’t really care who knows.
You fall into him, just as he rises into you. And this is even better than the kiss. This is hungry. Urgent and made of a fever you’re finally just letting sweep you away.
Bucky grabs at your hips, one arm sliding around your back as the other cradles the back of your head. Your arms wrap around his neck, your leg hiking up to his hip, and your kisses are urgent and sloppy. Open mouths pressed over each other, tongues tangled together with moans, Bucky’s hand dropping to your ass as your nails dig into his neck.
He squeezes, and you can’t stop the moan. Your fingers scramble to tangle in his hair, and he grunts at the pull, picking you fully up off the ground.
He’s getting hard, against your core. You grind down, trailing kisses over his jaw and trying to spur him into action.
Bucky moans in your ear, squeezing your ass again.
“Doll, you’re startin’ something-“
“Good.” You whisper, nipping at his throat. “Want it. Want it so bad, Bucky, wanted you forever-“
He groans, grabbing your jaw and slamming your lips back together. You make a high noise of delight, grinding faster and faster, the fractured pressure winding you tight like an electrical coil about to snap.
Bucky stumbles blindly back to the door, his mouth never fully leaving yours. His grip on you is possessive, and he stops every few feet, to kiss you deeper, squeezing your ass again. His hand slips further down, his fingers brushing over your core through your pants, and you whine into his mouth.
You barely make it into the stairwell.
Bucky kicks the door closed behind you, pauses for a split second, then whirls around and pins you against the wall. You start to pull at his shirt, but he’s got a single mind.
His mouth slots over yours, swallowing every single breath and gasp of his name. One hand grabs your wrists, pinning them over your head, and the other starts to tease down your body. Over your collarbone, up and down your sides, under your shirt to palm your breasts.
“Bucky…” You whine against his lips, and he only grunts, pinching at your nipple. “No- No teasing-“
“’M not teasing.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, dragging his hand back down to your waist. “I’m takin’ my time, doll. There’s a difference.”
“It- It just feels-“ Stars spark behind your eyes, when he switches to the other nipple. “God, Bucky-“
“Feels what?” He mocks, leaning back just enough to watch your expression. “Gonna use your words like a good girl.”
You try to snap back, but Bucky pinches the sensitive bud and your mouth falls stupidly open. Your breathing is coming short and fast, your head spinning with desire, and Bucky’s just playing with you like his favorite toy.
But God, being his favorite anything is paradise.
When he’s done with your breasts, your short breathless pleas for more completely ignored, he starts to kiss you again.
You just think he wants to taste your moan, when he finally shoves down your pants.
“Fuck.” He groans, dragging his fingers between your pussy lips, your head falling back against the door with a squeak. “You’re soaked. You always walk around this soaked for me, baby? Always wondering when I’ll finally be the one to take care of this pretty fuckin’ mess, fuck you so dumb you can’t even remember how to stand?”
You nod, straining at his hold on your wrists. This is the best torture you’ve ever experienced, bare to his whims and exposed, but you need more. You need him to fuck you like an animal, for the cool, metal fingers brushing teasing touches over your clit to just get inside of you, to let the release boiling over inside of you explode. They way you’re reacting to his light touches, you’d think you were a blushing virgin. You certainly feel like one.
You want to touch him. You need to touch him-
“Hey.” He spanks your pussy, and your whole body rushes with heat. “Asked you a question-“
“Yes.” You moan, giving him your best, doe-eyed stare. “Please, Bucky, fill me, I- I need it- Need you-“
That does it for him. He groans, and two fingers tease at your entrance. Bucky watches your reaction carefully, your legs spreading in offering, eyes still soft and pleading on his.
“Bet you’re gonna taste good.” He mutters, smearing your arousal all over your pussy, knuckles grazing your clit. “Think when I’m done with this, I’ll sit you on my face. Let you ride it until I’m drowning in it. You can touch me all you want, like that. But I’m not lettin’ you up until you’re begging.”
Bucky slides one finger in, slow and taunting. You squeeze around him, and he groans.
“Goddamnit, babydoll, you’re perfect.” He kisses all over your face, your lust glazed eyes unable to do anything but flutter with desire. “My pretty girl, mine-“
Another finger. Then a third. He starts to pump slowly, and you make a sound like his name.
“I know.” Bucky kisses your cheek, the pace picking up. “I know, but you’re takin’ it so good. Jesus, look at you.”
He yanks his hand out, spanking your pussy before shoving them back in, and you scream with pleasure.
“This fucking dumb on my hand, you’re gonna be drooling on my cock. I’ll fuck that smart head empty, keep you all pretty and relaxed in my bed for a month-“
You moan again, dropping your brow against his, and Bucky chuckles.
“Oh, you fuckin’ like that. Like the idea of bein’ nothing but a pretty slut for me, spending every day being fed and stuffed full of cock. You can put in your mouth, doll, take it how ever you want. Touch yourself in front of me, jerk me off, just get on your hands and knees and I’ll take you, just spank your pretty fuckin’ ass until you’re begging for me to fuck you-“
His fingers are drilling into your cunt now, the wet sounds echoing through the stairwell. He’s going faster than a machine, abusing your pussy until it’s fluttering and dripping down your thighs, slamming against that deep spot and driving you right up to the edge. When he chuckles the sound rolls through you, and when his cold thumb starts to rub furious circles on your clit, you open your mouth in a silent scream.
“That’s it, baby, there you go. All relaxed and happy.” He kisses you gently, and you whine.
Bucky smirks, twisting his fingers as his pace hits an impossible, skin-slapping high.
“Come for me.” He mutters in your ear, thumb working your clit into a frenzy. “Give it to me, baby, c’mon-“
Your release hits your with a scream. Your body goes limp as the stimulation turns into a blinding rush of pleasure, your pussy clenching wildly around Bucky’s fingers and a hot, wet gushing sound hitting your ears as your grind onto his hand.
Bucky pulls out slowly, keeping your hands above your head.
Then he cleans his fingers, holding your gaze the whole time.
Your hips buck, your fingers itching to hold onto more than just his wrist, and he grins. Leans down to kiss you sweetly, his lips tasting of your own arousal and making the heat in you spark up even faster than before.
“My room?” He mutters, and you nod.
“It’s closer.”
He hums, drawing back just enough to look you in the eyes. “And you’re staying the night?”
There’s the weight in his words. The silent promise, that he’s asking for.
It’s so easy to make it. There will be things to deal with, in the morning.
You’d rather deal with them, having Bucky at your side.
“Yeah.” You whisper. “I am.”
✦End note: She's a woman in a male dominated field folks.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
✦summary: you and dean hate each other. there isn't a moment you aren't fighting, just like there isn't a moment you don't wish he'd love you back, and there isn't a single second he doesn't want you more than you can imagine. ✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, implied age gap (20s - 40s), jealous!dean, angst, overprotective dean, pining, idiots in love, as is my way, feral smut (manhandling, praise kink and degradation kink, dry humping, teasing, dean's dirty talk, stripping, thigh riding, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, light nipple play, begging, fingering, face sitting, jerking off, pussy slapping, rough sex, some edging, cockwarming, creampie, big dick dean, mean dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11.5k✦
✦author's note: monthly voted fic! he's yearning so hard guys✦
The bar is loud, but you expected that. It’s what you needed. Between that and the drink in you hands, it’s going to quiet your thoughts. They get lost in chatter of the crowd, and the bass drum of the music. It pounds in your chest and dislodges your heart. You let it. You don’t want to feel it right now.
You check your phone, even though you’ve told yourself not to. The case is sticky from the bar counter, and you wrinkle your nose at the screen before you even read the messages.
Five missed calls from – Dean Winchester.
A sixth one comes through, your phone buzzing angrily. You roll your eyes, and for a long second you seriously consider drowning the damn thing in the abandoned beer glass next to you.
He doesn’t get to call you, like you’re some wandering child. He doesn’t get to get angry about you being out, when he’s the reason you’re here in the first place. And you told Sam to tell him that you’d be here. So really, this is Dean’s fault, then Sam’s, then yours.
The call goes to voicemail. You flip the screen back over, and take a long drink. If it’s really that big a deal that you’re out without him, he can put on his pants and come get you himself.
And he won’t. And that’s part of the problem.
Dean’s going to lecture you about safety when you crawl back in the morning, and you’re going to roll your eyes. He’ll ask you if you think something’s funny, sweetheart? You look him dead in his pretty eyes and say I don’t know, is it? He’ll get angrier. You’ll get angrier. Sam will try to mediate, and you’ll throw something at him before stomping off. Dean will chase after you, and wrestle you back into the room while calling you a brat.
When you get tossed down on the mattress, you’ll sink your nails into his shoulder, because you do every time. You want to drag him down with you, to make him feel this the same way you always have.
To big, too much. Too soft in all the wrong places, and too spiked everywhere else. There’s a sharp, angry shell around your heart that’s grown like an exoskeleton. It’s got wires and teeth that snap, whenever Dean gives you a little too much attention. You can never tell if it’s trying to eat him or latch onto him anymore. You don’t think it really matters.
Dean hates you. He thinks you hate him. He’s going to grab your knees and pin them to your chest, and you’re going to be the only woman in the world who he doesn’t notice flush against him. He’ll hiss that you can’t just go running around alone. That it’s not like you, to be reckless. You spit a fuck you, his grip will get tight, and he’ll shove you away to go take one of his long showers.
Sam will tell you to stop testing him. You’ll tell Sam to eat himself, and go back to sulking like a child in the corner.
Only Dean can do that to you. You hate and love him for it.
When you met—on a hunt that didn’t matter, until it did—he made you all giggly and dumb. Years of training and a mind that could never slow down, turned to goo from one roughish, lazy smile.
“You like trouble?” He’d asked you, trying even then to talk you out of a hunt.
“No. No one likes trouble.”
Dean had chuckled. “I don’t know about that, sweetheart. Most girls like you love it.”
You’d snorted. “Girls like me? What’s a girl like me?”
“Gorgeous.” He’d smirked, like he’d been dying for you to ask. “Smart. Mouthy-“
“Mouthy?” You’d cut him off, rolling your eyes. “Are you from the 60s?”
“No. But you’re provin’ my point.”
“You didn’t have a point. You were just trying to sleep with me.”
Dean had raised his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty. But- Is it working-“
“No.”
It had been. If Sam hadn’t come back to the car two seconds later, you would’ve climbed into Dean’s lap like a whore. Which wasn’t what you were. It wasn’t what you did. Sex with a half-stranger, sex in general, you didn’t toss your body around easily. You’d never been able to do the removing emotions part of casual sex. You’d always managed to come up with a million reasons not to, most of them looking something like have a hookup, get pregnant, the father’s already gone, the baby’s born with cancer, you love it anyway and it dies in your arms, if you’d been more responsible the baby would’ve solved climate change, everyone dies in a fiery explosion.
But you’d looked at Dean, and seen no death or path out that didn’t end in light. He’d grabbed your thigh in the dark of the car, and you’d flushed and smiled to yourself like a schoolgirl.
“You wanna know my middle name?” He’d whispered to you, later that night.
“That’s the worst pick up line I’ve ever heard-“
“It’s not a pick up line! I’m askin’ you a question-“
“But it’s going to turn into a pickup line.” You’d said flatly, and Dean had given you a boyish smile that almost made you forget that he was covered in vampire blood.
“You already know me so well,” he’d cooed, and you’d snorted.
“You’re predictable.”
“So you’re never gonna wonder what I’m thinking.”
You’d shoved his face away with a hand, still giggling. This was usually the point in a hunt where you started thinking about what came next. How long you had to get out of town, how much food you’d need to eat now before you got to your next stop—if you eat too much, you’re going to overstuff and get sick, if you don’t eat enough you’re going to be weak and pass out behind the wheel and cause a fifty car pile-up—and if there are any strings you needed to wrap up on the case.
But Dean had been smiling at you. And that had felt like the only thing that mattered.
“C’mon, ask me what my middle name is-“
You’d covered his mouth with a hand, shooting him a stern glare. His eyes had gleamed with affection, and something deeper you try not to think about now. It hurts too much. It makes you mourn for something that was never even yours to have.
“Only so you shut up,” you’d whispered. “What’s your middle name.”
You’d dropped your hand, and Dean had touched his lips like he was in some telenovela. You’d fought a smile. You’d never known someone could be so handsome it made your heart ache, and so cute you thought you’d explode.
He’d puffed out his chest, and grinned at you like he won the lottery.
“It’s Trouble-“
“It’s Adam.” Sam had called from the table. Dean had looked at him like he’d just murdered a puppy, and you’d laughed so hard you almost fell off the bed.
And you’d thought something was growing. You’d been a foolish girl, who thought the dorky, handsome hero in front of her would give chase, when she turned him down.,
If you could go back, you’d slap yourself in the face and tell you to get it together. Dean Winchester is Dean Winchester. You listen to the what the shadows whisper. You knew his reputation before he smiled at you in the low light of his car. You’re smart. Sam goes to you for research advice, you’ve come up with whole new ways to kill demons and trap angels. You fucking knew better, than to fall in love with Dean.
You should’ve known better.
You didn’t.
So you attached yourself to them like a little, leeching parasite. You followed them around, the Winchester’s shadow, and fell more in love with Dean, and got your heart broken every night when he slipped out of the bar with another woman on his arm.
You’d gotten mean. You’d started getting short with him, and he’d fueled the fire building in the cavity of your chest by being a dick. Suddenly you were too inexperienced for every hunt. Too young to be out alone—you’ve had that fight more times than you can count—or too tense and tightly wound to think clearly.
He’s the one who doesn’t think clearly. He’s the one who drinks himself to death after a hunt and has literally fucked monsters because he can’t be bothered to plan ahead. He drags you and Sam to towns because he’s got a good feeling about them. He tells you to just relax, princess, and you want to punch him in his stupid, pretty face.
But you still love him. You love him so much you think it’s going to kill you. And you keep that locked in the deepest chamber of your heart, because he never needs to know that you still get stupid and soft for him. If he finds out that the first time he tried to leave on a hunt without you, you almost started crying in the middle of the bunker kitchen, he’ll look at you like you’re crazy.
And you are crazy. You know that. You’re a fumbling, wild ball of worries and sneers, and Dean would never want a nagger. He’d never want a younger woman who acts like she knows better—even though you do—and who needs him to be perfectly attentive and affectionate every second of every day.
You’re in love with a man who hates you. And if you had to listen to him fuck that secretary through the wall all night, you were going to kill yourself on their bed.
So now you’re at this loud, disgusting bar, drinking something that you’re praying numbs the pain, and smiling so wide it hurts your face.
The abandoned beer’s owner came back. He’s a broad shouldered, smirking man with a clean cut face, and lighter hair. If you get a little more squint, he looks just like Dean. If you get a little more buzzed, he’ll sound like him too.
You hate causal sex. It doesn’t count if you’re pretending it’s Dean. It doesn’t count if it makes this stop hurting.
“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ here?” The man drawls, leaning across the bar.
You giggle, and it sounds distant to your ears. “Drinking.”
“Yeah?” The man smirks. “You like drinkin’, doll?”
You shake your head, swinging your feet and spinning in the bar stool. The man raises his brows.
“You sure you don’t? You’re goin’ through that thing fast.”
“It tastes bad.” You wrinkle your nose. “Feels good.”
The man’s smile turns wolfish. Your phone starts to buzz again, and you glare at the screen before shutting it fully off.
“Boyfriend?” The man asks, and you shake your head.
“He wishes.”
No, he doesn’t.
That’s the problem.
And you keep flirting—if it can even be called that, because you mostly babble about hating the drink you got and hating Dean and loving the man’s drink because Dean likes that one too—and the man’s hands find their way to your lower back and thigh.
“Why don’t I help you forget about Dean?” He winks at you, and you shrug.
The world is mostly just blurred colors and lights now. Everything feels awfully light, in a way you’re not sure you like.
But you like forgetting about Dean more. So even though you want to tell this man that it’s impossible to forget about Dean, you’re also just lost enough to want help finding your way out.
“Okay.” You beam at him.
You make it to the parking lot—his arm around your waist, herding you like a lost lamb—before Dean ruins everything. He always ruins everything.
There’s a shout of your name, almost ripping through the hazy fog of your drunken mind. You were feet from the man’s car. Just a few more steps from having fun, which you’re bad at doing, but maybe if you practiced, Dean would like you more.
From the look on his face when you turn around, it might’ve actually made him like you less.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He marches across the lot with a scowl, hands balled into fists and gaze fixed solely on you. “I almost made Sammy file a missing persons report-“
“’M not missing.” You stick your tongue out at him. “’M right here. Stupid.”
You mutter the last word under your breath, and Dean freezes. He blinks slowly, gaze raking over your body. That’s not fair. It makes you feel all warm and puddley. Your core floods with heat, and your knees get weak, and he’s get looking at you.
Dean takes a half-step forward, his voice dropping low and rough. “Are you drunk?”
“No.”
There’s a larger gust of wind. Dean’s eyes gleam in the golden light of the parking lot. He looks a little like an angel. You trip standing up, then giggle when the man pulls you back up. Dean’s jaw drops, his brow knitting tight.
“You’re fuckin’ wasted.” He mutters, shaking his head. “Jesus, sweetheart- C’mon.” He steps forward, reaching out a hand. “Let’s go.”
“Nuh uh.” You pout, shaking you head. “I’m not drunk-“
“You’re standing like we’re on a freakin’ ship. Come on.” He flexes his hand, and you cross your arms over your chest.
He doesn’t get to win. “I’m having fun.”
“We can have fun back at the room-“
“The lady said she’s having fun.” The man next to you pulls you tighter into his side, fingers curling on your hip like a lock. “Screw off, pal. I got here first.”
And Dean recoils, looking at the man like he’s noticing him for the first time. You can’t read his expression in the low light, but it seems angry. Or just annoyed. Or indifferent. His jaw looks sharp and clenched. You want to lick it.
“Listen, bud.” Dean snaps, glaring down at the man. “This ain’t a who got here first thing. My girl’s drunk. I’m takin’ her home, or I’m punching you in the face.”
The man is silent for a moment. He and Dean glower at each other, and you frown between them. There’s something poking at your drink addled brain, but it’s spelling a word you can’t read. All you can really figure out is that they’re being weird.
“You Dean?” The man asks.
Dean’s eyes narrow. His shoulders square, the way they do before he’s about to swing at a demon. “Yeah. And?”
“Nothin’.” The man smirks. “Just… Thought you’d be God, based on how she was talkin’ about you. But,” he chuckles, tipping his chin. “You’re just a little bitch.”
Dean’s jaw ticks. You don’t need the lighting to figure out what he’s thinking now. You can almost feel it, rolling off of him in waves.
He’s pissed.
He looks the man up and down, and if he throws a punch, you know he won’t be the one who goes down. You’re drunk enough not to worry about the violence of it. All your useless thoughts can spin around is the idea of Dean fighting for you. Of his massive arms flexing as he knocks down the other man—who, the longer your Dean stands in front of you, looks less and less appealing—and scoops you into his arms like the princess he mocks you with being. Then he can wrap his arm around your head and fuck you against the hood of his car, until you’re drooling all over his cock.
You giggle at nothing, a unignorable heat pooling between your legs. Dean’s attention snaps back over, and you beam at him.
Something in his gaze shifts. He lets out a slow breath, and stretches out a hand.
“Let’s go, princess.” He beckons with two crooked fingers, and you almost stumble forwards. “We can watch whatever you want, alright? I’ll get you some of that ice cream you like, and- Sammy can watch with you, if you don’t want me around. Just-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “Get over here. Please.”
He sounds so tired. Tired and almost sad. Your feet move without your permission, and you reach to take his hand.
The man yanks you back, and you yelp.
“Remember what you told me, doll.” He drawls in your ear, loud enough for Dean to still hear. “Remember how he treats you.”
Dean scowls. “You stay out of this-“
“He doesn’t care.” The man ignores him. “You told me, he doesn’t love you.”
Dean opens his mouth, something stricken flashing over his features. You feel a little sick.
“C’mon. I got you.” The man rubs your hip, smiling gently. “Show him what he’s missing. He can bitch about it, alone all night while you get fucked real good.”
Dean’s face is a shade of red you’ve never seen before. He has an expression like someone just punched him in the gut.
And it’s not the fucking real good that steels you. It’s the reminder that Dean won’t be alone. He has his secretary. And you’re allowed to have your random bar man, and there’s nothing he can do about it.
Dean rasps your name. “Come here-“
“You come here.” You snap, and it’s meant to be a sharp, killing blow that makes him sigh and give up.
If you were a little less drunk, you would’ve known that was never going to work.
Dean’s throat bobs. He exhales like he’s going through the trials of Hercules, rather than arguing in a parking lot. He rubs his jaw, looks up to the sky like he’s praying, and chuckles. It’s dry and flat, but so deep and rough. You shiver at the sound, and almost fall right into him again.
“Alright.” Dean mutters, shaking out his arm. “Fine.”
He marches forward, clocks the man across the jaw, and throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. It happens so fast your body is still catching up with it, by the time he’s halfway back to the car. You realize you should be thrashing and shouting when you hear the Impala door unlock. Your body doesn’t seem to want to cooperate though. Dean’s back is warm, and his hand is resting near your ass, and it’s making you putty for him to play with.
He did it so fast. He didn’t even break a sweat or give the man a chance to fight back, before he grabbed you. When he lowers you into shotgun, he does it so gently. Like even after getting on his nervous, you’re precious cargo. He brushes the hair from your face, hunched over as you settle into the bench.
You blink at him, still drunk and confused. Dean still has that strange look in his eyes, his lips parted as you just stare at each other. His hand lingers on your cheek. You lean into the touch, and his nostrils flare.
Across the parking lot, there’s a roar of his name.
Dean sighs, and stands up. He walks around the hood of the car, slides into the driver’s seat, and starts the car. You watch his fingers move like a starved woman. You want him to put them in your mouth, and you almost tell him when there’s a slam on his window.
The man is shouting at him, veins bulging and eyes bugging. He looks nothing like Dean now.
And Dean doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t even look at him. He just puts the car in reverse and pulls out of the lot. If the man gives chase, you don’t see. You’re too busy staring at Dean.
The first half of the drive is silent. Low music plays on the radio, and you watch Dean in the moving light of the road. Long shadows and dim streetlamps make him look like he fell out of a dream. Your arms twitch to wrap around him. Your eyes are heavy, your head intoxicated by the rich, amber and smoke smell of his cologne. If you lay your head in his lap, you wonder if he’d shove you away.
“You weren’t actually gonna go with him.” Dean mutters suddenly, and you blink.
“Huh?”
“That douchebag.” His fingers flex on the wheel. “You weren’t gonna fuck him.”
You frown. Useless, exhausted tears prick at your eyes. You don’t even know where they’re coming from. Just that you feel small, and you’re tired, and Dean’s dragging you back to the motel just so he can fuck another woman with peace of mind.
“He’s not even your type-“
“You don’t know what my type is.” You grumble, sinking into your seat.
Dean huffs a laugh. “I’ve seen what kinda guys you find hot on TV. He was ugly.”
“He wasn’t ugly-“
“Yeah, he was.”
“You’re ugly.” You snap, and Dean laughs. You get why. You didn’t even convince yourself.
“Only on the inside, sweetheart.”
Your lips wobbles. For some reason, that pushes the tears out of your eyes. You sink into the bench, wrapping into a tight little ball that Dean won’t be able to pry apart. You can’t stop the tears, but he doesn’t get to have more leverage.
Dean clears his throat. “Are you crying-“
“Shut up.” You sniff, wiping your nose with your sleeve.
He murmurs your name, voice softer than before, and you lean against the window.
“Shut up-“
“You’re fuckin’ crying-“
“Dean!” You glare at him through the blur of the tears. “Just- Leave me alone!”
Dean’s silent for a second. But only a second.
“Did he hurt you?” He grunts, something hot and angry lining his words. “Before I got there, did that son of a bitch-“
“He barely even touched me, you just- You fucking-“
“I what? What the hell did I do-“
“You hate me!” You shout, and Dean goes horribly still.
“Don’t be insane.” He mutters your name, glaring out at the road. “I don’t hate you.”
You scoff, hugging your knees tight to your chest. “Yes, you do. You hate me, and you- You never let me have any fun-“
“That wasn’t fun, that was a lawsuit.”
You don’t even have a good comeback to that. He’s probably right. It just makes you angrier.
You turn away from him all together, watching the trees blur past in the window. You’re certain you’re going to be sick now. You close your eyes, the tears still flowing, and hide your face behind your hair and in your knees.
Dean sighs. His voice gets softer again.
“Listen, you’re drunk, alright? You’re gonna feel better in the morning-“
“No.” Your words are muffled, but you know he’ll still hear them. “I won’t.”
“Yeah, you will. I get a million of these drunken… feelings.” He says the word in an oddly tight tone. “You just gotta sleep them off.”
You laugh, wet and weak. “Whatever, Dean.”
“I’m trying to help-“
“No, you’re not.” You hug yourself tighter. “You just wanna get back to her.”
He’s silent again. You can hear his fingers drumming on the wheel. Almost hear the frown in his voice when he finally speaks.
“Who the hell are you talking about.”
“Your secretary lady.” You grumble, bitter and tired.
“You mean Katy?”
You grunt. “I hate her.”
“I- Princess, I sent her home like- Two hours ago.” He pauses. The air in the car feels oddly heavy. “Moment Sammy told me you were gone.”
You huff, but don’t respond. You can’t think of anything. You can barely understand what that means.
“You hate her?” Dean’s voice is so quiet you almost miss it.
“Mhm.”
“You barely even talked to her-“
“I don’t care.” You mutter, rubbing away the tears on your cheeks. “I hate her.”
“Why-“
“’M tired.” You pull your face out of your knees, and find Dean staring at you.
He clears his throat, and looks back to the road. You think you’re going to start sobbing again, when he stretches out an arm around your shoulder.
Neither of you say anything, when he slowly pulls you into his side. You haven’t been this close to him in a while. He’s just as warm as you remember. You’re already half-asleep, just from a few seconds of his fingers tracing circles on your shoulder and your face pressed into his neck.
“I didn’t like him that much either.” Dean mutters suddenly. “Your bar guy.”
You hum, nosing at his jaw. He smells good.
“I wish you’d tell me.” He adds. “When you were goin’ out. I’d come with you-“
“I don’t want you to come with me.”
Dean tenses. He doesn’t pull away. “I’m fun at bars, sweetheart..” His voice is too casual. “We’d have a good time-“
“You’d have a good time.” You grumble. “I’d be alone.”
“I wouldn’t- If we went out, I wouldn’t ditch-“
“Yes, you would.” You yawn, and you’re crying again, but it’s softer.
Even now, Dean makes everything easier.
You wish you could hate him more than you love him. You don’t think you’re ever going to manage.
“You hate me.” You whisper, sleep already pulling on the corners of your brain. “’S not fair.”
Dean swallows. His fingers still on your arm. “Why not?”
“’Cause I-“
You cut yourself off with a yawn. Dean mutters your name, and you shake your head, burrowing further into his side. You need to be as close as possible. You need to sink something into him that he can never wipe away, the same way he did with you.
“I love you,” you mumble. “And you hate me. And- It’s not fair, Dean.” You tremble, letting out a soft, pained breath. “Not fair.”
And sleep drags you under. But right before the world fades, you could swear you hear Dean’s low voice, and it floats through your dreams.
“I don’t hate you, baby.” He murmurs. “I couldn’t if I tried.”
Dean hasn’t spoken to you since last night.
You get up in the morning with a migraine and shame burning your face. You remember all of it. Every painful, whiny moment. You acted like the lovesick, annoying girl he accuses you of being. You told him the thing you swore you’d never say aloud. Once Sam tried to make you admit it, and you dumped a glass of iced tea over his head. You’d whimpered Dean’s name into your pillows while you touched yourself, and you’ve told yourself to get it together in the bathroom mirror, but you’ve never said it aloud.
And you just told.
You ruined everything.
He gives you meds and a glass of water to help the hangover, but he doesn’t look you in the eyes. You pack up the rooms and hit the road, but he doesn’t look in the rearview mirror to check on you even once. You bite the inside of your cheek and refuse to cry again. That will just make you seem more pathetic than you already are.
“What’s going on with you two.” Sam mutters when you stop at a gas station, hanging over your shoulder in the candy aisle.
“Nothing-“
“Don’t lie.” He gives you a flat look. “You’re not even fighting, which means you’re fighting.”
You peer up at him with a flat expression, and he sighs.
“You know what I mean. What the hell did he say to you.”
“He didn’t say anything.”
Sam mutters your name, and you grab a candy bar, flipping him off over your shoulder.
“Just drop it, okay?”
“No! I can’t drop it! I live with you guys, and- This is so much worse than when you were acting like you hated each other-“
“Sam-“
“You can’t see his face while he’s driving.” Sam hisses, grabbing a pack of almonds. “He’s either going to punch himself or cry, and that’s gonna be a whole freakin’ thing. Just- Talk to him-“
“He can talk to me.” You grab a pack of jerky. You can’t help it. Dean must be hungry too, and despite all your common sense, you still love him so much the world is slipping out from under your feet.
Sam pleads with your name. You shake your head.
“Please. Drop it.”
He examines you for a moment, then sighs. He agrees to drop it. It doesn’t make anything better at all.
Because Dean’s not even being mean or overbearing or annoying. He’s just silent. And Sam’s right.
It’s so much worse.
Normally by this point in the ride, you’ve been fighting so much that Sam turns up the radio until you can’t hear each other. You’ll poke his neck to annoy him, and he’ll swat you like a fly before cornering you against the car when you stop for food. You’ll shove him and march into the diner. He’ll stomp after you and sit too close in the booth, making you press your thighs together with every mocking word. He’ll flirt with the waitress, and you’ll daydream about throttling her every time she bats her eyes. Dean will keep your knees against each other’s, while he gets her number, and you’ll pour a bunch of salt over his pie when he goes to the bathroom.
You’ll shove at each other, until one of you snaps and stomps away. You’ll cry yourself to sleep that night, because he hates you, he hates you, he hates you.
But you don’t even have any tears left, and Dean doesn’t hate you.
He just can’t stand to look at you, now that he knows you love him.
Sam gives you worried looks, while Dean glares silently at the road. His fingers drum on the wheel, and you hug yourself tight. He might not be looking at you, but you can’t stop looking at him. If he asks you to leave, it will kill you. If he doesn’t ask you, but never speaks to you again, you’ll just wither away into nothing. But you can’t be the one to break the silence. You’ll only make it worse.
You stop at a diner, and the waitress has the biggest boobs you’ve ever seen and the kind of honeyed smile that usually makes Dean smirk.
Today he doesn’t even look at her. You have to order for him, which makes the waitress glare at you, as if you’re responsible for him sulking so much he doesn’t care about boobs—and you are, but she has no way to know that—and you give her a tight smile.
Dean doesn’t thank you for the food, but he looks at you for the first time all day. You blink at him, biting back the pout threatening your lips. You’re not going to break here, in broad daylight, with Sam right there.
Dean lets out a slow exhale through his nose, and looks back to his food. You blink away the useless sting behind your eyes, biting your inner cheek until it’s swollen. Sam gives you a pitying look. You shoot him a glare.
“He still sat next to you.” Sam mutters while Dean checks you into a motel, that night. “Whatever happened, he’s not that mad at you-“
“Sammy!” Dean calls from the desk. “The lady needs our IDs!”
Sam sighs, going through his pockets as he walks over.
Dean’s gaze meets yours, and you flush. You can’t read the expression on his face, and you fucking hate it. You thought you knew all his expression. You thought you knew him. You thought he’d at least have the guts to turn you down like a man.
Instead his tongue flicks over his lips, and he rips his gaze back to the desk attendant. You hate her. You hate him. You love him. Your head hurts, overflowing with too many thoughts that you can’t even pick them apart. You want to scream and cry and run and sink into the floor. It’s not fair of him, to do this to you. You’re going to be sick. You want to drown your sorrows in as many drinks as you can find.
You settle for curling into your bed, hiding your face in the pillows, and crying until your body is limp and your throat is sore. He knows you love him. He hates you. He’s never going to look at you again, and you’re going to turn into a ghost. An evil, angry ghost. One of the ghosts that he has to kill. Then he’s going to kill you, and you’re going to turn into a demon, then you’re going to start the apocalypse again, and everyone ever is going to die because you told Dean you love him.
You cry until you can barely breathe, then a little while after. It was silent. There was no way Sam and Dean would hear it, even through the door joining your rooms.
But there’s a creak, and you sniff, turning your head just enough that Sam will be able to hear you.
“I’m fine, Sam-“
“Not Sam.” Dean mutters, and you freeze.
You don’t move. You don’t dare. Dean clears his throat, and you hear him shifting on his feet. He’s close enough to be fully through the door. You hear it close behind him, and bunch the sheets in your arms.
“I- Uh- I was hopin’ we could talk?”
You still don’t move. Dean coughs. His voice is even rougher than usual. Normally, if you had the brainpower, you’d be worried about him.
“Can you look at me?”
You scowl at the pillow in your face. “No.”
Dean mutters your name, and you cut him off with short words.
“Go away, Dean.”
“No, we need to- I got some shit to say, alright-“
“I don’t care.”
“Trust me, princess, you’re gonna care about this-“
“Stop calling me that!” The words rip from your throat, sudden and broken.
You flip over, moving to your knees, and Dean stumbles back like you punched him. His face is red, and there are bags under his eyes. He’s still handsome.
Asshole.
“I-“
“Shut up.” You hiss, narrowing your eyes at his slack expression. “Stop- Stop calling me princess and sweetheart and- and acting like you fucking care about me! It’s fucking cruel, Dean, it was a dick move before and now- Now you know.” Your voice cracks. You can’t even say it again. “Now you know, alright? You know what I- How I am! And I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have told you, but I was drunk, and I- I was tired, and you were being nice and you’re never nice to me-“
Dean opens his mouth, and you chuck a pillow right at his chest.
“No.” You spit, pushing up higher on your knees. “No, you don’t get to talk now. I don’t want to hear it, I don’t need- You don’t have to tell me! I get it, I know what you’re going to say!” You thought you were out of tears. You were wrong. “I’m just a stupid little girl, and you see me like a fucking sister or whatever, I don’t know what I’m talking about and I don’t know how I feel and you- You’d never-“ You choke on your own words. “You’d never feel-“
He moves quickly. You don’t even get the chance to throw another pillow.
Dean grabs your face between his hands, pulling right up into his. Dean kisses you, and your sharp words dissolve into a surprised sound, then a tiny moan.
His mouth is demanding. Your lips are already parted, and when the moan pushes its way up from your chest, Dean pushes his tongue over yours with a grunt. It’s a messy and desperate, noses bumping and spit mixing. You try and shove back, but Dean just pushes further over you, and you dissolve into his touch.
You’re panting, when he pulls away. He keeps his hands firmly planted, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your lips and his shoulders heaving. His fingers are tangled in your hair. You feel small under his gaze, but not in the painful, ignored way like before. It’s like you’re being shielded. Like he’s trying to protect you from your own, spiraling thoughts by sucking them out of your face.
It’s working. You stare at him with an open awe you can feel in your chest, bubbling and light.
He kissed you.
His lips were soft and chapped in the best way, and he was even better at kissing than you imagined. He tasted a little sugary from the pie he had with dinner, and something richer that was just Dean. His touch on your is almost reverent, and you want to suck on his thumb to see if it tastes as good as his lips. You want to suck on every part of him. For science. You want, you want, you want. Dean kissed you, and now all you can feel—thundering through your bloodstream—is want.
He murmurs your name, scanning over your slack features. Your eyes flutter. His throat bobs.
“I’m gonna talk now.” He says, and you nod.
You should be shoving or fighting him, but he’s looking at you like you matter. And you’re far too tired to bother with anything but tears or pleas for more kisses right now.
“I thought-“ He shakes his head, huffing a low, dry laugh. “I thought you hated me.”
“I don’t-“
“Yeah, I got that now.” He gives you an amused, tired look. “But- Sweetheart, you called me a seductive manwhore last week.”
Your face burns a little. He’d been flirting with another waitress, at another diner. You’d wanted to slit her throat.
“Seductive is a compliment.” You mumble weakly, dropping your gaze to his chest. Dean chuckles.
“From where I was sittin’, it felt like you wanted to kill me.”
You shake your head, the movement small between his hands. “You looked like you wanted me to fuck off. You always looked like you wanted me to fuck off-“
“No.” His grip tightens, and your attention shoots back up.
And you think you understand that expression. It’s heavy, and you have seen it before. But it’s always been a dull glint in his eyes, before he looks away.
Longing.
“Dean…” You whisper, and he leans down, pressing his brow to yours.
“I never want you to fuck off.” He mutters. “Never. Please- Don’t.”
His voice breaks. You reach up to grab his wrists, and he squeezes his eyes shut.
“I know I ain’t perfect. I know I’m old, and a dick, and I don’t got much to offer-“
“I like what you have to offer.” You whisper. His brow knits tighter. “I always liked it.”
Dean chuckles. “You shot me down. First time I offered it.”
“You wanted a hookup, I- I can’t do that-“
“I couldn’t either.” He looks at you under hooded eyes. “Not with you.”
You press your lips in a thin line, years of anger and sparring fading into a blur of a dull, bruising ache. He was always a wound you refused to heal. If he cuts you open any wider, you don’t think you’re going to have the option anymore.
“You didn’t seem interested.” Dean rasps. “You started- Lookin’ at me all weird and calling me names and-“
“I loved you.” You say it before you can think. Dean lets out a sharp breath, his weight pressing further down.
“But- I- You too.” He winces, like he hates the words. “I didn’t- It was never- Son of a bitch-“
He looks like it’s paining him to try and say it. And you know. You know he can’t, because he doesn’t even say it to Sam.
But he looks like he’s going to cry. Dean never cries.
He means it. The thing you never let yourself dream of, he means it.
“I- You just- I wanted shit, and you seemed like you wanted nothin’ to do with me, so I-“
You move carefully, tugging that collar of his shirt down into the kiss. Dean goes rigid for a single, horrible second.
Then he almost melts.
His fingers dig into your skin like he can’t bear to let go. His body collapses over yours, his kisses going from the soft ones you started to fast and desperate. He kisses you like he’s trying to leave a mark, and you meet him with every bit off passion.
Dean folds you down, until you’re flat on the mattress. Your legs fly up to wrap around his torso, and he grabs one of your hands, tangling your fingers together. The kisses turn slow. A little more certain and controlled, Dean sucking on your lower lip before kissing the corner of your mouth, then your upper lip. You smile into the kiss, and a broken sound rumbles from his chest.
He pins your hands next to your head, squeezing once before he breaks away. He looks wrecked. He stares at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and your head buzzes, nice and clear of what ifs.
All that matters right now is Dean above you, and the electric heat in your body. How his hand fits so perfectly in yours. How your bodies are already molding together, and you’re both still fully clothed.
“You deserve better, baby.” He mutters, and you almost laugh.
There’s nothing better. There’s Dean, glorious and unreachable, and there’s everyone else.
“No.” You whisper, beaming up at him. “I don’t.”
Dean’s throat bobs. He lowers himself down slowly, pressing his lips slowly over yours. Like he’s still not fully sure. You hum happily into the kiss, and he takes the cue easily.
You lose yourself in him quickly. His lazy, passionate kisses and his hands, slowly tracing over your body. He starts with light touches near your hips and waist, every brush of his fingers making you shiver. You arch into it, when his thumb grazes the bare skin of your midriff. Dean groans, testing the waters with another slow graze of his fingers.
“Deeean…” You breathe against his lips, and he grunts.
“You’re so soft.” He mutters, slipping his hand under your shirt. “So fuckin’ reactive and soft.”
You whimper, heels digging into his back as he teases his fingers up your spine. “Don’t- Don’t tease-“
“Not teasin’.” He nips at the corner of your mouth. “Just sayin’ things that are true, baby. Not my fault they make you all stupid.”
Your breath hitches, your head tipping back as your legs spread slightly. Dean hums, interest flashing in his gaze. He noticed. Of course he did. He notices everything.
“You like that?” He drawls, kissing over your cheek, then down your neck. “You like bein’ called baby? Or called stupid.”
His hand drifts up your side, until his thumb is grazing under your breast. The sensation, combined with his dirty words, makes your hips roll. A dizzy, pleased sigh escapes your lips. Dean chuckles, rubbing his thumb in a tight circle. His lips graze a sensitive spot on your neck, and your hips roll again.
“I think you like both.” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Dirty girl, bet you’re already wet for me.”
You whimper, the sound turning to a sharp gasp when Dean shoves his knee right between your thighs. You buck off the bed at the sudden pressure, eyes glazing and mouth hanging open.
Dean sucks on that sensitive spot, and your whole body shivers. You can’t stand to not move, not with the heat of him all around you. His thumb drags up, brushing over your nipple right as his tongue flicks against your skin. You start to mindlessly grind against his knee, chasing just a little bit more friction. Dean chuckle, biting softly at your neck before bullying his knee further against your clothed cunt.
“That’s it.” He growls in your ear. “Messy fuckin’ girl, already humping my leg. You need it that bad, sweetheart? Can’t even wait for me?”
“I- I’m sorry-“ You whine, trying to stop your body from moving.
It doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. Dean slips his hand from under your shirt and grabs your jaw, forcing your gaze onto his, and his attention just fuels the wildfire under your skin. You need him, and form of him you can get. You need him harsh and all over your body, until there’s are marks you won’t be able to wash away in the morning. You need him to claim you so deeply neither of you can back out.
Dean watches you with a gentle, but sharp awe. Like he’s trying to memorize the scene below him, that you’re sure is quiet a sight. You fucking his leg like a dog in heat, your adoration and love finally allowed to pour all over your face.
“Need you,” you breathe out, grabbing his wrist. “Need you so bad, Dean.”
A low rumble leaves his chest, his eyes getting darker with every tiny moan from your lips. His attention is almost too much. You try and turn your face into the sheets, but he tugs it back with barely a flick of his wrist.
“Dean, please-“
“Look at me.” He taps your cheek with one finger, slamming his knee forward.
Your glossy, tear-stained eyes dart to his, and he smirks. It’s soft, but dangerous. He smiles down at you, and another breath of his name escapes your lips.
“What do you want, sweet girl?” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Use your words.”
It takes you a second to remember how. “You,” you breathe out, and Dean’s jaw ticks. “Want you, Dean, always wanted you-“
“I know, baby,” he coos, leaning slowly down. Your noses bump, and you whimper, closing your eyes. “You want me so bad it hurts, don’t you. Bet your little pussy is fuckin’ calling my name, begging me to stuff her up.”
“Yes,” you nod, bobbleheaded and dizzy. “Oh my god, yes-“
“But how.” His voice turns stern, the heat of his breath making you shiver. “Do you want me? Soft? Or,” he pushes your further down onto his knee, and your eyes roll a little back. “Hard?”
Dean drags his thumb over your lips, squeezing your cheeks into a tiny pout. You try to keep fucking his knee, but he’s got you pinned so hard against it that you can’t move. You’re trapped in a cruel kind of heaven, with everything right on the brink of falling, and Dean holding you over the edge by the nape of your neck.
“Hard,” you whisper, dragging your eyes open to meet his. He needs to see it. How bad you want him. “Wanna- Ohh-“ Your lashes flutter, as Dean starts to slowly grind his knee against your core. “Wanna feel you. All of you. Don’t- Don’t hold back.”
His grip on your jaw tightens. His voice drops a full octave. “Baby, are you-“
“Yes.” You smile at him, already a little drunk on his everything. “I trust you.”
And that seems to be what gets him. Dean blinks at you for a second, the façade of pure control slipping. You know it’s a game, and that when you’re done he’s going to coddle you like a princess. But you’re not sure he knew you knew. Not sure he understood that, even when you thought he hated you, you would’ve placed your life in his hands without even a beat of hesitation.
Dean leans down, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. His hand pulls from yours, and he wraps his arm around your lower back. His fingers tickle your sides a little, teasing the side of your breast, and you giggle. Dean grunts, pushing you further into the mattress. It just makes you giggle more.
“Somethin’ funny?” He mutters, and you can hear it again. He’s back in this. It sends a shivering thrill through your body.
You need more. And you shake your head, trying to test just how much it takes him to snap.
“You’re laughin’ like something’s funny.” Dean leans back up, glaring down at your lovedrunk, giddy expression.
There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes.
You’re about to be fucked into next week.
“Look at you.” He mutters, palming at your breast through your shirt. You gasp, arching into the touch, and Dean chuckles. “You’d do anything I told you, huh. Just to make me fuck you.”
You shake your head, and Dean chuckles.
“Don’t lie, princess. Good girls don’t lie to me.”
Your breath catches. Your thighs press around Dean’s knee, the grind of your hips short and uncontrolled. He lets you writhe below him, smirking at the pants that escape your lips.
“Does it hurt?” he coos, smearing some spit over your cheek. “Your pussy aching, baby girl? Already can’t take it?”
“N- No.” You choke out. “I can take it-“
“Doesn’t seem like you can.” He mutters, scanning over your limp body. “I’m not even touchin’ you and you’re about to cum. Can’t believe you’re that fucking easy.”
You whimper, shaking your head. “I- I’m not easy-“
“Yeah?” Dean mocks. “How many other guys you fucked?”
“Two. Just two-“
“They make you feel like this?”
“No- Never-“
“Damn right. They don’t.” Dean grunts. “You’re mine, princess. My fuckin’ girl.”
You whimper, heat rushing through you at the possession in his voice. You are his. He has no idea, how completely and totally his you are.
“Say you’re mine.” Dean orders, and you nod.
“Yours. All yours, Dean, I’m- Fuuuck-“
He pinches your nipple rolling it between two fingers. Your hips try to buck off the bed, but he’s pinned you down too well.
“Fuck- Dean- You can’t just-“
You moan, and he chuckles.
“Oh, baby.” He leans back down, brushing a featherlight kiss over your lips. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”
Dean nips on your lower lip, then rises back up, patting your cheek.
“Open.”
You do, without a thought. He chuckles, leans down, and spits right into your swollen lips.
“Swallow.” He grunts, and you obey.
You lick your lips for good measure. Just to see how he’ll react. His mouth falls a little open, a deep, possessive sound rumbling chest.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost fully to himself. “So fuckin’ eager. You ready to listen, princess?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, and add for good measure. “Please.”
Dean’s lips twitch. “Beggin’ and I don’t even have you naked yet. We should fix that.”
“Fix what-“
“Stand up.” Dean drags you upright with steady, but firm hands.
You follow his lead, letting him move you off the mattress and onto shaking legs. He keeps you between his spread knees, smirking up at your confused expression. He’s got one hand, steadily rubbing the back of your thigh.
“Strip.” He orders, and your cheeks burn.
“Dean-“
You cut yourself off, when he just raises his brows. God, if he wasn’t begging you for attention fifteen minutes ago, you’d be putting up more of a fight. Just for the show of it. To prove that you’re perfectly capable of thinking for yourself. That you don’t need him at all.
But you think he knows that. And for once, you don’t want to have to think at all.
You peel off your clothing slowly, burning under Dean’s gaze. He’s tracking every movement, dragging over every bare inch of skin. Your top goes first, and his hands fly right up to palm your breasts. His hand is big and warm, and you bite back a tiny moan.
Dean smirks, leaning slowly forward to trail open, wet kisses over the valley of your breasts. You weave your fingers through his hair, your breath stuttering. You fumble with your bottoms. It’s a little hard to focus, with his tongue swirling around your sensitive, peaked nipple.
“Shit- Dean-“ You take a deep breath, tugging at his soft, short locks. “That’s- Mmmm-“
He sucks lightly, and you lean fully over his chest. He chuckles, flicking his tongue back and forth, and all you can think of is that sinful mouth against your core.
“I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” He kisses your nipple, before switching to the neglected one. “For me.”
You swallow, grabbing at the hem of your bottoms and tugging them down. Dean grabs a handful of your ass, slapping it once before dipping his fingers down between your thighs. You collapse over him with a weak noise, and Dean just laughs. The shame in how quickly he’s unraveling you, how wet you know you are, it just makes you ache for him more. He’s got you, needy and in the palm of his hand. He knows it. And still, he touches you like he’s been waiting to his whole life.
“That’s my girl.” He mutters. “Son of a bitch, you’re so fuckin’ wet. You been walkin’ around like this? Waiting to get bent over and turned into my little cockslut.”
“Ye- Yes.” You press your face into his hair, nails scratching at his neck. “Oh my god, Deean-“
“Yeah. That’s right.” Dean hums as you grind down onto his fingers, teasing between the lips of your pussy. “Barely even fuckin’ touching you, and you’re soaking my hands. Jesus,” he laughs, the sound vibrating against your chest. “You’re getting wetter every time I talk.”
You keen, when the tip of his forefinger grazes your clit. It’s like being struck by lightning, making your whole body rush with pleasure and your pussy clench around nothing. He flicks it, just that once, then pulls away. You hug his head tighter, begging between your every moan.
Dean doesn’t budge. He rubs over your pussy without touching your clit again, muttering dirty words against your skin.
“Look at you,” he kisses your shoulder. “My pretty fuckin’ girl.”
“Dean-“
“Come on.” He slaps your ass again, and your knees give a little. “Like I couldn’t make you cum just from talkin’ to you.”
You flush, wrapping your arms around his neck as he pulls you fully into his lap. Dean pauses, at the way you shiver, and pulls back. You try to avoid his gaze, but he isn’t having it. He grabs your jaw and forces your gaze back to his, eyes gleaming and playful.
“Oh, I could, couldn’t I.” He smirks. “You’d cum for me just sittin’ here, letting me call you names.”
“No.” Your protest is short. Weak. Dean looks at you like he’s just pulled the sweetest bunny into his trap, and he wants to eat you alive.
He pulls you down for one of those kisses that’s too slow and sweet. It’s almost mocking, with how his cock is straining against his jeans, pressing into your thigh. You dissolve into it, lowering your guard against your better judgement. Dean squeezes your ass, rubbing where he’d spanked before. Your knees are jelly, your core pressed right against his denim-clad bulge.
Jesus, he must be massive. Just the idea makes you shiver, and Dean smiles against your lips.
“You’re bein’ so patient,” he coos, massaging your hips. “You trust me, don’t you? You know I’m gonna fuck you real good.”
You hum an agreement, smiling from the praise. Dean combs his fingers through your hair, sucking on your lower lips before pulling slightly back.
“You’re ready, aren’t you? I could fuck you right now and you’d take me like I was lubed up.”
You whimper, and Dean pushes you further onto his bulge.
“You gonna let me own you, sweet girl? Let me make you the dirty fuckin’ cumslut you wanna be.”
“Deaan-“ You gasp weakly. “Don’t be mean-“
“Why?” He kisses your cheek. “You like it. You’re the one who said you wanted it, baby. And fuckin’ gush,” he runs his hand between your thighs. “Every fuckin’ time I call you my dirty little girl.”
He’s right. Your pussy clenches, arousal dripping down your thighs. Dean laughs, manhandling you to stay upright as moves fully onto the mattress and lies flat on his back. You stare at him for a second, unable to move with his hold on your hips, but unsure what to do with yourself. You’re straddling him, watching with an open mouth as he pulls off his shirt and settles fully into the pillow. His cock is pushed right against your pussy. You grind down, and he hisses.
“Not yet.” He mutters at your pout. “Need to taste that sweet pussy. C’mere.”
He beckons, and your mouth falls open when you realize what he means.
“Dean, I can’t- You’re going to suffocate-“
“Nobel death.” He grins, and you scowl.
“I don’t want you to die the first time we have sex.”
“First time?” He wiggles his brows. “You’re gonna let me come back for seconds?”
“Dean, I’m serious-“
“So am I, can we do an all you can eat kinda situation-“
“Dean Winchester.” You shove his chest, and the idiot just laughs. “I’m not- I’m not doing that. I don’t want to hurt you, that’s- I’m not-“
“Hey.” Dean grabs your hand, squeezing it gently. You meet his gaze, and it’s a million times softer than before. “It’s okay. This ain’t gonna hurt me, I swear, but if you just don’t wanna, I have a lotta other ways to make us both feel good.”
He drags his thumb over your knuckles, and you take a deep breath. You hadn’t realized it. You were about to cry again.
You peer at Dean through your lashes, and he offers you a boyish, gentle smile.
“Promise it won’t hurt you?” You whisper, and he nods.
“Swear on your life.”
You nod, slowly and carefully. Dean opens his mouth—probably about to ask if you’re sure—but you’re already crawling up his chest.
He smiles, rubbing your thighs as you settle them on either side of his head. You take a deep breath, your hands fidgeting and unsure where to rest. Dean grabs them and guides them into his hair, before kissing the inside of your thigh. Your breath hitches, and you almost collapse straight over him.
He laughs, digging his dull nails into your ass. “Sweetheart, point of this is you sitting on my face.”
“I- I am-“
“You’re hovering. That ain’t sittin’.”
“I don’t want to crush you-“
“You won’t.” He sighs, kissing the opposite thigh. “I got you, right?”
You nod. He trails the kisses upwards, close to where you’re sure you’re dripping on his beard. His eyes never leave yours.
“You trust me?” He rasps, warm breath fanning over your pussy.
“Of- Of course I trust you-“
“Good.” Dean kisses your clit, sloppy and using his tongue to flick the little button back and forth.
You almost shriek, the sensation overwhelming. You squirm, unsure if you’re trying to get closer or wiggle away. Dean makes the choice for you.
“Hold on.” He grunts, right before yanking you right down onto his face.
And oh.
Oh god.
You’ve been eaten out before. Even by people who were good at it. Who enjoyed it. You came before, and walked away with no complaints.
Compared to this, they might as well have just spat on it and walked away.
Dean eats you out like he’s on a personal mission for honor between your legs. Like he lost something in your pussy and he’s trying to shake it loose. His jaw works like he’s devouring the finest food of his life, his tongue dragging and pumping in and out of your sensitive opening. His nose is pressed right against your clit, and he moves it with his full face, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing.
“Fuuck- Fuck!” You cry out, yanking on Dean’s hair. “Dean- Oh- Oh my God-“
He moans, and the vibration makes it better and worse all at once. You’re trembling, no way to escape it, no way to feel it less. Dean massages your ass as he works, keeping you pinned to his face, to the pleasure he’s slowly dragging out of your body.
You pull his hair again, and his time he smacks your ass with his moan. Your back arches. You have to grab the bed frame to stop yourself from collapsing.
“Dean- Deeaaan-“
You chant the word like a prayer. It’s all you can remember. The infernal man below you laughs, and you push down harder into his wet, open mouth. He grunts, and doubles his efforts. His tongue traces around your pussy before shoving back into your tight cunt, and you clench around him with a whimper.
He tightens his grip on your hips, dragging them slowly back and forth. Guiding you into fucking his face. You follow his rhythm, and swear you can feel him everywhere in your body. Your nerves light up, with every stroke of his tongue and bump of his nose on your clit. Your mouth hangs open, and you pant as you try to hold off your orgasm, building up and up and up in your core.
One of his hands disappears from your body. You’re too lost in his mouth below you to notice, until you hear it.
The sound of slapping skin, mixed with Dean’s increasing moans below you. You manage to find enough of a mind to look over your shoulder, and the sight shoots straight to your pussy, gushing on Dean’s face.
He’s fisting his cock, thick and long and a little curved. He beats it into his hand, the head angry and red, coated in a thick layer of pre-cum. You twist back around looking down at his face between your thighs, and find him staring back.
He’s been staring the whole time. Eyes dark and wrecked, fixed on you as you writhed and moaned above him. He’s getting off to it. To having you like this.
Dean moans—fully, totally moans—into your pussy, his eyes never leaving yours.
And you can’t hold it off.
“Dean- I- I’m gonna-“
He squeezes your ass, moaning against your pussy again.
Permission.
You cum with a cry of his name, grinding down onto his face through your orgasm. Your vision goes white, your whole body shaking and seizing up as Dean’s tongue strokes you through it. He doesn’t stop when you’re a trembling, dazed mess above him. He slowly shifts you backwards, cradling your body as sits up, forcing your back into the sheets, between his legs.
He kisses your clit gently, eyes shining on your unfocused, glossy ones.
“Taste better than I imagined.” He murmurs, slowly moving you further up the bed. “And trust me, baby. I lost a whole lotta sleep imagining.”
You swallow, eyes darting to his still hard cock. Dean follows your hungry gaze, then laughs, angling it to rub between the lips of your pussy.
“You’re really that needy, huh.” He teases. “Not enough for just my mouth. Gotta have my cock, too.”
You hum, too lost in the feeling to even protest. You’re flat on your back, legs hiked up in the air and over Dean’s shoulder, fully exposing your poor, swollen pussy to him. He slides his cock right between the slick lips, the tip bumping your clit. You pout up at Dean, spreading your legs wider to try and urge him on. He raises his brows, pausing with his cock pressed over your clit.
“Already too fucked out to talk?”
You nod, and pride and worry mix in his eyes.
“Baby, if you need me to take it easy-“
You shake your head frantically. He promised no holding back. You want to be sore from him in the morning.
Dean sighs, lowering your legs so he can lean over your face. You glare at him, grinding your hips up against him. He pins you back to the bed with a single hand sprawled on your abdomen and a stern look.
“There’s gonna be more time for it to be rough.” He murmurs. “I been plenty mean tonight. And I love it, sweetheart, I do, but I’m gonna love anything-“
“Dean.” You push out, your voice wrecked and hoarse. “Hard. Please.”
“Are you-“
You push up on weak elbows, capturing his mouth against yours. Dean leans down, kissing you with every bit of adoration and softness he’s about to rip away for the sake of pleasure. You smile against the kiss, boneless and happy, and Dean grunts.
“Alright.” He mutters, the darkness in his voice sending a chill down your spine. “You get what you ask for, baby girl.”
Yes.
You’d say it, if he hadn’t already stolen most of the words from your body. And you thought that it was bad before.
Dean slowly shoves himself into your dripping cunt, and you can’t remember your own fucking name.
He’s big. So big you’re not sure how you’re fitting him. His hand on your abdomen pushes you deeper into the mattress, forcing you to take every thick, veiny inch of him. You whimper, and the sound gets swallowed by Dean’s lips.
“Feel that?” He hisses, tone harsh in the way that sends a thrill to your core. “Feel my cock, filling up your tight little pussy?”
You nod, mouth hanging open. Dean bottoms out with a grunt, pulling your hips roughly up to let him hit a deeper angle. You mewl, eyes rolling back at the burning, perfect stretch of him.
“That’s right.” He mutters, rutting into your wet, hot channel. “This is what you fuckin’ begged for, princess. To be a brainless little cockslut. You can’t even talk right now, can you? Just gonna lay there and look pretty while I do all the work?”
Tears prick at your eyes. You’re so full you almost don’t think you can handle it.
Dean isn’t going to give you much of a choice.
“Damn right you are.” He mutters to himself, dragging almost fully out of you before slamming back in, knocking the air from your lungs.
You sob with pleasure, reaching up to grab at his face. Dean kisses your wrist, repeating the motion with an even harsher thrust than before.
“That’s it.” He grunts, pushing over your as he finds a brutal pace. “That’s my girl. Fit me like a glove, sweetheart. Tightest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever fucked, so good for me, so fuckin’ good-“
Dean groans, crashing his lips over yours. You wrap your arms around him, holding on for dear life as he fucks stars behind your eyes and lightning through your body. If you weren’t ruined for him before, you are now. There isn’t another man in the world, who could reduce you to such a sobbing, wrecked mess while fucking you like a doll, then kiss all over your face like you’re the most important thing in the world.
He’s handling your body like it only exists for him to fuck. Grabbing your hips and breasts like they’re toys, positioning in the best way for him to hit you deeper. So deep he’s finding burning, pleasurable spots in you that you hadn’t known existed before, that make your whole body light up with pleasure. You can feel him in your throat, though every single inch of you, his muscles flexing and chest heaving and cock drilling into you until your pussy is drooling and he’s just sliding in and out.
But he kisses you like he’s a soldier being sent off to war. Rough and desperate, but loving. With all the fervor of a man who’s trying to something both of you have lost the words for. You return his every kiss, and his thrusts get sharper. Deeper.
You make sounds that are supposed to be his name. The room fills with the obscene sound of his cock, pounding into your cunt. You tip your head back and he starts to bite and suck on your throat, like he really can’t find enough of you to worship.
“Shit, baby-“ He presses his nose against your jaw, voice cracking as the bed creaks beneath you both. “Gonna- Gonna fuckin’- Where’d you want it-“
You grab his shoulders, yanking him fully down. Dean groans, doubling over and pressing his mouth back over yours.
“Come with me, sweetheart, c’mon- Milk my fuckin’ cock-“
His thumb slips between your bodies, rubbing your clit in tight, unforgiving circles. You scream silently, as your orgasm hits you like a train. Dean fucks you through it, moaning your name as he chases his own release. White hot cum paints your inner walls, and Dean fucks it back into you with rough grunts and shorter thrusts.
You think you might be floating. You’ve never been this stuffed up, this warm. All the mocking and harshness from Dean is gone, replaced by worshipful hands that caress your face and gentle kisses over every spot he played with. Neither of you seem ready to know. You know you aren’t at all, and Dean’s curled over you like a very heavy blanket.
You rub his back, smiling up at the ceiling. It’s quiet. You’d like to stay here for a while. Maybe forever.
Dean rises over you, still not pulling out. His eyes are glazed, his expression wrecked. You reach up to cup his cheek, and he leans into the touch.
“My girl.” He mutters, and even if he doesn’t say it like one, you know it’s a question.
“Your girl.” You whisper.
You’ve never seen him smile so wide, than before he leans back down to kiss you again.
And if you make him smile like that for the rest of your life, then you know you’ve done something right.
✦End note: the good thing about writing these fics is that it's fun. the bad thing is that i've set my standards WAY too high. ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦summary: you and dean hate each other. there isn't a moment you aren't fighting, just like there isn't a moment you don't wish he'd love you back, and there isn't a single second he doesn't want you more than you can imagine. ✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, implied age gap (20s - 40s), jealous!dean, angst, overprotective dean, pining, idiots in love, as is my way, feral smut (manhandling, praise kink and degradation kink, dry humping, teasing, dean's dirty talk, stripping, thigh riding, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, light nipple play, begging, fingering, face sitting, jerking off, pussy slapping, rough sex, some edging, cockwarming, creampie, big dick dean, mean dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11.5k✦
✦author's note: monthly voted fic! he's yearning so hard guys✦
The bar is loud, but you expected that. It’s what you needed. Between that and the drink in you hands, it’s going to quiet your thoughts. They get lost in chatter of the crowd, and the bass drum of the music. It pounds in your chest and dislodges your heart. You let it. You don’t want to feel it right now.
You check your phone, even though you’ve told yourself not to. The case is sticky from the bar counter, and you wrinkle your nose at the screen before you even read the messages.
Five missed calls from – Dean Winchester.
A sixth one comes through, your phone buzzing angrily. You roll your eyes, and for a long second you seriously consider drowning the damn thing in the abandoned beer glass next to you.
He doesn’t get to call you, like you’re some wandering child. He doesn’t get to get angry about you being out, when he’s the reason you’re here in the first place. And you told Sam to tell him that you’d be here. So really, this is Dean’s fault, then Sam’s, then yours.
The call goes to voicemail. You flip the screen back over, and take a long drink. If it’s really that big a deal that you’re out without him, he can put on his pants and come get you himself.
And he won’t. And that’s part of the problem.
Dean’s going to lecture you about safety when you crawl back in the morning, and you’re going to roll your eyes. He’ll ask you if you think something’s funny, sweetheart? You look him dead in his pretty eyes and say I don’t know, is it? He’ll get angrier. You’ll get angrier. Sam will try to mediate, and you’ll throw something at him before stomping off. Dean will chase after you, and wrestle you back into the room while calling you a brat.
When you get tossed down on the mattress, you’ll sink your nails into his shoulder, because you do every time. You want to drag him down with you, to make him feel this the same way you always have.
To big, too much. Too soft in all the wrong places, and too spiked everywhere else. There’s a sharp, angry shell around your heart that’s grown like an exoskeleton. It’s got wires and teeth that snap, whenever Dean gives you a little too much attention. You can never tell if it’s trying to eat him or latch onto him anymore. You don’t think it really matters.
Dean hates you. He thinks you hate him. He’s going to grab your knees and pin them to your chest, and you’re going to be the only woman in the world who he doesn’t notice flush against him. He’ll hiss that you can’t just go running around alone. That it’s not like you, to be reckless. You spit a fuck you, his grip will get tight, and he’ll shove you away to go take one of his long showers.
Sam will tell you to stop testing him. You’ll tell Sam to eat himself, and go back to sulking like a child in the corner.
Only Dean can do that to you. You hate and love him for it.
When you met—on a hunt that didn’t matter, until it did—he made you all giggly and dumb. Years of training and a mind that could never slow down, turned to goo from one roughish, lazy smile.
“You like trouble?” He’d asked you, trying even then to talk you out of a hunt.
“No. No one likes trouble.”
Dean had chuckled. “I don’t know about that, sweetheart. Most girls like you love it.”
You’d snorted. “Girls like me? What’s a girl like me?”
“Gorgeous.” He’d smirked, like he’d been dying for you to ask. “Smart. Mouthy-“
“Mouthy?” You’d cut him off, rolling your eyes. “Are you from the 60s?”
“No. But you’re provin’ my point.”
“You didn’t have a point. You were just trying to sleep with me.”
Dean had raised his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty. But- Is it working-“
“No.”
It had been. If Sam hadn’t come back to the car two seconds later, you would’ve climbed into Dean’s lap like a whore. Which wasn’t what you were. It wasn’t what you did. Sex with a half-stranger, sex in general, you didn’t toss your body around easily. You’d never been able to do the removing emotions part of casual sex. You’d always managed to come up with a million reasons not to, most of them looking something like have a hookup, get pregnant, the father’s already gone, the baby’s born with cancer, you love it anyway and it dies in your arms, if you’d been more responsible the baby would’ve solved climate change, everyone dies in a fiery explosion.
But you’d looked at Dean, and seen no death or path out that didn’t end in light. He’d grabbed your thigh in the dark of the car, and you’d flushed and smiled to yourself like a schoolgirl.
“You wanna know my middle name?” He’d whispered to you, later that night.
“That’s the worst pick up line I’ve ever heard-“
“It’s not a pick up line! I’m askin’ you a question-“
“But it’s going to turn into a pickup line.” You’d said flatly, and Dean had given you a boyish smile that almost made you forget that he was covered in vampire blood.
“You already know me so well,” he’d cooed, and you’d snorted.
“You’re predictable.”
“So you’re never gonna wonder what I’m thinking.”
You’d shoved his face away with a hand, still giggling. This was usually the point in a hunt where you started thinking about what came next. How long you had to get out of town, how much food you’d need to eat now before you got to your next stop—if you eat too much, you’re going to overstuff and get sick, if you don’t eat enough you’re going to be weak and pass out behind the wheel and cause a fifty car pile-up—and if there are any strings you needed to wrap up on the case.
But Dean had been smiling at you. And that had felt like the only thing that mattered.
“C’mon, ask me what my middle name is-“
You’d covered his mouth with a hand, shooting him a stern glare. His eyes had gleamed with affection, and something deeper you try not to think about now. It hurts too much. It makes you mourn for something that was never even yours to have.
“Only so you shut up,” you’d whispered. “What’s your middle name.”
You’d dropped your hand, and Dean had touched his lips like he was in some telenovela. You’d fought a smile. You’d never known someone could be so handsome it made your heart ache, and so cute you thought you’d explode.
He’d puffed out his chest, and grinned at you like he won the lottery.
“It’s Trouble-“
“It’s Adam.” Sam had called from the table. Dean had looked at him like he’d just murdered a puppy, and you’d laughed so hard you almost fell off the bed.
And you’d thought something was growing. You’d been a foolish girl, who thought the dorky, handsome hero in front of her would give chase, when she turned him down.,
If you could go back, you’d slap yourself in the face and tell you to get it together. Dean Winchester is Dean Winchester. You listen to the what the shadows whisper. You knew his reputation before he smiled at you in the low light of his car. You’re smart. Sam goes to you for research advice, you’ve come up with whole new ways to kill demons and trap angels. You fucking knew better, than to fall in love with Dean.
You should’ve known better.
You didn’t.
So you attached yourself to them like a little, leeching parasite. You followed them around, the Winchester’s shadow, and fell more in love with Dean, and got your heart broken every night when he slipped out of the bar with another woman on his arm.
You’d gotten mean. You’d started getting short with him, and he’d fueled the fire building in the cavity of your chest by being a dick. Suddenly you were too inexperienced for every hunt. Too young to be out alone—you’ve had that fight more times than you can count—or too tense and tightly wound to think clearly.
He’s the one who doesn’t think clearly. He’s the one who drinks himself to death after a hunt and has literally fucked monsters because he can’t be bothered to plan ahead. He drags you and Sam to towns because he’s got a good feeling about them. He tells you to just relax, princess, and you want to punch him in his stupid, pretty face.
But you still love him. You love him so much you think it’s going to kill you. And you keep that locked in the deepest chamber of your heart, because he never needs to know that you still get stupid and soft for him. If he finds out that the first time he tried to leave on a hunt without you, you almost started crying in the middle of the bunker kitchen, he’ll look at you like you’re crazy.
And you are crazy. You know that. You’re a fumbling, wild ball of worries and sneers, and Dean would never want a nagger. He’d never want a younger woman who acts like she knows better—even though you do—and who needs him to be perfectly attentive and affectionate every second of every day.
You’re in love with a man who hates you. And if you had to listen to him fuck that secretary through the wall all night, you were going to kill yourself on their bed.
So now you’re at this loud, disgusting bar, drinking something that you’re praying numbs the pain, and smiling so wide it hurts your face.
The abandoned beer’s owner came back. He’s a broad shouldered, smirking man with a clean cut face, and lighter hair. If you get a little more squint, he looks just like Dean. If you get a little more buzzed, he’ll sound like him too.
You hate causal sex. It doesn’t count if you’re pretending it’s Dean. It doesn’t count if it makes this stop hurting.
“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ here?” The man drawls, leaning across the bar.
You giggle, and it sounds distant to your ears. “Drinking.”
“Yeah?” The man smirks. “You like drinkin’, doll?”
You shake your head, swinging your feet and spinning in the bar stool. The man raises his brows.
“You sure you don’t? You’re goin’ through that thing fast.”
“It tastes bad.” You wrinkle your nose. “Feels good.”
The man’s smile turns wolfish. Your phone starts to buzz again, and you glare at the screen before shutting it fully off.
“Boyfriend?” The man asks, and you shake your head.
“He wishes.”
No, he doesn’t.
That’s the problem.
And you keep flirting—if it can even be called that, because you mostly babble about hating the drink you got and hating Dean and loving the man’s drink because Dean likes that one too—and the man’s hands find their way to your lower back and thigh.
“Why don’t I help you forget about Dean?” He winks at you, and you shrug.
The world is mostly just blurred colors and lights now. Everything feels awfully light, in a way you’re not sure you like.
But you like forgetting about Dean more. So even though you want to tell this man that it’s impossible to forget about Dean, you’re also just lost enough to want help finding your way out.
“Okay.” You beam at him.
You make it to the parking lot—his arm around your waist, herding you like a lost lamb—before Dean ruins everything. He always ruins everything.
There’s a shout of your name, almost ripping through the hazy fog of your drunken mind. You were feet from the man’s car. Just a few more steps from having fun, which you’re bad at doing, but maybe if you practiced, Dean would like you more.
From the look on his face when you turn around, it might’ve actually made him like you less.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He marches across the lot with a scowl, hands balled into fists and gaze fixed solely on you. “I almost made Sammy file a missing persons report-“
“’M not missing.” You stick your tongue out at him. “’M right here. Stupid.”
You mutter the last word under your breath, and Dean freezes. He blinks slowly, gaze raking over your body. That’s not fair. It makes you feel all warm and puddley. Your core floods with heat, and your knees get weak, and he’s get looking at you.
Dean takes a half-step forward, his voice dropping low and rough. “Are you drunk?”
“No.”
There’s a larger gust of wind. Dean’s eyes gleam in the golden light of the parking lot. He looks a little like an angel. You trip standing up, then giggle when the man pulls you back up. Dean’s jaw drops, his brow knitting tight.
“You’re fuckin’ wasted.” He mutters, shaking his head. “Jesus, sweetheart- C’mon.” He steps forward, reaching out a hand. “Let’s go.”
“Nuh uh.” You pout, shaking you head. “I’m not drunk-“
“You’re standing like we’re on a freakin’ ship. Come on.” He flexes his hand, and you cross your arms over your chest.
He doesn’t get to win. “I’m having fun.”
“We can have fun back at the room-“
“The lady said she’s having fun.” The man next to you pulls you tighter into his side, fingers curling on your hip like a lock. “Screw off, pal. I got here first.”
And Dean recoils, looking at the man like he’s noticing him for the first time. You can’t read his expression in the low light, but it seems angry. Or just annoyed. Or indifferent. His jaw looks sharp and clenched. You want to lick it.
“Listen, bud.” Dean snaps, glaring down at the man. “This ain’t a who got here first thing. My girl’s drunk. I’m takin’ her home, or I’m punching you in the face.”
The man is silent for a moment. He and Dean glower at each other, and you frown between them. There’s something poking at your drink addled brain, but it’s spelling a word you can’t read. All you can really figure out is that they’re being weird.
“You Dean?” The man asks.
Dean’s eyes narrow. His shoulders square, the way they do before he’s about to swing at a demon. “Yeah. And?”
“Nothin’.” The man smirks. “Just… Thought you’d be God, based on how she was talkin’ about you. But,” he chuckles, tipping his chin. “You’re just a little bitch.”
Dean’s jaw ticks. You don’t need the lighting to figure out what he’s thinking now. You can almost feel it, rolling off of him in waves.
He’s pissed.
He looks the man up and down, and if he throws a punch, you know he won’t be the one who goes down. You’re drunk enough not to worry about the violence of it. All your useless thoughts can spin around is the idea of Dean fighting for you. Of his massive arms flexing as he knocks down the other man—who, the longer your Dean stands in front of you, looks less and less appealing—and scoops you into his arms like the princess he mocks you with being. Then he can wrap his arm around your head and fuck you against the hood of his car, until you’re drooling all over his cock.
You giggle at nothing, a unignorable heat pooling between your legs. Dean’s attention snaps back over, and you beam at him.
Something in his gaze shifts. He lets out a slow breath, and stretches out a hand.
“Let’s go, princess.” He beckons with two crooked fingers, and you almost stumble forwards. “We can watch whatever you want, alright? I’ll get you some of that ice cream you like, and- Sammy can watch with you, if you don’t want me around. Just-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “Get over here. Please.”
He sounds so tired. Tired and almost sad. Your feet move without your permission, and you reach to take his hand.
The man yanks you back, and you yelp.
“Remember what you told me, doll.” He drawls in your ear, loud enough for Dean to still hear. “Remember how he treats you.”
Dean scowls. “You stay out of this-“
“He doesn’t care.” The man ignores him. “You told me, he doesn’t love you.”
Dean opens his mouth, something stricken flashing over his features. You feel a little sick.
“C’mon. I got you.” The man rubs your hip, smiling gently. “Show him what he’s missing. He can bitch about it, alone all night while you get fucked real good.”
Dean’s face is a shade of red you’ve never seen before. He has an expression like someone just punched him in the gut.
And it’s not the fucking real good that steels you. It’s the reminder that Dean won’t be alone. He has his secretary. And you’re allowed to have your random bar man, and there’s nothing he can do about it.
Dean rasps your name. “Come here-“
“You come here.” You snap, and it’s meant to be a sharp, killing blow that makes him sigh and give up.
If you were a little less drunk, you would’ve known that was never going to work.
Dean’s throat bobs. He exhales like he’s going through the trials of Hercules, rather than arguing in a parking lot. He rubs his jaw, looks up to the sky like he’s praying, and chuckles. It’s dry and flat, but so deep and rough. You shiver at the sound, and almost fall right into him again.
“Alright.” Dean mutters, shaking out his arm. “Fine.”
He marches forward, clocks the man across the jaw, and throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. It happens so fast your body is still catching up with it, by the time he’s halfway back to the car. You realize you should be thrashing and shouting when you hear the Impala door unlock. Your body doesn’t seem to want to cooperate though. Dean’s back is warm, and his hand is resting near your ass, and it’s making you putty for him to play with.
He did it so fast. He didn’t even break a sweat or give the man a chance to fight back, before he grabbed you. When he lowers you into shotgun, he does it so gently. Like even after getting on his nervous, you’re precious cargo. He brushes the hair from your face, hunched over as you settle into the bench.
You blink at him, still drunk and confused. Dean still has that strange look in his eyes, his lips parted as you just stare at each other. His hand lingers on your cheek. You lean into the touch, and his nostrils flare.
Across the parking lot, there’s a roar of his name.
Dean sighs, and stands up. He walks around the hood of the car, slides into the driver’s seat, and starts the car. You watch his fingers move like a starved woman. You want him to put them in your mouth, and you almost tell him when there’s a slam on his window.
The man is shouting at him, veins bulging and eyes bugging. He looks nothing like Dean now.
And Dean doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t even look at him. He just puts the car in reverse and pulls out of the lot. If the man gives chase, you don’t see. You’re too busy staring at Dean.
The first half of the drive is silent. Low music plays on the radio, and you watch Dean in the moving light of the road. Long shadows and dim streetlamps make him look like he fell out of a dream. Your arms twitch to wrap around him. Your eyes are heavy, your head intoxicated by the rich, amber and smoke smell of his cologne. If you lay your head in his lap, you wonder if he’d shove you away.
“You weren’t actually gonna go with him.” Dean mutters suddenly, and you blink.
“Huh?”
“That douchebag.” His fingers flex on the wheel. “You weren’t gonna fuck him.”
You frown. Useless, exhausted tears prick at your eyes. You don’t even know where they’re coming from. Just that you feel small, and you’re tired, and Dean’s dragging you back to the motel just so he can fuck another woman with peace of mind.
“He’s not even your type-“
“You don’t know what my type is.” You grumble, sinking into your seat.
Dean huffs a laugh. “I’ve seen what kinda guys you find hot on TV. He was ugly.”
“He wasn’t ugly-“
“Yeah, he was.”
“You’re ugly.” You snap, and Dean laughs. You get why. You didn’t even convince yourself.
“Only on the inside, sweetheart.”
Your lips wobbles. For some reason, that pushes the tears out of your eyes. You sink into the bench, wrapping into a tight little ball that Dean won’t be able to pry apart. You can’t stop the tears, but he doesn’t get to have more leverage.
Dean clears his throat. “Are you crying-“
“Shut up.” You sniff, wiping your nose with your sleeve.
He murmurs your name, voice softer than before, and you lean against the window.
“Shut up-“
“You’re fuckin’ crying-“
“Dean!” You glare at him through the blur of the tears. “Just- Leave me alone!”
Dean’s silent for a second. But only a second.
“Did he hurt you?” He grunts, something hot and angry lining his words. “Before I got there, did that son of a bitch-“
“He barely even touched me, you just- You fucking-“
“I what? What the hell did I do-“
“You hate me!” You shout, and Dean goes horribly still.
“Don’t be insane.” He mutters your name, glaring out at the road. “I don’t hate you.”
You scoff, hugging your knees tight to your chest. “Yes, you do. You hate me, and you- You never let me have any fun-“
“That wasn’t fun, that was a lawsuit.”
You don’t even have a good comeback to that. He’s probably right. It just makes you angrier.
You turn away from him all together, watching the trees blur past in the window. You’re certain you’re going to be sick now. You close your eyes, the tears still flowing, and hide your face behind your hair and in your knees.
Dean sighs. His voice gets softer again.
“Listen, you’re drunk, alright? You’re gonna feel better in the morning-“
“No.” Your words are muffled, but you know he’ll still hear them. “I won’t.”
“Yeah, you will. I get a million of these drunken… feelings.” He says the word in an oddly tight tone. “You just gotta sleep them off.”
You laugh, wet and weak. “Whatever, Dean.”
“I’m trying to help-“
“No, you’re not.” You hug yourself tighter. “You just wanna get back to her.”
He’s silent again. You can hear his fingers drumming on the wheel. Almost hear the frown in his voice when he finally speaks.
“Who the hell are you talking about.”
“Your secretary lady.” You grumble, bitter and tired.
“You mean Katy?”
You grunt. “I hate her.”
“I- Princess, I sent her home like- Two hours ago.” He pauses. The air in the car feels oddly heavy. “Moment Sammy told me you were gone.”
You huff, but don’t respond. You can’t think of anything. You can barely understand what that means.
“You hate her?” Dean’s voice is so quiet you almost miss it.
“Mhm.”
“You barely even talked to her-“
“I don’t care.” You mutter, rubbing away the tears on your cheeks. “I hate her.”
“Why-“
“’M tired.” You pull your face out of your knees, and find Dean staring at you.
He clears his throat, and looks back to the road. You think you’re going to start sobbing again, when he stretches out an arm around your shoulder.
Neither of you say anything, when he slowly pulls you into his side. You haven’t been this close to him in a while. He’s just as warm as you remember. You’re already half-asleep, just from a few seconds of his fingers tracing circles on your shoulder and your face pressed into his neck.
“I didn’t like him that much either.” Dean mutters suddenly. “Your bar guy.”
You hum, nosing at his jaw. He smells good.
“I wish you’d tell me.” He adds. “When you were goin’ out. I’d come with you-“
“I don’t want you to come with me.”
Dean tenses. He doesn’t pull away. “I’m fun at bars, sweetheart..” His voice is too casual. “We’d have a good time-“
“You’d have a good time.” You grumble. “I’d be alone.”
“I wouldn’t- If we went out, I wouldn’t ditch-“
“Yes, you would.” You yawn, and you’re crying again, but it’s softer.
Even now, Dean makes everything easier.
You wish you could hate him more than you love him. You don’t think you’re ever going to manage.
“You hate me.” You whisper, sleep already pulling on the corners of your brain. “’S not fair.”
Dean swallows. His fingers still on your arm. “Why not?”
“’Cause I-“
You cut yourself off with a yawn. Dean mutters your name, and you shake your head, burrowing further into his side. You need to be as close as possible. You need to sink something into him that he can never wipe away, the same way he did with you.
“I love you,” you mumble. “And you hate me. And- It’s not fair, Dean.” You tremble, letting out a soft, pained breath. “Not fair.”
And sleep drags you under. But right before the world fades, you could swear you hear Dean’s low voice, and it floats through your dreams.
“I don’t hate you, baby.” He murmurs. “I couldn’t if I tried.”
Dean hasn’t spoken to you since last night.
You get up in the morning with a migraine and shame burning your face. You remember all of it. Every painful, whiny moment. You acted like the lovesick, annoying girl he accuses you of being. You told him the thing you swore you’d never say aloud. Once Sam tried to make you admit it, and you dumped a glass of iced tea over his head. You’d whimpered Dean’s name into your pillows while you touched yourself, and you’ve told yourself to get it together in the bathroom mirror, but you’ve never said it aloud.
And you just told.
You ruined everything.
He gives you meds and a glass of water to help the hangover, but he doesn’t look you in the eyes. You pack up the rooms and hit the road, but he doesn’t look in the rearview mirror to check on you even once. You bite the inside of your cheek and refuse to cry again. That will just make you seem more pathetic than you already are.
“What’s going on with you two.” Sam mutters when you stop at a gas station, hanging over your shoulder in the candy aisle.
“Nothing-“
“Don’t lie.” He gives you a flat look. “You’re not even fighting, which means you’re fighting.”
You peer up at him with a flat expression, and he sighs.
“You know what I mean. What the hell did he say to you.”
“He didn’t say anything.”
Sam mutters your name, and you grab a candy bar, flipping him off over your shoulder.
“Just drop it, okay?”
“No! I can’t drop it! I live with you guys, and- This is so much worse than when you were acting like you hated each other-“
“Sam-“
“You can’t see his face while he’s driving.” Sam hisses, grabbing a pack of almonds. “He’s either going to punch himself or cry, and that’s gonna be a whole freakin’ thing. Just- Talk to him-“
“He can talk to me.” You grab a pack of jerky. You can’t help it. Dean must be hungry too, and despite all your common sense, you still love him so much the world is slipping out from under your feet.
Sam pleads with your name. You shake your head.
“Please. Drop it.”
He examines you for a moment, then sighs. He agrees to drop it. It doesn’t make anything better at all.
Because Dean’s not even being mean or overbearing or annoying. He’s just silent. And Sam’s right.
It’s so much worse.
Normally by this point in the ride, you’ve been fighting so much that Sam turns up the radio until you can’t hear each other. You’ll poke his neck to annoy him, and he’ll swat you like a fly before cornering you against the car when you stop for food. You’ll shove him and march into the diner. He’ll stomp after you and sit too close in the booth, making you press your thighs together with every mocking word. He’ll flirt with the waitress, and you’ll daydream about throttling her every time she bats her eyes. Dean will keep your knees against each other’s, while he gets her number, and you’ll pour a bunch of salt over his pie when he goes to the bathroom.
You’ll shove at each other, until one of you snaps and stomps away. You’ll cry yourself to sleep that night, because he hates you, he hates you, he hates you.
But you don’t even have any tears left, and Dean doesn’t hate you.
He just can’t stand to look at you, now that he knows you love him.
Sam gives you worried looks, while Dean glares silently at the road. His fingers drum on the wheel, and you hug yourself tight. He might not be looking at you, but you can’t stop looking at him. If he asks you to leave, it will kill you. If he doesn’t ask you, but never speaks to you again, you’ll just wither away into nothing. But you can’t be the one to break the silence. You’ll only make it worse.
You stop at a diner, and the waitress has the biggest boobs you’ve ever seen and the kind of honeyed smile that usually makes Dean smirk.
Today he doesn’t even look at her. You have to order for him, which makes the waitress glare at you, as if you’re responsible for him sulking so much he doesn’t care about boobs—and you are, but she has no way to know that—and you give her a tight smile.
Dean doesn’t thank you for the food, but he looks at you for the first time all day. You blink at him, biting back the pout threatening your lips. You’re not going to break here, in broad daylight, with Sam right there.
Dean lets out a slow exhale through his nose, and looks back to his food. You blink away the useless sting behind your eyes, biting your inner cheek until it’s swollen. Sam gives you a pitying look. You shoot him a glare.
“He still sat next to you.” Sam mutters while Dean checks you into a motel, that night. “Whatever happened, he’s not that mad at you-“
“Sammy!” Dean calls from the desk. “The lady needs our IDs!”
Sam sighs, going through his pockets as he walks over.
Dean’s gaze meets yours, and you flush. You can’t read the expression on his face, and you fucking hate it. You thought you knew all his expression. You thought you knew him. You thought he’d at least have the guts to turn you down like a man.
Instead his tongue flicks over his lips, and he rips his gaze back to the desk attendant. You hate her. You hate him. You love him. Your head hurts, overflowing with too many thoughts that you can’t even pick them apart. You want to scream and cry and run and sink into the floor. It’s not fair of him, to do this to you. You’re going to be sick. You want to drown your sorrows in as many drinks as you can find.
You settle for curling into your bed, hiding your face in the pillows, and crying until your body is limp and your throat is sore. He knows you love him. He hates you. He’s never going to look at you again, and you’re going to turn into a ghost. An evil, angry ghost. One of the ghosts that he has to kill. Then he’s going to kill you, and you’re going to turn into a demon, then you’re going to start the apocalypse again, and everyone ever is going to die because you told Dean you love him.
You cry until you can barely breathe, then a little while after. It was silent. There was no way Sam and Dean would hear it, even through the door joining your rooms.
But there’s a creak, and you sniff, turning your head just enough that Sam will be able to hear you.
“I’m fine, Sam-“
“Not Sam.” Dean mutters, and you freeze.
You don’t move. You don’t dare. Dean clears his throat, and you hear him shifting on his feet. He’s close enough to be fully through the door. You hear it close behind him, and bunch the sheets in your arms.
“I- Uh- I was hopin’ we could talk?”
You still don’t move. Dean coughs. His voice is even rougher than usual. Normally, if you had the brainpower, you’d be worried about him.
“Can you look at me?”
You scowl at the pillow in your face. “No.”
Dean mutters your name, and you cut him off with short words.
“Go away, Dean.”
“No, we need to- I got some shit to say, alright-“
“I don’t care.”
“Trust me, princess, you’re gonna care about this-“
“Stop calling me that!” The words rip from your throat, sudden and broken.
You flip over, moving to your knees, and Dean stumbles back like you punched him. His face is red, and there are bags under his eyes. He’s still handsome.
Asshole.
“I-“
“Shut up.” You hiss, narrowing your eyes at his slack expression. “Stop- Stop calling me princess and sweetheart and- and acting like you fucking care about me! It’s fucking cruel, Dean, it was a dick move before and now- Now you know.” Your voice cracks. You can’t even say it again. “Now you know, alright? You know what I- How I am! And I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have told you, but I was drunk, and I- I was tired, and you were being nice and you’re never nice to me-“
Dean opens his mouth, and you chuck a pillow right at his chest.
“No.” You spit, pushing up higher on your knees. “No, you don’t get to talk now. I don’t want to hear it, I don’t need- You don’t have to tell me! I get it, I know what you’re going to say!” You thought you were out of tears. You were wrong. “I’m just a stupid little girl, and you see me like a fucking sister or whatever, I don’t know what I’m talking about and I don’t know how I feel and you- You’d never-“ You choke on your own words. “You’d never feel-“
He moves quickly. You don’t even get the chance to throw another pillow.
Dean grabs your face between his hands, pulling right up into his. Dean kisses you, and your sharp words dissolve into a surprised sound, then a tiny moan.
His mouth is demanding. Your lips are already parted, and when the moan pushes its way up from your chest, Dean pushes his tongue over yours with a grunt. It’s a messy and desperate, noses bumping and spit mixing. You try and shove back, but Dean just pushes further over you, and you dissolve into his touch.
You’re panting, when he pulls away. He keeps his hands firmly planted, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your lips and his shoulders heaving. His fingers are tangled in your hair. You feel small under his gaze, but not in the painful, ignored way like before. It’s like you’re being shielded. Like he’s trying to protect you from your own, spiraling thoughts by sucking them out of your face.
It’s working. You stare at him with an open awe you can feel in your chest, bubbling and light.
He kissed you.
His lips were soft and chapped in the best way, and he was even better at kissing than you imagined. He tasted a little sugary from the pie he had with dinner, and something richer that was just Dean. His touch on your is almost reverent, and you want to suck on his thumb to see if it tastes as good as his lips. You want to suck on every part of him. For science. You want, you want, you want. Dean kissed you, and now all you can feel—thundering through your bloodstream—is want.
He murmurs your name, scanning over your slack features. Your eyes flutter. His throat bobs.
“I’m gonna talk now.” He says, and you nod.
You should be shoving or fighting him, but he’s looking at you like you matter. And you’re far too tired to bother with anything but tears or pleas for more kisses right now.
“I thought-“ He shakes his head, huffing a low, dry laugh. “I thought you hated me.”
“I don’t-“
“Yeah, I got that now.” He gives you an amused, tired look. “But- Sweetheart, you called me a seductive manwhore last week.”
Your face burns a little. He’d been flirting with another waitress, at another diner. You’d wanted to slit her throat.
“Seductive is a compliment.” You mumble weakly, dropping your gaze to his chest. Dean chuckles.
“From where I was sittin’, it felt like you wanted to kill me.”
You shake your head, the movement small between his hands. “You looked like you wanted me to fuck off. You always looked like you wanted me to fuck off-“
“No.” His grip tightens, and your attention shoots back up.
And you think you understand that expression. It’s heavy, and you have seen it before. But it’s always been a dull glint in his eyes, before he looks away.
Longing.
“Dean…” You whisper, and he leans down, pressing his brow to yours.
“I never want you to fuck off.” He mutters. “Never. Please- Don’t.”
His voice breaks. You reach up to grab his wrists, and he squeezes his eyes shut.
“I know I ain’t perfect. I know I’m old, and a dick, and I don’t got much to offer-“
“I like what you have to offer.” You whisper. His brow knits tighter. “I always liked it.”
Dean chuckles. “You shot me down. First time I offered it.”
“You wanted a hookup, I- I can’t do that-“
“I couldn’t either.” He looks at you under hooded eyes. “Not with you.”
You press your lips in a thin line, years of anger and sparring fading into a blur of a dull, bruising ache. He was always a wound you refused to heal. If he cuts you open any wider, you don’t think you’re going to have the option anymore.
“You didn’t seem interested.” Dean rasps. “You started- Lookin’ at me all weird and calling me names and-“
“I loved you.” You say it before you can think. Dean lets out a sharp breath, his weight pressing further down.
“But- I- You too.” He winces, like he hates the words. “I didn’t- It was never- Son of a bitch-“
He looks like it’s paining him to try and say it. And you know. You know he can’t, because he doesn’t even say it to Sam.
But he looks like he’s going to cry. Dean never cries.
He means it. The thing you never let yourself dream of, he means it.
“I- You just- I wanted shit, and you seemed like you wanted nothin’ to do with me, so I-“
You move carefully, tugging that collar of his shirt down into the kiss. Dean goes rigid for a single, horrible second.
Then he almost melts.
His fingers dig into your skin like he can’t bear to let go. His body collapses over yours, his kisses going from the soft ones you started to fast and desperate. He kisses you like he’s trying to leave a mark, and you meet him with every bit off passion.
Dean folds you down, until you’re flat on the mattress. Your legs fly up to wrap around his torso, and he grabs one of your hands, tangling your fingers together. The kisses turn slow. A little more certain and controlled, Dean sucking on your lower lip before kissing the corner of your mouth, then your upper lip. You smile into the kiss, and a broken sound rumbles from his chest.
He pins your hands next to your head, squeezing once before he breaks away. He looks wrecked. He stares at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and your head buzzes, nice and clear of what ifs.
All that matters right now is Dean above you, and the electric heat in your body. How his hand fits so perfectly in yours. How your bodies are already molding together, and you’re both still fully clothed.
“You deserve better, baby.” He mutters, and you almost laugh.
There’s nothing better. There’s Dean, glorious and unreachable, and there’s everyone else.
“No.” You whisper, beaming up at him. “I don’t.”
Dean’s throat bobs. He lowers himself down slowly, pressing his lips slowly over yours. Like he’s still not fully sure. You hum happily into the kiss, and he takes the cue easily.
You lose yourself in him quickly. His lazy, passionate kisses and his hands, slowly tracing over your body. He starts with light touches near your hips and waist, every brush of his fingers making you shiver. You arch into it, when his thumb grazes the bare skin of your midriff. Dean groans, testing the waters with another slow graze of his fingers.
“Deeean…” You breathe against his lips, and he grunts.
“You’re so soft.” He mutters, slipping his hand under your shirt. “So fuckin’ reactive and soft.”
You whimper, heels digging into his back as he teases his fingers up your spine. “Don’t- Don’t tease-“
“Not teasin’.” He nips at the corner of your mouth. “Just sayin’ things that are true, baby. Not my fault they make you all stupid.”
Your breath hitches, your head tipping back as your legs spread slightly. Dean hums, interest flashing in his gaze. He noticed. Of course he did. He notices everything.
“You like that?” He drawls, kissing over your cheek, then down your neck. “You like bein’ called baby? Or called stupid.”
His hand drifts up your side, until his thumb is grazing under your breast. The sensation, combined with his dirty words, makes your hips roll. A dizzy, pleased sigh escapes your lips. Dean chuckles, rubbing his thumb in a tight circle. His lips graze a sensitive spot on your neck, and your hips roll again.
“I think you like both.” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Dirty girl, bet you’re already wet for me.”
You whimper, the sound turning to a sharp gasp when Dean shoves his knee right between your thighs. You buck off the bed at the sudden pressure, eyes glazing and mouth hanging open.
Dean sucks on that sensitive spot, and your whole body shivers. You can’t stand to not move, not with the heat of him all around you. His thumb drags up, brushing over your nipple right as his tongue flicks against your skin. You start to mindlessly grind against his knee, chasing just a little bit more friction. Dean chuckle, biting softly at your neck before bullying his knee further against your clothed cunt.
“That’s it.” He growls in your ear. “Messy fuckin’ girl, already humping my leg. You need it that bad, sweetheart? Can’t even wait for me?”
“I- I’m sorry-“ You whine, trying to stop your body from moving.
It doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. Dean slips his hand from under your shirt and grabs your jaw, forcing your gaze onto his, and his attention just fuels the wildfire under your skin. You need him, and form of him you can get. You need him harsh and all over your body, until there’s are marks you won’t be able to wash away in the morning. You need him to claim you so deeply neither of you can back out.
Dean watches you with a gentle, but sharp awe. Like he’s trying to memorize the scene below him, that you’re sure is quiet a sight. You fucking his leg like a dog in heat, your adoration and love finally allowed to pour all over your face.
“Need you,” you breathe out, grabbing his wrist. “Need you so bad, Dean.”
A low rumble leaves his chest, his eyes getting darker with every tiny moan from your lips. His attention is almost too much. You try and turn your face into the sheets, but he tugs it back with barely a flick of his wrist.
“Dean, please-“
“Look at me.” He taps your cheek with one finger, slamming his knee forward.
Your glossy, tear-stained eyes dart to his, and he smirks. It’s soft, but dangerous. He smiles down at you, and another breath of his name escapes your lips.
“What do you want, sweet girl?” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Use your words.”
It takes you a second to remember how. “You,” you breathe out, and Dean’s jaw ticks. “Want you, Dean, always wanted you-“
“I know, baby,” he coos, leaning slowly down. Your noses bump, and you whimper, closing your eyes. “You want me so bad it hurts, don’t you. Bet your little pussy is fuckin’ calling my name, begging me to stuff her up.”
“Yes,” you nod, bobbleheaded and dizzy. “Oh my god, yes-“
“But how.” His voice turns stern, the heat of his breath making you shiver. “Do you want me? Soft? Or,” he pushes your further down onto his knee, and your eyes roll a little back. “Hard?”
Dean drags his thumb over your lips, squeezing your cheeks into a tiny pout. You try to keep fucking his knee, but he’s got you pinned so hard against it that you can’t move. You’re trapped in a cruel kind of heaven, with everything right on the brink of falling, and Dean holding you over the edge by the nape of your neck.
“Hard,” you whisper, dragging your eyes open to meet his. He needs to see it. How bad you want him. “Wanna- Ohh-“ Your lashes flutter, as Dean starts to slowly grind his knee against your core. “Wanna feel you. All of you. Don’t- Don’t hold back.”
His grip on your jaw tightens. His voice drops a full octave. “Baby, are you-“
“Yes.” You smile at him, already a little drunk on his everything. “I trust you.”
And that seems to be what gets him. Dean blinks at you for a second, the façade of pure control slipping. You know it’s a game, and that when you’re done he’s going to coddle you like a princess. But you’re not sure he knew you knew. Not sure he understood that, even when you thought he hated you, you would’ve placed your life in his hands without even a beat of hesitation.
Dean leans down, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. His hand pulls from yours, and he wraps his arm around your lower back. His fingers tickle your sides a little, teasing the side of your breast, and you giggle. Dean grunts, pushing you further into the mattress. It just makes you giggle more.
“Somethin’ funny?” He mutters, and you can hear it again. He’s back in this. It sends a shivering thrill through your body.
You need more. And you shake your head, trying to test just how much it takes him to snap.
“You’re laughin’ like something’s funny.” Dean leans back up, glaring down at your lovedrunk, giddy expression.
There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes.
You’re about to be fucked into next week.
“Look at you.” He mutters, palming at your breast through your shirt. You gasp, arching into the touch, and Dean chuckles. “You’d do anything I told you, huh. Just to make me fuck you.”
You shake your head, and Dean chuckles.
“Don’t lie, princess. Good girls don’t lie to me.”
Your breath catches. Your thighs press around Dean’s knee, the grind of your hips short and uncontrolled. He lets you writhe below him, smirking at the pants that escape your lips.
“Does it hurt?” he coos, smearing some spit over your cheek. “Your pussy aching, baby girl? Already can’t take it?”
“N- No.” You choke out. “I can take it-“
“Doesn’t seem like you can.” He mutters, scanning over your limp body. “I’m not even touchin’ you and you’re about to cum. Can’t believe you’re that fucking easy.”
You whimper, shaking your head. “I- I’m not easy-“
“Yeah?” Dean mocks. “How many other guys you fucked?”
“Two. Just two-“
“They make you feel like this?”
“No- Never-“
“Damn right. They don’t.” Dean grunts. “You’re mine, princess. My fuckin’ girl.”
You whimper, heat rushing through you at the possession in his voice. You are his. He has no idea, how completely and totally his you are.
“Say you’re mine.” Dean orders, and you nod.
“Yours. All yours, Dean, I’m- Fuuuck-“
He pinches your nipple rolling it between two fingers. Your hips try to buck off the bed, but he’s pinned you down too well.
“Fuck- Dean- You can’t just-“
You moan, and he chuckles.
“Oh, baby.” He leans back down, brushing a featherlight kiss over your lips. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”
Dean nips on your lower lip, then rises back up, patting your cheek.
“Open.”
You do, without a thought. He chuckles, leans down, and spits right into your swollen lips.
“Swallow.” He grunts, and you obey.
You lick your lips for good measure. Just to see how he’ll react. His mouth falls a little open, a deep, possessive sound rumbling chest.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost fully to himself. “So fuckin’ eager. You ready to listen, princess?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, and add for good measure. “Please.”
Dean’s lips twitch. “Beggin’ and I don’t even have you naked yet. We should fix that.”
“Fix what-“
“Stand up.” Dean drags you upright with steady, but firm hands.
You follow his lead, letting him move you off the mattress and onto shaking legs. He keeps you between his spread knees, smirking up at your confused expression. He’s got one hand, steadily rubbing the back of your thigh.
“Strip.” He orders, and your cheeks burn.
“Dean-“
You cut yourself off, when he just raises his brows. God, if he wasn’t begging you for attention fifteen minutes ago, you’d be putting up more of a fight. Just for the show of it. To prove that you’re perfectly capable of thinking for yourself. That you don’t need him at all.
But you think he knows that. And for once, you don’t want to have to think at all.
You peel off your clothing slowly, burning under Dean’s gaze. He’s tracking every movement, dragging over every bare inch of skin. Your top goes first, and his hands fly right up to palm your breasts. His hand is big and warm, and you bite back a tiny moan.
Dean smirks, leaning slowly forward to trail open, wet kisses over the valley of your breasts. You weave your fingers through his hair, your breath stuttering. You fumble with your bottoms. It’s a little hard to focus, with his tongue swirling around your sensitive, peaked nipple.
“Shit- Dean-“ You take a deep breath, tugging at his soft, short locks. “That’s- Mmmm-“
He sucks lightly, and you lean fully over his chest. He chuckles, flicking his tongue back and forth, and all you can think of is that sinful mouth against your core.
“I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” He kisses your nipple, before switching to the neglected one. “For me.”
You swallow, grabbing at the hem of your bottoms and tugging them down. Dean grabs a handful of your ass, slapping it once before dipping his fingers down between your thighs. You collapse over him with a weak noise, and Dean just laughs. The shame in how quickly he’s unraveling you, how wet you know you are, it just makes you ache for him more. He’s got you, needy and in the palm of his hand. He knows it. And still, he touches you like he’s been waiting to his whole life.
“That’s my girl.” He mutters. “Son of a bitch, you’re so fuckin’ wet. You been walkin’ around like this? Waiting to get bent over and turned into my little cockslut.”
“Ye- Yes.” You press your face into his hair, nails scratching at his neck. “Oh my god, Deean-“
“Yeah. That’s right.” Dean hums as you grind down onto his fingers, teasing between the lips of your pussy. “Barely even fuckin’ touching you, and you’re soaking my hands. Jesus,” he laughs, the sound vibrating against your chest. “You’re getting wetter every time I talk.”
You keen, when the tip of his forefinger grazes your clit. It’s like being struck by lightning, making your whole body rush with pleasure and your pussy clench around nothing. He flicks it, just that once, then pulls away. You hug his head tighter, begging between your every moan.
Dean doesn’t budge. He rubs over your pussy without touching your clit again, muttering dirty words against your skin.
“Look at you,” he kisses your shoulder. “My pretty fuckin’ girl.”
“Dean-“
“Come on.” He slaps your ass again, and your knees give a little. “Like I couldn’t make you cum just from talkin’ to you.”
You flush, wrapping your arms around his neck as he pulls you fully into his lap. Dean pauses, at the way you shiver, and pulls back. You try to avoid his gaze, but he isn’t having it. He grabs your jaw and forces your gaze back to his, eyes gleaming and playful.
“Oh, I could, couldn’t I.” He smirks. “You’d cum for me just sittin’ here, letting me call you names.”
“No.” Your protest is short. Weak. Dean looks at you like he’s just pulled the sweetest bunny into his trap, and he wants to eat you alive.
He pulls you down for one of those kisses that’s too slow and sweet. It’s almost mocking, with how his cock is straining against his jeans, pressing into your thigh. You dissolve into it, lowering your guard against your better judgement. Dean squeezes your ass, rubbing where he’d spanked before. Your knees are jelly, your core pressed right against his denim-clad bulge.
Jesus, he must be massive. Just the idea makes you shiver, and Dean smiles against your lips.
“You’re bein’ so patient,” he coos, massaging your hips. “You trust me, don’t you? You know I’m gonna fuck you real good.”
You hum an agreement, smiling from the praise. Dean combs his fingers through your hair, sucking on your lower lips before pulling slightly back.
“You’re ready, aren’t you? I could fuck you right now and you’d take me like I was lubed up.”
You whimper, and Dean pushes you further onto his bulge.
“You gonna let me own you, sweet girl? Let me make you the dirty fuckin’ cumslut you wanna be.”
“Deaan-“ You gasp weakly. “Don’t be mean-“
“Why?” He kisses your cheek. “You like it. You’re the one who said you wanted it, baby. And fuckin’ gush,” he runs his hand between your thighs. “Every fuckin’ time I call you my dirty little girl.”
He’s right. Your pussy clenches, arousal dripping down your thighs. Dean laughs, manhandling you to stay upright as moves fully onto the mattress and lies flat on his back. You stare at him for a second, unable to move with his hold on your hips, but unsure what to do with yourself. You’re straddling him, watching with an open mouth as he pulls off his shirt and settles fully into the pillow. His cock is pushed right against your pussy. You grind down, and he hisses.
“Not yet.” He mutters at your pout. “Need to taste that sweet pussy. C’mere.”
He beckons, and your mouth falls open when you realize what he means.
“Dean, I can’t- You’re going to suffocate-“
“Nobel death.” He grins, and you scowl.
“I don’t want you to die the first time we have sex.”
“First time?” He wiggles his brows. “You’re gonna let me come back for seconds?”
“Dean, I’m serious-“
“So am I, can we do an all you can eat kinda situation-“
“Dean Winchester.” You shove his chest, and the idiot just laughs. “I’m not- I’m not doing that. I don’t want to hurt you, that’s- I’m not-“
“Hey.” Dean grabs your hand, squeezing it gently. You meet his gaze, and it’s a million times softer than before. “It’s okay. This ain’t gonna hurt me, I swear, but if you just don’t wanna, I have a lotta other ways to make us both feel good.”
He drags his thumb over your knuckles, and you take a deep breath. You hadn’t realized it. You were about to cry again.
You peer at Dean through your lashes, and he offers you a boyish, gentle smile.
“Promise it won’t hurt you?” You whisper, and he nods.
“Swear on your life.”
You nod, slowly and carefully. Dean opens his mouth—probably about to ask if you’re sure—but you’re already crawling up his chest.
He smiles, rubbing your thighs as you settle them on either side of his head. You take a deep breath, your hands fidgeting and unsure where to rest. Dean grabs them and guides them into his hair, before kissing the inside of your thigh. Your breath hitches, and you almost collapse straight over him.
He laughs, digging his dull nails into your ass. “Sweetheart, point of this is you sitting on my face.”
“I- I am-“
“You’re hovering. That ain’t sittin’.”
“I don’t want to crush you-“
“You won’t.” He sighs, kissing the opposite thigh. “I got you, right?”
You nod. He trails the kisses upwards, close to where you’re sure you’re dripping on his beard. His eyes never leave yours.
“You trust me?” He rasps, warm breath fanning over your pussy.
“Of- Of course I trust you-“
“Good.” Dean kisses your clit, sloppy and using his tongue to flick the little button back and forth.
You almost shriek, the sensation overwhelming. You squirm, unsure if you’re trying to get closer or wiggle away. Dean makes the choice for you.
“Hold on.” He grunts, right before yanking you right down onto his face.
And oh.
Oh god.
You’ve been eaten out before. Even by people who were good at it. Who enjoyed it. You came before, and walked away with no complaints.
Compared to this, they might as well have just spat on it and walked away.
Dean eats you out like he’s on a personal mission for honor between your legs. Like he lost something in your pussy and he’s trying to shake it loose. His jaw works like he’s devouring the finest food of his life, his tongue dragging and pumping in and out of your sensitive opening. His nose is pressed right against your clit, and he moves it with his full face, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing.
“Fuuck- Fuck!” You cry out, yanking on Dean’s hair. “Dean- Oh- Oh my God-“
He moans, and the vibration makes it better and worse all at once. You’re trembling, no way to escape it, no way to feel it less. Dean massages your ass as he works, keeping you pinned to his face, to the pleasure he’s slowly dragging out of your body.
You pull his hair again, and his time he smacks your ass with his moan. Your back arches. You have to grab the bed frame to stop yourself from collapsing.
“Dean- Deeaaan-“
You chant the word like a prayer. It’s all you can remember. The infernal man below you laughs, and you push down harder into his wet, open mouth. He grunts, and doubles his efforts. His tongue traces around your pussy before shoving back into your tight cunt, and you clench around him with a whimper.
He tightens his grip on your hips, dragging them slowly back and forth. Guiding you into fucking his face. You follow his rhythm, and swear you can feel him everywhere in your body. Your nerves light up, with every stroke of his tongue and bump of his nose on your clit. Your mouth hangs open, and you pant as you try to hold off your orgasm, building up and up and up in your core.
One of his hands disappears from your body. You’re too lost in his mouth below you to notice, until you hear it.
The sound of slapping skin, mixed with Dean’s increasing moans below you. You manage to find enough of a mind to look over your shoulder, and the sight shoots straight to your pussy, gushing on Dean’s face.
He’s fisting his cock, thick and long and a little curved. He beats it into his hand, the head angry and red, coated in a thick layer of pre-cum. You twist back around looking down at his face between your thighs, and find him staring back.
He’s been staring the whole time. Eyes dark and wrecked, fixed on you as you writhed and moaned above him. He’s getting off to it. To having you like this.
Dean moans—fully, totally moans—into your pussy, his eyes never leaving yours.
And you can’t hold it off.
“Dean- I- I’m gonna-“
He squeezes your ass, moaning against your pussy again.
Permission.
You cum with a cry of his name, grinding down onto his face through your orgasm. Your vision goes white, your whole body shaking and seizing up as Dean’s tongue strokes you through it. He doesn’t stop when you’re a trembling, dazed mess above him. He slowly shifts you backwards, cradling your body as sits up, forcing your back into the sheets, between his legs.
He kisses your clit gently, eyes shining on your unfocused, glossy ones.
“Taste better than I imagined.” He murmurs, slowly moving you further up the bed. “And trust me, baby. I lost a whole lotta sleep imagining.”
You swallow, eyes darting to his still hard cock. Dean follows your hungry gaze, then laughs, angling it to rub between the lips of your pussy.
“You’re really that needy, huh.” He teases. “Not enough for just my mouth. Gotta have my cock, too.”
You hum, too lost in the feeling to even protest. You’re flat on your back, legs hiked up in the air and over Dean’s shoulder, fully exposing your poor, swollen pussy to him. He slides his cock right between the slick lips, the tip bumping your clit. You pout up at Dean, spreading your legs wider to try and urge him on. He raises his brows, pausing with his cock pressed over your clit.
“Already too fucked out to talk?”
You nod, and pride and worry mix in his eyes.
“Baby, if you need me to take it easy-“
You shake your head frantically. He promised no holding back. You want to be sore from him in the morning.
Dean sighs, lowering your legs so he can lean over your face. You glare at him, grinding your hips up against him. He pins you back to the bed with a single hand sprawled on your abdomen and a stern look.
“There’s gonna be more time for it to be rough.” He murmurs. “I been plenty mean tonight. And I love it, sweetheart, I do, but I’m gonna love anything-“
“Dean.” You push out, your voice wrecked and hoarse. “Hard. Please.”
“Are you-“
You push up on weak elbows, capturing his mouth against yours. Dean leans down, kissing you with every bit of adoration and softness he’s about to rip away for the sake of pleasure. You smile against the kiss, boneless and happy, and Dean grunts.
“Alright.” He mutters, the darkness in his voice sending a chill down your spine. “You get what you ask for, baby girl.”
Yes.
You’d say it, if he hadn’t already stolen most of the words from your body. And you thought that it was bad before.
Dean slowly shoves himself into your dripping cunt, and you can’t remember your own fucking name.
He’s big. So big you’re not sure how you’re fitting him. His hand on your abdomen pushes you deeper into the mattress, forcing you to take every thick, veiny inch of him. You whimper, and the sound gets swallowed by Dean’s lips.
“Feel that?” He hisses, tone harsh in the way that sends a thrill to your core. “Feel my cock, filling up your tight little pussy?”
You nod, mouth hanging open. Dean bottoms out with a grunt, pulling your hips roughly up to let him hit a deeper angle. You mewl, eyes rolling back at the burning, perfect stretch of him.
“That’s right.” He mutters, rutting into your wet, hot channel. “This is what you fuckin’ begged for, princess. To be a brainless little cockslut. You can’t even talk right now, can you? Just gonna lay there and look pretty while I do all the work?”
Tears prick at your eyes. You’re so full you almost don’t think you can handle it.
Dean isn’t going to give you much of a choice.
“Damn right you are.” He mutters to himself, dragging almost fully out of you before slamming back in, knocking the air from your lungs.
You sob with pleasure, reaching up to grab at his face. Dean kisses your wrist, repeating the motion with an even harsher thrust than before.
“That’s it.” He grunts, pushing over your as he finds a brutal pace. “That’s my girl. Fit me like a glove, sweetheart. Tightest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever fucked, so good for me, so fuckin’ good-“
Dean groans, crashing his lips over yours. You wrap your arms around him, holding on for dear life as he fucks stars behind your eyes and lightning through your body. If you weren’t ruined for him before, you are now. There isn’t another man in the world, who could reduce you to such a sobbing, wrecked mess while fucking you like a doll, then kiss all over your face like you’re the most important thing in the world.
He’s handling your body like it only exists for him to fuck. Grabbing your hips and breasts like they’re toys, positioning in the best way for him to hit you deeper. So deep he’s finding burning, pleasurable spots in you that you hadn’t known existed before, that make your whole body light up with pleasure. You can feel him in your throat, though every single inch of you, his muscles flexing and chest heaving and cock drilling into you until your pussy is drooling and he’s just sliding in and out.
But he kisses you like he’s a soldier being sent off to war. Rough and desperate, but loving. With all the fervor of a man who’s trying to something both of you have lost the words for. You return his every kiss, and his thrusts get sharper. Deeper.
You make sounds that are supposed to be his name. The room fills with the obscene sound of his cock, pounding into your cunt. You tip your head back and he starts to bite and suck on your throat, like he really can’t find enough of you to worship.
“Shit, baby-“ He presses his nose against your jaw, voice cracking as the bed creaks beneath you both. “Gonna- Gonna fuckin’- Where’d you want it-“
You grab his shoulders, yanking him fully down. Dean groans, doubling over and pressing his mouth back over yours.
“Come with me, sweetheart, c’mon- Milk my fuckin’ cock-“
His thumb slips between your bodies, rubbing your clit in tight, unforgiving circles. You scream silently, as your orgasm hits you like a train. Dean fucks you through it, moaning your name as he chases his own release. White hot cum paints your inner walls, and Dean fucks it back into you with rough grunts and shorter thrusts.
You think you might be floating. You’ve never been this stuffed up, this warm. All the mocking and harshness from Dean is gone, replaced by worshipful hands that caress your face and gentle kisses over every spot he played with. Neither of you seem ready to know. You know you aren’t at all, and Dean’s curled over you like a very heavy blanket.
You rub his back, smiling up at the ceiling. It’s quiet. You’d like to stay here for a while. Maybe forever.
Dean rises over you, still not pulling out. His eyes are glazed, his expression wrecked. You reach up to cup his cheek, and he leans into the touch.
“My girl.” He mutters, and even if he doesn’t say it like one, you know it’s a question.
“Your girl.” You whisper.
You’ve never seen him smile so wide, than before he leans back down to kiss you again.
And if you make him smile like that for the rest of your life, then you know you’ve done something right.
✦End note: the good thing about writing these fics is that it's fun. the bad thing is that i've set my standards WAY too high. ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on a03! - Main Masterlist✦
✦pairing: Clark Kent x female!reader✦
✦summary: You meet Clark Kent and Superman within the same week. Fall for them at the same time. Then put two and two together, and realize that maybe for once, you can have a good thing.✦
✦warnings/tags: civilian!reader, friends to lovers, insecurity, light angst, fluff, pining, shenanigans, love confessions, shameless smut (dry humping, slight body worship, dirty talk, fingering, p in v), no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: This takes place in a alternate world where Clark and Lois just never happened, because I will not stand for girlboss slander. Enjoy!✦
It’s one of those warm night that makes everything wet. Sweat sticking under your clothing and hair to your brow. The ground slick with dew and making you trip every five steps. The fog so dense that seeing more than a foot in front of you is nothing short of a miracle. The city buzzing around you, but in nothing more than a hazy, neon glow.
It’s rarer, in Metropolis, for these kinds of nights to happen. It’s something you’d expect from Gotham, or the upstate country sides.
But it’s here, and you’re going to punch a brick wall.
Walking alone is already something that sucks. Everyone tends to let their guard down and fuck around like idiots, thinking that Superman is just going to fall out of the sky and save them.
And he probably will.
But being saved by Superman is always a whole thing. People post a video of the rescues online if they can get one, and then suddenly you’re getting an exhaustive, unwelcome fifteen minutes of fame. The news wants to talk to you. Brands are reaching out to be sponsored by “Superman”—or at least someone who’s touched him, which they think is enough—and people are recreating your rescue as videos for clicks and likes.
It sounds like a fucking nightmare. At least if you get mugged you only have to talk to insurance.
And you’re not a helpless baby. You’re prepared, and alert, and lived in Gotham. Once a Poison Ivy burst into apartment, told you that your landlord had been secretly using doing illegal things with energy—either stealing it or using it too much, you hadn’t really been paying attention—and for some reason you had to die about it.
Compared to that, one person with a gun and shine of desperation in their eyes wasn’t much to be afraid of.
You’d be fine.
So you walk home from work every night—a hand tight on your bag and eyes scanning around the dark—and it hasn’t gone wrong yet.
But you also haven’t had a night like this one.
And when you hear the click of a gun, from a darker alleyway to your side, you’re more disappointed than anything else.
“Give- Lady, hey-“ A skinnier kid—with his hair ragged around his face and his fingers shaking slightly—slides out of the dark. “Stop walkin’, and give me your money.”
You turn with a sigh, tilting your head at him and squinting through the dark. “Just my money?”
The kid blinks at you. “Yes?”
That’s easy then. “Alright.”
“Alright? You’re just-“ The kid frowns. “You’re going to give it to me?”
“Well, what happens if I don’t?”
“I shoot you through the head and take it anyway?”
You give him a pointed look, and the kid scowls, cocking the gun.
“Are you trying to get smart with me, lady? That what this is? Some fucking mind trick?”
“Me?” You point at yourself in mock innocence, and shrug. “I would never. Do you want the coins as well?”
“I- Yeah.” The kid spits on your feet, and it seems more like a defensive mechanism than anything else. “Yes. Give me everything you’ve fucking got.” Then, as a last afterthought, he adds, “Bitch.”
“Hey.” You frown at him, hand stuck in your purse. “That’s pretty fucking rude. I’m being cooperative.”
The kid stares at you for a second, then shakes himself, raising the gun higher. “You got like a fuckin’ death wish, lady?”
“Not right now, no.”
“Jesus fucking- Stop being a bitch, and just give me your fuckin’-“
You never get to know exactly what the kid wanted you to do, because a lot of things happen at once.
Superman drops out of the sky, landing between you and the kid.
You grab your pepper spray out of the bad, using it liberally on the air and stepping off to the side, behind Superman’s back.
The kid fires his gun with a shout of pain as the chemicals hit him, hand blindly following your path behind Superman.
The shot echoes through the alley, making you wince slightly, but the bullet just crumples against Superman’s chest. The kid has ended up shaking and crying on the ground, the pepper spray quickly dissipating into the thick fog, and you sigh, tucking the empty container back into your bag.
“Alright, buddy.” You step out from behind Superman with a frown, kneeling down at the kid’s side. “Let’s see who you are.”
You roll him over as he whines in pain, and makes a weak attempt to shove you away that you dodge.
“Hey.” Superman’s voice cuts through the air, and it’s somehow deeper and higher than you thought it would be, all at once. You’ve heard him give interviews, in those on the street videos when someone gets lucky enough to corner him and ask for his favorite soup or whatever. In person, it feels slightly different.
Less god-like.
When you look up at him with a frown, he looking between you and the kid like he’s not quite sure what to do.
“That’s pretty rude, trying to hit someone who’s helping you.” He says, taking a step forward towards the kid. “And you,” he turns, his eyes seeming to shine in the low, misting light as they land on you. “Pepper sprayed me.”
You shrug. “And? You’re fine.”
“You didn’t know I would be fine-“
“I didn’t know you’d be here.” You look back to the kid, who seems to have resorted to just curling into a little ball. “And he shot you, if we’re keeping count.”
“We’re, uh- Not.” Superman clears his throat, and you can hear him walking closer behind you. “You can go, ma’am. I’ll take it from here.”
“I’m okay, thanks.” You keep rolling the kid until he’s on his side, and you can pull out his wallet.
Superman freezes. “Miss, if you’re stealing from him I have to-“
“I’m not stealing from him.” You roll your eyes, and Superman pauses, before muttering-
“It sort of looks like you’re stealing from him.”
You hum, pulling out the thick card of the kid’s driver’s license, and holding it up to the light. “That sounds like a you problem.”
Superman coughs, not taking off into the night to look for more crime, for some reason. You’re not really sure what he’s still doing here at all.
“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to step back, please. This man is in medical distress, and I need to get him to a hospital.”
“Don’t take him to the hospital.” You mutter, and Superman frowns, kneeling down across from you.
“Listen, I understand that he just did something that caused you distress, but he’s still a person. He deserves the same care as anyone else, even if he’s made mistakes-“
“Yeah, I know that, dummy.” You roll your eyes, dropping the ID back into his wallet. “But this is a fake. And he doesn’t have an insurance card.”
Superman stares at you. “And?”
“He won’t be able to afford the hospital. This Fake ID is shit, he probably can’t even afford the pudding in the hospital cafeteria.” You tuck the man’s wallet back into his pants, then wrap your arms around his torso. “There’s a shelter, three blocks down. He should go there.”
You grunt, trying to drag him up, but you barely get him an inch off the ground before Superman’s jumping in, grabbing the man and pulling him into his arms, bridal style.
“Three blocks down?” He asks you, and you nod, wiping your hands on your legs.
“Yeah. Don’t tell them the mugging, though.”
“Why-“
“They’ll legally have to hand him over to the cops after.”
“And you… don’t want them to?”
“No.” You look up at Superman with a tight glare. “Do you?”
He’s not glaring at you. Superman is looking at you with an open, almost curious expression, his head titled to the side and lips in a strange sort of pout.
It hits you a little like lightning, how he does look like only a man—he’s got all the fearless humans have—but there’s something more. His skin is clear, posture perfect, and in the glow of the streetlamps, there’s a strange sort of angelic halo around his body.
And he’s handsome.
You’ve seen photos. You watch the news. You’ve been at work and listened to the interns fawn about how hot Superman is, and how they hope they need help because they’d love to be saved by him, but it’s just different in person. Striking, a little mind numbing, and making your skin buzz because he’s staring at you.
You wish he’d stop. It’s making you dizzy.
“No.” He says softly. “I don’t.”
“Alright then.” You cross your arms, raising your chin at him. He doesn’t just get to make you feel gooey with his eyes. “We’re in agreement.”
Superman chuckles, and that just makes your face heat more. “Yeah, I guess we are. Would you like an escort home, ma’am?”
“A- What?”
“May I walk you home.” He holds your gaze, and you might be about to burst into flames. “We can drop this man off together. I don’t think it’s that safe for you to be walking alone at night, even in a city as nice as ours.”
You swallow. “I have pepper spray.”
“You have empty pepper spray. That can will be useless, and I think you know that.”
“Well, I-“ You scowl, adjusting your jacket and standing up a little. He’s so fucking tall. It’s hard to intimidate someone so stupidly tall. “I don’t live very far. I’ll be fine. Goodnight, Superman.”
He blinks at you, opening and closing his mouth once, then bows his head. “Goodnight, ma’am.”
Part of you wants him to stop calling you ma’am. You’re not a fucking ma’am, even if the gentleness and respect in his voice is making you feel even more lightheaded.
So you turn on your heels, and march out of the alley like nothing ever happened at all.
But you can still feel it.
Superman’s gaze.
When you glance over your shoulder—because you’re an idiot—he’s watching you walk away, the fog almost seeming to part just long enough for your eyes to connect, before he vanishes into the dark.
———
“You can’t say that.” One of your co-workers mutters, crossing out something on the paper before looking up at you with a sigh of your name. “You know you can’t say that. Last time Ms. Lane had to stop you from saying it. Do you know how bad it has to be for her to do that?”
You shrug, rocking the chair the chair your foot is resting on back and forth. “That’s not my fault, I didn’t make her.”
“You’re dodging the question.” Your coworker gives you a flat look, and you just smile in return.
“I’ve never dodged a question in my life.”
She sighs your name again, and shakes her head. “Just- don’t say it. We’ll get sued into the next century, you know that, and Luther doesn’t fuck around-“
“I don’t fuck around.” You mutter, spinning your pen in your hands. “And you know we’d win if we tried. It’s not defamation if it’s true, and his reputation is already so damaged he’d have no proof that my remarks caused his stocks to tank lower than hell-“
“Just don’t say it. Please.”
You roll your eyes. “Fine. I won’t say the factually correct thing about how Luther is such a pathetic man-baby he’s been keeping a harem of ex-girlfriends, and everything he says about Superman is just what’s true about himself, he just can’t see it because whenever he looking in the mirror because he only sees the glare of his bald head.”
Your coworker sighs, right as the door pushes open. “Thank you for not saying it.”
“Listen, I’m so sorry I’m late.” A large, dark haired man with glasses and sharp jawline drops across from you, chair spinning as he gives you an apologetic look. “I just lost track of the time, thought this floor was the next floor, and- Gosh, I’m so sorry, I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”
You frown at him, opening your mouth, but your words die as he stares at you. He’s acting like he’s looking at a ghost, with wide eyes and a startled flinch. He’s still holding his briefcase, grip white-knuckled, and your frown deepens.
Your co-worker clears her throat, and the man’s attention shoots away from a second.
It leaves you oddly cold.
“We haven’t been waiting long at all, Mr. Kent.” She gives the man a sweet smile, and he returns it in a second. “You actually just gave us enough time to finish our briefing.”
“Oh, well, that’s good, isn’t it?” He looks to you with another nervous expression, pushing his glasses up his nose, and your frown deepens. “Are you ready then, miss?”
“She’s all yours.” Your co-worker beams, shooting to her feet, and right before she leaves the conference room, you get a firm glare and a mouthed don’t fucking say it.
You ignore her. You’re not going to say it. And if you do, it will be naturally in the conversation, wherever it may come up.
The man is fumbling, across the table. Pulling out his notebook and laptop with clumsy hands, clearing his throat and straightening his tie, shooting you an nervous look every few moments, as if you’re going to jump across the table and bite him or something.
You lean forward, tilting your head, and he sits up straight.
“It’s nice to meet you, miss-“
“You’re not Lois.” You say, voice flat, and his ears turn red.
“Lois is, uh- She’s busy.”
“Busy?”
“Sick.” He mutters, pushing up his glasses again. “She caught something, in that bad weather we’ve been having. She’s very sorry she can’t make it, though.” He gives you a small, charming smile. “Gave me a whole speech about how you’re her favorite, and if I mess this up, she’ll strangle me.”
You hum, scanning over him wordlessly. It’s a strategy that works with almost everyone, staying silent until they get uncomfortable and blurt something. Something that, usually, tells you enough about them to sketch out a picture that lets you color in the lines how you want. When you’d used it on Lois, she’d stared back at you before asking if you were trying to intimidate her. When you’d met the Boravian president, he’d asked if they’d sent a mute to interview him and make him look like some sort of fool.
This man—Kent, your co-worker had called him—is just staring at you right back. Not uncomfortably, but silently. He’s fiddling with his pen and holding your gaze, waiting for you to break the silence.
You never break the silence. That’s losing.
Kent doesn’t seem like he’s trying to win, though. He just seems like he’s trying to be polite.
And after about five minutes of staring at each other in silence, he clears his throat, and frowns at you.
“Do you want some water? Or to call Lois? She can vouch for me, I promise.” He chuckles. “Actually, she’ll probably say I’m an okay journalist, and that I’m asking the questions she wrote.” He pauses, then holds up his notepad. “I am asking the questions she wrote. If that makes this better.”
It doesn’t.
But now you know what Kent is like.
Polite, gentle, kind.
You can work with that.
“I’m good, thank you.” You give him a sweet, slightly mocking smile, and he returns it with the same charming grin from before.
It’s throwing you off. You can’t be cool and collected and sharp, here. With Lois it’s like sparring.
With Kent, it’s just making you feel like a bitch.
“Great, then are we ready to- Oh shoot, Wait-“ He reaches back into his bag, then pulls out a tape recorder with a sheepish grin. “Almost forgot. Gosh, Lois would’ve killed me.” He places the recorder between you, and gives you another nervous grin. “Now, are you ready to get started?”
You nod, and he hits the record button. You’re silent as he rattles off the date and time, who you are—top human right lawyer, heavily involved in negotiations with the United Sates government about aide to Jarhanpur and immigration protections of Jarhanpurian refugees—and who he is.
Clark Kent. Reporter for the Daily Planet, sitting down for a conversation about the recent developments with Lex Luther using surveillance technology to tip off Immigration authorities about illegal refugees.
He gives you another handsome smile, before he asks the first question. You just stare at him. He doesn’t get to use his pretty face to throw you off your game.
“So,” he glances down at his notepad, then back to you. “You’re suing the United States government for unconstitutional detainment of Jarhanpurian journalist, claiming they were both complicit in and knowingly funded the unlawful imprisonment that goes against their first amendment right to free press. Is this correct?”
You nod. “Yes, Mr. Kent, it is.”
“Great. Um-“ He flips his notepad, squinting at the words. “The United States had claimed that they had no knowledge of Luther’s methods, and says that they never once paid him to contain a private American citizen. They also stated that, if they did use Luther to hold someone, they were not aware that their funding for his research was helping him to contain people for other countries. So…” He gives you another nervous smile. “What do you say to that?”
“I say that the government is not known for being truthful about their dealings, Mr. Kent.” You raise your brows at him. “At the very least, we know they paid to have Luther contain Superman. That alone indicates that they were aware of the security of his pocket dimension. And I also happen to have several victims of the holding, all legal immigrants from Jarhanpur who were critics of Boravia, who were kept in Luther’s harem jail.”
Kent frowns at you. “Harem jail?”
Shit. “There have been allegations that he used it imprison ex-girlfriends.”
“So you…” Kent’s lips twitch. “Call it a harem jail?”
“Yep.” You give him a challenging look. “And?”
“Nothing.” He looks down at his paper again, ears red. “Just sort of graphic, I think.”
“Graphic-“
“But funny.” He gives you a small grin, pushing up his glass again. “I think it’s funny.”
There’s a fuzzy, warm feeling, over your skin. You don’t fucking appreciate it. “Oh. Thanks.”
He grins. “No problem. Uh- Right. There we were-“
Kent keeps asking you Lois’ questions, and while he doesn’t really have the edge that works you both up until she asks a hard hitter and you knock it out of the park, he’s not the worst to work with. He doesn’t fuck up the questions. He asks a few follow ups about crime rates and the responsibility of the United States to regulate business’. He even asks a pretty good question about the ethics Luther using federal funding when he’s a billionaire, and seems to have come up with it himself.
He’s certainly better than almost any male journalist you’ve worked with. He doesn’t talk over you, or question your qualifications, or do anything but listen and nod like you’re saying something fascinating. You’re really not. You’re using words that are too big and talking too fast and discussing the constitution, one of the most boring topics of conversation.
But he’s still looking at you as if you’re doing Circe de Solie tricks in this bland little conference room.
He laughs at a few of your jokes, and it makes you buzz again.
At one point, you go to the bathroom, and when you get back he’s gotten you both cups.
You lean over it, then look back up to Kent. “What’s this?”
“Uh- Water?” He glances down at the cup, then you. “I figured after going to the bathroom, you might need to stay hydrated.”
That’s such a strangely fucking good thing to do. It’s making your heart beat too fast. “And if I say I just took a shit?”
Kent blinks. “I can get you a snack?”
You snort, and that seems to make him relax again. His shoulder slump and his eyes fucking sparkle like a cartoon character, when you take a sip of his water.
He’s like a fucking puppy turned into a human. You might be able to see his tail wagging.
“Alright, Kent.” You set the water down. “Let’s keep-“
“Clark.” He says suddenly, wincing to himself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you but- Clark is alright. You can call me Clark.”
You stare at him, and he turns a little red.
“It’s my first name.”
“Yeah, I figured out that one myself.”
“Oh. Okay. Good.” He looks back down to his notepad, adjusting his tie like it’s burning him through the suit. “So- Next question is- Oh this is a good one. I mean, it’s rougher, but Lois told me you’re… Uh-“ He turns red again. “Never mind-“
“No.” You cut him off, leaning forward. “You don’t get to say Lois called me something then not tell me. What.”
He won’t look you in the eyes. “Just that you’re a little bit of a masochist. And that you were going to be… vulgar enough to make me blush.”
You laugh, soft and through your nose, and Clark looks at you nervously. “That’s it?”
“Uh- Yeah?”
“That’s nothing,” you wave him off, leaning back in your chair. “I thought you were going to say she called me a cunt or something.”
Clark gapes at you. “Gosh, no, she adores you. Told me she’d strangle me, if I messed it up-“
“I know.”
He frowns. “How?”
“You told me earlier.”
“Oh. I did, didn’t I. Darn it.” He gives you another nervous smile. “Sorry about that. Did I tell you about how she also said she’d dump boiling soup on me? And that it was the soup I made her.”
You smile, and it feels a little too wide and toothy, but Clark doesn’t move away. “No, you didn’t.”
“Well, she did. And I don’t think she’d ever call you a- That. You don’t seem like one at all?”
You raise your brows. “I don’t?”
“No, you seem like a… Ah- A really lovely lady.”
It’s hard not to laugh at that, even if Clark looks genuinely confused by your reaction.
“Okay, Kent-“
“Clark.” He corrects with a mumble, eyes bright and almost curious on yours, and now you feel warm.
“Clark.” You keep it together. He does not get to fuck you up. “What’s the good questions.”
“Right. Sorry, um-“ His eyes dart down to the notepad. “A lot of people are worried that by letting Jarhanpurian citizens and journalists into the country, we’re taking away jobs away from American’s and giving these immigrants shelter when they only bring danger. What would you like to say, to American’s who believe that?”
“That our country is built on the backs of immigrants.” You answer smoothly. “And the idea that they only bring danger is a frighteningly xenophobic myth that’s simply easy to believe. Lex Luther is an American citizen, and he nearly split Metropolis in half. Superman is, in all essence of the law, an illegal immigrant, and he’s saved countless lives. It’s the person, not their origin or government, who decides what they are. And the Jarhanpurian refugees have come here to be the good, strong and kind people they want to be. It is our job to protect them, and so far, we are the ones who have failed.”
Clark stares at you for a long, strange moment as your answer hangs in the air. For a second, you think he’s going to argue, or offer a counter question.
Instead he just clears his throat, turns off the recorder, and smiles at you.
“Thank you for talking to me,” he says your name with a warm smile, and the air feeling strangely light, when you take his hand.
It’s big and warm.
You have to bit your tongue as he smiles, because it’s making you want to smile back.
And when Clark walks away after a few more formal pleasantries, you’re just standing in the center of the room. He’s said your name in a deep, rich way that made your heart skip and breath hitch. He’d grinned and you’d felt warm, like a fucking idiot. Your goddamn knees feel sort of weak, because you’d been able to feel his heat from across the table.
Or that’s just still in you. Burning up from where your hands had connected, and through your whole body.
It’s a good thing you’ll probably never have to see him again.
You never want to feel that soft and dizzy, for a long, long time.
———
There’s a thud on the pavement behind you, and you don’t think before you react.
Your hand shoots into your purse, wrapping around your pepper spray, and you turn on your heels.
Right before you spray it, a big hand wraps around your wrist, and Superman takes the can from you with a small frown.
“Sorry.” He lets go of your wrist. “You just got it replaced, and I didn’t want you to use it for no reason. I’ve heard those things are expensive.”
They are.
You still scowl at him.
“Are you stalking me?”
He blinks, eyes widening. “No, I’m not. Swear on it. Superman’s honor.”
He places a hand over his heart with a grin, and you frown at him.
“It’s scouts honor.”
“I was never a scout, miss.” He gives you a small grin. “I don’t want to dishonor their badge.”
“Their scout badge?”
He nods, and you huff in amusement, shoving the pepper spray into your purse.
“Sure. Why not.”
“Well, those boys work very hard-“
“Most of them are rich kids whose parents can afford scouts.” You say dryly, and Superman frowns at the air.
“Huh. I suppose you’re right about that.”
“I know I’m right about it.” You wrap your arms around your stomach, frowning at him. “If you’re not stalking me, what are you doing here.”
“I’m… checking on you.” He gives you a bright, charming grin. “Just making sure you’re holding up well, after last week. Seeing if there’s anything else I can do to help.”
“To help me.” You narrow your eyes, and he keeps grinning.
“I think so. Doesn’t seem to be anyone else.”
You hum, staring at him, and he just stares right back.
It’s too long, that it takes him to break. And he breaks just like Clark Kent did, yesterday. Not with a nervous expression or uncomfortable shift.
Just with worry. Which makes you feel fuzzy.
Jesus fucking Christ, you can’t handle doing this twice.
“Are you feeling safe, walking home? Would you want- Maybe have a driver?”
“Could you get me a driver?”
“No.” He gives you another smile, and now you feel gooey. “But I could walk you home. To make you feel safe.”
“Hm.” You raise your chin, and he quickly adds. “Do you do that for everyone whose muggings you crash?”
“I mean, normally people call it saving.” He frowns, and you scoff.
“You didn’t save me. I was fine.”
“No- I mean, yes, you were, but I still helped.”
“How?”
Superman blinks at you. “I carried the guy. He’s okay, by the way, in case you were worried-“
“I wasn’t.” You shrug, holding his gaze. “I checked on him in the morning.”
“Oh. Good. Of course you did.”
Of course you did.
He says it like it’s a fact. He doesn’t even fucking know you.
“What does that mean-“
“Do you want me to walk- Sorry.” Superman sighs as you speak over each other, bowing his head. “You first.”
You stare at him, scanning over handsome features in the dark, and there’s something. It’s scratching at the back of your head, and it doesn’t have a voice yet, but it’s there. He’s being too kind, it’s odd. And he’s making your head feel a little light, and maybe you need to call the Metropolis facilities department, because there must be something in the water if you’re feeling this way twice in a week.
“Are you actually going to walk me home?” You ask, trying to make your voice venomous, the kind of predator’s warning that makes people back away and leave you to keep walking, alone in the dark.
If you succeed, it doesn’t seem to work on Superman.
“If you want me to, yes, I will.” He smiles at you, and it seems to light up the whole street.
You can’t look at it too long. Your knees will start to feel weak.
“Alright. Fine.” You turn on your heels, not looking back. “Let’s go.”
“Let’s- Okay. Let’s go.” Superman echoes your words, quickly catching up to walk at your side.
You walk in silence for a few minutes, and it’s the kind of silence that leaks. That makes everything else feel bigger and quieter, until your breathing is shallower and your skin is prickling, and if there’s not something to fill up the creaks and horns of the night, you’re going to lose your fucking mind.
Superman isn’t even doing anything to make it worse. He’s just walking at a respectful distance next to you, looking around the streets like it’s all the most interesting thing he’s ever seen, and you want to punch him in the face.
“Is this all you do?” You blurt, and he looks at you with a curious expression.
“No? I mean, sometimes I fly-“
“Not walk.” You sigh, looking back out into the night. “Like- Aren’t there robberies and murders for you to be stopping?”
He pauses, tilts his head, then clicks his tongue. “I can’t hear any, no.”
“Can’t hear any.” You mutter under your breath, and he shrugs.
“Well, I have super senses, including hearing, and-“
“I know about the hearing, Supes. I just think it’s ridiculous.”
Superman blinks at you. “I- Ridiculous seems like a strong word-“
“It’s just- It’s not ridiculous. Well, it is, but-“ You sigh, glaring down at your nails like it’s their fault you’re fucking up your words around the pretty alien. “It’s crazy. To be able to hear a robbery across the city.”
“I can’t control it-“
“I know.” You shrug. “It’s just hard to imagine. I think it would overwhelm me, and I’d put a screwdriver through my head.”
“Oh.” Superman chuckles, and it’s a deep, low sound that feels like it fucking rolls through the night, and vibrates in your chest. “It can get overwhelming, I suppose. It’s just how I always am. Always have been.” He pauses, and you can feel his attention. “For me, not being to hear everything sounds terrifying.”
You hum. “Have you ever heard people have like- The loudest fucking sex?”
He coughs, and when you look over, his ears seem a little red. “Yes, but- I’ve sort of learned to tune out the grosser things.”
“Right.” You pause, then frown at him. “Do you poop?”
“Do I poop?”
“You’re Kryptonian, I don’t know how your bodily functions work.”
“They’re mostly similar to humans.” He says, amusement obvious in his voice. “Almost entirely similar, actually.”
You nod, looking back ahead. “So you do poop.”
“Yes. I poop.”
“Fascinating. I have a reporter friend.” You grin to yourself. “I’m going to sell that fact to her for a million dollars.”
Superman laughs again. He needs to stop doing that. “Something tells me she won’t be interested in that scoop.”
There’s a long beat, and you look back to see him grinning at you, wide and proud.
You groan.
“That’s fucking horrible.”
“You smiled-“
“I did not-“
“Yes, you did. I saw it. It was on your face, and it was a smile.”
“On my face is where all smiles happen- And it wasn’t a smile.” You glare at him, stopping in your tracks. “That was an awful joke. Zero out of ten.”
Superman mock flinches. “Ouch. That low?”
“Yeah. You should be sent to space jail.” You glance behind you. “And- This is me.”
“Oh.” He looks at the building, then back to you. “And you’re not just pretending it’s your building because of what just happened?”
That time, you do actually smile. “No, I’m not.”
He nods, then gives you another one of those knee-weakening smiles. “Well then, have a good night…”
There’s a long silence, and you never told him your fucking name.
You do, with your arms crossed over your chest, and he echoes it back.
Your stupid heart skips.
And he waits for you to go inside, before he takes off. Waits all the way until you’re in your apartment, and you lean out the window to wave at him mockingly, because he can hear you. He knows you’re inside.
He waves, grins at you, and shoots off into the night
You stand stupidly at the window, for a moment.
It’s just bad luck, twice in one week. Kent and Superman, making your breath hitch and body warm. It probably really is just something in the water.
So you close the curtains, and just pray this isn’t the kind of thing that comes in threes.
———
Someone shouts your name, and you’re not fast enough to dive behind the potted plant and make them think you pulled a magic trick.
You don’t want to talk to anyone. It’s too early to speak, too public to have to play nice about everything, too loud to do anything but press yourself against the wall of the little cafe and drink your coffee.
They haven’t even gotten your muffin yet.
You just want your fucking muffin.
Instead you have to just stare at the floor, hoping your lack of acknowledgment will make whoever knows you here think you have headphones in or something.
It almost works.
The person says your name again, then pauses. “I think she can’t hear me?”
“I, uh- I’m not sure.” Another voice—this one sending warm little shivers through your body, and Jesus Christ not again—mutters, a little lower than the first. “I think she just doesn’t want to be bothered, Jimmy.”
“Really? No, I think she can’t hear me.” Jimmy repeats your name, touching your shoulder lightly, and now you have to pretend you never heard him in the first place.
You look up with what had to be a horribly fake expression of surprise, your fingers curling on your coffee cup. “Oh. Hi, Jimmy, when did you get here?”
Fuck, that’s such a bad fucking lie. Somehow, Jimmy, with his million-dollar toothy grin and sweet freckled face, is buying it.
The guy standing over his shoulder, who gave you those stupid shivers, looks a little less convinced. Mostly nervous, like he’s caught the lie but doesn’t really want to fucking do anything about it.
And the good news is, these things don’t come in threes.
The bad news is, they come in two that just keep fucking popping up in your life. Like tall, hot weeds with puppy faces and deep voices and probably abs, given how he’s filling out that shirt.
You stare at Clark Kent.
He stares back at you, face a little red and mouth hanging slightly open.
“Hi.” You say, voice a little blanker and awestruck than you wanted—it doesn’t crack, but it does have a breathlessness that you don’t really fucking appreciate—and his smile is small, but genuine.
Which is really fucking annoying.
“Hey. I, uh- I like your pants.” He pushes his glass up his nose, still smiling at you, and Jimmy groans.
“Jesus, Clark, we gotta work on your compliments, Buddy.” He gives you an apologetic look. “Sorry, he was raised in a barn. He only knows how to flirt with like, cows. I’m working on it.”
Clark turns a shade of red that’s almost impressive, right as your face heats, and before either of you can protest, Jimmy’s pushing on.
“We have so much to catch up on, I was going to ask Lois to have you come out with us, but then she went and got herself sick. Which was really annoying because I had to deal with Clark’s twenty questions about interviewing, something he’s supposed to already know how to do.”
“I don’t usually do high profile people.” Clark mumbles, and Jimmy gives him a flat look.
“You interview Superman, dude.”
“Well, uh- That’s different? He’s a chill guy, all he does is like, save squirrels, that’s different than law stuff.” He grins at you again, and it’s still charming and attractive and dumb. “Your stuff is smarter. Above the Superman league.”
You can’t stop from smiling back. It’s not fair, how he does that. Maybe he’s a secretly meta with the ability to make people smile.
“That’s a little better, buddy.” Jimmy claps Clark back on the back, and it somehow manages to make the tower of a man stumble slightly. “See, my classes are working! Soon we’re going to have you on these streets, picking up ladies left and right.”
Clark sighs, shooting you a nervous look. “Jimmy, I’ve told you I don’t- That’s not what I’m trying to-“
“You don’t have to try, Clark. I mean,” he says your name, and it can’t take this long to get you a muffin. “Look at this face. I know I’d kiss it-“
“How do you get your interviews with Superman?” You raise your voice over Jimmy—this really isn’t a conversation you want to have right now—and Clark stares at you.
“What, uh- What do you mean? I just- We’ve built a relationship, that’s it-“
“Like how do you find him.” You keep our voice steady and bored. “Does he just appear on the street next to you? Or have, like- A key to your apartment?”
Jimmy snorts. “I don’t think Clark is dating Superman, if that’s what you’re getting out. Our guy is way out of that Kryptonian’s league.
Clark blushes again “Well, I- Uh- I don’t think that’s true-“
“Do you call for him? Does he have a phone number?” You keep pushing, and Clark shakes his head.
“No- I mean- Yes-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “He doesn’t have a phone number, but I just sort of call for him, and he hears me and shows up.”
Jimmy’s eyes widen. “Oh, cool. Can I be there next time you call for him?”
“Well- He doesn’t like other people being there. For security. One at a time.”
You frown. “He’s bulletproof, why does he need security?”
Clark stares at you. “That’s- A really good question. I’ll be sure to ask him next time.”
There’s a long silence, as you and Clark stare at each other, ended only by the barista calling your name for your muffin.
You promise Jimmy that you’ll go out for drinks with him, before you walk away.
You can feel Clark’s warm, curious stare, all the way until you walk outside.
And it might be branded on you, because you feel it a long while after as well.
———
“Superman?”
You call up to the sky, and you’re met with only whistling wind and the distance sound of car horns.
“Superman!” You raise your voice, wrapping your arms around your stomach to stop the chill of the wind, and still nothing.
You’re alone. You’re calling him, like Clark does. And unless he’s already forgotten you, he has to be at least curious what you’re doing on the roof, calling his name.
But there’s nothing. Not even a whoosh or streak of red in the distance, showing you that he’s busy or circling around you like a bird or something.
“Superman, can you please-“ You sigh. This is so fucking stupid. “Can you come here, please?”
Silence.
You walk slowly to the edge of the roof, frowning out over the city skyline, and nothing’s even attacking right now. It’s not like he has a fucking day job to be occupied with, he’s Superman.
And it’s pretty fucking rude that he’ll show up for Clark and not you.
Your gaze slowly falls down, to the people rushing past on the pavement below you, smaller than ants. And you have an idea. It’s bad idea, and he’ll probably be really pissed at you, but it’s also an effective idea.
You drum your fingers on the railing, trying to weigh how important this is. In the grand scheme of the universe, not worth throwing yourself off a building for. In terms of all the people relying on you to win this case, absolutely worth throwing yourself off a building. And it’s not like you’ll die. Superman will save you.
“Please don’t do that.”
You whip around, squeaking in surprise, and stumble a step back. There’s a split second where your balance is gone, and you’re falling backwards, and God, that was a horrible idea and now you’re going to die because you’re a dramatic idiot-
But there’s a whoosh.
And a strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you quickly upright before you can topple off the edge.
Superman grins down at you, keeping you pressed against him, and your hands somehow ended up flat on his chest. He feels strong, under the suit. And you’re really not cold anymore, because he’s like a person fucking furnace.
A furnace with a nice smile and kind eyes and a little curl falling over his forehead that makes him look like an old movie star.
You’re staring at him. Your heart is going to fast, and there’s the buzzing feeling again, and you’re not sure you’re going to be able to keep your balance by yourself. His proximity is making you drunk, and it’s not fair-
“Who’s stalking who now?” He says, voice rumbling through your chest, and you flush.
“Shut up.” You push him away, and he releases you in second.
His hand lingers on your forearm. To help you get upright.
Only to help you get upright. Nothing else.
He does not get to turn you into a fucking idiot, any more than he already has.
“I need to talk to you.” Arms cross over your chest. Chin raised. Voice firm. You’re going to win this conversation.
Superman just nods, still smiling. “Yeah, I think I figured that out myself. You know, you really don’t have to jump off a roof, I was on my way.”
Shit. “I wasn’t-“
“I think you were, but if you say you weren’t, okay. I believe you.”
“Well- I wasn’t.”
“Okay.” He shrugs, still fucking smiling, and he needs to stop being so kind. It’s making you feel more things you don’t have time for. “What did you need me for, so badly you weren’t going to jump off a roof?”
You flush. “I want to ask you questions. About being an immigrant.”
He raises his brows. “Oh? Like what?”
“Your experience. What it feels like not having a home to return to, or being divorced from the governmental ideals of your home. What you’re grateful for, what you’re not grateful. What you wish would change, what you think America needs to improve on. Why you stay here, when you of all people could feasibly go anywhere in the world.”
Superman blinks. “Well, for the last one, this is my home. And it’s not perfect, but I have no wish to be anywhere else.”
“I know that. But a lot of other people are in similar shoes, and having Superman echo their thoughts and sentiments would be good to hear. Plus you hold a lot of public sway.”
“I didn’t know you were a journalist,” he says your name with small laugh, and you shrug.
“It’s testimony. Are you going to answer my questions, or do I need to jump off the roof.”
“I’ll answer them. They’re smart questions, and anything to help people in my position. But…” Superman pauses, watching you with a strange expression, then lets out a long breath. “You never need to jump off a roof for my attention.”
It’s like he punched you in the fucking gut. You blink, pressing your lips in a tight line as your heart stumbles and your breath becomes shallow, the heat moving down to your lower gut. He can’t just say things like that while looking at you and being so kind. You’re not going to jump off the roof, you’re going to do something stupider, like trying to kiss Superman on his pretty, full mouth that says such sweet things.
You need to calm the fuck down. You’ve met him three times, and this is nothing more than a professional interview.
You can’t kiss Superman.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” You drawl, pulling out your phone to record.
He just nods, and takes a step forward. If you wanted to, you could reach out and poke his chest. There’s heat, radiating off his body again.
Calm the fuck down.
You’re not going to make a habit of calling for him. If this goes well, you’ll have everything you need from Superman, and you can go back to living a quiet, long, focused life.
Alone.
Without any stupid, kind puppy-men making you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’d like to let everything crumble down and just be warm.
———
You turn the corner too fast. Slam right into a large, broad chest with a squeak.
A strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you quickly to your feet. There’s a strangely familiar feeling to it, that your slightly addled brain—a little from shame, a little from drinking—can’t quite place.
Then you look up, and it would be nice to burst into flames, or melt into the ground.
Clark Kent is blinking down at you, and he looks almost unfairly good in a suit. You don’t know why a journalist works out so much—and he doesn’t seem like the type to be a gym rat—but his muscles are almost pushing out of his dress shirt, and you can feel them under your fingers where you’ve grabbed his shirt, and why are his eyes so blue.
“Hi.” He says your name, glancing down to where your bodies are pressed together, before back to you with a small blush. “You look nice.”
You do look nice. You spent three hours today, making sure you looked nice for the fancy gala. At least five people have told you that you look nice since you got here, because you’d put so much fucking effort into it, it’s a little impossible not to notice.
For some reason, it wasn’t the appreciative look from Bruce Wayne and smirk—his hand brushing over your lower back and eyes hooded with desire—that got your to feel like you were glowing.
It’s Clark, and his stupid, honey-like voice that’s getting under your skin. You look nice. He thinks you look nice. Enough to say it so truly, as if it’s just a fact of the universe. With a gentle element of kindness, like he’s acknowledging all that work it took you to get here.
With his red ears, like you look so nice it’s doing something to him.
Which isn’t fair.
“You look nice, as well.” You manage to get out, and he grins.
“Thanks. I mean, it’s nothing really. Less expectations for me, I think.” He helps you to your feet, before taking a carefully step back. “I’m not giving the big speech tonight.”
“Oh, well- Yeah.” You try to smile back. It’s too easy. “Do you think you could, though? In my place?”
Clark laughs, and there it goes again. Making you feel like you’re fucking shining. “I would, but I don’t think I can trick people into thinking I’m you.”
“Not with that attitude you can’t.”
“I think it’s a little more than the attitude. I don’t have your gravity.” He gives you another small smile, and before you can ask what the fuck that means, he’s holding out your champagne flute. “I caught this, by the way. But- If you’re giving your speech, maybe go easy?” He blushes, shaking his head. “Not that I’m telling you what to do. You- If this is like, your process. Do your process.”
You blink at him, then the champagne. You’re not sure how the fuck he caught it and you, without spilling a single drop.
And when you take it back, you’re fingers brush, and fucking electrically shoots through your whole body.
You down the rest of the champagne in one swig, and Clark gapes at you.
“It is my process.” You mumble, carefully wiping your chin. “It’s called get buzzed so I forget people are looking at me.”
Clark chuckles, glancing at your glass. “Do you, uh- Do you want me not to look at you? While you’re talking? If that helps?”
“Yes. Close your eyes for the whole speech.” You sigh, spinning the flute between your fingers, and Clark nods.
“Okay. But- I think you’re going to great no matter what. You’re good at talking and- Um- Captivating.”
Melting is back on the table. You feel a little dizzy. “Captivating?”
Clark nods, fidgeting with his tie. “I mean, you’re passionate. Makes me- And, uh, everyone else- Makes us like listening to you.”
“Oh.” You swallow. “Okay.”
This is too nice. You’re going to fly out of your skin if you don’t shift it. And Clark is opening his mouth, probably so say something else that’s sweet, so you blurt the first thing that comes to mind.
“Do you have any pets?”
“Uh-“ Clark blinks at you, then nods slowly. “Not really, no. My cousin has a dog that I watch sometimes, but that’s about it.”
You nod, looking down to your shoes. Looking him in the eyes feels dangerous. “Is it a cute dog?”
“Yeah, but he’s also….” Clark pauses, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Rowdy. Do you have any pets?”
“No.”
“Oh. Okay. Um- Do you like pets.”
“Of course I like pets.” You frown at him. “My apartment just doesn’t allow them, so- I mean, I guess I sort of do have a cat, but she lives with my mom.”
Clark’s face lights up slightly. “You have a mom?”
“Yes? Most people do, I think, even if it’s just like a donor-“
“No, I meant like- Do you get to see her a lot?” He clears his throat, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves. “Like, does she live in the city?”
“No, but- She’s not far.” You pause, and either the drinks or Clark’s presence are loosening your tongue, because you add, “I’m from Gotham. And I’ve told her to come here like- A lot. But she doesn’t want to leave home.”
“Oh.” Clark nods. “That makes sense. Not her refusing to leave but- I mean, that makes sense as well, it is her home, and I don’t think you could drag my parents from their farm. But they don’t live in Gotham, they’re in, uh- Kansas. I’m from Kansas. And you’re from Gotham. Which is what makes sense.”
You stare at him, and he coughs, giving you a smaller, slightly ashamed smile. It’s impossibly fucking endearing.
“It makes sense that I’m from Gotham?” You finally say, and he nods.
“You’re tough.”
That makes you flush. Which isn’t fair. “What’s your cousin’s dog’s name?”
“Kr- Oco.”
You frown. “Kroco?”
“Coco.” He says quickly, taking a small step forward. “What about your cat?”
“Godzilla.”
Clark laughs again. “That’s a good name.”
“Thank you.” You’re smiling again, and you can’t even bring yourself to look at your shoes. “I came up with it.”
“I bet you did.”
You don’t get to know what that means. You want to. So fucking bad. You want to understand why Clark is saying so many nice things and why he’s so handsome and why he’s still talking to you. At no point has he tried to end the conversation and escape. He just kept grinning and talking and saying nice things, right up until one of your co-workers comes up behind you and drags you away for the speech.
And when you’re giving it, it’s impossibly easy to find Clark in the crowd.
Towards the back, somehow shining to through the glare of the spotlights.
Eyes squeezed shut the whole time.
———
You have the willpower of a sheep on cocaine.
Already easy to herd.
Very easily baited by more cocaine.
Cocaine being a handsome superhero, who you haven’t been able to shake since you shouted for him on a roof.
It started the night after the Gala. You’d walked home you with skirt hiked up and jewelry left upstairs in your office—because you’re not a fucking idiot—and Superman had dropped out of the sky with his stupid smile.
“Do I need to wait for you to get mugged again, to say you shouldn’t walk alone at night?”
You’d laughed softly, and kept walking right past him. “Are you going to let me get mugged?”
“No, that’s why I’m here now. Offering my escort services to ladies in need.”
That had gotten you to stop. You’d had to.
You’d started laughing so hard that if you didn’t, you would have fucking fallen over.
Superman had stared at you with a bemused smile, taking a half-step forward, like he was worried you’d been hit with something.
He’d said your name slowly, and you’d shaken your head, still giggling.
“God, that- That’s-“ You’d snorted, and he’d reached for you carefully.
“Are you-“
“I’m fine, dude, that’s just- I can’t believe people thought you have a harem.”
He’d frowned. “Well, I don’t-“
“Yeah, I know.” You’d laughed again, and he’d frowned.
“I’m sorry, I just- I’m not quite sure what the joke is.”
You’d drawn back up, giving him an amused look. “What do you think an escort service is?”
Superman had blinked. “I’m going to walk you home.”
“Wrong. You handsome, sweet alien, that is so wrong.”
He’d—impossibly—stood a little taller. “Handsome?”
Shit. “Yeah, pretty boy. You’ve got a nice face.” You’d doubled down like it was nothing, and it had seemed to be an effective strategy. “You know that. People make thirst edits of you on the internet.”
“They do?”
“Oh.” You’d beamed at him. “I have so much to show you.”
And every night after that, he’d walked you home. It’s an effective system. You show him the online form that’s dedicated to trying to convince to actually form a Harem, and he gets to make sure you’re never mugged. You wave to him from the window—which is far too romantic, yet you can’t stop doing it—and then he grins at you, and blasts up, up, and away. There are a few nights that he misses, but there’s always a sticky note on your fire escape saying dragon trying to burn down the harbor, see you tomorrow, with a little smiley face.
You’re keeping them in your nightstand. And it’s not like anyone is going to find them anyway, so that’s not pathetic.
But it might make you a bad person.
Because you’re putting them right next to the other thing in your nightstand.
The second dose of cocaine.
Clark won’t stop popping up either. And it doesn’t start in the same seeking you out way that it does with Superman, but it builds faster. Into something more. Something bigger than you might be able to handle.
It starts shows up for drinks, with Lois and Jimmy. Which should be nothing.
But the universe is out to get you. So it’s everything.
“I’m so glad he didn’t scare you off.” Lois said with a dramatic sigh, setting down her beer. “You’re my favorite person to interview.”
Jimmy had frowned. “Why, because you don’t get to interview a lot of women?”
“No, Jimmy, I interview plenty of women. It’s just- The unfortunate thing about most of the women in power right now is-“
“They’re all fucking cunts.” You’d finished for her, and Clark and Jimmy had choked on their beers with impressive comedic timing. “Which is mostly an unfortunate byproduct of the system. It’s hard to be in a significant position of power and be a good person.”
“I don’t know.” Clark had frowned. “I mean, there must be a lot of pressure. And I’m sure they’re not happy with compromising their morals, it just- It must be hard.”
Lois had shrugged. “Or they’re all just cunts.”
“That’s- Seems like a harsh word-“
“Once I was at a congress hearing.” You’d said dryly, and Clark had looked at you with his full, unwavering attention. It had made you more drunk than the beer. “And one of the congresswomen asked why I was betraying American women by supporting bringing such violent rapists into our country. Her husband isn’t allowed within a hundred yards of schools.”
“Oh.” Clark had frowned. “Well, I hope she realizes she can divorce him. Or- Maybe something will get her to turn around? Like an- Intervention?”
Lois had snorted. “What, from God?”
“No, not God, but- I don’t know.” He’d looked at you, his tone so fucking sincere. “I’m sorry she said that to you.”
You’d had to look down to hide your flush. “It’s okay. Happens.”
Clark had frowned, like it shouldn’t.
But you hadn’t scared him off.
He’d come to another night of drinks. Then another. Then five more, until Jimmy got sick and Lois had an article due, and it was just you and him, sitting across from a booth so small your knees bumped, and hands brushed with every gesture.
“So, why journalism?” You’d asked. “You don’t seem to have the same passion for it that Lois does.”
He’d chuckled, pushing up his glasses. “No, I guess I don’t. And I don’t know, I like talking to people. Hearing their stories. Nice, stable career, you know?”
You’d opened your mouth, but barely spoken before Clark has shaken his head.
“Wait, you probably don’t know, do you. You’re passionate about everything you do.”
“I- Yeah. I am.” You’d swallowed, and he’d kept saying those things like they were obvious. Looking at you like you’re fascinating. Like he could see right through you, and whatever was in there, he liked. “I mean, I like what I do, but I do it because I want to do more.”
Clark had nodded, taking a slow drink of his beer. “Bigger ambitions, huh?”
“Yeah. Do you just-“ You’d frowned. “Not have those?”
“I hate to break it to you,” he’d said your name with a small grin. “Most people don’t. Almost all the folks I know aren’t necessarily happy with what they got, but they’re not lookin’ to make the Earth spin clockwise.”
You’d blinked at him. “What?”
“Sorry, that’s just- Something my Pa says.” He’d blushed, looking down to the table. “I’m trying to say it’s admirable. To want to change things and actually, uh- Do it.”
“Thanks.” You’d whispered, and he’d grinned.
“No problem. Mind if I guess your ambition?”
Normally, you would’ve minded. But it was Clark. And you’d sort of been desperate to know what he thought of you. “Be my guest.”
“President. Or- Actually.” He’d examined you, slowly and with an element of light, playful amusement that had made you giggle. “United Nations, but maybe still Congress?”
You’d laughed, shaking your head, and Clark had raised his brows.
“Am I close?”
“Maybe.” You’d hummed, holding his gaze as you take a drink. “But I’d rather eat glass than go into politics.”
“Ah, right. Sorry.” He’d grinned. “Just got caught up in the idea of you showing that rude congress woman what a good person looks like.”
Your grip had tightened on your bottle. “You think I’m a good person?”
“Yeah.” He’d shrugged. “Of course.”
Of course.
You let the conversation keep going. Clark had told you about some game he and Jimmy went to, and how he’s pretty sure Jimmy’s sick because a supermodel was slobbering over him all afternoon. You’d told him about how you’d won a big litigation about your case, and smiled at your fingers when he’d made a big, happy deal about it. And the night had flashed by until it was almost two in the morning, and you’d been kicked out the bar.
And Clark had asked if you wanted him to walk you home, and you’d said no.
Not because you hadn’t.
But you’d wanted to see Superman.
Because you aren’t a good person.
That night, Superman had landed on the sidewalk next to you, and you’d smiled at your fingers.
“You’re late.”
“Sorry,” he’d fallen into pace so fast beside you. “Got busy.”
“If people need saving-“
“No, I was just talking to someone important.”
You’d hummed. “Oh? Can you tell me, or is it classified super business?”
He’d laughed. It had been a few months, and it wasn’t making your heart skip any less. “Super business, I’m afraid. Actually, I have a question for you.
“I might have an answer.”
“Alright, well- If you could be a meta, like me-“
You’d mock gasped. “You’re a meta? Why did you tell me?”
“Very funny.” His voice had been flat, but you’d been able to hear the amusement, and it had made you shine. “I just want to know what kind of powers you’d want to have.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I’m curious, is that not allowed?”
“No.” You’d squinted at him in the dark, he’d stared right back, and your heart had skipped a beat. Shit. “It’s allowed. But it’s suspicious.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll try to be less suspicious in the future.”
“Thank you.” You’d paused, thinking about his question, and you’d been walking closers and closer lately. Almost as close as you’d been to Clark, in the bar.
And you’re a horrible person.
“I think I’d like to be able to speak any language.” You’d told Superman, speaking slowly. “But like, any language. Plants and computers and animals, too. Understand and talk to all of them. If it’s communication, I’d be able to do it.”
“Ah. That’s one of the best ones I’ve heard.” Superman had smiled at you in the dark, and you hadn’t even needed to ask. “I might know someone who’d like his power to be knowing the weather.”
“Knowing the weather, like-“
“Just a weatherman. With total accuracy.” Superman had smiled to himself. “I know it’s ridiculous, but it makes him happy.”
You’d kept walking, and talking, and laughing until you reached your apartment. Then you’d waved to him from your window, and he’d vanished back into the night.
The next day, there had been a knock on your door. You’d opened it to find Clark, shifting on his feet with a book in his hands and a nervous smile.
You’d frowned at him. “How do you know where I live.”
“Oh, uh- I-“ He’d cleared his throat, something like alarm flashing over his face. “You’re not going to like it. I, um- I sort of stole your contact from Lois. And she had it, so- Now I have it.”
He’d been beet red, and you might have pushed it if he didn’t look like he was about to make himself pass out.
So you’d just nodded, watching him carefully. “And… Why are you here?”
He’d let out a sharp breath, holding up the book. “Just want to give you this. I don’t know if you have time to take care of a plant- You’re so busy I’m guessing you don’t- Which isn’t bad, but-“
“Clark-“
“They’re pressed flowers.” He’d said quickly, opening the book for you to see. “My Ma taught me how to make them. To celebrate winning your case.”
You’d stared between him and the flowers, your eyes starting to sting because that was so fucking sweet, and you want to sink teeth and claws into his pretty face, or maybe just let him tear you apart, or-
Just keep growing. Up and up, into whatever kinder, softer thing Clark is made of.
That had terrified you.
“I- I won a litigation of my case.” You’d whispered, voice breaking, and Clark had shrugged.
“Still worth celebrating.” He’d said softly, and that had felt like a dose. You never wanted him to go too far, where you wouldn’t be able to find him.
You’d put his flowers in your bedside drawer. And the sticky notes Superman’s been leaving keep building up.
Bar night after bar night, you lose track of time with Clark, because you don’t want him to go, but you still let Superman walk you home.
You stare at the flowers and notes in your drawer, and you might be forgetting how to not smile at either of them.
And worst of all, you don’t really want to remember at all.
———
The world is spinning.
And you giggle to yourself, because the world is always spinning. Always going round and round and right back to where it started, but a million miles away, and now you can just feel it.
Either because of the many, many drinks you’d slammed down in an attempt to soften some sort of self-sharpening edge, or because of Clark’s proximity.
“Oh, gosh.” He catches you around the waist, as you walk up the stairs, and you giggle again. “Let’s slow down, I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Aw.” You smile, wiggling around to face him. “You care about me.”
Clark frowns. “You know I care about you. I don’t think I’ve made that a secret- Woah-“
You fall forwards, right into him, and press your face into his neck.
“You smell good.” You mumble. “Like… rain.”
Clark pauses, hand splayed on your back. “Is that good?”
“I like it.” You whisper, fingers curling on his sleeves. “This jacket is nice.”
“I mean, it’s alright.” He frowns at the jacket, then you. “Do you want it?”
You nod, mostly because your drunken, addled brain isn’t connecting one and one to mean two.
Clark had asked if you wanted it. You’d been staring at where his button up was slightly undone, as if you’ve never seen bare skin before.
Yes, you want him. So bad it’s making your stomach flip, although that might just been the liquor.
It’s a heavy, crushing disappointment like titanium, when he just props you carefully against the stairwell wall, and helps you into his jacket. You pout at the floor, trying to savor how it’s warm and smells like him, but now you’re chasing a painting of a ghost that’s haunting you from a foot away.
You turn, pout deepening, and try to march up the stairs by yourself.
You trip, because the world is spinning and you don’t have any balance.
Clark catches you, because the world is spinning and he’s Clark, so it’s just one of those things that happens.
You fall. He’s there, strong with an arm around your waist.
This time though, he picks you up with a small grunt.
Something distant and vigilant in your head is wondering why he grunted picking you up but never while carrying you up four flights of stairs.
It’s drowned out by how warm he is, and how much you want him.
“Why do people call them guns?” You mumble to yourself, poking his biceps, and Clark frowns.
“Well, if you asked my Pa, he’d make some joke about them being lady killers, then say that we shouldn’t be killin’ ladies. Should be treating them well.” He chuckles, and you stare up at him because in the florescent light of the hallway, he somehow looks like an angel.
“I like it when you talk about your parents.”
Someone needs to put a muzzle on you, before you say anything else truthful and dangerous.
But stupid, perfect Clark always wants to hear what you’ve got to say.
“Why?”
“I dunno,” you play with the folds of his collar, as he sets you down on your couch. “Makes you seem real.”
Clark’s brows furrow. “Do you no think I’m real.”
“I think.” You grab the lapels of his shirt, yanking him down to your eye level. “That you are too good.”
“…To be real?”
“Yes.” To be yours. “And no. Can you tell me your cow’s name again.”
“Bessie. What do you think I’m too good for, if it’s not being real-“
“Shhhhhhh.” You press a finger to his lips, frowning out your window. “Oh. No.”
Clark tenses. “What’s wrong.”
“I can’t tell him I’m busy.” You whisper, tears starting to sting at your eyes, and Clark reaches up to carefully brush them away.
“Tell who, sweetheart. I can, uh- I try to pass on a message. If this guy is important to you.”
You don’t understand the frown in his voice. “No. You can’t find him. It’s Superman.” You whisper the last part, and Clark blinks.
The world is starting to get fuzzy. Everything feels heavy, and it would be nice to maybe go to sleep.
But Clark says your name, so you slump forward into him as your body demands that you listen.
“You- Um- You know Superman?”
“Yeah.” You mumble against him, pulling his jacket a little tighter. “Walks me home. Why I don’t go with you.”
“Oh.” Clark pauses. “And you’d rather have him? Walk you home, I mean?”
“I dunno. But don’t worry.” You yawn, the world slowly falling down into black. “He’s not real either.”
———
It had hit you, with the splitting headache of a hangover. You’d stared at yourself in the mirror, and been unable to get it together expect to form one conclusion.
You love Clark.
And you open the drawer, and see the flowers and the sticky notes, and know that he deserves far better. Not you.
Never you.
Someone good like him. Who does it so easily, and trusts like he does—with everything in him—and can hold his heart in both their hands.
You can’t.
Because you might be a really bad person.
Leaning over the roof of your apartment, breath fogging up the air, you wait. For an answer, that only one person can offer you, even if he doesn’t know.
You’re not sure if either of them know. It would make it a lot easier if one didn’t, and was just friendly.
Or if one felt nothing, and you’d been reading too much into it all.
That would split you in fucking half. But that feels like it’s going to happen no matter what.
At least if neither of them want you, you’ll have both pieces to stitch yourself back together.
But first, you need to know.
“Do I need to tell you not to jump?” Superman says from behind you. “Or are you just trying to talk to me again?”
You smile into the dark, voice a little too soft. “I’m just trying to talk to you.”
“Okay.” You can hear the frown in his voice “And were you going to jump?”
“No.”
“You know, that time I actually believe you.”
You turn to look at him in the dark, and it never fails to stop your heart, when he smiles at you. You thought you’d get past it. Get used to how it seems to light up the dark.’
But there it is.
The little skip that you get high on now, because it means he’s looking at you, and there’s never been anything better.
Or maybe just one thing better.
Or the same.
Jesus. You look away, bowing your head to stare at your hands, and Superman clears his throat.
“Are you feeling okay?” There’s a beat. “Anything I can help with?”
“No. Nothing you can-“ You sigh. “Can I just ask you something?”
“Always.”
You run your fingers over the rough rock of the roof wall, keeping your eyes fixed on everything below. There are shadows moving down there, people walking the streets alone through the dark. That’s where you belong, not up here. Not where the sun would hit you, golden and bright, when it breaks the horizon.
Superman mutters your name, and a warmth heats over your skin.
You push it out, before you can think better.
“Do you think I have bigger ambitions?”
He’s silent for a moment, then, “What do you mean?”
“Like- With my life. I- I know someone who’s happy with everything he has, he- He knows everything he wants to be, and-“ You swallow, your voice starting to hurt. “I don’t know if I am.”
“Is it your job? Or someone doing something-“
“No, it’s me.” You turn to look at him, pressing your lips tight together, because you won’t cry. “I’m doing too much and I- It’s still not enough, and I- I don’t- I don’t know where I’m going. I feel like I’ve been in the same orbit for so, so long and it was fine but now it isn’t and- I don’t- I’m tired.” Your voice cracks, and Superman takes a small step forward. “I’m barely doing anything, and I’m so tired, and I don’t want to be tired anymore but I don’t know how to- I’ve never-“
Your voice dies, because it’s cracking and if you don’t pull it the fuck together soon, you’re going to cry.
Superman moves forward in a blink. Wraps his arms around you, and cradles your head to his chest as the tears start to silently roll.
He just holds you in the dark for so long, and there must be better things for him to be doing, but he’s not trying to move. It’s not until you’re breathing him in at a steady pace, that he loosens his grip enough for you to push back.
And when you do, he holds your face between his hands, wiping the tears slowly from your eyes.
“I think you do enough.” He murmurs, and you sniff. “Don’t argue with me about this one. You do. You tell me about work, and you do good things. Thing most people are afraid to, because you don’t seem to have that setting. Whatever rest you want, you deserve, because you,” he says your name, his gaze locked onto yours. “Do more than most anyone I know.”
You wipe your nose with your sleeve, mumbling into the cloth. “Everyone you know probably penguins or something, with where you live.”
“In the Arctic?” He laughs softly, attention on you still so affectionate and tender. “Yeah, I guess I know a few penguins. They’re good guys. One of them got me an icicle for my promotion.”
You frown at him. “Your promotion? You have a boss?”
“I’m my boss. I gave the promotion to myself.”
“That’s so stupid.” You smile at his shoes, and he slowly tips your gaze back up, right onto his.
“Yeah, but it made you laugh. I’d say it was worth it.”
You take a long, deep breath, and it’s too easy to get lost in him. In this moment. You don’t want to get swept away in it.
So you press your face to his neck, and just breathe.
He smells a little like rain. Feels a little like a home.
And it’s not a question anymore. You have your answer.
You know.
———
You’re clinging to the walls of the room. Gripping your glass like a lifeline and scanning over the crowd, trying to calculate when it’s going to thin out.
When you’re going to be able to escape.
It’s not life or death. You just really don’t want to be here. At the big, important event Metropolis is throwing for the new Bavarian president. You’re not sure if they’re trying to make amends—or a new plan—but you know you’re only here so they can say you’re here. So in the morning they can talk about how they have nothing to hide, and how the tattered relationship of Boravia and Jarhanpur are healing, all because of America.
You’d told your boss that going was a stupid idea.
He said you had to, or he’d replace you on the Jarhanpurian refugee case.
So now you’re standing on the edge of the party, watching it move around you, and trying not to think about anything at all.
If you think about things, you think about ways out of here. Ways like sneaking up to the roof, and asking Superman to get you out. If you’re not thinking about that, you’re thinking about how the buffet table has the exact type of bread rolls Clark likes, because he’s told you about them multiple times.
No matter what, you end up feeling like you want to cry. And you don’t, because you’re a fucking professional, but fuck if you don’t want to.
It’s mostly just lonely. You had a plus one, but you can’t bring yourself to ask Clark if this is anything—not when you’re sort of always looking out the window—and you ended up going alone.
That’s probably how this is going to end anyway.
Might as well get in some fucking practice.
Someone calls your name from across the room, and you brace for the impact of some Boravian diplomat about to berate you or an ambassador who’s going to make stunted conversation trying to convince you that you’re a bad person. You don’t need them to do that—you’re already so fucking good at doing it yourself—so they’re just going to be wasting everyone’s time.
But it’s not a cruel, taunting diplomat.
It’s Jimmy, pulling a nervous looking Clark behind him.
“Hey!” Jimmy stops right in front of you, and it takes a Herculean amount of effort to look at him and not Clark. “Why are you here, I thought they’d be trying to stop you from knowing this is even happening.”
“I think it’s a weird chess move.” You turn your glass in your hands, and measure out the perfect amount of time to wait before you look up and give Clark a smile. “Hi.”
“Hi.” He responds so quickly, he looks a little surprised with himself. “I- Uh- Are you at least liking the food?”
“It’s fine.” You shrug. “They have the bread rolls you like.”
Clark blushes, fidgeting with his tie. “I know, we- Uh- We’ve been here a bit-“
“Clark ate a whole basket of them.” Jimmy tells you, and you can’t stop your soft laugh. “Then he got upset because he thought he might have taken them away from everyone else-“
“But I didn’t.” Clark jumps in quickly. “They put another basket out- I can go get you one. Do you want one?”
You don’t give a fuck about bread rolls. “Yes, please.”
Clark stands a little taller now that he’s got a mission, and smiles at you before he vanishes into the crowd. He’s left you tapping your nails on your champagne glass, giving Jimmy a tight smile.
“What are you guys doing here?” You ask, and Jimmy shrugs.
“Lois wants this and the protests about this covered. She decided to do the protests, gave me the event. I,” he holds up a press badge. “Am working.”
“You and Clark?”
“He’s interested in this kind of thing.”
“He is?” You frown at the crowd, and Jimmy nods.
“Guess he doesn’t talk about it with you. Invasions and genocide aren’t romantic at all.”
Your heart moves into your throat. “They aren’t- What-“
“Hey, has he asked you his power question yet?” Jimmy cuts you off, mostly looking out at the crowd, and you frown.
“His what?”
“Past few months he’s been asking like, everyone we know what power they’d want as a meta.” Jimmy shoves his hands in his pockets, giving you a curious expression. “Started when he was talking to Lois about if she thought Superman being able to hear everything is weird. Then he asked her what power she would want, then he asked me, then he called his parents or something- I don’t know what’s up it, but it’s a pretty good question.”
“It… is.” You frown, and there’s that thing in the back of your head. The one that had been drowned out by liquor, then pain, but now how nothing but noise around it. And it’s getting louder. “What’s Clark’s answer?”
“Um- I don’t think he’s actually said.” Jimmy shrugs, then gives you a winning grin. “But I’d know the weather. If you want to know.”
“You’d know the weather.”
“Yeah, like a weatherman, but I’m always right.”
“That’s pointless, Jimmy.”
“To you, maybe. I would figure out how to turn it into a fortune.”
You open and close your mouth, the something in your head getting louder, but it doesn’t turn into words before Clark reappears through the crowd, holding two of the not small bread rolls in one hand.
“I got them.” He says you name, and your stupid stomach does a happy, traitorous little flip. “Here, I got you butter as well, in case you want to use that.”
He shoves the rolls into your hands, holding your gaze, and your fingers brush. He’s standing so close, he doesn’t need to be this close, but you never want him to move away-
“Clark,” Jimmy mock gasps. “Did you get two so she could give you one?”
“I- No, of course not-“
“I’m just teasing you, man.” Jimmy claps him on the back, scanning out over the crowd. “Alright, I gotta go do my job, or Lois is gonna crucify me.”
Clark wrinkles his nose. “I think that’s a little dramatic-“
“It’s not dramatic enough, and you know it.” Jimmy grins between you and Clark. “Be safe, kids. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
You want to grab him, before he disappears into the crowd. Not because you don’t want to be alone with Clark, but because you do. More than almost anything. So you need a buffer, before you do something stupid.
But Jimmy vanishes, and you have to stuff a bread roll into your mouth to occupy it. Clark just stands next to, still far too close, making your head fucking spin.
He clears his throat, voice low enough that only you can hear, and you might be leaning into his gravity.
“You must hate this.” He mutters, and you swallow.
“I don’t like it.” You mumble, and—because now there’s no bread to block your sappy feelings from spilling out of your mouth—add, “It’s better now, though.”
Clark raises his brows. “Yeah?”
You nod, shoving the second bread roll into your mouth, and Clark won’t stop looking at you. Like you’re the sunrise, as your cheeks push out like a chipmunk and your lipstick smudges slightly.
Even his voice has a kind of soft reverence, when he speaks. “Do you like them? The bread rolls.”
“They’re good,” you try to say through the mouthful, but it comes out more of a wordless grumble, and you stare at Clark for a moment before you both start laughing.
It shatters whatever strange tension had just bene in the air. Everything flows smoother, as you talk about the food and drinks and how made up this whole thing is. Clark compliments your dress and you’ve never felt warmer. You think you could go out into the dead, winter night and still feel this warm.
The air is getting lighter and lighter. You might be in danger of floating away.
“So,” you give him a curious look, and he mirrors it.
“So?”
“Jimmy says you’re interested in all these events.”
“Oh. Well- I guess I am, yeah.” He’s watching you carefully, words slower than usual. “I just like to know what’s going on in the world. Part of my job, right?”
You hum. “Aren’t most of your articles about Superman?”
He coughs. “Yeah, well, he’s interested in this too. You know how everything went down, with Boravia. He likes to keep tabs on it. And I like to know what I’m probably going to talk to him about.”
The thing is starting to ring in your ears. “How often do you talk to him?”
“I don’t know, every few nights?” Clark smiles, but it’s more taut than usual. Almost nervous. “How often is too often?”
He’s saying it like it’s a joke.
You’re not sure it is.
“I mean, you talk to him. He’s a great guy to talk to. Right?” He gives you a strange look, and you sigh.
“He is, yeah. But I don’t interview him.”
“Yes you- I mean, you interviewed him for your case, right?”
“Maybe.” You shrug, narrowing your eyes, and Clark coughs.
“Well, I don’t get why it’s a big thing, right. I’m interested in things. He’s interested in things. You’re interested in things. And- Yeah. We’re all interested in the same things, and we talk about them, and- I mean, he must have mentioned to you as some point how he talks to me all the time. Mutual friend.” He pauses. “I’ve told him about you.”
You tilt your head at him, lips pressed tight together. “You have.”
“Yeah? I mean, after we talk shop, sometimes he asks how life is, and- I’ve told him about you, and he- He also really likes you-“
“You really like me?”
Clark’s ears go red, and you feel a little guilty—you’re sort of treating him like a hostile witness—but the thing in your head is so fucking close to piecing itself together, you just need to push a little more.
“Yeah, I like you.” He gives you a small grin, pushing up his glass. “But- Superman does to. You’re the best, and- We talk about you all the time.”
You just keep staring at him, because that should make you feel sick. The two men you love, talking about you without you there, when you don’t even know which one you’d want forever.
But it’s just making you suspicious. Because there’s something so slightly fucking off.
“Superman has never once mentioned you, Clark.” You say carefully, and he winces.
“Ouch. I mean, all is fair in- You know-“
“Love and war?” You finish, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him more nervous. “Which part of this is which?”
He stares at you, mouth hanging slightly open, and right before you’re about to find the words, the world finds them for you.
Clark’s head shoots up, drawing up to his full height, and pushes his glasses up his nose as he looks over the crowd. And there’s this smallest fucking shift in all your thoughts, as if a veil is being lifted.
They have the same fucking face.
You don’t know how you missed it, but they have the same fucking face.
Your mouth barely opens to tell him that you know, before the first gunshots ring through the air. Clark grabs you around your waist, and the world turns into a rushing, cold blur. You’re not even sure what’s happening, besides your arms wrapping around his neck and the air being knocked from your lungs.
Then you’re outside, in the freezing cold. Clark steadies you with wide eyes, pulling off his jacket and dumping it into your hands.
“Put this on and go home.” He mutters, words so fast you almost don’t catch them. “Take a cab, don’t walk. I’ll pay for it, I just- I can’t go with you tonight- I’m sorry-“
You gape at him. “Go with- Clark, what the fuck-“
“I’m sorry.” He repeats, and shoots off into the night.
Flies off into the night.
Leaving you alone, on the cold street, with his jacket strangled in your hands and the world upside down.
———
You’re pacing outside his door. You have been for almost an hour, waiting for him to get home.
He’ll have to be back soon. It’s past five, you don’t think he has plans tonight, and even if he doesn’t he’d probably have to stop back home to get something.
It’s okay.
You can wait.
You have the week off, because your boss feels back for putting you in the middle of a terrorist attack. When he’d told you, he’d looked at you like he expected you to protest.
Normally, you would have. Slowing down wasn’t the thing to do, not when you were so close to the finish line—even if it kept moving further and further away—and a single faltered step or second to breathe might lead to you falling so far behind.
But this isn’t a normal week.
And Superman said you deserve some rest, so you’re listening to him.
It’s just that rest might not mean the same thing to you that it meant to him. Rest meant answers. Rest meant three days combing over older Superman reports, and drawing out a timeline of Clark’s life to see if things lined up, and writing down everything either of them have ever said to you, to see what lined up.
And it did.
Of course it did. It all falls together an avalanche, leaving you standing in to rubble and looking to the sky and wondering how you ever fucking missed it.
He says your name, and you turn to see Clark staring at you from down the hall, grip white-knuckled on his bag.
“Clark.” Your voice sounds faraway and cool. You don’t want to be a bitch to him.
You don’t know how else to be.
“Are you alright?” He takes a half-step forward, and you wrap your arms around your stomach. Of course he’s just worried about you. Asshole. “I wanted to come check on you, I promise. There’s just been a lot to deal with, and- I wasn’t sure if…” He clears his throat, watching you nervously as you just stare at him. “You’d want to see me?”
“Really?” You raise your chin. “Why wouldn’t I want to see you, Clark?”
“Um...” He glances around the hallway. “Why don’t you tell me, and we can see if we have the same reasons?”
“No, I think you should tell me first.”
“It’s just- I don’t think I should, because what if our reasons aren’t the same and mine sounds crazy-“
“Is your reason that I know?” You snap, narrowing your eyes. “Because I know.”
Clark stares at you for a long, wired moment, then lets out a long, defeated breath. “Can we do this inside, please?”
You nod, and step off to the side so he can open the door. Clark gives you another one of his small, nervous smiles as he brushes past you, and it doesn’t feel any different from before. When he’d sat too close to you at the bar.
Or stood to close, on the street.
That’s the worst part of it. Is not you’re not angry, or bitter, or heartbroken. You just feel stranded. Like you’re hanging over a pit and trying to work out if it’s worth falling, or trying to claw your way back out.
Because if you’re right—and you are—you could have something. Everything. What you’ve spent so much time on, convince yourself that it really wasn’t going to matter.
But once you have it, it’s real. Something you can lose. Something you can fuck up or neglect or break.
It’s a good thing.
Clark—taking your jacket because he’s a stupid gentleman and brushing warm hands on your upper arm—is a good thing. He’s the good thing, the one that everyone looks to for hope, that everyone wants. The god among men, who leaves you little sticky notes and fumbles all his words and makes you trust his every compliment because he always says them like they’re just obvious truths.
And you can’t figure out how to hold that in your hands, even if you get to use both.
You don’t know how to wrap your head around the idea that you could just have something good.
“So.” Clark takes a step back, as if he’s trying to offer you space. “You, uh- You know.”
You nod. “Yeah.”
“And I’m guessing you figured it out after…” He trails off, and you sigh.
“After you flew me outside, then took off like a rocket? Yeah, Clark, that kind of gave it away.”
He frowns. “You didn’t know before?”
“I had a theory.” You mumble, and his brows furrow.
“But you didn’t know.”
You shake your head, and he groans.
“Darn it, I- I was really sure you knew. Wouldn’t have done that if- Shoot-“
“Clark.” You raise your voice, hugging yourself tighter, and he freezes. “Am I right?”
“Uh-“
“Are you Superman?”
“I-“ He lets out a slow breath, and nods. “Yeah.”
Clark seems to lock your gaze to his as he reaches up, and slowly pulls off his glasses.
It’s such a small shift. He stands a little taller, even as his features remain nervous and weary, and his face seems to almost shift. It’s the same face—you know, logically, that’s it’s the same face—but it’s like your head couldn’t fully connect the two into one, couldn’t hold them at the same time.
But you can now.
And your mouth falls open as Superman stares at you with an almost fearful expression.
“I- How?”
“The glasses?” He glances down to them with a frown. “Well, they’re hypnoglasses, so-“
“No, I mean- How did I not know?” You take a step back, shaking your head. “I- I talked to you every day and every night and it took me months to put it together, and that was only after I realized- Fuck-“
“Don’t- Wait-“ Clark takes a large step forward, arms twitching like he wants to reach for you. “The glasses make sure you don’t know, that’s the point of them, and it’s not like I told you-“
“Why?” Your voice is rising, and you take another step back. “Why are you telling me now, why- Why did you keep coming to me as Superman when I was talking to you as Clark, why- Which one of you is the real one-“
“Both. Both are real, there wasn’t- I’ve always been both- And I just wanted, I guess any reason to talk to you, so I sort off just indulged both, and-“ He takes another step forward, and you take another one back. “Can you please stop walking away? I know that you’re mad at me, and I- I understand, but- Please, just listen-“
“Why didn’t you hate me?” You blurt before you can stop yourself, everything rising so fast up your throat like an eruption, and Clark freezes.
“I couldn’t hate you.”
You shake your head, your back hitting the wall. “No, I- I was talking to both you and- You at the same time, and- I was-“ You cut yourself off, pressing further back, and Clark takes a smaller step forward.
“Are you worried that I was jealous of myself?”
You nod weakly, and Clark sighs.
“No,” he says your name, voice firm, and takes another step. “I mean- No. I mean, I thought about it. Which one would make you happier. But I kept finding that you were always happy, and I- I thought maybe if I told you, you’d be happy. And we could laugh about it, and you’d say something- Uh-“ He stops, barely a foot away. “I mean, it’s kind of stupid now.”
“What?” You whisper, and Clark frowns.
“Do you really want me to say it?”
You nod, and he runs a hand over his face.
“Just maybe- Like- I love you either way. Both ways. I want you both ways, and wow, what a great way this worked out, that I get to love both of you, because you’re the same person. How convenient.” His ears are a little red, and he mumbles. “Most of it was just going to be you saying you love me.”
You swallow. “How do you know I love you?”
“I- uh- I don’t? I mean, I do have a reason, but it might be not- Sound. And if I’m wrong, that’s fine and we can forget the whole thing, but-” He takes a half-step forward. “Your heart. It goes really fast, when I’m near you, and, uh-“ He coughs, eyes darting down your body. “I can- Sometimes- Not that I’m trying to, but it just- It happens, and I can’t control it-“
“Clark-“
“I can smell you.” He mumbles, and your eyes widen. “So- I know there’s something. Might be wrong about love, though.” He looks at you under hooded eyes, and your face might be burning. “Am I wrong?”
You want to tell him that he’s not wrong. To tell him that he’s not wrong, that you’ve loved him for longer than you care to say aloud, and fell for both version because it was him. It wasn’t just a craving not to be alone anymore, it was him. Your heart moved in the same rhythm because it was playing the same song. Love for Clark.
But you don’t want to mess it up. Say it wrong. Open your mouth and just start crying, because it’s so sweet and embarrassing all at once.
So you just push out, in barely a breath. “Do you want to be wrong?”
“No.” He answers so fast, and your nails dig into your sides.
“And- What would you have said?” You blink at him slowly, choosing every word so carefully. “In your… dream scenario?”
“That I love you, too.” He takes another step forward, and you don’t flinch away. There’s nowhere to run anyway. No reason to. “That I’ve wanted to tell you the whole time, because I don’t like lying to you but- I just wanted to make sure.”
“Make sure?” You frown. “What, that I wouldn’t- Turn you in?”
Clark’s eyes widen. “What? Gosh no, I- I just wanted to check that you felt the same and that- I don’t know, it would be worth it. Not that you’re not worth it. That me telling you would just- End in nothing. That I wouldn’t be putting you in that danger just to have gotten caught up in my feelings.”
You swallow, scanning over his open, handsome features. He means every word he says. He always does.
And you have to ask.
“Is it worth it?”
Clark nods, giving you a small grin. “Yeah. I’d say it is.”
You nod, staring at each other in the dark, and the moment maybe drags on for a million years. Or only a second. It doesn’t matter, because you’re here. With Clark standing over you, one of his arms braced next to your head and the other slowly, lightly tracing up your arm. And he loves you.
So you could waste away, and it would feel like you were drowning in daylight the whole time.
“Can I kiss you.” Clark whispers, and you nod.
“Yes, please.”
His hand trails up, sending shivers through your body and making your knees weak, and ends up resting on your face. He stares at you with such open affection and reverence, it’s going to put you in danger of crying again.
When he dips down, he just brush a soft, warm kiss over your cheek, and you grab a fistful of his shirt.
“Sorry.” He tries to lean back, eyes wide. “I- Uh- I should’ve asked you what you wanted, sweetheart, I’m sorry-“
“Clark.” You hold his panicked gaze, feeling his muscles flex as his breathing grows heavy. “I want you. Just- Touch me.”
His eyes dart down to your lips, voice hoarse. “Touch you?”
You nod, and his throat bobs.
“How much?”
“All of it.” You try to sound commanding, but it’s just sort of coming off needy.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
“All of it.” He echoes, and slowly leans down to ghost his lips over you. It makes your whole body light up, just from such a light touch, and you try to yank him down but he’s stronger. Doesn’t even budge an inch.
“Clark-“
“Are you sure you can take all of it?” He murmurs, lips still brushing over yours, and it’s not a challenge. It’s just a question of pure, true concern. “I mean, we can try, but if you want to stop, during any of it, you can just tell me and I’m never going to take it personally. Okay?”
You stare at him, and Jesus, you might be about to fall over just from that. He’s so close. He can’t be this close and just do nothing.
“Can you, uh- Just say that you want it, please?” Clark looks a little worried, his thumb tracing over your lower lip, and you smile.
“I want it.” You give him a small smirk. “Please.”
He stares at you for a moment, eyes flashing with something dark, and his voice drops to an octave you’ve never even heard it before.
“Alright.” He murmurs, and you suddenly realize exactly how pinned you are between him and the wall. “Whatever you want, baby.”
You barely get a second to process what that means, before Clark’s pulling you up into a long, deep, hot kiss. It’s consuming. Sets of every nerve in your body with how carefully he moves, how deliberately he holds you. How you feel both weightless and burning, in his arms and under his attention. His mouth works quickly against yours, like he’s been starved for it, all as his hands find a respectful place to rest on your body—under your thigh and around your back—and seems to be carefully holding back his weight over you.
It unravels you so fast. Lights a fire in your gut and makes your legs spread. Your hips grind for more friction, broken sounds of need falling from your lips. Clark dips down to kiss your neck and shoulders, and you yank on his hair when his hand on the back of your thigh slowly starts to rub higher and higher.
“Clark- Oh-“ You gasp as his knee pushes up between your thighs, and start to fuck yourself desperately against him. “God, please-“
“I know.” He mumbles, pressing a soft kiss over your lips. “I’ve got you, I’ll make it feel good, just-“ He grabs your hips, starting to drag them as a slightly different, rougher angle, and your head falls back with a moan. “There you go.”
His voice is gentle and deep in your ear, and he keeps kissing you almost anywhere he can reach, as you keep chasing release against him.
A loud, broken whine falls from your lips when he pulls away, right before your release.
“Sorry.” Clark kisses you again, groaning when you try to bite on his lower lip. “Just give me a moment, baby don’t want to do it here, and- Come on-“
He scoops you fully into his arms, bridal style, and you squeak as the air rushes past you. There’s barely a moment to register what’s happening before you’re flat on your back in a soft bed, and Clark is kissing you into the mattress.
His bed.
You’re in his bed.
But somehow, everything that’s happening feels like yours.
Clark is so sweet. With everything he does, he’s just good and sweet, and it’s going to drive you out of your mind. He asks again, before taking off your clothing, and when you nod feverishly, he kisses you again with a smile on his lips.
“You’re so pretty.” His hand rests carefully in your hair, and he pushes the kiss a little deeper. “You’re going to look even prettier when you cum, sweetheart, probably like a painting.”
You flush, a small moan escaping your lips, because somehow Clark just saying something like cum is dirtier talk than anything you’ve heard in your life.
He catches it. Of course he is.
He’s paying such good attention to you, rubbing a hand on your hips and letting you grind up against his bulge. Every few moments, his hand will trail up your side right as the need in pussy starts to unbearably ache, and it will offer a brief respite that just falls into more need.
It’s like he’s trying to learn everything, with almost nothing.
And worst of all, it’s working.
Clark leans up, watching you with a curious expression. “Do you want me to fuck you?”
Your mouth falls open, his words rushing straight into your dripping cunt, and Clark’s nostrils flare.
“Yeah?” He leans down, the hand on your waist slowly moving to draw big circles on your hips. “Do you like it when I say dirty things?” He says your name, voice still so gentle, and you like to sink into the sheets forever.
“Maybe.” You whisper, trying not to squirm as his hand moves slowly between your legs, rubbing against your inner thighs without ever touching where so you desperately need him. “But- I you don’t want to-“
Clark leans down, silencing you with a deep, hot kiss, and devouring your moan as his palm finally presses against your cunt.
He groans over you, starting to rub it back and forth at such a tortuous pace, and your mouth falls open in a long plea.
“Oh my god- Please- I- I can’t- I need more-“
“Relax, baby. I’ll give you more.” He mutters, and when you try to wiggle below him, all it takes a deeper press of his palm, and you’re trapped. “I’ll give you anything, don’t worry about me.”
You hum, and his words are like a drug. You don’t have to worry. You can just relax, because Clark says to, and he doesn’t say anything that isn’t true.
“Do you like your clothing?” He kisses a spot below your ear, words rolling through your body, and you barely shake your head before you hear the rip.
There’s not even a second to feel cold, before all of Clark’s heat is over you. He seems to have taken his clothing with yours—cock pressing against your pussy, back strong beneath your hands as you try to map out his body—and you’re so quickly lost in the feeling of just being close to him. Kisses over your face as he ruts against you and holds you with such care.
You’re going to implode, though, if he doesn’t touch you properly. And you’re about to start begging when suddenly Clark is pulling you both upright, so you’re falling over his chest and sat in his lap.
Clark grunts, as you writhe above him, and your eyes flick down.
You might be drooling. He’s palming himself with strict, controlled movements, his face pressed into your neck as he sucks dark marks on your throat.
“Is it…” You trail off, words broken up by a moan as Clark finds a sensitive spot. “Do- Is that part of Kryptonian- Fuck-“
Your back arches, as Clark’s hand moves to your dripping pussy, slowly sliding two fingers inside and crooking them right against that deep, hyper-sensitive spot.
“Don’t know.” He mumbles. “Never checked. Shit, you’re so soft, and-“ He grunts as you clench around his finger. “I’m going to wreck you, sweetheart, going to play this sweet pussy until it’s soaking my cock-“
“Clark-“ You whine. “Fucking- Don’t just say that-“
“Why not?” He smiles against your skin, starting to kiss his way back over your face. “You like it, don’t you. Want it all.” He pulls his finger out, and before you can grab his wrist, he spanks your pussy. Just once, lightly, not enough to cause more than a sting. But enough to make you yelp a prayer of his name.
“Oh- I-“ You go limp as he does it again, and you meet his hooded, arduous gaze with a soft whine. “Yes, Clark, God-“
He just keeps watching you. Grinding and rolling above him as he traces his thumb around your clit, then drags his fingers through your dripping folds.
He brings you arousal, gathered on his fingers, up to his mouth.
Licks it clean, with a low, guttural sound from his chest.
“So damn good.” He mutters, before pressing his thumb lightly to your mouth. “I swear I don’t think you’re real sometimes, sweetheart, you’re so- God-“
He groans as you suck on his thumb, moaning at the taste of your own need for him, and Clark drags you into a long, rough kiss. Falls flat on his back and starts to jerk his hips up into you, cock brushing torterously on your clit.
“Clark.” Your fingers scratch at his chest. “Please-“
“Right. Uh- C’mon.” He grabs your ass, shifting you so that he can see your puffy, soaked cunt, and nods to himself. “That’s good, yeah- Hold on, baby. Relax.”
You nod, but no amount of sweet words could’ve prepared you for this. How fucking good it feels as he lifts you up like it’s nothing, and slowly drags you down onto his cock. He’s splitting you open and moaning as he does it, looking up at you like you’re an angel while filling you up so good you can’t remember your own name.
He gives you a long moment to adjust, both your breathes ragged, an almost growling noise escaping his lips when you flutter around him.
You pout down at him, trying to drag yourself back and forth for a little friction, and that’s all it takes to get Clark moving.
He’s not going to let you do this yourself. He holds you by your hips and guides you back and forth on his cock, hitting every single spot inside of you, rutting up every few moments to kiss your cervix, and- Fuck-
“God, yes-“ You moan, throwing your head back as your dragged right up to the edge. “Clark- Yes, fuck- Feel so fucking big-“
He groans your name. “Don’t- If you keep talking I’m gonna- Fuck-“
“What?” You giggle breathily, and Clarks hands are going to leave bruises on you in the morning. It’s still not feeling him enough. “Fill me up? Fuck me stupid?”
Clark groans, twitching inside of you. “God, you got fuckin’ how much I- I wanna-“
“You said you’d give me everything.” You whisper, looking at him with your best glossy, needy eye. “I want all of you, Clark, please- Make me feel it, show me how much you- Oh-“
He flips you like you’re nothing, drawing out fully before slamming back in, and swallows the scream of his name with a harsh kiss.
“I’ll make you feel it, pretty girl.” He mutters, setting a rough, unforgiving pace. “Love you so much, I wanted to go slow, but- You want to get cockdrunk, don’t you. Want to stop using that big brain and just feel good.”
You moan, already so close to the edge. “Clark, please-“
“I told you, baby.” The kiss he gives you is almost taunting, with how he’s wrecking your cunt. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”
And he does.
Clark fucks into you like he’s trying to leave a mark. Every kiss on your lips and face and neck seem made to brand you, and his hand worship your body with such care, but every touch is firm and certain. He maps your body with his hands and thrusts into you with such borderline fervor, you don’t think you’re ever going to feel anything but Clark again. It’s the only word you know. The prayer that falls from your lips, over and over until you’re shaking and burning like a live-wire, desperate for just some release.
Before you can even beg for it, Clark’s thumb finds your clit, and starts to rub it at an inhuman speed.
“Cum for me, darling.” He almost growls in your ear. “Show me how good it feels, fucking say my name-“
You scream, just as he wanted to, and almost white-out as your orgasm wrecks through your body. Your pussy squeezes around Clark, overwhelmed and dripping with his perfect abuse of your pleasure, and he moans in your ear as he cums. You might have passed out for a second, from the feeling of him holding you so tight, fucking you through both your orgasms and muttering your name, over and over as you float down.
He helps you clean up. Of course he does. Uses a warm cloth on the mess between your thighs, before carrying you to the bathroom. Starts the shower as you pee, then coaxes you into the warm shower, because you’re going to be sore in the morning.
You have to convince him to get in with you. You’re pretty sure trying not to make assumptions, or take advantage of you.
So ask him if you can stay, and try not to feel too big when he nods eagerly.
But you have him.
All of him.
And you’ve maybe never felt more peaceful than when you’re folded back in his arms, just resting in his bed.
“Was that good?” He mutters in your ear, and it’s not fair. How perfect he is.
You nod weakly, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Yeah, did you-“
“It was amazing.” He turns his head to kiss your cheek, warm breath fanning over your cheek as he laughs. “Probably should’ve told you sooner, if this is what it got me.”
“Maybe.” You whisper. “But we’re still here, right?”
“Yeah.” Clark hums. “And I- I think I’m just happy I get to love you at all.”
You push on his chest to look at him, and when he smiles, you smile right back.
“I’m happy, too. And I- I do love you.” You lean down, letting your nose bump against his. “So much.”
Clark grins, pulling you down into a full, slow and lazy kiss, and you bask in it. The warmth on his body, and the light, happy feeling in your chest. Sinking deeper and deeper in, making you know that you don’t really need to see through the dark of Clark’s room.
You have him.
And that makes everything clear.
✦End note: Superman brainrot got me. guys✦
✦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!)✦
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on a03! - Main Masterlist✦
✦pairing: Clark Kent x female!reader✦
✦summary: Something is wrong. You feel like there's a big part of you that's missing, but you really can't quite place what. It doesn't help that you keep having flashes of a life that isn't yours. Where you're loved. Where you're Clark's, he's yours. And maybe that's been yours the whole time.
AKA you have to forget Clark, but it doesn't really stick.✦
✦warnings/tags: civilian!reader, memory fic, insecurity, angst, fluff, pining, shenanigans, double love confessions for your buck, shameless smut (body worship, dirty talk, fingering, p in v, doggy), no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: This one is very special to me. Enjoy!✦
Someone is watching you. You can feel it, prickling on the back of your neck and making your stomach do odd, little flips. Like it’s trying to pull you in the direction of the attention, even though you can’t think of one good reason for someone to be looking at you.
You’re hiding at your desk, head down, typing fast enough to make the clacking sounds almost louder than the music in your ears. Nobody bothers you when you’re focused like this. People don’t really bother you period. Not at work, when you’re purposefully drowning everything else out.
But you can feel someone.
And when you pause, just to scan around the office and check that you’re not insane, everyone’s eyes are on their own computers or each other. Jimmy and Lois are having a low conversation near the coffee. Cat is examining her nails while snapping at someone on the phone. Steve is laughing at something on his phone—a little too loudly, in the boisterous, fake way that always makes you pretty sure he’s not actually seeing anything funny, and just wants someone to come talk to him—while Perry watches the TV with a focused frown, and Clark stares at his computer.
Just stares at it. Doesn’t type. Doesn’t scroll.
He’s probably just reading something, very intently, over and over.
You look back to your own computer, and call it paranoia.
That would be why your skin feels raw, when you start to type again. Nobody’s watching you—and you check again, just to make sure—and you’re just paranoid.
You’ve been oddly paranoid lately, so it’s tracking. You’re checking the locks of your windows and doors three or four times before you go to bed, like you’re in Gotham. You keep running back up the stairs after you try to leave for work, just to make sure you closed the door. When you walk down the street your gaze lingers on longer shadows, and you look up to the sky as if you’re checking for something.
You’re not.
You don’t even know what you’d be looking for.
All you do know is that you feel like someone is watching you, but they’re not. That you’re paranoid, but it’s likely lack of sleep.
You haven’t really been sleeping, either. Your bed has felt too cold, lately. Too empty. You haven’t been able to bring yourself to even lie in it for more than twenty minutes at a time, resorting to trying to sleep on the couch.
Which is probably why your back always hurts, now.
It hasn’t been a good few weeks. Everything has felt off.
But it’ll pass.
Hopefully.
It’s not, but hopefully, it will.
Someone taps on your shoulder, and you almost jump out of your skin, hand flying out in a faster reaction than you can process.
You smack Jimmy in the jaw, and he stumbles back with wide eyes.
“Oh my god, I’m-“ You yank off your headphones, reaching out nervously. “Jimmy, I’m so, so sorry, you scared me, I’m- I don’t know why I did that, I’m so-“
“Jesus, stop apologizing.” Jimmy gives you a small grin, dropping his hand from where a red mark is starting to form. “I’m alright. Made of steel, you know me.”
You blink at him, and suddenly feel a little dizzy.
“You don’t need to get me a band-aid, sweetheart. They don’t say I’m made of steel because it sounds cool.”
“I, um-“ You shake your head, giving Jimmy another apologetic look. “Do you want some ice?”
“Nah. That sounds cold.”
“It’s ice-“
“Yeah. Cold. I’m a big boy,” he says your name with a shrug. “I’ll live, you know?”
“I guess, but-“
“Can I ask you a question?”
You blink, and Jimmy’s staring at you with an odd intensity. “Yes?”
“Did you guys have a fight?”
“You… guys?” You shake your head, spinning your pencil nervously between your fingers, and Jimmy nods.
“Yeah. You and Clark.”
“Me and-“ Your eyes dart over to Clark’s desk, and he’s still staring at his computer. He’s scrolling now, though. Typing a few words, then scrolling again.
You haven’t spoken to him all morning. And he doesn’t look all that bothered. His hair is messy, and from his side profile you can tell his glasses are a little askew, but that’s just Clark.
“No?” You look back to Jimmy. “Why would we have had a fight?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.” He shrugs, looking over to Clark himself. “Poor guy just has been looking bummed. I thought someone yelled at him, but he hasn’t even really been talking to anyone. Which is weird, right?”
Jimmy looks at you like you’re supposed to agree, and you give him a tight smile.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Jimmy nods to himself. “I mean, he’s Clark. He talks. We all talk. And I don’t know- Maybe I should set him up on another blind date. He hasn’t said yes to me in like, a year, but now- Poor guy might be feeling the loneliness.”
Something tugs on your heart. It’s sore and hot and makes your skin fucking itch.
Your pencil flies across the room, as you accidentally fling it from your fingers. Hits Steve in the back of the head, making you wince.
“Damn, you’re on a roll, killer.” Jimmy grins as Steve glares around to see the culprit. You quickly pick up another pencil. “Is there something going on with you I should be worried about? Are you secretly a vigilante
“No, I’m just…” You take a deep breath, glancing back over to Clark.
You don’t know why you keep looking at him. It’s like you’re looking for some kind of reaction, and you don’t even know to what.
“It’s just a bad week.” You mutter, and Jimmy nods.
“Right, first one back from vacation. Those always suck.”
“Huh?” You’re not really listening, mostly just staring at Clark. His leg is bouncing.
That means something.
You can’t fucking remember what.
“Your vacation. How was it, by the way?” Jimmy bumps your shoulder with his coffee, and you blink.
“How was… my vacation?”
“Yeah. Cuba, right? Or… Cairo. China? It was somewhere with a C. I think. I don’t know.” Jimmy laughs to himself. “Clark did tell me you were going, so maybe I’m just thinking of him.”
“Oh.” You swallow, and Clark’s leg is still fucking bouncing.
“You’re doing it again.” You smile at him, poking your foot against his shin, and he blinks up at you.
“I, uh- I’m not doing anything-“
“You were listening to me. I know you were.”
“But I didn’t even look-“
“I know.” You smile at him. “I just know you. Do you think we should do Rio?”
He turns a little red, eyes darting around the office to make sure no one else is watching, then places his hand on the back of your thigh. Squeezes gently, and gives you a small smile.
“I’ll go where you want, baby. But if you’re asking-“
“I am-“
“Then I’ve been thinking we could go to-“
“Redwood park.” You mutter, looking back to Jimmy. “I think I just went to see the Redwoods, Jimmy.”
“Oh. Well, California starts with C.” Jimmy glances over to Clark. “You should’ve brought Clark with you. He’s always wanted to see those things. Don’t know why he hasn’t. We get plenty of vacation time.”
You nod. “I- I don’t know why either.” You whisper, and Clark’s head turns.
For a split second, your eyes meet. And something flashes over his handsome features that you can’t quite place.
Then he looks away, and his leg stops bouncing.
Your head sort of hurts.
But it’s just been an off week. Jimmy leaves you alone, and you can’t do anything but stare blankly at your computer screen, hoping your fingers will remember how to do anything but spin a pencil, and your brain will clear of this strange fog.
You don’t even remember going on vacation.
And it feels like there's a massive fucking hole, in the center of your chest. It’s got an odd shape. It hums and kicks into a loud gear—like an echo through a cave, a ghostly replication of something that had been there before—whenever you feel it again.
Someone is watching you.
Your pencil flies out of your fingers again.
But when you look around to see if anyone noticed, they haven’t.
It’s like nothing ever happened at all.
The day moves fast, but the strange feeling doesn’t fade. It only gets more and more pressing, until it feels like there’s something iron wrapping around your lungs. Maybe you should go back to therapy. You’re not sure why you left it in the first place.
There’s just a faint impression of it not working. Of something on your tongue you couldn’t let go, that was holding you back from saying anything at all.
But it’s gone now.
You just wish you’d known what it fucking was.
There are a lot of things that are making you feel that. Like you’d had something in your hands, and it had been taken away. Leaving your skin covered in a soot or stardust you don’t know how to wash off, because you can’t even fucking see it. And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re still paranoid. It’s all you’ve been, lately, and there’s no reason for it to just vanish when you go to work.
It’s almost certainly the paranoia.
It will be a whole lot easier, if it’s just the paranoia.
If people have noticed you’re acting differently, they don’t say anything. You fumble your coffee when Lex Luther comes onto one of the TV screens, and Lois gives you an odd, worryingly gentle look, but helps you clean up. Perry talks to you about your article about international metahuman law, and you type slowly, struggling to remember where you found any of your sources. Superman has another save—a kitten, in a tree, and for some reason that makes you feel fuzzy—and you stare at the screen for a little too long. You only stop staring because Cat hits your arm, amusement sparkling in her eyes.
“He’s cute, right?”
“I- Superman?” You can feel your cheeks heat, and this shouldn’t be making you flush. It’s Superman. Everyone thinks he’s cute.
“You think I’m cute?”
“Don’t get a big head.”
“I can’t. Ma raised me better than that, sweetheart. And my head is already huge, but it’s mostly just facts about cows.”
“Yeah? What kind of facts?”
“All of them. Did you know people used to use “cow” as a compliment?”
You smile at him, and there’s something earnest on his face that always makes it hard to even play fake mean. “How the fuck would you use cow as a compliment.”
“Like, uh- You’ve got cow eyes, baby.” He squeezes your hip, and you giggle.
“I have cow eyes?”
“Yeah. But you’re my cow.” He pauses, then frowns. “I don’t like that. It makes seem like, I don’t know, I won you at a county fair.”
You lean down, mock-pouting at him. “So you don’t think I’m a prize?”
“No, I just-“ He sighs. “Can we pretend I never said anything?”
“Nope. I’m your cow, Mr. Kent.”
He groans. “Gosh, no, don’t say that-“
“It’s too late. Live with the consequences of your actions.”
“But I regret this action, I regret it a lot, I should have just told you how to milk a cow- No.” He gives you a firm look, and you’re giggling so much you might fall over. “I know that face, baby, no.”
You shake your head, pushing your words through the laughter. “Were you going to do a demonstration, farm boy? You’ve milked me before.”
“Alright. Come here.”
A large, warm hand glides up to your waist, and you’re still giggling when he pulls you forward. He doesn’t look cute anymore. He just looks handsome, darkened eyes on you, lips curled in a small grin as he watches you-
Cat says your name, waving a hand in your face.
“Sorry, I- Um-“ You look around, and the room isn’t spinning, but all the color seems to be washed out. Like there should be a reason for them to be vibrant, and you can’t find it at all. “I think I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Okay.” Cat shrugs, looking back to the TV. “Weird thing to tell me, though.”
“Yeah, um- Sorry.”
You almost run away from her, and your stomach feels like it’s rising up your throat. Something is wrong. It’s paranoia, but it still feels wrong, and you don’t know where you’re going but you know it needs to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere nobody can touch you, or see you, or say your name. Somewhere in the dark, where your chest won’t keep trying to pull at something you can’t name, where you can put a hand on your throat and just breathe-
You’re only watching your feet, as you walk, because you need to walk in a straight line. You’re not dizzy. It just feels like you’re wading through mud, and if you’re not counting every step you’ll fall over.
So when you turn the corner, you don’t see him until it’s too late, and you’re slamming right into his chest.
“Hey, woah.” Clark's arm wraps around your waist, and your fingers fly to grab the lapels of his suit jacket.
You stare at each other. There’s that same, strange look from before, and it’s everywhere. In the slight, worried pout of his lips, the furrow of his brow, and somehow in the strong line of his nose. His eyes are burning into you, and that buzzing feeling starts to push up your throat, spreading and spreading until the hollow in your chest stirs, and Clark’s hand flexes on your back-
“Taste it.”
He frowns at your offering, a finger covered in frosting. “I know what frosting tastes like, sweetheart. You just slipped, I want to look at your knee-“
“What are you, a doctor?”
“No, but I think I’ve learned enough to know if need to take you to the hospital, and I can x-ray for free-“
You cut him off with a strange noise. It’s as if it’s coming from underwater, muffled and strange. You can’t really hear it at all. “It’s just my fucking ankle. Look,” you swing it dramatically, and his frown deepens. He doesn’t let go of you.
You poke his nose with the frosting, and giggle as his eyes cross to look at it.
“Geez, you really want me to try this frosting.”
“Well, I made it, and I want your opinion.”
He nods, tongue shooting up to lick it off. And it takes a few seconds of ridiculousness for him to get it, but he does. Because he can do fucking anything.
And your heartbeat is in your ears, now.
“That’s really good, baby.” He looks at you with a proud grin, and you don’t give a shit about the cupcakes anymore.
He can see that.
His throat bobs, and his ears turn red as his voice drops.
“You’re sure your ankles okay-“
“Yes.” You cut him off quickly, and his lips twitch.
“May I please have a full cupcake, after we finish?”
You nod, a little like a bobblehead, and he grins at you like he won the lottery.
“Thank you, sweetheart.” He leans down until your noses are bumping. “But just so you know, you’re still my favorite dessert.”
“Are you okay?” Clark says, and it jumpstarts your body.
You shove him back quickly, eyes wide, and try not to think about how he looks like a wounded puppy.
He says your name gently, like he’s trying to soothe a feral animal, and you take another uneven step back.
“I- I’m- I don’t-“
Clark’s voice becomes a little more urgent. “Come here, sw-“ He swallows, syllables sliding together. “We need to get you sitting down-“
“No- No-“ You take a ragged breath. You don’t want him to touch you. Your whole body is leaning to him, like he’s got the gravity of something more than a man, but if Clark touches you, it’s going to hurt deeper than your skin. “I- I’m okay. I’m okay.”
Clark doesn’t look convinced by your repetition. “I know you might feel okay, but- You were staring at me for five minutes, I- Uh- I just think you should rest-“
“I’ll rest. I can rest.” You nod, taking another unsteady step back. The whole earth feels like it’s sliding below your feet. “I might have, like- Food poisoning? Maybe? I’m just- I’m not feeling well, Clark-“
“I know, we can go to the doctor- I mean, not we, but- You and someone-“ The strangeness flashes over his features again. “It can be me. I can drive. I’m good at it, sweetheart, I can drive you-“
“No, I’ll take the subway, I’m- Can you just tell Perry I got sick. Please?”
“I-“
“Thank you, Clark. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
You don’t wait for his response, don’t look back as you almost scramble out of the hallway.
It’s still just the paranoia. You’re just off, and maybe you did get food poisoning. You’d eaten some strange, old pastries that had been at the back of your refrigerator last night. You didn’t even remember putting them there, and they’d tasted fine, but maybe it was a fake fineness.
No. It’s all fine.
There’s still that carved-out, empty feeling in your chest, but you’re fine.
You’ll take a day. Maybe get back with a therapist, or install new locks on your door and windows. Everything will be fine.
Everything was not fine.
You’re having nightmares. And they’re of strange things you’ve never even seen before, like colorful, lava rivers and infinite blackness and odd, jagged edges of strangely shaped cliffs. You’re having nightmares of a gun to your brow and a shining light in your eyes and so much cold. You can’t really feel anything in the nightmares, but you can feel cold, and it makes you wake up shivering and screaming until your voice goes hoarse.
The one day you took off didn’t do much—you mostly just stared at the ceiling, and tried to will everything into being better, which obviously didn’t fucking work—and the moment you’re back at work, everything starts to move too fast for you to catch your breath.
You were gone for three weeks, on a vacation you don’t remember. There’s work that needs catching up on, informants and sources you apparently forgot to tell about your vacation that you need to reach out to, and a lot of time that needs to be wasted on the floor of the bathroom.
It still feels like someone is watching you, in the office. Still feels like something vital is missing from your chest, like an organ that’s been removed. With the nightmares, your sleep doesn’t get better. The paranoia only grows, until you beg Perry to give you a desk that has your back to the wall.
He obliges, with a frown and muttered weird kids.
And you’re slightly calmed, by being able to see everyone who comes in and out of the room. Nobody can surprise you, anymore. When you feel like someone is watching you, all you have to do is look up.
“Just look up.” He says, fingers tracing slowly over the bare skin of your arm. “All you ever need to do is look up, and I’ll be there.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” you say the noise you can’t hear. “What if you’re in Kansas, or- I don’t know, France-“
He cuts you off with a deep, slow kiss that makes you dizzy. “Then call my name.” He mutters against your lips. “And I’ll come for you.”
You rub your eyes, and all the lights are a little too bright. You might need to start wearing sunglasses to work. Inside. Like you have a permanent hangover.
It certainly feels permanent. All these strange, invasive phantom thoughts.
Nowhere is safe from them. It’s why you like the bathroom so much. Sparse and quiet and lonely—which is only making the nightmares worse—but without anything to set you off.
Because fucking everything sets you off.
“Shit.” You mutter, wrinkling your nose at the fridge, then checking the time on your phone. “Shit.”
“What’s shit?” Lois asks, standing over your shoulder, and you slam the door closed.
“I- fuck-“ The sound echoes through the room, and it was too big for such a tiny little thing.
It hums at you. Tauntingly. About how you can be as mean and crude as you want, but it’s still solid. It’s not melting apart at the seams.
You kick it, for good measure, and grunt as it refuses to budge. Stupid fucking fridge.
Lois laughs softly. “I think you beat it.”
“Thanks.” You mutter, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “It’s too late anyway.”
“Too late?”
“I forgot my lunch.”
“Seriously? That’s what you tried to murder the fridge over- Right, sorry.” She smiles apologetically at your glare. “Not just a joke, this time. Didn’t read that one right.”
“No, it’s-“ You let out a slow breath, and you’re so fucking tired. “You’re right, it’s stupid-“
“It’s not stupid, it’s just kind of insane.” She gives you a small smile. “Forgetting food sucks. I’m sorry I laughed at your plight.”
You huff, just through your nose, but with everything feeling a little lighter. It sucks. It’s not the end of everything.
“Who forgot their food?” Clark says, and you turn to see him frowning at you and Lois with an odd intensity. “Lois, you ate earlier, you got taco all over my keyboard-“
“No, I didn’t. That was Jimmy.”
“But Jimmy said it was-“
“Jimmy is a liar. And I didn’t forget my lunch,” she says your name, and all of Clark’s attention seems to hone in on you. It makes you feel fucking dizzy. “She did.”
“You did?” There’s a depth to the concern in his voice. Like you’re swimming into the ocean, when it was just supposed to be the deep end of the pool, and now he’s worried everything is going to sweep you away. “What happened?”
“I don’t know.” You try to hold his gaze, as you speak. It’s shockingly difficult. As if you’re staring at the sun, instead of clear, blue eyes. “I haven’t been sleeping well. Must have thought I grabbed it, then didn’t. I’ll be-“
Clark cuts in, voice earnest. “Do you want mine?”
“No, yours looks like it was made out of dead fish guts.”
“Huh.” He frowns at his spaghetti, still in the white take-out box. “I think it’s just like- Gooey pasta.”
“Wrong, fish guts.” You keep his arm around your shoulders, holding one of his large hands in both of yours, playing with his fingers as you examine dinner. “Why couldn’t we just do pizza?”
“Because Pa taught me to treat a lady-“
“To fish guts?”
“To fancy food.” He kisses the side of your head, dropping the food onto the plate. “If it tastes bad, I can hold your hair back while you vomit.”
“What if you vomit,” you say the noise you can’t hear, and he grins at you.
“I don’t get sick, darling.”
“Maybe. But look at this, I’m sure it could do the job, even on you-“
He kisses you, and your words fall into a loud, long moan. He smiles against your lips, and you wish he’d never figured out this trick for shutting you up. It’s playing dirty, for someone who always follows the rules. You think he justifies it to himself with how you try to chase him when he pulls away, and how he always asks you to finish your thought. As if the kiss was just to kiss.
This beautiful, sweet man might really believe it is just a kiss.
Something low shines in his eyes, though, when he finally gets you to come up for air.
And he fucking knows.
“Gosh,” he mutters, looking over to the food. “You think this will make me sick?”
“Maybe.” You blink at him slowly. “I don’t know.”
“Huh. I mean, I don’t mind pizza. If you don’t mind. I can go get it, right now, but, um- Only if you think this will make me sick-“
You say the sound you can’t hear softly. “I know you worked hard to get this, you don’t have to-“
“No, I think I want pizza.” He leans down, holding your gaze. “Do you want pizza, sweetheart?”
“Yes.” You smile at him, planting a small kiss on his nose. “Please.”
Clark says your name, and you swallow. You don’t feel hungry, anymore. Only sick.
“I’m good, Clark.” You mutter, ripping your gaze down to your shoes. “Thank you.”
You almost run back to your desk, and start talking to people at work less and less. They seem to always set it off—the empty space, the echo—more than anyone else. And avoiding them isn’t a permanent solution, but it should ease the vastness of everything feeling like it’s just fucking wrong.
It should.
But as long as you’re where people can say things to you, it doesn’t.
“You look nice tonight.” A guy with dark hair and darker eyes grins at you, taking a slow swig of his beer like you’re supposed to respond.
You turn your glass in your hands, and give him a small smile. He’s pretty. Not that pretty, but enough to make you not hate looking. And in the dark—once you’re one drink deeper and everything has been numbed a little more—it won’t fucking matter.
“You end up here often?”
You smile, and try not to make it too many teeth. Just be easy, and you can forget better. “Here, or at a bar?”
He laughs. Not a bad sound. Just sort of flat, like there’s an element of it that’s missing. “Either, dollface.”
“Well, I’ve been here a few times.” You try to keep your voice light and breathy. You feel fucking insane. “But usually, I’m just soliciting.”
“Yeah? For what?”
“Mormons.”
The man laughs again, and you try to make your smile wider. The drink can get you halfway there, easily.
It’s the rest of you, that’s always the problem.
You end up in a booth, half on the lap of your bar man—Jack or Jax or Max or Miles or Martholomew, but it really doesn’t fucking matter—and with your tongue shoved down his throat. You’re grabbing at his shoulders and dragging him forward as you try to grind down, but it feels like trying to start a fire with soggy driftwood.
There’s just not enough of him. This man is nice enough, but there’s something shaped like the hole in your body that’s missing. His hands are possessive, but they should be teasing and gentle as well. As if you’re a delicate work of blown glass, that’s stronger than it looks but still needs care. He should let you play until you get tired, and he eagerly jumps in to take over. He’s supposed to have slightly longer hair, and bigger hands, and wrap around you as he kisses, as if he’s more shield than man.
You don’t have any idea where you got those fantasies.
No one has ever touched you like that. Kissed you like that. Been enough that you’d hold them higher than the sun.
“Yeah, doll,” the man grabs your ass as he drawls. “You’re such a dirty girl, aren’t you.”
You frown against his lips. That’s not right either. He’s supposed to say-
“There you go.” He keeps your legs spread apart easily, pushing a finger in until it’s knuckle deep. “Yeah. That’s it. Oh fuck, you’re soaked.”
A loud, desperate moan tears through your lips, the word fuck maybe the most sinful thing in the world, when it’s from his lips. “Please, I- I need it, just-“ You try to roll your hips forward, grabbing at the sheets. “Please-“
“You’ll get it, baby.” He kisses your inner thigh, rubbing the sensitive skin in firm circles. “I always help you, don’t I? I take care of you.”
“Yeah, yes, you do, but- Fuck-“ You moan the sound you can’t hear, grabbing at his wrist. “More-“
“Can you relax, darling? For me, please?”
You go slack, and he grins.
“There you go. That’s my good girl.”
For a moment, as the bar comes back into focus, you’re frozen.
Then the man grunts from below you, and you almost vault off his lap.
Wrong.
Everything, everywhere, is so fucking wrong.
You leave with rushed apologies and a twenty-dollar payment for two drinks—too much, but you just need to go so they can keep the tip—and try not to trip over yourself running home.
And you check the locks, twice. Close the windows and keep all the lights on, even as you get ready for bed.
But it’s not safe.
Not anywhere.
You’re digging through your underwear drawer, and your fingers brush over a thick, warm fabric. When you pull it out, it’s a flannel that smells of stale amber and wood. It feels right, on your fingers, but you don’t have a clue where it came from, or why it’s here.
But it’s warm. Even after months at the bottom of a cold dresser, it’s so warm. Like an ember. Like something clinging to a flickering fire that just refuses to die. That sparks, just when it’s about to go out.
That keeps you warm.
“Put it on, baby. Please.”
“No.” You raise a hand, blocking him from your view. “Puppy eyes don’t work on me,” you hum the noise you can’t hear, grinning out at the field. “I am perfectly warm. I’m basically a furnace. I think I could power the eastern seaboard, with how warm I am.”
“I, um- I don’t think that’s how energy works, sweetheart-“
“But maybe it does.”
He sighs, even as the heavy sound is laced with affection. “Okay. That can be how it works, but- Please. Put it on.” He pauses. “For me?”
You drop your hand, and glare at his pretty, innocent face—which is a fucking act, because he was face deep in your pussy like three hours ago—and hopeful, clear eyes. He just smiles at you nervously, still holding out the flannel, and you roll your eyes.
“I hate it when you play that card.”
He blinks, looking honestly confused. “What card?”
“Shut up.” You grab the flannel out of his hand, and he grins.
“Yes, ma’am. Do you want help putting it on?”
You nod, shuffling closer to his side. If it were anyone else, they’d get a biting, harsh no. You can do it yourself, it’s just a flannel, and—because you’re not fucking seven—you know how sleeves and buttons work.
But it’s him. And you want a reason to be as close to him as possible, so you can figure out how to crawl into his lap after. Be as surrounded by him as possible, and run your fingers through curly hair as he breathes against your neck. It makes you shiver, the feeling of his lips grazing sensitive spots on your throat while his hands splay over your back.
“I’m not cold anymore.” You mumble in his ear, and you can feel his lips curve into a smile.
“Sorry, darling, but- I thought you weren’t cold at all?”
“Don’t be mean.” You whine the sound you can’t hear into his neck, and he chuckles.
“I’ve been learning from the best. And she,” he kisses a spot behind your ear. “Is also so smart, and cares so much, and never lets anything hold her down-“
“That’s not true.” You grumble. “I let a lot of things hold me down.”
“Yeah, but you never give up,” he pulls back, holding your face gently in his hands. His thumb traces over your cheek, and it feels like he’s taking you apart. “You’re strong.”
You laugh dryly. “You’ve been through more.”
“Yeah. Once a goat ate my favorite shirt, and- Gosh, sweetheart, remember how the ice cream place didn’t have the flavor I wanted to show you.” He grins, kissing your cheek. “I’m basically going to hell and back.”
“I’ve had banana splits before-“
“Not like these, though-“
You sigh the sound you can’t hear, and he falls silent. “You know what I mean.”
Something blurs. Like you’re scrubbing through film footage. The world moves fast, and you’re being pulled like a puppet. Saying something, but not having a clue what. Like your voice was taken from your throat. Then it slows down, the world resuming, and your voice resumes.
“I just think- It’s not the same-“
“I know it’s not the same.” He mutters your name, kissing your knuckles. At some point, his hand had taken yours during the blur. You hadn’t even noticed. “But you still get through a lot of stuff, baby. I think it would make most people fall.”
You smile at him sadly, voice dropping to a whisper. “I think it makes me want to fall, sometimes.”
“Well.” He folds his fingers through yours, and the sleeve of his flannel flops slightly. It looks like you don’t really stop at all. You just continue. Right into him. “I’m pretty freaking grateful that you don’t.”
The flannel gets shoved back into the underwear drawer.
You stop looking around at things.
And it’s not fine. Nothing’s fucking fine. You’re not talking to anyone, really. Not going anywhere. Hiding in your own bed, just knowing that something is so incredibly off, as the echoes continue to grow, but you don’t have a word for it. And if you tried to find one, you’d sound fucking bananas. At best, you’re just having hyper-realistic daydreams that are freaking you out way more than they should. At worst, you have a brain tumor.
You’ve explored all the options, in your new favorite place, the bathroom floor. And you’ve settled on a very sustainable do nothing until you either drop dead or someone pins you down and makes you get help. It’s a strategy that’s worked well this long, and nobody has managed to get you pinned down at all.
“You’ve got a flu, sweetheart, you need to stay in bed-“
“You can’t make me,” you sing the sound you can’t hear, spinning in a wide circle, all the colors neon and pastel around you. “You’re not my boss, and you’re not bigger than me. I am,” you wrap your arms around his neck. “Bigger than a mouse.”
“Well, that’s not wrong.” He sighs, and picks you up as if you weigh nothing.
“Wow.” You poke at his muscles, squirming in his arms. “You’re strong. And big.”
“I, uh- Thanks.”
“And hot. It’s so hot.” You whine the sound you can’t hear. “Why is it so hot?”
“That’s the fever, darling.” He sounds amused, but kisses the side of your head so gently. “I’ll text Perry from your phone, okay?”
“Okay.” You mumble, clinging to his shirt when he tries to set you down. “Can you stay?”
He sighs, scanning carefully over your face. “I have work, and- You know, the other thing-“
Everything blurs again. But this time, all of his words blurring together while you’re stuck in a static. Then it all resumes, and it’s as if nothing happened at all.
“Please?” You pout, and he nods slowly.
“Yeah. Okay. I mean, I can’t make a promise about that, but- I swear to you I’ll see what I can do-“
“Yay.” You beam, and flop back down onto the mattress. “I love you, Martian Man.”
“Different guy. And, um- Wrong planet.” He kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter shut. “But I love you too, my cow.”
You hum. “Would you buy me in an auction?”
“You know I’m not answering that, pretty girl.” He mutters, and he’s using the other voice. The deeper, smooth one that always makes you listen to whatever you say. “Go to sleep.”
The lights are getting long. The shadows of the small, Daily Planet bathroom feel longer.
Your eyes are stinging with tears, and you wipe them with the thin corporate napkins.
Spend a little too long looking in the mirror.
Apparently, your thoughts aren’t fully safe anymore either, even in the quiet.
And you’d never said I love you. To anyone.
But you said it to him.
The man who just lives in your head, who you can’t even afford to give a name, pulls love out of you in a way that feels bigger than the hole in your chest. In a way like a tree. Always growing and growing and taking deeper root, until it’s embedded in the Earth.
And he loves you back.
But only in your fucking head.
“I’m not saying it’s weird.” Steve is almost shouting at Jimmy and Lois, and you poke your head over your computer to watch. “You know I’m a big fan of the guys, Lois, I’m just asking questions! Isn’t that our job?”
“To… learn about Kryptonian biology?” Lois snorts, taking a sip of her coffee. “No, I think that’s up to scientists, Steve.”
“Well, they have nothing to study-“
“Neither do we, dude.” Jimmy’s grin is shit-eating. “It’s not like Superman is in this room, so we can ask him questions about his penis.”
Clark coughs loudly, and you frown at him. His leg is bouncing, and his ears look a little red.
Lois sees it as well, and calls across the room, “You alright, Clark?”
“Uh, yeah- I’m, yeah.” Clark clears his throat, shooting to his feet and walking over to join their group.
Which is gathered near your desk.
It’s not making you nervous so much as wired. With every step Clark takes across the room, you feel more and more like electricity is humming under your skin, sparking up in that emptiness and just making everything very fucking confusing.
Then Clark looks at you.
Only a quick glance, with that same worry in his brow and odd shine in his eyes. It’s the only way he’s been looking at you, lately.
You flush, and look back to your computer with everything in you feeling like it’s on fire.
“Um-“ Clark’s words are low, and you see him shake his head in your periphery. He’s looking at you. For too long, you can see the clearness of his eyes, feel them singeing on your skin.
Then he looks away.
And you just feel cold.
“What are we talking about?” He asks the group, and Steve scowls.
“I don’t want your thoughts on it, Kansas, I’m looking for the big leagues opinion-“
“Steve wants us to give Superman a pat-down.” Jimmy says quickly. “The full TSA. He says it’s for science.”
“Which is a ridiculous claim.” Lois adds. “But also pointless. Because what, are you going to just call him out of the sky and start asking him questions?”
“I mean...” Steve pauses. “Isn’t that just what you and Kent do?”
“No. Or, well-“ Clark coughs. “Sort of, I guess. But we’re asking him important questions. About world politics.”
Jimmy raises his hand. “Didn’t your last interview with him consist of only questions about cows and breakfast.”
You peek over your computer again, and Clark is blushing.
“I- He had a hard few weeks-“
“Or you’re just a pussy, right?” Steve laughs, raising his hand for a high five, and Lois gives him a flat look.
“None of us are high-fiving that, man.”
“Whatever.” Steve rolls his eyes. “Why does Kent get to work with Superman and not me.”
Jimmy laughs. “You write sports, dude-“
“I’m sure he has opinions! The people want to know who he is! What baseball team he’s rooting for this season!”
“Yeah,” Lois shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s what people want to know about Superman.”
“I know.” The wind is biting at your skin, and you’re glaring at him in the dark.
This seems like it’s from a long, long time ago. The air is hotter, your shirt one you think you lost months ago. When you reach up to nervously run your fingers through your hair, that’s different as well. And he’s across from you, something different in his clear eyes.
Different from all the other flashes.
The same as it seems to be now.
He sighs, taking a large step forward. “Can we not do this on the roof, please? I’m worried you’re going to catch a cold-“
“I’ll live.” You snap, raising your chin. Which is a mistake—the wind only bites you harder now—but you’re not going to back down from it. You’ll see this through. “I want you to tell me.”
“Tell you what?” He frowns, and winces slightly under your withering look. “I can’t say it. You know I can’t. If I tell you, then that’s on me-“
“What’s on you, the truth-“
“No, what I’ll be doing to you-“
“You’ve done a lot worse-“
“This isn’t a joke!” He shouts your name, taking a large step forward. “You could get seriously hurt, if you actually know! And if you get hurt, and I can’t save you, I’m-“ He shakes his head. “No. I’m not telling you.”
“I already fucking know-“
“Then just know, don’t make me tell you-“
“No, Clark! I know what it means that I know! I-“ You take a ragged breath, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “I’ve known for months, you dummy. I just- I sort of-“ You swallow, choking on the sob forming in your throat. “Never mind.”
You turn to walk away, and the world is blurring from tears in your eyes, but everything is also getting sharper at the same time. Like a camera lens, coming into a focus you hadn’t even known was off.
“No, wait-“ Clark shouts your name, grabbing the crook of your elbow. “Don’t- Shoot-“
He moves in front of you as you yank your elbow away, blocking your path off the roof.
“Move.” You mutter, and he shakes his head.
“You said you wouldn’t never mind me, baby.” He’s using the deep, commanding voice. The Superman voice. It’s cheating. “You promised. I always want to know what you’re thinking. Please.”
You shake your head, staring at his shoes. “It’s stupid-“
“No.” He grabs your chin, gently angling it up. Forcing you to meet his clear, bright, affectionate gaze. When you don’t speak—not out of spite, you’re mostly just trying not to cry—he prompts you gently. “You’ve really known for months?”
“Yeah.” You whisper. “I knew like, the first week I met you.”
His eyes widen. “How-“
“You wear your suit under your clothing, Clark.” You smile at him weakly. “You stretched. I saw. That was sort of it.”
“Oh.” He sighs, glancing down at that same suit, then back to you with a guilty expression. “Shoot.”
“Yeah. But nobody else has noticed, I promise. I asked around in a very covert way and the only other person who’s seen is Jimmy. But he said he asked you about it, and you said it’s just a weird compression shirt. Which, by the way, we need to come up with a better lie, Clark, because that one is-“
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew?” He mutters, and you swallow.
“I wanted you to tell me.”
“Oh.” Clark nods, then says your name gently. “Why were you looking at my shirt, darling?”
You flush. “Don’t- This isn’t about me-“
“Really?” He grins. “Because I kinda think most things are.”
“I- Well-“ You sigh, dropping your face into his chest. “You’re cute.”
“Cute?” You can hear the grin in his voice. “You think I’m cute?”
“And… other stuff.”
“What other-“
“We’ve fucked, Clark!” You shove away from his chest. “You know I think you’re attractive, don’t be mean-“
“Yeah, I’m sorry.” He catches you easily, pulling you back into his body. “I just like hearing what you think about me, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”
“You said I’m sorry twice.” You grumble, and he kisses the tip of your nose.
“Well, I am very sorry. And I love you. You’re the only cow I’d ever want to love.”
Your eyes widen. “You- Clark-“
“You don’t need to say it back,” he mutters your name, moving to kiss the corner of your mouth. “But I do. And I need to tell you something.”
You stare at him, and he grins at you, swiping his thumb over your lip.
“I’m Superman.”
“Oh.” You can’t stop your stupid, wide smile. “Cool.”
“It kind of is, right?” He laughs, and pulls you up into a deep, full kiss.
The long, dramatic kind of kiss. Where there might be music swelling in the background, and spotlights angling down to make the whole focus of everything just you and Clark. He’s dipping you down slightly, and your foot kicks into the air, and you’re dizzy and breathless when he finally pulls you upright. Still giving you smaller, softer kisses as you find your balance.
“Just, um-“ He sighs, still holding you tight to his chest. “Please don’t call me Clark when I’m in the suit, sweetheart.”
You giggle, murmuring against his lips. “I won’t if we can use it for sex stuff.”
“Oh. Uh-“ He blushes, but nods, dipping down to kiss your throat. “I think we can do that. You know you might be the death of me, right?”
“No. You’re not allowed to die.” You kiss the side of his head, and he sighs.
“Yeah. But you aren’t either.” He pulls back, a deep furrow in his brow. “I’m serious. I really don’t want you to get hurt because of this-“
“I won’t.” You smile at him. “I promise.”
Someone says your name, and you blink to see Lois waving a hand in front of your face.
“Um, yeah?”
“Are you okay?” She frowns at you, scanning over your face. “You’ve been staring at the same spot for like, ten minutes. If you need, I can bring you to the hospital-“
“I don’t need a hospital.” You say quickly, looking back to your computer. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
And when you say it that time, it sounds even more like a lie than before. Lois isn’t convinced, even when you manage to talk her into just getting you some ice. You’re not convinced, because you can feel it. Even your computer doesn’t seem to be convinced, the screen so bright it feels judgmental.
But most of all, Clark isn’t convinced.
He’s not looking, when you do your routine scan to make sure nobody is watching. He’s just sitting at his desk, leg bouncing.
Which is something he does, when he’s listening.
You don’t know how you know that. Why you know that. When you learned that.
But you know it’s Clark.
That in your head, it’s Clark. It’s always been Clark.
Or it’s never been Clark, and you’ve just lost your fucking mind.
You don’t know anymore. What’s real. Why your brain has decided Clark is Superman, and why he’d ever say he loves you, or why this is happening to you.
Something is more than wrong. Something is broken. It’s that massive fucking hollow in your chest, and it’s making your heart skip in all the wrong ways. Like you lost your metronome. Lost the beat. Can’t find it again, and now you’re falling and drowning on steady ground.
Everything is so, so wrong.
And when you don’t know what’s broken, you don’t know how to put it back together.
You’re not even sure it can be put back at all.
You have to ask him.
It’s eating you alive.
Clark sits across the office, and you squint at him until his face is a little more blurred, trying to blend it into the man of the echoes. You spend hours staring at your computer screen—decidedly not doing work—listening to his voice imagining him saying things to see if they match.
Every night you watch shadows move over your ceiling at night, trying to organize every single strange moment into its place.
Every morning, you stare at the flannel and try to remember something more.
It’s a puzzle you can’t stand to finish, but need to or everything feels like it’s going to crumble apart. It’s a game you don’t want to play, but can’t bear to lose.
There’s no logical reason for it to be real. You’d remember if you’d been kissing and dating and in love with Clark. Someone else would have known, someone would have said something, Clark wouldn’t have just let you forget if you had the love that seems to run under your every memory of him.
And you’d think about it all the time if you knew Clark was Superman.
You know, because you do think about it all the time. You’ve crunched the numbers. Built Rome in a day then tore it down, outlined the case and solved it with a pipe—anxiously chewed-up pencil—in your mouth.
Clark is Superman.
He’s always vanishing randomly, in the middle of the day. He’s always oddly invested in conversations about Superman, for someone who claims not to care much for superheroes, only ever commenting that they do good work before going to back to scrolling on his computer. He’s never sick, but when he is, it’s right after Superman’s had a really bad fight. His leg bounces when he’s listening to conversations he shouldn’t be able to hear.
He has the same fucking face.
When you look at Clark, then down to the photo of Superman you pulled up on your phone, it’s the same fucking face.
But in the echoes—you’re afraid to call them memories, because that makes all of this too real—you’d told him you figured it out.
It seems like, when you lay it all out on cluttered paper, you’d been dating before you told him you knew.
You don’t know how you started dating.
You’ve stared at him, and every corner of the office, and every single item you own, trying to will the answer into your existence.
Then the building shifts, something clatters in your kitchen, and you shriek.
The paranoia hasn’t gone away.
You still don’t know where it came from in the first place.
And you have to. You have to know. This isn’t something that’s going to pass. It’s only going to build and build and get worse and worse until you’re drowning in the vacuum of it all.
One person has the answers to your questions. And he’s at his desk, tapping on his phone and glancing up at the TV every few minutes.
It shouldn’t be that hard to talk to Clark. He’s your friend, and all you have to do is ask a very carefully calculated question that doesn’t make you sound crazy, but does invite him to tell you what you need to know.
You can’t figure out what that question should be.
So you’ve resorted to eavesdropping.
You shuffle over to the copier, paper crumpling slightly in your fingers, and act as if you’ve never seen a machine before in your life. You’re not sure what you’re hoping he’ll say—maybe, oh, my coworker fell and hit her head and we’re all very worried, but she seems to be alright—but it’s a better plan than just driving yourself insane.
You’re probably still going to end up doing that. It’s the plan you committed to first.
This is mostly so you can say you tried.
And maybe, just maybe, so you can be a little closer to him. Hear his voice.
See if anything at all comes back.
“Ma.” Clark mutters into his phone, and you press a random button. “I’m coming home soon, I promise.”
There’s a pause as another voice crackles through the speaker, and Clark sighs.
“No, I’ve told you, we’re not- Uh, it’s- Ma, it’s complicated- Yes, I know love shouldn’t be, but it’s not the feeling, it’s- Um-“ His eyes flick you, and he clears your throat. “I know I love her, Ma. But- I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it, please. Yes, I’ll wait for Pa.”
The line goes quiet, and he’s still looking at you. It’s like you’re being set on fire.
You give him a weak smile. “I entered the wrong thing. To be copied.”
“Oh.” He returns the smile, and his looks so soft and real, it makes your throat ache. “They’re, uh- It’s still going?”
“Yeah, I, um- I figured other people might need some.” There’s an awkward moment of silence—he won’t stop looking at you—and you clear your throat. “Relationship problems?”
“No.” He says softy. “Nothing was ever a problem.”
You flush, looking back to the copier, and something really fucking stupid bubbles out of your throat. “Do you like cows, Clark?”
“Yeah. I love them.” He’s still fucking staring at you. “Do you?”
You shake your head. “I’ve always been more of a dog person.”
Ma Kent—with kind eyes and wrinkled hands that just finished touching pretty much everywhere on your face—laughs. “Oh, well, Clarkie was a dog boy, too, y’know. He liked to run around with the shepherds, and fly them up into the-“ Her eyes widen suddenly, and her eyes shoot to Clark. “Oh, I mean- He was just. flyin’ kites with Pa-“
“I would fly the herd dogs up into the sky.” He tells you, hand rubbing on the small of your back. “They liked being up there. Seeing all the birds. Made them happy, so I kept doing it. And it’s alright, Ma. She knows.”
“Oh. Wonderful. Did ya tell her, or did she figure it out.”
“I figured it out.” You beam, standing a little taller, and Clark sighs.
“That’s true. She did.”
“Oh, a smart girl.” Ma tilts her head at you, reaching up to cup your cheek once more. “Do you like pastries? Pa made too many, and I don’t got it in me to eat them all myself.”
You beam at her, leaning into Clark’s side.
She likes you.
The majority of the ride was spent with you working out every possible reason she might not like you, just to be ready. Clark had said you were just nervous, and she’d adore you. You’d told him that it wasn’t about you, it was about him.
You’d never think anyone was good enough for him either.
He’d blushed, and muttered that you felt pretty good for him.
You’d made a sex joke. He’d blushed more.
The goal had been to get them all out of your system before you arrived, because lewdness and vulgarity were on the list of reasons Clark’s parents might not like you. Even if Clark said they didn’t judge other people who swore, you hadn’t been about to take any chances.
But it didn’t matter.
She likes you.
And when Ma Kent starts to lead you into the kitchen, you tug on Clark’s sleeve until he leans down, allowing you to whisper in his ear.
“She likes me.”
“I know.” He chuckles, diving down to quickly plant a kiss on your lips. “Probably cause I love you.”
The paper you’d brought over is shredded on the floor, and Clark is saying your name.
It’s with more and more worry every time, and he’s dropping the phone from his ear. Trying to reach for you.
You can’t let him reach for you, because then he’ll touch you. Trigger another series of sparks in your chest. And it will keep slipping through your fingers too fast, when you still don’t know how to hold on.
But Clark’s a little faster than you think, for a guy his size.
He moves forwards, and catches you by the wrist. “Sweetheart-“
“You’re pushing it.” He murmurs in your ear, and you lean your head back on his chest. “I thought you were tired?”
“I am.” You turn your face, pressing it into his shoulder as you sit in his lap.
He holds you like he couldn’t bear to let go, even when you’re just in bed. Kisses your nose like you’re something sweet, when you’ve been all but grinding down onto his crotch for the last five minutes. But you can feel him, pressing through his sweats and rock hard. And if he just keeps dragging against your thighs and clothed core, you’re going to burst into tears. You need him inside of you.
Now.
“If you’re tired, darling, we can go to bed-“
“Clark.” You whisper, turning your head to meet clear, slightly hooded eyes. “You could cut glass with this.”
You grind down onto him again, and he hisses softly.
“Don’t do that, it’s not fair-“
“Do you want me to stop?” You pout at him in a picture of innocence, and he groans.
“You know I don’t. But-“ He sighs, watching you carefully in the dark. “You’re tired. You sleeping is more important than me, you know-“ He thrusts up, and your lips fall over with a broken moan.
Clark’s eyes widen at the reaction, and he’s quickly grabbing your face, angling it around to check for damage.
“Shoot, baby, I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to-“
“Clark.” You whine, leaning into his touch. “Please.”
His throat bobs, and his thumb drops to slowly trace your lips. “You’re tired.”
“I’m always tired.” You mumble. “I want you.”
“Well, you kind of always want me- Christ.”
You take his thumb fully into your mouth, sucking on it with a lidded, sweet and drunken gaze, and you know you’ve won before you even let your tongue flick over the pad of the finger.
He used a grown-up curse word.
You’re getting what you want.
“You want it?” He mutters your name, voice rough and low, and you hum around him. “Yeah? Can you please use your words, darling?”
You pop off of his thumb, and lean forward until your nose is bumping against his. “Can you please fuck me, Clark. Pretty please?”
He smiles, tangling his fingers in your hair. “That bad?”
You nod, and he raises his brows.
“You going to let me take care of you?”
“Yeah- Oh-“
Your words die with a happy squeak as Clark drags you forward into a deep, long kiss. You’re too lost in the haze of it—of him, lips moving heavy and demanding over yours, teeth grazing your lips—to really notice how he’s moving you, until the angle is one you can’t hold the kiss in.
“Clark- Mmm-“ Your head falls against his shoulder, as he palms your breast with a large hand. “Don’t tease-“
“I’m not teasing.” He hums, slowly guiding your legs apart with his ankles over yours. “I’m taking care of you. And you like it, don’t you? This,” he rubs your nipple between his fingers. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah.” You whisper, and he grins.
“I know. Just feel it, darling.” He kisses the soft skin of your neck, and his hand wanders down between your thighs. “Can you feel it?”
You nod, grabbing his forearm as his massive fingers start to play between the folds of your pussy. You’re not sure when he got your clothes off. You don’t really care.
“Yeah, there you go.” He’s cooing in your ear, and your free arm tries to reach up and wrap around his neck. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re so wet, sweetheart, you want a little more?”
“Yes.” Your back arches as Clark teases over your entrance. “More. I- I need it Clark, I-“
“Can you say please?” He flicks your nipple, and you nod.
“Please. Please, Clark, god-“ You let out a loud, sinful sound as his fingers find your clit, and start to rub. Harsh and fast, back and forth while he keeps playing with your breasts, and it’s already too much.
He’s worshipful, on your neck. Kissing and sucking on your skin, all while his fingers continue to drive you insane. You’re staring up at the ceiling with glassy eyes, just trying to keep up with what he’s doing to you, and Clark just keeps kissing you and touching your breasts like they’re something holy.
You writhe in his arms, and he just keeps you steadily pinned. You drive to drive your hips up or grind down onto his cock, he slaps your pussy once—lightly, just a sting that makes you gasp—and keeps going. Your arousal is dripping down, wet on your ass and inner thighs, and you fly off the edge without a warning.
Clark doesn’t stop. You can’t manage to close your legs, against his strength, and when you whine for him, you just get the same, low whisper in your ear.
“Need you soaked, darling.” He whispers, just his voice making you moan. “Need you ready for me. You know that. Just one more.”
One more turns into two more, and by the time Clark’s hand finally slows, you’re a shaking, wired mess. He lands light hits on your cunt as you float down, and drags two fingers through the mess with a satisfied groan.
“There she is.” He turns your head, offering you a gentle, loving kiss. “You ready, sweetheart?”
You nod, and Clark clears his throat.
“Can I please do the, uh-“
“Yeah.” You breathe out, trying to worm out of his arms to help.
He doesn’t let you.
Clark grins like he just won the lottery, catches you by the waist, and pushes you slowly down into the mattress. Your face presses into the sheets, your ass up in the air, and Clark runs his fingers back through your pussy. Spreads your arousal around, groaning as his forefinger dips slightly into your cunt, and you flutter around him.
“Yeah. That’s good” He crawls over you to kiss your neck. “You ready?”
You nod, trying to wiggle back into him, and he grunts.
“Yeah, alright, you’re ready. Fuck, darling, you’re so pretty.” He kisses down your spine, slowly massaging your hips and ass. “There you go. Just relax. Oh- Shit-“
Clark pushes into you, the stretch burning so fucking good, and your hands fist in the mattress.
“So good.” He groans. “Always so good and tight for me, sweetheart, you’re-“ He grunts, bottoming out. “So fucking perfect, like an angel, so fucking good. Take me so well, this pussy was made for me-“
“Clark.” You whine, clenching around him, and he ruts into you.
“Oh, God-“ He draws fully out, then slams into you, knocking the air out of your lungs. “Yeah, fuck- Doing so good for me, baby, taking my cock like a- Shit-“
Clark cuts himself off with a groan, and pulls out for a split second, flipping you onto your back.
He slams back in, crashing his mouth down over yours, and starts to fuck you at an animalistic pace. Your nails scratch at his back, your body already so sensitive from before, but it’s pointless. Clark always fucks you like he’s never going to touch you again. His cock hits every spot inside of you that lights you up, his hands wander and touch you in every way you love, because he has them all memorized.
When he hits a sensitive one, and gets a reaction, he fucks you a little harder. You moan his name, and his tongue shoves down your throat.
But Clark still drives his hips in a measured, careful way, keeping himself on a tight leash until you’re shaking and pleading around him.
Then his kisses grow sloppy.
His thrusts become uneven.
And he gives in fully when you cum with a cry of his name, your orgasm rushing through your whole body.
Clark groans, slamming home with a grunt and messy, hungry kiss.
You’re a little dazed, when you float down, but you still manage to reach up. Trace his slack, adoring features with light hands.
“The point of the doggy is that you can dirty talk, baby.” You whisper, and he sighs, dropping his face into your neck.
He still hasn’t pulled out. He hasn’t even fully softened inside of you.
He’s probably not going to for a while. Clark likes to keep himself buried in you for as long as possible, until you need to pee and he’s carrying you to the bathroom.
He also has a dirty fucking mouth, that drives you out of your mind, and he refuses to use it.
“You’re tired.” He mutters. “Felt mean when you’re tired.”
You laugh softly. “You know I like it, Clark-“
“Yeah, but I love you. And you should get the best.”
“I have the best.” You smile at him, and his lips twitch.
“Yeah. I have the best too.”
Clark says your name, voice almost as rough as it had been in your head.
But without any lust or need.
Just worry.
And the same, tangible fucking affection, as his fingers squeeze your wrist.
“I- I have to go.” You whisper, pulling your hand out of his grasp.
He lets you.
Clark could so easily hold on, but he lets you go.
But when you stumble away, and turn to run, you can feel it again.
Someone watching.
And when you glance over your shoulder, this time, Clark doesn’t look away.
He just watches you with something so fucking heavy in his eyes, mouth hanging open as his hand still reaches out.
Like he wants to catch you, but can’t.
Like he knows you’re already gone.
You can’t sleep.
If you get into bed, you look to the side and see Clark there. Lying next to you and grinning. Holding your hand on his chest, then kissing your knuckles before rolling on top of you with a laugh.
Something you’ve never had before.
That it feels like you never really had at all.
And you don’t understand.
You crawl out onto the fire escape of your apartment—curling into a little ball on the stairs and just trying to breathe in the fresh air—and you can’t fit all of it in your head. Where this all came from, why it feels so right, and why you would have ever forgotten it.
If this is something that was real, and you’re not just going insane, then you would never have let it go. You would have climbed mountains and screamed at the clouds, if it got taken away from you. If Clark got taken away from you.
But he was, and you’re just sitting on cold metal stairs.
At least, it feels like he was taken away from you. Something was taken away from you. Something that you needed and wanted has been turned into his gaping hole, and the only thing that seems to fit is Clark.
He hasn’t said anything. Hasn’t treated you any different than you can remember—although you don’t really trust your own mind anymore—and just stares at you with that worry.
As if he knows something’s wrong, but can’t fix it.
Won’t fix it.
If Clark knows it’s broken, he won’t fix it for you. And if it’s not just all in your head, you’re not sure he loved you at all.
Then, you feel it.
Something watching you.
Your head shoots up, and the streets are dark. Quiet, for the city. Not too quiet that it’s heralding certain death, but quiet.
There’s a shadow, in the alley across the street. Oddly shaped, and sort of suspended in the air.
You swallow—if you’re wrong, nobody ever has to know—and whisper, “Clark?”
Superman darts out of the alley, landing across from you on the fire escape, and smiles. Soft. Confident and nervous all at once, with his shoulders relaxed but words gentle and gaze filled with that worry.
And it’s Clark. You can look at him and know that better than anything else. You know his face, because it’s imprinted like a burn on your brain. It’s not strange to see him in the suit, because you’ve seen it a million times before.
You think you’ve seen it a million times before.
But you know you’ve seen the worry. The furrow of his brow and pressing of his lips that’s all Clark, and all for you.
Like he cares.
“I’ve told you not to call me that when I’m in the suit, sweetheart.”
You pull your knees into your chest, blinking up at him. “I- I’m-“
He mutters your name, taking a step forward, and you curl into a smaller ball.
“Why are you here?”
Clark sighs, throat bobbing. “I shouldn’t be.“
“Cl- Superman.” You correct yourself quickly, and it feels strange on your tongue. “That’s not an answer-“
“I was supposed to keep away.” He says suddenly, wincing slightly. “I really shouldn’t be here, I should’ve been avoiding you all together, but-“ He mutters your name, looking up with clear, sad eyes. “I have to know you’re okay, sweetheart. I need you to tell me you’re okay.”
You swallow, forcing your gaze to hold on his. “Why?”
“Why?”
“Why do you need to know?” You whisper. “Why does it matter to you?”
His jaw presses together, and his attention darts out to the street. Mostly empty.
Something tugs on your head, and you can hear him muttering in your ears. Nothing’s ever empty enough. Safer than safe. Don’t want a mostly safe fence post, whole thing will go kaboom down.
Your lips twitch, because you remember laughing at kaboom.
Everything hurts, because you don’t really remember it at all.
“Can we go inside, please?” He points to your window, and you nod weakly.
He reaches out to help you to your feet, but pulls away at the last second, and it makes your heart burn. He opens the window, and holds it up for you to go first.
You want to reach for him, when he clambers in behind you. You can’t get yourself to move.
The moment he’s inside, it hits you like a wave.
Clark’s sitting with you at the table and holding your hand, because he refuses to let go. He’s spinning you around in the kitchen, and carrying a million plates while you giggle, worried he’s going to drop them. He’s hanging that painting on your wall and making your bed while you hug him from behind and kissing you on the couch because you couldn’t wait for the bedroom, but he won’t just take you on the floor. He’s painting your nails, because he spent hours practicing just for you. Kissing your cheek before he leaves in the morning, and looking back with a sweet, secret grin before he leaves out the window.
And it all feels so fucking real. It all fits so neatly into that space in your chest. It makes your heart beat the way it should, and the world seems to stop spinning at an off-kilter angle.
You never would have forgotten that.
But you did.
And you don’t understand.
Clark looks like he’s going to reach for you, clenching and unclenching his fists at his side. He should be out of place, in the bright, costumey superman outfit.
But he doesn’t.
This seems like somewhere he’s supposed to be. The walls feel closer, and it could be the shallowness of your breath, but it also might just be how they’re trying to reach for Clark. As if even they feel emptier without him.
They shouldn’t know him at all. But they do.
You do.
And it makes the emptiness hurt even more.
Clark says your name, watching you like you’re going to turn to dust before his eyes. “Please, tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m not.” You say it before you can think.
You can tell him.
You tell Clark everything.
He mutters your name, and you shake your head.
“I- I’m not okay, Clark, I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know what’s real, I don’t trust myself, I don’t trust anything, and I- I scared, Clark, please, I’m so, so scared-“
A sob chokes in your throat, and he moves in a flash. Pulls you into his chest, holding you tight and wrapping over you. Like he’s trying to shield you from every bit of harm.
You hug him back. Your arms fly up because it feels like the only thing to do, and your face presses into his chest because there’s no other place for you to be. You fit so well there.
You never would have let go.
“I don’t know what’s real.” You whisper into his body, and he stiffens slightly. “Clark, I can’t tell anymore, please, I- I don’t know what happened, I don’t know,” you shake your head, words weak and broken through the tears. “Please.”
You’re not sure what you’re begging for. All you know is that Clark is running his fingers through your hair, and holding you the same way he looked at you.
As if he’s afraid you’re going to vanish from his hands.
“I’m so sorry,” he mutters your name, heavy strain in his voice. “I can’t tell you. It’s not safe.”
You sniff, clinging to him a little tighter. “But I- I think I loved you.”
There’s a long silence, and Clark’s voice is hoarse when he breaks it.
“You did.” He murmurs, and when you lean back, his eyes are shining with tears. “You really did, darling, but- You said it wouldn’t get you hurt.”
Something haunted flashes over his face, and in the very back of your head—pushed under something deeper than the emptiness, under something iron you don’t want to open and set free—you can hear it.
Your own screams.
“It got me hurt?” You blink up at him, and he gives a small, tight nod. “How-“
“Luther.” He mutters, and your blood goes cold. “He worked out I might not just be up in the arctic, all the time. He thought you knew my identity, about my family, my parents. He took you, and-“ Clark’s hands tense on your body, and a tear slides down his cheek.
“Clark-“
“You never broke.” He whispers. “You were so, so strong, but- I can’t let you get hurt again. I- I’m not worth that. Ma and Pa, they wouldn’t want it, nobody should have to go through that just because of me, and I- I found you.” He shakes his head. “I’m never living in a world where I don’t find you.”
“You’d rather not have me at all?”
Clark sighs your name, and you shake your head.
“No, I- I don’t want to forget, you can’t just-“
“It wasn’t me.” He says glumly, reaching up to trace a hand over your face. “You were so worried about me. You said you’d already talked to Terrific about it, and he knew a guy who could wipe it. Everything about us. Everything about me being Superman. Oh, geez.” He laughs weakly. “He’s not going to be happy it didn’t work.”
You drop your chin on his chest, keeping your words soft. “It didn’t. At all.”
“When-“
“The first day I got back from vacation. I remember us talking about redwood trees. You’ve always wanted to go.”
He looks like you’re shooting him. “Yeah. I have.”
“That wasn’t a vacation, was it.”
“No.” Clark bows his head, brow pressing to yours. “It wasn’t.”
There’s a moment of silence as you just breathe each other in, then Clark’s fingers curl on your hips.
“Do you want me to fix it?” He mutters. “Wipe you again?”
Your heart moves into your throat. “No. No. Clark, I- I just want you.”
He frowns, and takes a sudden, large step away. “But what if you get hurt again? It’s not- It won’t be safe-“
“I feel safe now.”
You do.
For the first time since the vacation, you feel safe.
And you’re not going to let go.
“What about when you aren’t safe?” Clark shakes his head, still backing away. “What about when I can’t find you?”
“You will, I trust you-“
“I almost didn’t-“
“But you did-“
“What if I don’t?” His voice is rising, and he’s taking another step away. “Broken hearts heal, I- I’m not God, darling, I can’t put you back together-“
“I already feel broken.” You whisper, and he freezes. “Please, Clark. Please. I- I can feel it here.” You point to the center of your chest. “So much of my life is you, you’re everywhere, I- I’m never going to be able to forget, please don’t make me-“
“I- I’d never make you-“
“So let me stay.” You plead, taking a small step forward. “I still love you, I- I’ll wait forever for you to love me again-“
“I never stopped.” He whispers. “I still love you, of course I still love you, I’ll never stop, you’re- You’re everything to me, but- If you get hurt-“
“I’ll be okay.”
“But-“
“I’m okay now.” You give him a sad smile. “With you. I- I need to remember, Clark. Please.” You take a ragged breath. “Tell me it’s real.”
Clark’s eyes flash, and he shifts on his feet for a second.
Then he’s moving.
Lunging forward, and pulling you into his arms.
Kissing you. Long and deep, like he’s never needed to breathe, and you’ve never needed to breathe either because this is better. This is warm and safe and cared for, and it’s all around you in a way you know so well. Your arm slots around his neck and you trace his face as you get lightheaded, because you could draw him in your sleep.
And the kiss sends so much of it flooding back. Clark’s warm, and he smells like amber and wood. Tastes like sweet pastries and coffee.
Feels like yours.
“It’s real.” He mutters against your lips, and his voice in your head is as clear as the rest of him.
“Clark…” You mumble, and he nods, smiling against your lips.
“You and me.” Clark whispers.
He’s not letting go either.
“It’s always been real.”
✦End note: Oh to love someone so much it physically cannot be erased. I'm very normal about memory fics, guys✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Babylon Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Part 7✦
✦pairing: Dean Winchester x female!reader✦
✦summary: you meet dean's parents✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action, implied smut, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: i love a chapter that's just drama and smut and fluff✦
Dean had a whole plan.
He’d show up to the restaurant first. Alone, acting like everything was normal and ignoring Jess’ sharp glares. He’d hug Mom and Sammy, shake Dad’s hand, and act very normal and surprised when She showed up. He’d smirk and say it was nice to see Her again. Sammy would make some passing about Dean having a girlfriend now, and Dean would get to brag about how hot and cool she was, right to Her pretty, flushing face.
Sam would roll his eyes, and say—louder this time—that She had a boyfriend. Dean would tease Her about that too, grinning whenever she gave him that cute I’m going to strangle you, Winchester look. Dean would occupy the whole, long dinner with getting Her as antsy and bratty as he could. It would help him ignore Dad. Meant that, the moment the night was over, he’d be getting dragged back to the apartment to deal with Her.
He was worried he might’ve unleashed something on the world, by fucking Her. Maybe he’d gone too deep and hit some kind of magic girl button that turned them into sex monsters. He hadn’t been able to get out of bed until ten, yesterday, and that had only been because She had a class to go to.
“One more.” She’d whispered, sitting right on his chest. “Pleease-“
“Princess.” Dean had cut Her off with his best, sternest, I’m the boss look.
It didn’t have a very high success rate. He was getting worried it just made her more horny.
“You got class.” He’d squeezed Her hips, and she’d pouted at him like he was denying her water in the desert. “We’ve been goin’ all morning. You gotta eat, before I even think about round eight.”
She’d scoffed. “It would not be round eight-“
“Yeah. Would be.”
“You’re being dramatic-“
“Sweetheart.” Dean had given Her an amused look. “How many times have I made you cum?”
She’d flushed. She was a feral little succubus, but all Dean had to do was say cum or fuck or pussy and she’d turn back into an anxious, flustered puddle. Dean couldn’t tell if it was the hottest or cutest thing he’d ever seen.
“Give Little Dean thirty,” he’d murmured, pulling Her down for a slow, lazy kiss. “You’re gonna break him.”
Her nose had wrinkled, bumping against Dean’s. “They can’t break.”
“They can get squeezed out. Like an orange, baby. You’re milkin’ all my pulp-“
She’d whacked his chest, and Dean had laughed, rolling them over. He’d kissed Her into the mattress, and she’d gotten squirmy again. Looking up at Dean with fluttering lashes and parted lips, and goddamn him, better men had fallen to worse temptations.
At least this wasn’t a sin. She wasn’t a sin. Nothing that made Her look at Dean like that—like he was the sunrise and the sunset and the golden halos coming off streetlamps—could possibly be considered wrong. Dean was making his girl feel good. He rolled his cock through Her soft, tight heat, and She moaned, tossing her head back to expose her pretty, marked up neck.
Those were Dean’s bruises. His marks. She arched into his touch and clenched down on his dick and called his name as she came. She made the prettiest, high and breathy sounds, and only Dean pulled them out of her.
She smiled at him when they were done, and Dean could swear he had an angel below him. No one else could make such dirty things feel so pure.
“Last one.” He’d scolded Her after, and she giggled.
“Okay.”
Dean had raised his brows and chuckled. If he was putting money on it, they wouldn’t make it to the car before She was nosing around him again. Like an animal in heat.
He said as much to Her. She rolled Her eyes, and found a way to blame him.
“You’re too- You.” She’d sulked in the car.
“I’m too me? The hell does that mean?”
“You know what it means.”
“Baby, I swear I don’t got a clue.”
She’d made a sour face, and leaned against the window. Dean had sighed and reached over, slinging his arm around Her shoulders and tucking her back into his side.
“C’mon.” He’d kissed Her brow. “You know I’m not as smart as you, Princess. You gotta speak dummy for me-“
“You’re not dumb.” She’d slumped into his side, looking up at him with those impossible, bright eyes. “You’re just- You- You’re-“
“I’m?”
“Shut up-“
“Tell me what you mean-“
“I’m trying, but you keep- You keep being,” She’d whined, and Dean had blinked.
“I’m being?”
“Yeah.” She’d hidden Her face in his side. “It’s not fair.”
Dean had almost laughed. He still didn’t know what the hell that meant, but it had almost gotten them into round ten before he could park. She’d started giving him those eyes, and Dean had swallowed like a soldier being sent to the battlefield. At this rate, he was going to out of shooters by the end of the month.
He wasn’t sure if that was how it worked. He’d need to check, before he found out the bad way.
“When you get home, Princess.” He’d kissed Her furrowed brow, then her nose, then her angry little pout. “You can have whatever you want.”
She’d sighed dramatically, and Dean had smirked.
“It’s six hours, baby-“
“Too long.” She’d glared at him. Like it was his fault.
“Sorry.” He’d shrugged, a wide, dumb smile on his face. “I love you.”
“Hm.”
“C’mon.” Dean had kissed Her cheek. “Say it.”
She’d huffed, crawling closer to his side. Dean had smirked, and poked her sides. She’d jumped back with a shriek, but he’d caught her hand.
“Dean-“
“I love you.” He’d said again, squeezing her three times.
She’d sighed, giving him a pleading, hopeless, doe-like look. Dean had raised his brows.
“Baby, there’s no way you’re getting any cock until you behave-“
“I love you.” She’d grumbled, and Dean had smirked.
Maybe he was a little bit of a smug bastard about it. With the sight of Her, almost glowing in the sunlight, he didn’t think he could be blamed.
“Do you love me?’” She’d whispered.
Dean had snorted. “Jesus, woman.”
“I’m just- I’m asking-“
“I said it twice-“
“You didn’t say it back-“
“You didn’t say it back-“
“You won’t have sex with me!”
“In a public parking lot?” He’d given Her an incredulous look, and she’d scowled.
“No one’s around.”
Dean had laughed, and leaned over the seat. He’d kissed all over Her face, until she was nice and relaxed under him.
“Needy girl.” He’d teased, and God, she was hot when she glared at him. “I’m not gettin’ your pretty ass tossed in jail.”
“I’d live-“
“You’d hate it. They don’t let inmates have stuffed animals, and,” he’d kissed her lips, soft and swollen and all Dean’s. “You’re too sweet.”
“I am not sweet-“
“Yeah. You’re like pie, baby-“
“You think everything’s like pie-“
“I think all my favorite things are like pie.” Dean had corrected, brushing some hair from Her face.
He might’ve been a horrible man to leave Her like this. Panting and dazed, almost trembling under his hands. But if She missed her class, she’d get in a worse mood about that than Dean refusing to eat her out in the car.
“Am I your favorite?” She’d whispered, and Dean had smile.
“Course you are.” He’d kissed Her, and felt a million feet tall when she giggled. “My sweet, bossy girl.”
Somehow, he’d gotten Her out of the car after that. He’d waited until She vanished into the building—and maybe he’d been staring at Her ass, but no one could ever prove it—before pulling away. She still wasn’t confident, in what She wanted. But they were getting there. And Dean was having a hell of a time holding Her hand through it. He’d never understood boyfriends who just trailed after their girls like damn dogs. He still didn’t.
How the hell could they be acting like that, for anyone but Her?
She’d made him lunch. A pretty good sandwich, that Dean wolfed down between calls with his boss. He’d been doing some remote accounting work, just to prove he hadn’t ditched the job. He killed the afternoon driving around to some car shows and garages, looking for someone who might be willing to sell him something dirt-cheap. His pitch to his boss, to expand the business and justify him being out in California all the time. Her idea, and list of places, and specifically mapped routes for him to optimize his milage.
He followed Her guide to the T. She’d put effort into it, just for him. More effort than She put into some of her classes. More effort than She put into those papers she banged out in an hour, while Dean sat at Her feet and tried not to distract Her by staring.
She never got any less gorgeous. It didn’t matter if Her hair was a mess or her face was swollen with sleep. She was a goddess. The least Dean could do was worship.
Something he wouldn’t be allowed to do, around Sammy and Mom and Dad.
Dinner was going to suck.
Dean told Her the plan. She sighed, and dropped Her face into his shoulder.
“I can just not come,” She mumbled. “If it’s too much for you.”
“Nope. You’re coming, sweetheart.” He winked, kissing the back of Her hand. “At least twice, after we’re done.”
She shoved him, but smile. Dean felt a little lighter, than he had all day.
He knew they were going to love Her. Sammy already did, Mom had been obsessed with her for years—ever since Sam first came home talking about her, Mom had been ahead of Dean on understanding She was the best thing in the world—and Dad was going to go along with anything Mom told him to.
That’s what Dean was hanging onto. The thin, wired rope that was digging into his heart as it held it up. It was going to leave a red, angry mark, but at least everything wouldn’t drop into his stomach. Mom was going to love Her, so Dad would have to love Her. Dean didn’t matter, in this equation. He was just the asshole brother. Dad would give him shit, he’d take it, and none of it would even graze Her cheek.
But if Dad did try something, Dean would kill him.
She was too soft to deal with his tests. She had claws and teeth, She could take and deal swipes with a sneer, she could hold her ground with roots that Dad wouldn’t be able to tear up, but She was still so…
Her.
Kicking a kitten would get you bit, but you were still kicking a damn kitten. She shouldn’t have to be the strong, colder version of Her that Sam said existed in debate classes. The version that tipped Her chin off and looked like some untouchable, wrathful goddess. Dean thought that version Her was sexy. She didn’t need him to deal blows, when one sneer or glower would send a grown man to his knees.
But that just made Dean feel more important. When he’d get Her in his arms, and She’d turn into a bratty, giggling mess of nerves and smiles. He’d rip apart the Earth, to make sure She always felt safe enough to shed that exoskeleton at his side. Dean knew what Dad could say. What he could do. And it was one story for him to do it to Dean. Dean could deserve it sometimes.
She never deserved anything but love. Dean was on this planet to give it to Her. And as long as he was alive, it was all she was going to get.
“Is this good?” She poked Her head out of the bedroom, and Dean coughed, dropping his phone onto the carpet.
“Shit- Uh-“ Is this good. He almost laughed. “Jesus, Princess-“
“Is it too tight?” She frowned at the flared out skirt. “It’s too tight, isn’t it-“
“No- No.” Dean stretched out an arm. “’S not too tight. You look good.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Just good?”
Dean snorted, beckoning his hand. “Just c’mere, smartass.”
She sighed, but shuffled between his legs. She was already flushing. Good.
“Son of a bitch.” Dean traced the curve of Her hips, her ass, her thighs. She shivered when his fingers brushed sensitive skin, and Dean chuckled.
“Deeaan…” She breathed out, and he hummed, dipping his fingers under Her dress.
“You’re tryin’ to kill me,” he muttered, and She shook her head.
“Just- I want to make a good impression-“
“Why?” Dean teased, resting his chin on Her stomach. “You plannin’ on sticking around?”
She gave him a flat look, but there was nothing really angry in Her eyes. There never was. Not at Dean.
“What did I say,” he said, softer this time.
She sighed. “I know, but-“
“Ah.” Dean squeezed Her ass. “What did I say.”
Her nose wrinkled. Dean smiled. He had all the time in the world.
“Come on, baby girl,” he cooed, rubbing the back of Her thighs “You remember. What did I tell you.”
“That- They’re going to like me.”
“Hm. Think I said somethin’ else.”
“Dean-“
He said Her name back, a little mocking in that way that always made Her putty. She sighed, looking at him like this was causing Her pain. Dean knew She didn’t like open praise. If they had more time, he’d fuck Her into taking it properly, because that seemed to be a failsafe way to get the fact that he loved Her—more than anything, more than the earth loved to chase the sun, more than the moon loved to chase the earth, more than dogs loved to run after cars and cat loved to make him sneeze—through Her loud, brilliant head.
“They’ll love me.” She finally said, and Dean grinned.
“Hell yeah, they will.” He tugged Her down for a slow, long kiss, speaking against her lips. “You’ve got this, Princess.”
She hummed, and stopped ripping out her hair trying to look perfect. Dean thought She already looked perfect. Apparently, he didn’t understand hair and makeup and shoes, and his opinion was no longer valid when she was getting dressed for anything.
“You say I look hot in everything.”
“You do look hot in everything-“
“No, I don’t-“
“You can’t see yourself, I can.” Dean grinned at Her, pulling her right against his chest. “You’d look hot in a trash bag.”
She rolled her eyes, lips pulled into an exasperated smile. Dean grabbed Her chin, forcing her gaze. It softens the moment their eyes met. Her eyes always seemed to shine. He was never going to stop being hypnotized by it.
“I love you,” he muttered. “Wait ten minutes, then follow me to the restaurant.”
She nodded, leaning up on Her toes. Her eyes dropped to his lips, and Dean chuckled. For someone who’d been dragging him back to bed this morning, She couldn’t even ask him for a damn kiss.
Dean gave it to Her. He’d give Her anything.
“I love you too.” She mumbled, and Dean smiled.
“I know.”
He had to rip himself away. The plan. They had to stick to the plan.
Stupid fucking plan, that fell apart the moment he pulled up in a rental, and Sam and Jess were already there.
“Where’s the Impala?” Sam frowned, and Dean grimaced.
Son of a bitch.
“Yeah, Dean?” Jess glared at him. “Weren’t you on a cross-country road trip?”
“I was.” He muttered, returning the scowl. “Baby’s feeling the heat from it. I got a rental so she could take a rest.”
Sam snorted. “You’re giving your car a rest?”
“Yep. You gotta cherish them, Sammy. Otherwise they slip outta your hands.”
“It’s a car-“
“I’m not talkin’ about the car.” Dean winked, Sam gave him a flat look, and Jess sighed.
“That’s gross, dude.”
“What? Loving a woman is gross?” He clicked his tongue, grinning at Jess. “You sure you wanna stay with him?”
Jess rolled her eyes, ignoring the question. Dean laughed, and dodged Sammy’s shove. The rental car was entirely forgotten, as they made their way into the restaurant. First crisis of the night, dealt with like he was playing Go Fish. Easy.
“Mom and Dad are running behind.” Sam told him as they sat down. “Said something about the hotel.”
“What, wrong room?”
“I dunno. Maybe one of those secret charges, you know Dad hates those.”
Dean chuckled. “Or they found something dirty and Mom’s trying to squeeze fifty bucks outta them.”
“She is good at that.” Sam sighed, giving Jess an apologetic look. “She’s going to ask you if you like thrifting, by the way. I think I forgot about that one.”
“No, you told me.” Jess smiled at him, and Sam ran a hand over his face.
“Yeah, but- There was something I forgot-“
“You tell her about the horses?”
“Yeah, and the sports shit-“
“What about shooting?”
“He told me everything.” Jess reached over the table, taking Sammy’s hand. “I’m fine, babe. Really. I’ve got this.”
Sam sighed, and Dean raised his brows.
“You can shoot?”
“God, no.” Her lip curled, and Sam sighed.
“Dad will be fine with it, though. You’re from California, he can’t expect-“
Jess cut Sam off with Her name, and Dean sat a little taller. Just hearing it was like hearing a whistle, telling him to stand at attention. He really was no better than a damn dog.
“She can’t shoot.” Dean said, and Sam gave him a strange look.
“How do you know.”
Shit. “Uh- I’m just- I’m guessing. You know, not the type.”
Jess snorted, leaning back in her chair. “Well, you’re right. She can’t.”
“So why’d you-“
“She can throw knives.” Jess shrugged. “Taught me how, a few years ago.”
Dean swallowed. Of course She could throw a knife. It was like She’d been designed by the freaking universe to be his dream woman.
“Where is she, anyway?” Jess drawled, her glare fixed on Dean.
He shrugged. “Why would I know? Sammy, you told her what time we were meeting?”
Sam nodding, looking down to his phone. Dean ignored Jess’ pointed glower. She wasn’t going to actually say anything. She’d promised Her, and that was the most sacred kind of oath you could make.
“I thought I did,” Sam muttered. “But- Maybe she got distracted again.”
“Again?” Dean smirked, and Sam sighed.
“She gets really into something and forgets to look at the time. I used to set alarms for her all the time, sometimes I’d just call her- I dunno. She’s been better about it lately, but… Shit happens.”
Dean hummed an agreement, grinning at his water glass. Jess was glaring hard enough he could feel it.
“Maybe she’s with her boyfriend,” she hissed, and Dean gave her an amused look.
“Boyfriend?”
“You know about her boyfriend, Dean.” Sam shot him a sharp look. “And you shouldn’t care anyway. You have a girlfriend.”
“I do.” Dean drummed his fingers on the table. “She’s fuckin’ awesome.”
“Yeah, I’m sure she is.” Sam kept tapping on his phone. Jess cleared her throat.
“Sam, maybe you should go call her. Make sure she’s still coming.”
“She’s coming, she’s just a little late-“
“Maybe that boyfriend’s distracting her.” Dean hummed, grinning at Jess.
Her glare was getting withering. If Dean didn’t know it came from a place of care—about Her and Sammy, definitely not him—he might’ve started cowering under the table.
“Samuel.” Jess’ words were short. Clipped and unwavering. “Go call her.”
Sam nodded, kissed Jess’ cheek, and wandered away from the table. Dean braced himself, shooting Jess a lazy grin. She couldn’t kill him. It would ruin the whole night.
“You were supposed to tell him-“
“Right now?” Dean snorted. “Are you freakin’ crazy?”
“He needs to know, Dean, it’s- I don’t like keeping secrets from him-“
“Yeah, which is exactly why she didn’t tell you-“
“No.” Jess raised a firm finger. “You don’t get to hide behind your girlfriend for this one.”
Dean scoffed. “I am not hiding behind my girlfriend-“
“Yes, you are-“
“I’m not.” He ran a hand over his face, letting out a slow breath. “Look. We’re gonna tell him, alright-“
“You said that three days ago-“
“Yeah, well, that was before I found out my freakin’ parents were coming to town.”
Jess scowled, but didn’t push back. Dean didn’t know what Sam had told her, about Mom and Dad. From the slightly guilty look on her face, it had to be enough.
“As soon as they’re gone.” Dean dropped his voice, leaning over the table. “We’ll tell him. Swear it. But if he finds out now, it’s gonna mess him up. Mom and Dad are gonna notice, and this,” he waved his hand around the table. “Is gonna turn into a shitshow. Alright?”
For a moment, Dean and Jess just glared at each other. Dean had to hand it Sammy. He didn’t pick a pushover.
“Fine.” Jess finally muttered. “But remember, if you don’t tell him the day after they leave-“
“You’re gonna tell him yourself.” Dean finished. “I’ve got this handled. Don’t worry about it.”
Jess huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Don’t worry about it. How the fuck do I not worry about it, Dean, you’re fucking his best friend-“
“Dating. I’m dating his best friend.”
“And fucking her.”
Dean’s lips twitched. “She’s insatiable, Jess, ain’t my fault I give my girl what I want.”
Jess gagged, grabbing the table like she needed balance. She was fucking sitting down. Dean was about to mock her for it, when he heard a familiar, warm voice call his name. Jess’ eyes widened, fixed over his head. Dean took a deep breath.
Showtime.
He stood up slowly, throwing his shoulders back and putting a casual, easy smile on his face. He was barely on his feet before Mom was in his face, grabbing his cheeks and turning his around like he was eight and had been playing in the mud for too long again. He grunted, and behind him, Jess snorted.
“Oh, baby, you’re so big.” Mom beamed at him, pushing his head back to inspect his neck. “You haven’t shaved in a few days, do you have a razor? Do you need a razor? You can have your father’s, he’s not using it-“
“He ain’t gettin’ my razor, Mary.” Dad muttered, and Dean tensed.
He’d thought he’d been ready for it. Dad’s edged, cool gaze. The one Dean used to think he’d, one day, be able to read. That he’d look at it and realize that the whole time, there had always been a single ember of pride, that flickered whenever he looked at Dean.
If there was, he’d never learned to find it. And it certainly wasn’t there now.
“Son.” Dad grunted, and Dean nodded tightly.
“Sir.”
Dad hummed, scanning around the restaurant. Always scanning around everything. Looking for the flaw in where Sammy had brought them. The thing to complain about.
Dean was going to say this place was his idea. He didn’t care that it was Sammy’s, or that it was good. The second Dad asked why there were so many windows, Dean was taking the fall.
Mom hugged him tight. He hugged her back, and that was easier. The lady was crazy, but she was also Mom. The only thing Dean had never been able to forgive her for was loving Dad. Letting Dad be Dad. He’d never figured out how to hold that anger without it burning his hands.
Maybe he’d ask Her. His girl always knew how to do everything. She’d tell him what to be, and maybe it would be someone Dad was proud of. If Dad was going say he’d done good about anything, it was Her. She was the fucking best.
Dean sighed. “Ma, I’m the same size I was last time you saw me-“
“Hm.” She shook her head. “Are you sure?”
“He’s twenty-four, honey,” Dad drawled. “He can’t grow. Maybe he’s put on some weight.”
Mom titled her head, and Dean sighed. He might’ve put on a pound or two, but it was a lot of muscle from carrying Her around like the princess she was. If anything, he’d been doing nothing but cardio all week. He should’ve lost weight.
He couldn’t tell Mom that.
“Something’s different.” Mom muttered, crossing her arms.
Dean gave her a small grin. “You’re the one who said I’m not shaving.”
“You’re not.” Mom only looked more suspicious. “Why?”
Because She liked his stubble. She said She liked how pokey it was, because she was fucking bonkers, but Dean loved her more than breathing, so he was letting it grow a little. “I dunno. Wanted a change of pace.”
Mom didn’t look like she was buying it, but Dean didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to be selling her. Aside from the beard, he really hadn’t changed anything. He was even wearing the same damn boots and jacket she’d seen him in last.
“Where’s Sam.” Dad asked, and Dean sighed.
“Out calling his friend-“
Mom jumped in with Her name. Dean stood taller again.
He needed to get a grip. She wasn’t even freaking here yet.
“Is she coming tonight? Do we finally get to meet her?”
“Yeah, uh- She’s just running a little behind.” Dean glanced back to Jess, who was watching them with a silent, unreadable expression.
He gave her a questioning look, and she grimaced, looking over to the bathroom hall Sam had vanished down. Ideally, Sammy would’ve been back in time to introduce his girlfriend. Dean had to do freaking everything.
“This is Jess, though,” he gestured behind him, and Mom’s gaze snapped to the table. “Sammy’s-“
“Girlfriend!” Mom almost shrieked, and Dean winced, looking apologetically at the tables next to them.
Dad sighed, and placed a hand on Mom’s back. “Mary. Don’t scare her.”
“I’m not scaring her, I’m just- It’s so lovely to meet you, dear.” Mom rushed around the table. Jess had gone a little pale.
“You- You too, ma’am-“
“Oh, Mary is fine. Stand up, let me look at you.”
Jess listened—smart chick—and Mom started to inspect her like a prize horse. Next to Dean, Dad sighed.
Dean tensed. He hadn’t realized Dad was there.
“Where the hell is your brother.” Dad grunted, and Dean shrugged.
“I dunno-“
“You should know, Dean. You’re the reason he’s alone in California.”
Dean swallowed, staring down at his shoes. “Dad…”
“Go find him.” Dad didn’t even look at him. “Before your mother sends his girl running.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dad wandered over to Mom’s side, extending his hand to Jess. That was a good sign. When Dad didn’t like people, he wouldn’t even touch them. Dean jerked his head to the hallway, when Jess caught his eyes. She nodded, and mouthed come back fast. He’d try, but She and Sammy had been on the phone for a while. Maybe they were thinking of ditching him and Jess to fend for themselves.
“Sammy?” Dean called to the men’s bathroom. “You in here?”
“Dean?” Sam called back from a stall, and Dean frowned.
“Are you callin’ her on the toilet?”
Sam groaned. “Dude, no-“
“What the hell else am I supposed to think-“
“That I finished a few minutes ago and had to take a shit, Dean! Because that’s what happened!”
Dean rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Whatever. Mom and Dad are here.”
Something clattered on the floor.
“Shit-“ A toilet flushed, and Sammy shoved the stall door open, still fumbling with his belt. “And you left Jess with them?”
“Dad told me to go find you, what, was I supposed to take her into the freakin’ bathroom-“
“You’re supposed to tell Dad no, Dean!”
Dean grunted, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Easy for you to say.”
“Yeah, it is, because no is really easy to say-“
“Where is she?” Dean cut Sam off with Her name. He wasn’t in any mood for one of Sam’s morality lectures.
Sam sighed, running his hands up the water. “On her way. And I’m serious, man, you need to tell Dad no sometimes-“
“I do tell him no-“
“You really don’t-“
“You wanna argue with me, or go save your girl from Mom’s twenty questions game?”
Sam scowled, but dried his hands on his jeans and stomped past Dean to the door. Dean rolled his eyes, and followed after. At least She’d be here soon. And Dean might not be able to kiss Her, but just looking at his girl was always relaxing enough.
Mom and Dad seemed mostly focused on Sammy and Jess. They were the stars of the night. The golden son, the happy couple, the future Winchester. Dean was just table decoration. He swallowed most of his jokes—Mom was the only one who’d laugh at them anyway—and stuffed his face with fries, watching Jess get strung through the ringer. He’d feel worse about it, if she hadn’t been up his ass all week about telling Sammy.
“What’re you studying, honey?” Mom asked, leaning so far over the table Dean was worried she’d fall into her soup. “Sam told us you met in a science class, are you pre-med as well?”
“In a way.” Jess smiled, sweet and calm. “I’m on track for Nursing school.”
“Hm,” Dad raised his brows. “Not a lotta money in that. You gonna rely on Sam for the bills?”
Jess shook her head. “Sam and I split everything evenly.”
“And I’m happy to support her, Dad.” Sam added quickly. “It’s what you did, with Mom.”
“Your mother could’ve lived without me.”
“Romantic, John.”
“It’s the truth.” Dad gave Mom one of those rare, small smiles. The ones he reserved purely for Mary Winchester. That people never believed he was capable of, until they saw it themselves. “You would’ve fared just fine if my sorry ass never found you.”
Mom laughed softly. “I might’ve fared better.”
“Yeah? You would’ve married rich? Been happier?”
“I never would’ve been happier.” Mom smiled at Dad, placing her hand over his, and Dean gagged at Sam.
Mom definitely could’ve been happier. Sometimes, Dean wondered if Dad had love potioned her or something. It was the only logical explanation.
Although people might also wonder the same thing, when they saw Her with Dean. Son of a bitch, Dean didn’t know how he’d landed Her most days. She looked like She belonged in room with crystal chandeliers, wearing all lace and silk, having everyone bow whenever she so much as walked past. Dean was some idiot from Kansas with a lucky jawline. He must’ve made a deal with a devil he forgot about.
It was a thought he didn’t like. That one day he’d be sitting at a table just like this, and his own son would be wondering how the hell Dean landed Her. Christ, he hoped that his kids would look at them and know that She loved Dean because he was—at least always trying to be—a good man.
He wanted to be a good man. A better man than Dad. He checked his phone again, not sure what he was looking for. Probably a text from Her. He missed Her. He felt like a kid abandoned at the freaking airport, and this was his family. He hated to think of how pathetic he was going to be when She left him alone at parties.
And like Dad could read Dean’s mind—always knowing the exact damn thing that he was worrying about, that was going to set him on edge—he said Her name.
“I’m startin’ to think she ain’t real, Sam,” he said, taking a long drink.
Sam sighed. “She’s real, Dad-“
“You sure? For a real girl, I sure can’t see her.”
“She’s running late-“
“Dean’s met her.” Jess cut in, and everyone looked at him.
Son of a bitch. Dean glared at Jess, and she smirked with the gleam in her eyes of someone who was playing a game they couldn’t lose.
“You did?” Mom frowned. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“I- Uh-“ Dean tried to chew faster. “Y’know- Uh-“
Dad sighed. “He’s not gonna tell you everything, Mary-“
“But he promised me he’d tell me if he ever met her.”
Dean choked on his fry. He’d forgotten about that. He’d just sort of seen Her, had the whole world narrow down, and realized the only name he was ever going to need to know was Her’s.
“You promised what, Dean?” Sammy snapped, and great. Now everyone was pissed at him.
“Well, we thought you’d end up with her.” Mom shrugged, before going red and grabbing Jess’ hand. “Of course, I’m thrilled he’s with you, honey, it’s just- We spent almost two years hearing about her-“
“No, it’s fine.” Jess gave her a small smile. “She’s my friend too. She’s the best, isn’t she, Dean.”
Dean grunted, glaring at his fries. Of course She was. But he was only supposed to have met Her once, so he couldn’t agree without Sammy making it a whole thing.
“I’m still doubtin’ she’s real,” Dad muttered, and Dean couldn’t help his disgruntled sound.
“She’s real, Dad. Trust me.”
Dad scoffed. “Really? Then where the hell is she? It ain’t polite to be so late.”
Dean’s phone buzzed. He snapped his mouth shut, and read her message under the table. Good timing. He’d been seconds from snapping at Dad that she was polite to a fault. She said thank you to Siri. Dean had to hold the door open, because if she did they’d spend hours just letting people go past them. It had taken Dean months to make her stop apologizing to people that bumped into her.
Even Her text was polite.
De.
Dean.
Dean, I’m lost.
Sam didn’t send me the address.
Dean can you please help me.
Dean’s lips twitched. Maybe the spamming wasn’t polite, but he liked it. Just like he liked how mouthy She got with him. She wasn’t afraid of spooking him off, because he’d proved he could take it. He texted Her the address, then added you want me to stand outside?
Her response was immediate.
No, thank you.
I’ll see you soon.
I love you.
Dean grinned, so wide it hurt his face. Love you too, Princess.
Little bubbles formed, and disappeared, and formed and disappeared. He could imagine Her, fidgeting in the car and flushing.
For good measure, he added Get here fast. I miss you.
The bubbles vanished. Dean smirked, and tucked his phone back in his jeans. If he hadn’t told her to move, they would’ve been waiting another half hour while she tried to flirt back. She was horrible at it. Dean loved Her so much.
“What’re you smiling at, Dean,” Dad said, brow knit in suspicion, and Dean shrugged.
“Charlie. Sent me a funny cat meme.”
“Oh!” Mom sat up. “How is she? She always seemed so nice-“
“You fuckin’ her?”
“John-“
“I know him, Mary,” Dad muttered, still eyeing Dean. “He doesn’t grin like that unless he’s got some girl on the side.”
Dean sighed. At least they were doing this now. Before She showed up. “Charlie’s gay, Dad. And I don’t have anyone on the side.”
“Yeah, he says he’s an honest man now.” Sam smirked at him, and Dean’s jaw tightened.
“Sammy,” he pushed the words through his teeth. “Shut the hell up.”
“Why, you don’t want Mom and Dad to know about your secret girlfriend?” Sam raised his brows, and Dean was going to kick his Bigfoot ass.
“Sam-“
“Secret girlfriend?” Mom looked like a fucking hawk. Dean was doomed. “You have a secret girlfriend?”
“Not a fuckin’ secret now,” Dean grunted, and Sam shrugged.
“That’s probably who he was texting.”
“Yeah,” Jess muttered. “I bet it was.”
Dean shot her a warning look—this was bad enough as it was—and she gave him a fuck off look.
“Dean, honey, why didn’t you tell me you had a girlfriend-“
“’Cause she’s a secret.” Dad was glowering so hard, Dean thought it might burn through him. “What’s wrong with her?”
Dean’s hands fisted. “Nothing’s wrong with her.” She’s perfect. “We’re just- We haven’t been together that long, we’re still working it out-“
“They’re long distance.” Sam said loudly. “And they’ve been together a while. He shares his location with her.”
“She worries about me.” I worry about her. “It’s not a big fuckin’ deal-“
“Yeah, it is, you just don’t want Mom and Dad to know-“
“I didn’t want you to know, bitch-“
“Hey.” Mom pointed at Dean, and he slumped back. “No name calling at dinner, Dean Winchester.”
“Sorry, Ma.”
“Hm,” she gave him a strange look. “You can apologize by telling me about your girlfriend.”
Dean sighed, running a hand over his face. “Ain’t tonight supposed to be about Sammy and Jess-“
“It can be about two things.”
“Ma-“
Sam shouted Her name, and for a second, Dean thought he was going to throw up. He’d figured it out, how the hell did he figure it out-
“Hi, Sam.”
Oh.
Her musical, elegant voice floated from behind him, and Dean’s whole body relaxed. She was just here. Finally. Thank God.
Dean twisted around, and he got lucky. Mom and Dad were too busy staring at Her to notice his grip going white on the back of the seat, his face going slack, his eyes damn near bulging out of his head like a cartoon. If he was in Bugs Bunny, he was sure his heart would be pounding out of his chest. She was perfect. So fucking perfect. She was wearing the dress they’d talked about, and Dean wanted to rip it off Her with his teeth. Even in the fancy place Sammy had found for them, She stood out like the Mona Lisa in a garbage dump.
Mom shot out of her chair, and Dean understood what people meant when they said he had her smile. That was exactly how he smiled, when he saw his girl. Like he was a peasant, and the Queen had just offered him a glimpse of Her glory.
She looked like a scared deer, as Mom charged at Her. Dean gripped his chair tighter, fighting the instinct to rush to her side. Her eyes darted to his, and She smiled. Dean grinned back, shooting her a wink. She flushed, and he bit down his laugh.
Mom grabbed Her face, and she went ridged. Shit.
Dean shot to his feet, half a second before Sam did.
“Ma, don’t scare her-“
“Mom, just-“
Sam and Dean both cut themselves off. Dean tensed, as Sam gave him a strange look. Dad cleared his throat, still sitting down.
“Mary.”
“Hm?”
“What’d we say.”
Mom sighed, and took a step back, still smiling at Her. She smoothed Her dress, still smiling so nervously. That little wrinkle in Her brow was back. Dean wanted to soothe it, kiss Her, and remind her that everything was fine. They were really going to love Her. It was all going to be fine.
“Look at you.” Mom breathed, and Dean drummed his fingers on the chair. “Sam never mentioned how gorgeous you were.”
She smiled shyly, and Sam sighed.
“Yeah. ‘Cause that would’ve been weird.”
“It’s not weird to notice beauty, Samuel,” Jess teased, patting his arm. “I would’ve told them, if they asked.”
“That’s ‘cause she’s prettier than Sammy.” Dean said, before he could stop himself.
Sam shot him another look, and Jess just snorted. Dean was lucky again. Mom and Dad were too entranced by Her to notice their conversation.
“Oh, sit, sit.” Mom pulled out the chair next to Dean—and maybe he’d been sure it was empty, but no one had to worry about that—and guided Her to the table. “This is John, Sam’s father, and- Dean tells me you’ve met already-“
“Once or twice.” Dean smirked up at Her. “Hey, Princess.”
“Hi- De. Dean.” She corrected Herself with another pretty flush. Dean was worried She might give herself a fever. “Hi, Dean.”
“Hey.” He echoed. “Nice dress.”
She looked like She was going to stab him. It was pretty hot.
“Somethin’ hold you up, kid?” Dad asked Her, and Dean’s shoulders squared. He was already leaning forward, trying to block Her from Dad’s view.
This was going to be a long night.
“Sam forgot to send me the address.” She smiled apologetically. “But Jess sent it after. I’m really sorry I’m late, I should’ve asked her sooner-“
“Oh, it’s fine.” Mom was still smiling at Her like she was made of gold. Dean was worried he might be about to have his girlfriend poached. “So, you’re an artist? Sam’s said you’re an artist.”
“I’m trying to be.” She smiled, unfolding her napkin in her lap. Dad’s eyes narrowed.
“Ain’t a lot of money in that, either-“
“Which is why I’m a double major.” She said smoothly. “Art and Zoology. There are some academic jobs in Zoology that actually pay really well. Over 100K.”
Mom looked more in love with her every second. “Oh, Zoology? What made you want to do that?”
“I like animals.”
Dean snorted. That was an understatement. Dad gave him a look.
“You got something to say, son?”
“Nope. Nothing.” Dean grinned at Her. “You like animals?”
She raised Her chin, holding his teasing gaze. “Yeah. I do.”
“What’s your favorite animal, sweetheart.”
Her scowl was more dangerous than anyone else’s. Dean had never been less worried about it. He could almost hear Her in his head, hissing you know perfectly well what my favorite animals are, Winchester.
“Sweetheart?” Mom echoed, and now Dean was worried.
Shit. He shouldn’t have sat next to Her. The sheer urge to make Her giggle and roll her eyes at him was too powerful. He couldn’t be trusted with it.
“Dean calls everyone sweetheart,” Jess said easily, and if Sam didn’t marry her, Dean was going to curb stomp him. “Last time we went to a diner, the waitress convinced herself they were getting married.”
Mom seemed satisfied with that answer, murmuring something about how he’d always been a charmer. He hadn’t. He’d just always been a cocky ass, which was probably why Dad and Sam weren’t buying it.
“I don’t go around calling other women sweetheart, Dean.” Dad gave him a stern look. “Not since I met your mother.”
“Yeah, I know-“
“You got a woman waiting at home. You should respect her.”
“Dad’s right.” Sam said, before Dean could even freakin’ defend himself. “I don’t flirt with other girls, dude.”
Dean wondered, if he ran fast enough into traffic, someone would hit him with their car and put him out of this misery.
He couldn’t. That would be leaving Her, trying to act cool and bored, but picking Her fingers bloody under the table. Making sure Dad couldn’t see, Dean reached over and grabbed Her hand. She blinked at him in his periphery, but he didn’t let himself turn his head. Too dangerous. He’d get blinded and start drooling like a dumbass.
“You don’t flirt ‘cause you don’t know how.” Dean shot at Sam, who scowled.
“Well, at least I’m loyal-“
“I’m loyal-“
“Really? Because it looks like you-“
“I said one fuckin’ word, it’s not like I’m trying to-“
She squeezed Dean’s hand three times. Tight. Grounding. He took a deep breath, cutting himself off, and swallowed.
“I love my girl.” Dean muttered, glaring at Sam, rubbing the back of Her hand under the table. “So shut up.”
A heavy silence settled over the table, and Dean kicked his own gut up to his throat. He always did this. He said the wrong shit, and everyone got annoyed. She was probably annoyed. If Dean had just kept his mouth shut, nothing would’ve happened, and he wouldn’t be sleeping on the couch tonight-
“You have a girlfriend?” She asked softly, and Dean looked at Her.
Another instinct he couldn’t avoid. Another stupid choice. It knocked him straight in the gut, every single time he saw Her. It was like She got more beautiful, absorbing the candlelight and flower arrangements, casting it all around like on of those crystal things. Dean couldn’t remember what they were called. She’d told him before. He’d ask Her again later.
“Yeah. I do.”
She hummed, and Dad cleared his throat.
“Your girl got a name, Dean?”
Dean sighed. Son of a bitch. “Yeah. She does.”
“You gonna share?”
“No.”
Dad gave him a sharp look, and Dean held it. He could whatever the hell he wanted, just to Dean. She’d given him a talk about lying well, after the phone call incident. Less was more. Dad wasn’t getting Her name. Not even a fake one.
“She lives in LA.” Sam said, unhelpfully, and Mom gasped.
“Really? Oh, honey, we should go visit her after this-“
“Ma, no.”
“Why not? If you love her, you must want her to be a part of your life, our lives-“
“She is a part of my life.” Dean squeezed Her hand three times. “You still can’t meet her.”
Mom made a displeased noise, looking back to Sam. “What else do you know about her, Samuel?”
Sam sighed, real dramatically for someone who was avoiding the Mom and Dad treatment at his own damn dinner. “That’s it. He’s been a jerk about it.”
Dean flipped him off, and Sam stuck out his tongue.
And this wasn’t as bad as Dean had worried about. For a bit, Mom’s focused honed in on Sam, it was all questions about that. What they were doing after graduation, what Jess’ family was like, what kind of childhood she’d had. Mom and Dad asked all the questions they’d expected. Horses, sports, shooting. Jess answered them smoothly. Dean wished she’d stop pushing them about the whole telling Sam thing. He missed just being able to like her.
“I taught Dean to shoot when he was eight.” Dad muttered proudly, and Dean exchanged a look with Sam.
Dad didn’t care that Dean had been a natural shot. Not in the sense that Dean had done something. All that pride, the ruffle of Dean’s hair when it had happened and the misty look in Dad’s eyes when he told the story, it never amounted to much when it mattered.
“Taught Sammy when he was twelve.” Dad frowned. “He was always softer.”
Dean sighed, and Sam glared at his plate. Sam was far from soft. He’d been practicing with the gun behind Dad’s back for years. Dean had helped him, whenever Dad had a poker night. The kid hadn’t been a natural, but he could do shit that Dean never bothered to learn. Sam was the one who’d asked to go on the hunting trips. Dean had gone because he was supposed to. Neither of them had managed to kill anything. The animals always felt like they were looking right at him, and he couldn’t stomach it.
That had paid off, when She’d found out Dean had gone hunting. He’d told Her that he hated it, and she’d ran her fingers through his hair with a soft smile. She’d looked at Dean like he was some hero. Christ, he was pretty sure she’d help him bury a body if he needed Her to, but killing an animal? She’d never look at him again.
“My parents never even let me see a gun.” Jess shrugged. “But,” she said Her name, and She froze. “She taught me how to throw knives.”
Mom gave Her a curious look. “Knives? That’s an interesting skill.”
“Maybe she was in the circus.” Dad said, disinterested, and Mom waved him off.
“Don’t listen to him. Unless- Were you in the circus?”
Sam sighed. “Mom-“
“What? Those people, the acrobats? They’re beautiful!”
“You’re calling her a carny, Ma.” Dean said, low and careful. “Just say she’s pretty.”
“Well, she is pretty, but I’m not calling her that-“
“It’s okay.” She smiled, spinning Her fork between her fingers. “My dad was actually a hunter himself. Or- His family was. He works on cars now.”
That got Dad’s attention. “Cars, huh?”
“Yep.” She took a large bite of Her dinner, and Dad grunted.
“He work in a shop?”
“He runs a yard.”
“And he taught you how to throw knives?”
“I taught me how to throw knives.” She shrugged. “Because I hated guns.”
Dad narrowed his eyes, and She smiled, bored and amused. This was the version of her Dean rarely saw. The one that made everyone respect Her so much, that Sam said had made her almost unapproachable by everyone else.
Dean had always understood that. Hell, he’d almost been scared to approach Her that first day. She was so beautiful it terrified him. With that icy glare and regal expression, She seemed untouchable.
Sam cleared his throat, trying to ease the tension at the table. “Have you told your Dad about your boyfriend, yet?”
She gave Sam a truly poisonous glare, and he winced. She was a whole lot scarier than Dean. He was surprised Sammy didn’t try to make a break for it.
“Boyfriend?” Mom latched onto it. Dean didn’t know what the hell Sam had expected. “Sam didn’t tell us you have a boyfriend.”
She laughed softly. Not the tiny, sweet giggle Dean usually heard. The siren-like, thinly coated wrath that meant someone—Sam—was in trouble later.
“That’s because he’s not supposed to know either.”
“Oh, fantastic.” Dad snorted. “Another secret partner.”
She shot Dad a look, and Dean cleared his throat.
“Ain’t our faults Sammy sticks his nose in everything.”
“I don’t-“
“Babe.” Jess gave him a dry smile. “You do.”
Sam scowled, glaring at his pasta. “They deserve it.”
“I know. But you do.” She kissed his cheek. “I think it’s endearing.”
“Yeah, because you’re nosy too.” She said to Jess, who shrugged.
“It’s not my fault you’re horrible at hiding your relationship.”
She looked right at Dean, after she said it. His brow knit, and he glanced at Mom. She hadn’t caught it. Another stroke of luck.
“Your boyfriend, is he near you?”
She nodded. “He’s here.”
Jess rolled her eyes. Dean wished he could kick her under the table without risking hitting Sam.
“She’s obsessed with him.” Sam muttered, and maybe Dean should kick him. “He baked her cupcakes, and she never shuts up about him-“
“I shut up about him! You just never stop asking-“
“Yeah, because I want, like, his name,” Sam said Her name with a flat look. “Instead you tell me about how hot he is for twenty minutes.”
She flushed, and Dean’s grip on his fork tightened. There was a sour taste, in the back of his mouth. His hands were itching to grab Her.
“If this guy isn’t a genius, I’m never trusting you again.”
“He is a genius-“
“Yeah? What does he do?”
“He’s a businessman and an engineer.” She snapped, and Dean’s lip curled. “And he can bake and cook. You can’t bake or cook.”
“More to a man than baking and cooking.” Dad muttered, and She shot him a glare.
“Well, he’s also strong. He can carry me with one arm, and he’s sweet and funny and- And he always brings me things, and he listens, and-” She looked back to Sam. “He’s amazing. I get to talk about him.”
Dean glowered at his plate. That sour feeling was seeping down, right into his lungs and heartbeat. Stupid fake version of him, being so cool and good to Her. Dean made her laugh. He brought her gifts, and memorized every word out of Her holy mouth. He could cook. He could bake. This guy wasn’t freakin’ better than Dean was. Dean was real. He could pick her up, if She wanted to be picked up. He had picked Her up. Before they’d come to dinner, Dean had wrapped an arm around Her stomach when she tried to get away from him, and hauled Her pretty ass back to bed. She’d been thrilled, because She loved Dean, not this fake son of a bitch-
“You okay, honey?” Mom said, reaching around Dean to touch his fisted hand.
He coughed, and nodded. “Yeah. I’m great.”
Jess said Her name, looking smugly at Dean. “Her boyfriend sounds cool, doesn’t he.”
Dean scowled. “Yeah. He sounds great.”
He sounded bitter. He sounded pathetic. She was just making him sound that great to throw Mom and Sammy off the scent. That wasn’t really what She wanted. She wanted Dean. She loved Dean. She loved Dean-
“He is great.” She bumped their knees under the table, looking down at Her plate. “He’s perfect.”
Dean watched Her lips worry, and the spikes that had been flaring around his heart relaxed. “Perfect, huh?”
“Mhm.”
Mom clapped her hands. “Oh, you should let us meet him-“
“She’s not our kid, Mary-“
“She’s a like a sister to me, Dad.” Sam’s voice was measured, but firm. Dad gave him an almost amused look, and he chuckled, looking back to his salad.
He just dropped it. He only ever did that for Sam.
“I’d love to meet him.” Mom continued, like nothing had even happened. “I’m sure we’d love him. Right, Sam? Look at how happy he makes her, you’re going to love him.”
Sam sighed, deflating slightly. “Yeah. I will.”
Jess was staring at Dean again. He took a long sip of his water, fixing his gaze on the ceiling. Like it was the most interesting thing in the damn world.
“Dean, what did you say your girlfriend does?”
“She’s studyin’ right now.” Dean set down his glass. “Nannies on the side, but once she graduated- Oof-“
She’d stomped on his foot, under the table, and Dean’s fist slammed near his glass.
“Son of a- What-“
“Hm?” She gave him an innocent smile, and Dean scowled.
He wanted to kiss that look off Her face. There was some hair falling in front of Her eyes that he could brush away first, that always got her-
“You’re dating a student, Dean?” Dad said, and Dean grimaced.
Oh. Shit.
“And she’s my age.” Sam said, and he was back on the getting punched list.
“She’s a year older than you.” Was all Dean had to defend himself.
“So she’s Jess’ age.”
“Yeah, but I ain’t dating Jess-“
“Thank God.” Jess muttered, and Dean scowled.
“I’m happy without you too, blondie-“
“Dean, don’t be a dick-“
“It’s okay.” Jess put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I think it means he likes me, if he’s being an ass.”
Mom and Dad laughed at that, and Dean slumped into his seat.
She reached a hand under the table, rubbing his knee gently. Dean glanced up, and found Her smiling at him with those pretty, bright eyes. Always shining like stars. Always reminding him that he was home.
“I’m a delight to date.” He muttered, low enough that only She’d hear.
She giggled, and for the first time that night, Dean saw Her relax. “I know, De.”
The laughter died down, but while they were all occupied, Dean grabbed Her hand under the table. He held onto it, even as the conversation moved on. Mom was back to interrogating Jess anyway. No one cared what Dean was doing.
Mom talked Dad into dessert, and Dean was thankful. He’d taken Her here once, for a date. They had really good pie, and the fancy ice cream that She loved-
“Dean, honey,” Mom said, and Dean’s head snapped up. “I think I forgot my perfume in the car, can you come help me get it?”
Dean nodded, moving to his feet, and Dad sighed.
“Dinner’s almost over. You smell good, sweetheart-“
“I want to smell better,” Mom snipped, running her fingers through Dad’s hair. “Would you rather I walk out alone?”
Dad scowled, and shot Dean a very stern be fast look. Dean would try. He’d sworn he wouldn’t leave Her alone with Dad, and now he was, and he was horrible, shitty boyfriend, and-
“You want pie, Dean?” She smiled at him, and Dean’s lips twitched.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Dean turned, and Mom was looking between them with a strange expression. He gave her a questioning look, and she smiled, slipping back into her Mom face.
“California has such good weather.” She said as they walked outside, and Dean hummed, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“It’s nice. Always a beach day, you know?”
“You’ve gone to the beach up here?”
“Few times. Once with Sammy, then with my girl.”
Dean smiled at the air. Last time he’d taken Her, she’d made him walk for three hours so they could find cool rocks and hermit crabs. The sun had set, making the sky all kinds of pinks and purples and golds. She’d looked like a mermaid, come up from the deepest parts of the ocean to hold Dean’s hand and make him carry all Her seashells. It was one of the best nights of his life.
Next to him, Mom hummed Her name. “She’s something, isn’t she.”
Dean chuckled. “Yeah. She is.”
“When did Sam introduce you?”
“’Bout two years ago. Little less.”
“You talk often?”
Dean shrugged. They’d reached the car, but Mom wasn’t unlocking it. She was just watching Dean.
“I mean-“ He scratched the back of his neck. “I see her when I see her, Ma-“
“She knows you like pie.”
“Everyone knows I like pie, that’s like me knowin’ she likes animals-“
“So you know she likes animals.”
“It was one of the first things she ever told me, ‘course I know it, everyone knows it- You know it, and all you did was have dinner with her-“
“Dean Adam Winchester.” Mom raised her chin, and Dean swallow. “Where’s your girlfriend.”
Dean sighed. Not this again. “Look, I can still have friends who are girls when I got a girlfriend-“
“Where is your girlfriend.” Mom repeated, and Dean winced.
“She’s- Uh- She’s in LA-“
“Where in LA-“
“I dunno-“
“Sam said you share your locations.”
“Yeah, but- I’m not lookin’ at my phone-“
“So look at your phone.” Mom nodded to his pants.
Shit. “I, uh- I’m pretty sure she’s just at her apartment, actually-“
“You should check. In case she’s not.”
Dean could not check. It would give the whole thing up. “Ma, I- I’m not- I’m not worried about it-“
“I know you’re not.” Mom said, holding Dean’s gaze. “You know where she is, don’t you. I raised you to respect women, Dean-“’
“I do respect her- I- Christ, she wouldn’t have looked at me twice if I didn’t-“
Mom laughed. “Oh, I believe that. She is something.”
Oh.
No.
“Ma…” Dean muttered, and Mom just raised her brows.
“You know where she is, don’t you, Dean. Because I know too.”
“It’s- Just- Hold on-“
“She’s in there, sitting next to Jessica and your father.” Mom nodded to the restaurant, and Dean bowed his head.
They hadn’t even lasted one dinner.
“How’d you know.” He muttered, and Mom laughed.
“I know you, honey.” She rubbed Dean’s arm gently. “I’m honestly a bit more shocked your brother hasn’t seen it. Doesn’t he talk to her every day?”
Dean laughed, a bit out of breath. “Yeah, he does.”
“And he hasn’t gone blind, since moving out here?”
“No. I think-“ Dean swallowed. “Think he just- He told me not to ask her out,” he muttered. “Forbade me, actually. Like he was her freakin’ father or something, but- I didn’t just ignore him, Mom. I didn’t. She just…”
He bit back the words he couldn’t even find. They stung, and there was already a burn behind his eyes. Mom sighed, giving him a sad smile.
“You love her a lot, don’t you.”
Dean nodded, gritting his teeth, and Mom hummed.
“I like her.”
“Yeah?” He rasped, and she nodded.
“I always hoped you’d find someone who liked your heart, honey.”
“Mom-“
“She loves you.” Mom said, and Dean’s lips twitched.
“I think I wanna- I don’t-“ He cleared his throat. “You ever look at dad and wonder how you ever woke up without him?”
Mom laughed. “All the time.”
And Dean still didn’t understand that. Dad was Dad. Dean had only dodged the harder conversation because She and Jess were there, and Dad didn’t like to air out laundry. When they said goodnight, Dean narrowly avoided his dragging them aside to fight by offering to walk Her to the car. She agreed with a tiny smile. If Sam thought anything of it, he was too busy trying to stop Mom from asking Jess about if they were going to get married.
But Dad glared at them the whole way out. Dean fisted and unfisted his hand at his side. He opened the door for Her, and she smiled up at him. That same, adoring smile that made Dean feel like he’d made the whole world in Her name.
He wished he could. Wouldn’t that be something. Her name, engraved under the earth and onto the roots of trees. Being sung in the deepest parts of the ocean, and embedded into the gates of Heaven. It still wouldn’t be enough. Dean could put his love for Her into the core of every star, and he’d still have to open doors and kiss Her nose and bring her books. Worship wasn’t a one and done type deal. Mom went to Church every day. Dean had his own alter to tend to, and it was bigger than any galaxy in that infinite night sky above them.
Dean could feel Dad’s stare. He ignored it, and walked after Her.
“My Mom adored you,” he murmured, once they were shrouded in shadows. “Think she might love you more than me, now.”
She laughed, shaking Her head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m serious. She, uh-“ He coughed, glancing over his shoulder. “She kinda picked up on us.”
She froze, looking slowly up at Dean. He gave Her a winning grin. She didn’t balk.
“On us what,” She hissed, and Dean sighed.
“Uh… Us. Us-ing.”
“Us-ing?”
“Bein’, y’know.” Dean tried his smile again. “Basically freakin’ soulmates.”
She softened a little, but that might just have been the panic. “Oh- Oh god-“
“It’s okay, Princess-“
“No, it’s not!” She was working Herself up, brow furrowed and lips pouted. “Your Dad- He doesn’t like me-“
“He liked you, he’s just-“
“And Sam- She’s going to tell Sam-“
“She promised she wouldn’t-“
“How did she know, I- I was so careful-“
“I know you were, baby, but she liked you-“
“Not enough!” She shrieked. “I- I had a whole plan, we were going to tell Sam, then- Then you were going to reintroduce me, and they- They’d like me more-“
“Princess-“
“Fuck, I should’ve worn something different. I- I- Should’ve- My hair, and- God, I wore the sex perfume-“
Dean blinked. “Sex perfume?”
She ignored him. “I- I’m a whore, they’re going to think I’m a whore-“
“Alright.” Dean grunted. “That’s enough.”
Dean wrapped an arm around Her waist and clamped a hand over her mouth. She looked up at him with blown out, confused eyes, and he gave Her a stern look.
“You are not a whore.” He muttered, running his thumb down Her nose. Her eyes fluttered, going a little more glazed. “They liked you a lot, I love you,” he kissed the space between Her eyes, and she sighed into his hand. “So much that it doesn’t freakin’ matter anyway.”
She made a displeased noise, glaring up at him, and Dean chuckled.
“I know, Princess. But no one shit talks my girl. Not even you.”
That worked a wonder. She melted into him, pressing Her face into his chest, and Dean swayed them slowly back and forth.
“Maybe next time don’t sell me like I’m Jesus.” He murmured when She’d finally relaxed.
She leaned back with an adorably confused expression. “What?”
“I’m a genius?” Dean laughed. “C’mon, sweetheart-“
“You are a genius.”
“Yeah, alright-“
“You are.” She snapped, and Dean raised his brows.
He said Her name carefully, and she shoved his chest.
“You are a genius, Dean. I’m not a liar.” She sounded more pissed than anything else, Dean’s lips twitched.
“Yeah, baby? You sure I didn’t scramble your brains this morning?”
She rolled Her eyes, and Dean ducked down to kiss her neck. She wove Her fingers through his hair, holding on even as she grumbled in his ear.
“You are-“
“I know.” Dean smiled against Her skin. “Bossy girl.”
She hummed, and Dean nipped at Her throat. They’d have to move soon. He’d take off first—couldn’t let Dad see the rental—and She’d follow. Once they were alone, Dean would show Her was kinda genius he really was.
The one that made Her cum over and over and over, until She was too boneless and cockdrunk to remember to overthink.
She grabbed Dean’s face, pulling it back slowly. Dean smiled at Her, and she let out a slow, long breath.
“They’re gonna come out soon, baby-“
“Do you wanna meet my dad?”
Dean’s jaw fell open, and She flushed.
“I just- I met your parents. And your mom knows, and my dad is coming for graduation, and-“
Dean kissed Her. Long and hard. It was always the best way to shut her up.
“Yeah,” he said, pressing another, softer kiss. “I’d love to, baby.”
She smiled, pushing up to chase Dean’s mouth, and he laughed. They stumbled back until She was pressed to the car. Dean deepened the kiss, and Her leg hiked on his hip. Her dress was riding up. Dean pressed closer, blocking Her inner thigh from anyone else’s view.
“You gonna oversell me again, Princess?” He rasped, when they finally pulled away.
She shook Her head, playing with the collar of his shirt. “That’s not possible.”
Dean shook his head, but damn him, he believed Her. Nothing She was saying could ever be wrong.
And Dean was going to spend the rest of his life, making sure no one ever questioned Her. She’d never say this is my husband and have people wonder how. Dean would live on his knees, if that’s where she asked him to stay.
But they got home, and She threw herself into Dean’s arms.
So he’d stay on his feet and at Her side, always. And all the way down.
✦Part 9✦
✦End note: dean when wife ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Dean is strong for enduring John and Sam is strong for enduring the loneliness, neither wins but they still envy and deeply misunderstand each other in earlier seasons, the concept of two estranged brothers finding to each other again <3
Author's Note: Dean in a suit chapter for the whores (me. I'm the whores). Enjoy!
Chapter title from The (After) Life of the Party by Fall Out Boy
Word Count: 17.2k
Chapter Summary/Warnings: You and Dean go on a mission, Sam breaks into some cars. Usual warnings.
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action
Chapter 11 - Chapter 13
Read on A03!
“Are you-“ San cleared his throat from across the room, and Dean didn’t bother to look up. “Dude, are you reading?”
“You got eyes, Sammy?”
“You know I-“
“Use ‘em.”
Sam sighed. “I- Why are you reading?”
“Because I’m not fucking talking to you.” Dean grunted, glaring at Sam over the top of the book. “And it’s not like-“ He glanced at the bathroom door, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “How to get out of demon deals is going to be on the Cable TV.”
It wouldn’t be. Dean would know.
He’d already checked.
He’d been looking everywhere. He’d gone to libraries and bookstores, stolen Sammy’s laptop, and really started to fucking look. Anywhere that could be somewhere, with anything he could get his hands on. He’d called Bobby six times just this week, with possible leads that didn’t pan out, but could have.
Dean could get out of this. If he really fucking tried, he might make it out of this year alive.
Bobby and Sam had noticed the change. Bobby had been the one to bring it up—over the phone at midnight, when Dean was crouched in the parking lot—and Dean hadn’t been able to give a reason anyone wanted to hear.
“What’s the sudden change of heart, boy? You suddenly not borderline suicidal and stupid?” Bobby’s question had been firm, and Dean had run a hand over his face with a long breath.
“I was never suicidal-“
“You were all but rollin’ over and waitin’ to die, Dean. Now Sam’s tellin’ me you’ve been workin’ harder than he has. And I got a suspicion to what changed your tune, but I wanna hear ya’ say it.”
Dean had swallowed. “Bobby, there’s nothing going on-“
“Then why’re you defendin’ yourself-“
“Cause if I don’t, you’re gonna drive down here and put me on the barrel of a shotgun!”
“I’m only gonna do that if it’ss what I think.” Bobby had grunted. “And if you’re breakin’ her heart-“
“I’m not-“
“If you are.” Bobby had snapped, and Dean had flinched, pulling the phone a little further away from his ear. “You’re gonna end up a lot worse than shot. Demons are gonna have to find your body scattered ‘cross Montana.”
“Gee, thanks, Bobby-“
“I’ve been warnin’ you, Dean.” Bobby had let out a long breath. “Ain’t a single thing on this earth I wouldn’t do for that girl. And if what Sam’s sayin’ is true-“
Dean’s jaw had clenched, and he’d glowered at the pavement. “Don’t listen to what Sam’s saying. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.”
There had been a brief, static pause through the speaker, and Bobby had let out a long sigh. “You boys still fightin’, huh.”
Dean had just shrugged where Bobby couldn’t see it, and kept the conversation moving back to the empty lead they’d found yesterday.
And they were. Still fighting. But telling Bobby why would’ve led to another fight Dean knew he wouldn’t win, and he’d be stuck with two people helping him that he wanted to strangle.
Because Bobby would always choose Her. And Dean understood that. She was awesome, and cool, and he was still a little haunted by Bobby’s expression when he’d seen Her bleeding out and infected in Dean’s arms.
But Sam was supposed to choose Dean. He wasn’t supposed to keep tight-lipped and shut down about whatever the hell had happened in that motel room. About why Dean had come back to find Her trying to strangle Herself, why she’d collapsed onto Dean’s chest with ragged breathes and a small, strange sound that had been echoing around Dean’s head ever since.
Dean knew better than to push Her about what had happened. She’d said she didn’t want to talk about it, and that meant she wouldn’t talk about it. He could’ve tried to drag it out of Her with a fight, but that had never really worked before, and She’d looked so small. Fragile and panicked, almost feral as he’d pulled Her back into bed, and she’d fallen asleep in his arms.
He didn’t want to fucking lose that. He never wanted to lose Her. It had been the final straw on the whole if he died, he died thing. She might be able to live a life where Dean was only a pained memory, but he’d fucking carve out his heart from his chest and ship it to Lilith in a box before he became another thing that caused Her pain. He was finally something that mattered to Her, even if it wasn’t everything She was to him.
And Dean could admit She was a little more than everything to him. Just in his head, he could acknowledge that when he looked at Her and crashed down into the depth of all Her silver light and furious beauty, it was because She was just more. The most.
And he wasn’t going to lose Her. Not now. If have the short end of three months left to live was offering Dean anything, if was fucking clarity. He wasn’t going to lose Her.
But Sam was going to get himself fucking punched. Because Dean had cornered him that night while She’d been showering, and demanded to know what the hell had happened, and Sam had given him fucking nothing.
“It’s-“ Sam had swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing around the motel room for an escape route. There wouldn’t be one. Dean had been really fucking careful about that. “Nothing happened, dude-“
“Bullshit.” Dean had hissed. “We both know those things don’t just happen-“
“I mean, they kinda do-“
“But there’s always fucking something. And that,” Dean had pointed to the bathroom door, his eyes narrowed. “Was the worst one I’ve seen in damn years, Sam. What the hell did you say to her-“
“We- uh, we were just talking about the arrowhead. She lost it, and we needed to figure out what to tell Ruby-“
Dean had scoffed. “She would not fucking cry about Ruby-“
“I don’t know what you want to hear, Dean, that’s what happened-“
“No, it fucking didn’t.” Dean had taken a firm step forward, and Sam had a least had the decency to look worried. “You fucking said something, Sam, and I’m willing to bet my Baby that it was something bad if you won’t even damn tell me-“
“So ask her.” Sam had his raised his chin, crossing his arms. “If you think it was that bad, she’ll tell you, won’t she?”
Dean had gone rigid, started to weigh how valuable Sam’s nose was, and the door to the bathroom had opened.
The fight had been put on hold as She returned. But it hadn’t stopped.
Sam kept refusing to tell Dean what the hell had happened. Dean couldn’t—wouldn’t—ask Her..
But yhey were both keeping something from Dean. Something about that fucking arrowhead, something about Ruby, something about Her episodes that Dean wasn’t allowed to know about. And he wanted to loathe Her for not trusting him, but She did. She slept at his side and let him walk one step behind Her, let Dean order Her food at diners when she was too invested in a book and always smiled at him when he walked into a room.
He couldn’t hate Her. That was another piece of the near-death clarity. Dean really needed to stop trying to hate Her, because he was bad at it. She was too beautiful to hate. It was like trying to hate the stars for shining so bright and not just moving into Dean’s hands to be held.
And She did let Dean hold Her. She let Dean touch Her, causally and without cringing or running away. So Dean couldn’t hate Her. He wouldn’t trust himself with something delicate and important either. And maybe, if he made himself a useful enough tool for Her disposal, She would tell him.
It wasn’t like he wasn’t keeping a worse secret from Her, anyway.
And fucking Sam kept reminding him of that. Kept telling Dean that they’d far past the point where She needed to know, and every day that stuttered by was another one that She could’ve been helping, but wasn’t.
Dean didn’t want Her to help. He didn’t want this to be Her problem. And he knew She’d disagree, and likely try to stab Dean for keeping it secret at all, but he didn’t care. Dean had cursed himself to go even deeper than the mud. He’d doomed himself to end up surrounded by fire and pain for the rest of time.
So no matter what Sam said, Dean wasn’t going to fucking tell Her.
And if they did their damn jobs, the deal wouldn’t even matter, and Dean would be able to bring it up as a joke in a few years. He’d poke Her in the side and tell Her funny story about 2008, Princess, and She’d shove him but be glad he was alive, and then he’d wrap his arm around Her shoulders and haul her over his body, into a long and deep kiss because he’d be alive and she would’ve stayed-
Dean couldn’t think about that now. He’d figure it out after he fixed this, but he couldn't cross the line until then. When he did—because he would, it was becoming more and more obvious as Dean's will weakened and She only grew more beautiful that Dean would end up damning it all and crashing into Her in a way that stuck—it needed to be when he could keep Her. When he could prove to Her over and over that he was barely more than a weapon, but he was Her weapon and not one single shining, stardust-forged son of a bitch would ever serve Her the way Dean could. He'd send the rest of his damn life proving that She'd been right to—for reasons Dean would never understand—stay, when it would've been so easy for Her to leave him. Dean would've left himself, if he could. And he would've hated Her for abandoning to be as he should be, alone, but She fucking hadn't.
And when She'd run, she'd always come back. To Dean.
So he'd prove, when this was done, that She hadn't been wrong. He'd dedicate himself to it, and he wouldn't have to mold or break at all because She'd only ever stayed for him as he was.
He didn't understand it. He'd never understood it.
He was kind of done fucking trying to.
So all that was left to do was find his way out of the deal, and figure out how to keep Her near him all the damn time.
It was why he was reading. She'd gone into the bathroom to get changed for their next case, and he didn't have anything better to do, so he'd grabbed one of Sam's huge, dusty books and started to comb through it. Going page by page like a nerd, looking for some sort of highlighted sentence that told him this would be fine. That was a neon red exit sign out of a crossroads deal, and promised that He wouldn’t have come so close to having Her, only to have everything crumble and fall through his fingers.
At this point, part of him wanted to tell Her. Not because it was a good idea, but because Sam was, annoying, right. She’d probably have this worked out in an afternoon, pointing to a single sentence Dean, Sam, and Bobby had already read but citing it’s completely different meaning, making them all feel like idiots and fixing it in a heartbeat.
But that only managed to solidify that Dean could not tell Her. He had to work this out himself, if he was going to try and pretend to be worthy of Her. If She did this for him, there’d be no reason for Her to stay. She didn’t need Dean. Nobody needed Dean. So he had to bank of Her wanting him, and why the hell would She want Dean if he needed Her, if he craved Her and followed Her everywhere like a dog that only took Her scraps and never offered anything but gnashing teeth and pointless labor-
It wouldn’t be pointless. Dean would make sure the labor he did for Her meant something. That every bullet shot was a promise that, when She started to breathe to fast and clawed at Her skin, he’d take care of her, keep her safe, and serve her however she asked.
Even if that meant reading old books that gave him a headache, and wearing this stupid tie, and fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt like they were shackles.
“She’s taking a while,” Sam muttered from his chair, frowning at the bathroom door. “You think she-“
“She’s fine.” Dean grunted, flipping another page. “It’s not like you’re in there to freak her out.”
Sam sighed. “Dean-“
“What.”
“We’ve talked about this-“
“I didn’t say shit,” he shrugged, shooting Sam a glare. “And she always takes this long. She’s doing girl shit, and unless you wanna get stabbed, I wouldn’t interrupt her.”
“What’s girl shit-“
“I dunno, I’m not a freakin’ girl-“
“Then how to do you know she’s doing girl shit-“
“Cause she walked in there with her fancy bag, and she’s gonna come out looking…” He shook his head, giving Sam a pointed look. “It’s fucking witchcraft, Sammy.”
Sam frowned. “You mean makeup?”
Dean didn’t know what he meant. Maybe that every time She’d go through Her whole girl routine, she’d come out looking pretty much the exact same, but with little features highlighted to make Her look damn near godlike. The witchcraft was mostly how the hell she knew how to use all the tubes and sprays and brushes that Dean had seen in Her hands.
So Dean just glowered at Sam—trying to find a way to answer the question that didn’t sound stupid—when the door opened, and his heart stopped.
It made sense why She’d taken so long.
That was more than just some of Her features highlighted. Every already perfect part of Her had somehow been carefully enhanced, and Her hair seemed to be absorbing all the light in the room before throwing it out twice as bright, and Dean didn’t know where the hell She’d gotten that dress, but his brain was already memorizing every dip of the fabric and curve of Her body and-
“You look, uh-“ Sam cleared his throat, glancing at Dean with an almost worried expression. “Ready.”
“I am.” She shrugged like it was nothing, like She wasn’t half glowing, didn’t look exactly like that fallen star She always lit in the pit of his body, and Dean wasn’t going to lose his mind. “And look.” She raised the dress with a wide grin, revealing Her knife, strapped to her thigh. “You can’t even see it. I fucking love this dress.”
Dean loved it too. For very different, inappropriate reason that were going to keep him in his chair for at least a few more minutes.
“You’re, uh-“ He coughed, trying to force his voice back from a rasp into at least a casual drawl. “You gonna be able to run in those?”
He nodded to Her heels, and She rolled her eyes.
“Of course I can, I’m not a child. Plus,” She kicked one heel off, catching it in Her hand with practice grace and pointing the stabby end at Dean with a grin. “That’s three weapons.”
Sam frowned. “Three-“
“Knife,” She pointed back to Her thigh, and Dean’s grip on his book became white-knuckled. “Two shoes. Are you reading?”
Dean blinked at Her, then scowled, slamming his book back onto the table. “Am I not allowed to broaden my horizons, Princess-“
“You are.” She hummed, crossing to room to stand only one tug of Her waist away, and She was so pretty, and She smelled so good- “But this is like, half in Latin. And about demons.” She raised Her brows at him. “Lilith?”
“I, uh- Yeah. Lilith.” Dean gave Her his best smirk, and pretended he couldn’t see Sam’s pointed glare. “I got bored, sweetheart. Figured I might as well try to get something before we headed out-“
“Which we should’ve done,” Sam jumped in, frowning at his watch. “Like, a half hour ago. We won’t be late, but I wanted to be early, while the crowd was small-“
She shook Her head, rubbing Her thumb over her palm. “No, that would be suspicious. Our backstory is already rocky, being early would draw attention we can’t afford. If we’re on time we’ll be just another pair of faces in the crowd. Easier to slip past everyone for Dean and I, easier for you to navigate around security. But we should go soon, are you guys-“
“Born ready,” Dean grinned at Her, pushing out of his chair and keeping his gaze firmly on Her face. He couldn’t look down at Her body—or else they’d be here another hour while he calmed himself down—and Her face was a better alternative, but She was still so fucking gorgeous, and looking at Dean, right at Dean, like She could really see him, but she wasn’t moving away-
Sam snorted. “You’ve been bitching about your tie for like, an hour-“
“It’s choking me.” He snapped, fidgeting with the knot around his neck. It was too much like a noose, too great a reminder of how stolen his every breath had become. “And it looks fucking stupid-“
“No, it doesn’t.” She said, waving Dean off with a hand as She scanned around their motel room, not noticing the way Dean’s heart started to burst out of his chest, how his gaze locked on Her like she was a magnet. “And you can take if off as soon as we’re out, but everyone’s going to be wearing a tie-“
“Why?” He half-whined, pulling at his shirt. It was white. Inappropriate for hunts, prone to being stained, almost see-through white. He felt like a piece of meat.
She only shrugged, shooting him a small, world-ending smile. “Because, Deano. That’s what happens when we take cases with rich people.”
“I didn’t take this case,” he grumbled, letting Her start to herd him towards the door. “Sammy took it. I just got dragged along-“
“We can leave you at home,” She suggested, nodding to Sam as he grabbed his bag, and they all moved outside, “I can put on some TV, leave you some snacks until we get back-“
“Shut up.”
She giggled, pulling away from Dean as they reached the car and he wanted Her to come back. He didn’t want to do this case at all—it was a waste of time that any hunter could take care of, and a reminder that he would never have the gross luxury he was likely about to witness—but if he had to, he didn’t want to be away from Her side.
Not when She looked like that.
Dean had really never seen anything more beautiful. It was distracting. He looked in the rearview mirror far more than he needed to, but he couldn’t stop himself. Light would catch off of Her in all the best ways, and he’d fall a little further whenever She’d shift in her seat and her soft skin would almost shimmer in the dark. Like She was really just a spirit or vision or figment of Dean’s imagination, an incarnation of every single part of him that had ever dared to want something he shouldn’t be allowed to have. He’d think She was an early torture sent to fuck with him, but She was very real.
He could smell Her perfume, and it was the sweet and sugary vanilla one She’d been using for years, but it still wasn’t strong enough to overpower the fruit. The fucking fruit. The only part of Her that haunted Dean more than her voice.
Her beautiful, musical, taunting voice that followed him on the wind, that called him down, down, down into wherever She’d stray or wander, and kept his attention on Her words, no matter how they confused him.
And sometimes, they’d really fucking confuse him.
“The Lord isn’t actually supposed to be in attendance, so as long as we remember our cover stories and keep out of larger conversations, this should be really simple.”
Dean frowned at the road. “What’d you mean, Lord. America doesn’t have lords, sweetheart, we got senators and the Kardashians-“
“It’s a British lord,” Sam explained, shrugging in his seat. “I told you already, dude, that’s the whole case-“
“What, killing him?”
“No, Dean-“
“Only if he gets in the way.” She cut Sam off with a grin, and Sam rolled his eyes.
“Don’t encourage him,” Sam said Her name in an almost scolding tone, and Dean had to bite down a chuckle as She wrinkled her nose in the backseat. “And no, Dean. We’re not killing anyone. This artifact is said to drive people to insanity, and it’s supposed to go on display at this party, so we need to get it out before the night ends in a half orgy, half bloodbath.”
Dean grimaced slightly. “Damn, Sammy, ease a guy into it-“
“I did, five hours ago, but you weren’t fucking listening to me-“
“Sam,” She said from the back, leaning over the bench with a wrinkled brow, and Her arm was half on Dean’s shoulder. He was going to fucking explode. “Did you ever work out what the artifact was-“
Sam shook his head. “I’ll keep trying while you guys get inside, but I think as long as neither of you touch it, we should be fine.”
She nodded slowly, and Dean could feel Her attention shift to him. “You don’t remember our cover, do you.”
He shot Her a glare, and Sam smirked like a little bitch in his seat. “You know, Princess, we need to have a conversation about how little freakin’ faith you have in me-“
“So you do?” She gave him a teasing smile—beautiful lips curling up and lashes fluttering slightly—and Dean felt his will fold in a heartbeat.
“No.” He muttered, scowling out at the street. She couldn’t be that pretty and be Herself. It short-circuited his whole fucking brain. “I was reading.”
She hummed, propping Her chin on the back of the bench. “That can be dangerous.”
“Shut up-“
“Are you paying attention now?”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m kind of a captive audience, sweetheart-“
“You could turn up the radio-“
“You see me reaching for the dial?”
He dared a glance at Her, raising his brows in a silent challenge, and he didn’t know how to deal with the bright, satisfied smile on Her face. It was mesmerizing, in the shifting and flashing lights of the highway, with Her hair perfectly framing her face and her makeup making Her look like a fucking goddess and this wasn’t fair. Dean wanted to grab Her and tangle his whole body into Her’s, forever, until he was always glowing, always full, always alive-
If Sam hadn’t coughed, he might have lost his mind entirely and crashed the damn car.
Dean turned back to the road and cleared his throat, his grip on the wheel almost painful and the shadows of the night only barely hiding his need for Her in his pants.
“Hit me, Princess.”
“You’re Dean Bishop, and I’m your wife,” She said Her own name, and Dean was going to crash the car. She couldn’t do that, couldn’t offer him that thought, because now it would plague him forever. “These people won’t have any idea who we are, so we can use our real names. You,” she poked his arm, shooting him a blinding smile that pulled at his own lips. “Work in stocks. And nobody knows what that means, so if people ask, just start saying words that sound like they’re related to money. You met Lord Appleton-“
Dean snorted. “Appleton?”
“Yep. British.” She shrugged. “You met him at Oxford. Oh, and I’m just a trophy wife.”
Sam sighed, shaking his head. “I still don’t think trophy wife is a good cover-“
“This is an old money, occult-obsessed family of fucking weirdos. Trust me, Sam.” She let out a long breath that stuck to Dean, crawling over his skin as Her voice dropped from a confident drawl to something heavy. “They won’t see women as people. Trophy wife will work.”
Sam shot Dean look he didn’t miss—he knew it was mirrored on his own face—but didn’t acknowledge, either.
It was another thing Dean would work out when this was over. He knew Her family was old money. And he’d be consumed by the way She’d said that with an almost tragic, haunted certainty, but he’d have to live to fix that for Her.
He would fix it.
But after.
For now, he needed to get this dumbass case over with, so he could go back to looking for his out.
The plan would be simple. Sammy would work out where the artifact was being kept—and, ideally, what it was—and She and Dean would slip out of the party and grab it the moment they had the chance.
Until then, they’d just be wandering through a crowd of rich douchebags, waiting for Sammy to do his job.
They stopped a few blocks away from the Lord’s mansion so Sam could switch into the driver’s seat and Dean could move to the back. She said rich people didn’t drive themselves, and this way Dean could keep Baby out of the hand of some random fucking asshole trying to park his car, and in the hands of Sam.
“Listen,” he hissed as Sam pulled up to the entrance, leaning over the bench with a scowl. “I see one scratch, one stain, one fucking spot of dirt-“
“You’ll kill me, Dean, I know.” Sam said Her name, and his voice was not nearly afraid enough for how Dean was promising to dismember him. “I’ll text you when I have the location, and I’m going have to park close to the building to get a connection to their security system, so if you need me-“
“I’ll call.” She nodded, smoothing out Her dress as she frowned out the window. “De, are you- wait-“
Dean frowned as She leaned down, shifting through Her bag. He could see the shape of Her waist and small of Her back, and he wanted to touch Her-
They were on a case. They were working. He needed to keep himself the fuck together.
“What’s up-“
“Here.” She sat back up, dropping something in his hand and starting to move Her rings around on Her fingers. “For our cover.”
It was a wedding band. She was giving Dean a wedding band, and it was for their cover, but it felt pretty damn real—catching gold in the light and cool on his palm—and he was going to fucking die, from this alone and nothing else-
“You, uh, you just have these?”
She shrugged, sliding a matching one onto Her own finger. “I’m prepared, Winchester. Ready?”
He was not ready. No part of Dean was ready for how right that ring felt when She was wearing a matching one, for how She felt when she hooked her elbow into his and gave him a perfectly sweet and adoring smile—maybe for the show of the other partygoers, but still seeming so real—and for how She looked in full, shimmering light of candles and chandeliers.
Heavenly.
There wasn’t another word for it. Dean didn’t believe in heaven, but he sure as fuck believed in Her, and that was the only word that came close to describing it. How the world more than moved for Her. How it was designed for Her, as if everything had only ever been made to make her more beautiful, more happy, more bright.
She was so fucking bright.
He was just a shadow in Her wake. Dean was leading her through the crowd, and he was really just a fucking stain or shell of a body, clinging to Her glory and there to spill blood in Her name. And he didn’t hate that. For what he’d been born, what he’d done, how he should’ve been stuck in the mud for the rest of his life and never spared Her glance, let alone Her trust and loyalty—because Her hand had move to hold his arm and Her body was leaning into his side, as if she was trying to shield Herself from the world with Dean and Dean alone—he knew he was long gone from hating Her for how simply awesome she was.
But that didn’t mean he could hate everything else about this. Hate how this crowd was filled with people who could be worthy of Her, who could steal Her attention and whisk Her away from Dean side with promises of the riches and luxury She deserved. She should have. She should be treated like a Queen, and all these assholes where literal fucking royalty—wearing dresses and suits that probably cost more money than Dean had ever seen, but still didn’t compare to the way Her dress looked like it was a second, colorful and shining skin—so why the hell would She ever stay with Dean.
Maybe this would be the straw. It wouldn’t be a fight about a lie, or the consequences of the deal, or a fatal injury that tore Her away from Dean. It would be one of these suit and tie sons of bitches—eyeing Her on Dean’s arm like She was nothing more than food when She was a fucking predator, a force of nature that could probably kill them with a spoon—offering Her comfort hunting could never provide, riches Dean would never have, and most of the world to Her on a silver platter, and Dean would never be able to blame Her for choosing them.
If it was up to him, She’d have all the world. It was made for Her. It was only right that it belonged to Her too.
“How expensive do you think that champagne is?” She whispered, nodding to the sleek, polished bar, and Dean shot Her an amused look.
“You drinking now, Princess?”
She rolled Her eyes, elbowing him in the ribs. “I’m bored. And we could probably buy like, a fucking house or something with just one bottle of it.”
Dean knew that face. Narrowed eyes as She bounced slightly on Her feet, watching the barkeeper with an intensity that could brand someone—Dean would know—and a spark in Her eyes that was almost like a flaring warning sign.
He ducked his head to mutter in Her ear, and forced himself to ignore how She shivered slightly against him. “You distract him, I’ll take three bottles. We’ll head to Vegas and triple our money.”
She turned to him with an adorably wrinkled nose, and fuck, She was so close. Dean could see Her pretty flush, and every undertone of Her skin, and all the hidden colors in Her eyes-
“We aren’t going to Vegas, De.”
“Not until after we steal the champagne-“
“We’re not stealing the champagne-“
“You were thinking about it.” He smirked at Her, and there it was. Hitched breath. “I know you, Princess, you were ready to kick that guys ass and run off with his fancy bottle-“
She scoffed. “I was not going to run off.”
“Yeah, you were-“
“I would’ve taken you with me,” She snapped, kicking Dean’s shin lightly. “It’s not running off if I stay with you.”
She’d won. Whatever fake argument they’d been having, She’d just won by a damn mile, because all Dean could do was stare at Her. She couldn’t keep just saying things like that. Over and over and over, like Her staying with Dean was a given, like he was as easy for Her as she was for him.
“You, uh,” he cleared his throat, trying to force his head back into focus. They had a job to do, and it needed to be done so Dean could get back to his real work. To finding a way to keep Her. “You want a drink?”
She glances at the bar, and shook Her head. “I-“
“I saw a Pina Colada on the drink list.” He raised his brows, offering Her a small grin. “I can make them mix it without the fun stuff.”
“The- Oh.” She swallowed, but nodded. “Yes, please. Do you want me to- I can go find some food?”
Son of a bitch, She was perfect.
Dean nodded, forced his body to detach from Her’s and moved to the bar. He managed to get through the order without tugging at his tie or losing Her in his periphery, right up until they served his drink, he turned his back for one damn second, and She was gone.
He couldn’t see Her. It was a crowded room, and everyone was trying to take up more space than was owed, but Dean couldn’t see Her.
He grabbed the drinks with barely a nod in the bartender’s direction and started to shove through the crowd as his heart began to pound in his throat. She wasn’t in danger. Every bit of Dean’s logical brain knew She wouldn’t be in danger, because this was not a place where danger would pass unnoticed and She was more dangerous than vulnerable, but he still kept envisioning Her on fire on the ceiling, or bloodless and pale and choking on a green-eyed demons blade or Her own hand. Every damn time he’d ever lost Her had been after he’d left, during a fight or to buy something to just to grab fucking ice or coffee or-
She was fine. Dean was just a pathetic, clingy idiot, and She was fine.
She was more than fine. She was cornered at the long table—full of food that looked more fancy that actually edible—by a man with a slick haircut, a straight nose, and suit that likely hadn’t been stolen from a rental store by his little brother. Haircut was flirting with Her. Leering over and smirking down at Her, angling his body to half cover her’s and matching her every pace down the table as she filled her plate-
One plate. Why did she only have one plate.
Dean couldn’t move. He was truly fucking weak, truly fucking selfish. He wasn’t moving to take Her back to his side like Dad would’ve told him to—you see a pretty girl, you make sure she knows it, son—but his stomach was twisting because this was it, he’d have to go back to Sammy and tell him She’d gone to be mixed with diamonds and sand and beauty like She deserved-
Haircut said something, and reached for Her arm, and Dean felt fucking sick but he was frozen-
She shrugged Haircut’s touch away, turning to where Dean could see Her profile and saying something he could hear, but he still understood. Her smile was too sweet, too careful, too measured. It wasn’t the wide, happy one She’d always offer Dean that made him crash further into Her.
It was the one She used on every case. Sincere until you knew Her.
And Haircut didn’t know Her, so he moved closer once more, and She took a step back. Held up Her hand for Haircut to see, scanned over the crowd, and met Dean’s eyes with a wide smile.
A real smile.
And he couldn’t stop himself from grinning back.
It was like he’d just gone through a factory reset. His legs moved on their own, pulling him back to Her. He leaned down and kissed the side of Her head, passed Her the Pina colada, and grinned at Haircut like he’d won the fucking lottery.
He had. He’d kissed Her. Not fully, but more than She’d allow anyone else to.
“Hey, dude.” Dean extended his now free hand to Haircut, and he didn’t think most rich people said dude, but he also had Her and she looked like She’d been made to be here, so he wasn’t too worried about blowing their cover. “Dean Bishop. I see you met my lovely wife?”
Haircut mumbled something Dean didn’t really care about and excused himself, and this case was awesome. The champagne was kind of shit, and Sammy was taking way to damn long on the detail they needed, but She was staring at Dean with wide, pretty eyes, drinking Her Pina colada with Her lips wrapped nearly around the straw, and swaying slightly on Her feet, so Dean got to wrap his arm around Her waist to keep her steady, and he never wanted to go back to normal hunts again.
“What a douchebag,” he grinned down at Her, jerking his head to where Haircut had disappear. “You think his hair was real?”
She swallowed, Her voice softer than usual and sparking right through Dean’s whole body. “I- What?”
“His hair, Princess-“
“I heard you,” She frowned, passing Her already empty glass to a passing waiter. “Why wouldn’t it be real-“
“I dunno,” He shrugged, shooting Her a wink. “I’m thinking we could start a real bet, though.“
She smiled, Her body relaxing slightly in Dean’s arms, and he’d never seen anything better. “Stop thinking, De.” She traded Dean’s glass for Her plate, but held the arm around Her on her hip. “You’re bad at it.”
Dean’s grin was almost painful on his face, and if anyone else had said that the words would’ve stung, but it was Her. She said them with a teasing smile, and She was so close, and he knew that nothing hateful or mocking behind them. If She was striking to kill, he’d know it. He’d feel it, cracking up his spine. And She never bit unprovoked. Every time they’d struck each other like that it had been because Dean was a fucking idiot, and couldn’t hold something beautiful as She was and not ruin it. Couldn’t have something so good and destroy it.
But he had Her—in the moist vague and loose sense of the word, Dean had Her—now. For at least this night, where She was right against him and had chosen to be there, Dean had Her.
He’d be damned, further down than he already was, if he broke that.
“You, uh,” he cleared his throat, glancing down to the plate in his hands. “This all for me?”
She hummed, nodding thoughtlessly as She started to sweep over the room. “Do you think Sam will be mad if we start to just search the mansion-“
“No.” He squeezed his hold on Her, and She looked up at him with wide eyes. “But I’m not letting you just fuck around, Princess, I’m taking this job seriously-“
She gave him a flat, amused look. “You just want to party, Winchester.”
“Gotta pass the time somehow-“
“I can search alone, you know-“
“And there’s no damn way I’m letting you.” Dean shoved the plate under Her nose, hold her gaze. “Eat a fancy grape, sweetheart. We’ll move when Sammy calls you.”
She narrowed Her eyes at him, but grabbed a grape with a pouting frown that made Dean feel things. “You think you let me do anything?”
“No,” he shrugged. “But I could tackle you and stop you from wandering. Gimme some of my champagne.”
“Get your own fucking champagne-“
Dean drawled Her name, giving Her an amused grin. “You’re holding my glass.”
She flushed, glanced between the champagne in Her hand and Dean’s hand on Her hip, and Dean was ready for her to shove him away. He was braced for it, for how he’d have to grab his glass as She shoved it into his hands, but he’d need to keep full balance because She’d—hopefully—loop their arms back together and drag him after Her, wherever She wanted to go-
Dean almost fell to his knees as She rolled Her eyes, muttered something under Her breath he couldn’t make out, and pressed Dean’s glass up to his lips. All while holding his fucking gaze, glaring at him like he’d broken something or done something incredibly wrong, and keeping his arm around Her body.
She stayed pressed right against Dean, and he didn’t need to damn champagne. He could get drunk on just Her, shining in the light and there and real and fucking intoxicating.
He didn’t know how he’d gotten here.
He never wanted to leave.
“You wanna stand in a corner and make fun of people?” She raised Her brows, taking the glass back from Dean’s mouth, and if the hellhounds came for him here, he’d die a happy man.
She was so fucking awesome.
“Aw,” he smirked at Her as he said Her name, let the high feeling of Her overtake his body, and pressed anther kiss to the side of Her head. “I thought you’d never ask.”
She rolled Her eyes, but there it was. Flush. Hitched breath. Parted lips.
“I’m not asking you to the prom, Winchester.” She muttered, starting to move them through the crowd but still holding on to Dean. “Calm down.”
“I’m perfectly calm, sweetheart. And I’ll have you know we would’ve killed it at the prom-“
She snorted. “Who’s we?”
“C’mon, Princess.” He wiggled his brows at Her. “You’ve got the bossy, hot, popular girl thing down-“
“I-“ She stared at him, and Dean couldn’t fully read the expression on Her face. “That’s- Never say that sentence again. To anyone.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Dean frowned at Her as they stopped in a corner, scanning over Her hardened, beautiful features and tightened brow. “Did you go to prom?”
“I didn’t go to high school, De.”
“I- what?”
She shot him an incredulous look. “You knew that. I was a runaway, my family had a bounty on my head, I couldn’t exactly enroll in Sioux Falls public school system.”
“But you’re…” Dean trailed off, his words bubbling and dying in his throat as he searched for words he didn’t have. She was brilliant, and clever, and a genius who he’d bet on in every situation, She spoke so fast and with such power, She was the only person he knew who was close to as smart as Sammy, and that kid was a fucking genius. “You’re you.”
“I’m aware.” She drawled. “But I learned most of what I know by watching PBS and reading. I got bored. I wasn’t allowed to leave the house, it was like-“
“Bobby didn’t let you leave the house?”
“I didn’t let me leave the house.”
“Cause of, uh,” he cleared his throat, watching Her carefully. “The sickness?”
“Yeah.” She mumbled, frowning at Her own hands. “The sickness.”
“Did you go to like, elementary school?”
“I went up to the first half of third grade. Then I ran away.”
Dean nodded slowly, and he wasn’t sure where the line was. She’d never told him much about Her family. She’d never had the chance, after that fight in Colorado. He’d never grown the balls to push Bobby on it, and he knew that wouldn’t have worked anyway.
All Dean knew was that Bobby had found her wandering. That She’d been sick. That whoever Her family was, they were hard to speak of.
And he wouldn’t ruin the chance to hear about them. For Her to trust him like that, with skeletons She seemed to try and ignore and bury, but kept clawing out of the dirt to make Her scratch at Her skin and pick at Her nails.
Dean bumped Her hand with his plate, stilling Her picking without a word, and just watched Her. She’d say what She wanted, and Dean would—for Her—shut the fuck up.
“I, uh,” She cleared her throat, Her gaze fixed on a button of Dean’s shirt. “They were a lot like this. These people. Kind of worse, actually. A lot worse. And I- I still don’t understand most of it. Most of what they did, or why they did it, or-“ She took a shaking breath, running Her thumb over the scar on Her palm. “I just- I knew- I know it was wrong. That was why I got out, and- I don’t know. They were-“
She took another, almost too shallow breath, and there was a darkened expression on Her face. That wrinkle in Her brow as her fingers flexed against her and her hands shifted slightly, moving up before flinching down.
Dean needed to mend this. Whatever was making Her look like a hollow shadow, because She was supposed to be lit up from within and he couldn’t fucking stand to see Her in pain.
He set down his plate without a thought, squeezed his arm around Her waist, and ran his thumb down the bridge of Her nose until the wrinkle was well and truly gone. Until She was blinking softly at Dean, still not smiling but nowhere near tearing at whatever seams held Her together.
Dean gave Her a small grin. “You wanna play a game?”
She blinked at him for a second, but Dean knew She understood. That he’d heard enough, and She never needed to say more if She didn’t want to. Even if Dean was going to spend a long time—when he finally had some of it to spare—trying to track down Her family and introduce them to the barrel of his gun, She’d never have to say another damn word about them. Dean would stay here, with Her, no matter what.
She relaxed against his side, returning his grin with teasing words. “No, De. You never have real games-“
“This is a real game,” he shrugged. “Winner takes all-“
“What’s all?”
“Whatever they want.” He winked at Her, and she shook her head.
“I’m not betting my favor, Winchester. And you haven’t even said the fucking game-“
“I’m getting there. See all those assholes?” Dean jerked his head out to the crowd, and She nodded with a frown. “We’re gonna watch them, place our bets on their lives, and then go work out whatever we can. Closest bet wins.”
“Their lives?“ She stared at him, shaking Her head. “What-“
“Names, occupations, personal lives?” Dean suggested, and She nodded slowly.
“Personal lives like marital status and kids?”
“Sure. Same first letter counts for the name guess-“
“And most correct guesses wins.” She finished. “We pose as the married couple getting to know people until we work out the information.”
Dean nodded, and a smile crept over Her gorgeous face.
“What are we betting?”
Dean knew what he wanted. It was an old desire. One that would be stuck on his brain until it was fulfilled. “I win, I get to hear you sing, Princess.”
“You- why?”
He shrugged, just shooting her a wink. Flush. Breath. Lips. “How about you?”
“I-“ She paused, a small smile crossing Her face, and raised Her chin. “I want to dance. Together.”
Dean scoffed. “No. I don’t-“
“That my bet, Winchester.” She raised Her pinky, giving him a pointed look. “Take it or leave it.”
He’d take it. He was fucking pissed about it, but it was Her, so Dean would take it in a heartbeat.
He rolled his eyes, but hooked his pinky through Her’s.
“Bossy-“
“That’s rude, Dean.” She fluttered Her eyes at him, and if She wanted Dean mobile and functional, she needed to stop fucking doing that. “No way to talk to your fake wife.”
He shrugged, even as his traitorous fucking heart started to pound in his ears. “You’re the one who fake married me.”
“No,” She let out a dramatic sigh, pouting up at him “The man I fake married would’ve never called me bossy, you’ve changed, and I’m leaving you for the pool boy-“
Dean pinched Her side, grinned at the high squeak that escaped Her lips. ”You’re having too much fun with this, Princess.“
She shrugged. “Well, my husband’s neglecting me, I need to find fun wherever I can-“
“I think,” he drawled, leaning down slightly, unable and unwilling to stop himself. He was drowning in Her. Crashing into Her. So fucking close and for the first time he didn’t feel like She was going to vanish into air, and he could fucking smell Her it was a drug. “You will find that I’m the funnest son of a bitch here. I think you’re gonna forget about your pool boy by the time the night is over, sweetheart.”
“You-“ She swallowed, staring at Dean with slightly glossy eyes, and right fucking there. “Funnest isn’t a word.”
“Uh huh.” He smirked at Her, tilting his head with a grin. “You ready for target one?”
A small, pouting frown crossed Her face, and whatever spell Dean had managed to pull off there vanished in a second. “Why do you get to choose the first target-“
“Because it’s my game.”
“But-“
“Nope. Target one.” Dean pointed over the crowd to a man wearing what seemed to be a bowler hat, grinning down at Her. “Richard. Single. Failed supervillain.”
She giggled, “That’s not a real job, Winchester-“
“It is to me. Your move, your highness.”
Her eyes narrowing in focus, and Dean had a sudden feeling he’d made a mistake with this game. “Jonathan. Married but she’s not here, she’s home with the kids. Banker.”
They moved up to the man, acting drunk and dumb and asking carefully questions as if they were interrogating a vic, and She’d been on the money.
James. Married with two kids. Not a banker, but not a failed super villain either.
And Dean knew he’d made a mistake, because She was amazing at this. She was wiping the fucking floor with him, and Dean was starting to suspect everyone here was in on it. That She was somehow saying things that hadn’t been true an hour ago, but then She’d demand they were and they just… would be. She said everything with that mind-numbing, easy confidence like it was fact, and Dean was pretty sure if she looked him in the eyes and said the sun is actually blue, Deano, he’d believe it. Then he’d wake up in the morning tomorrow, and the sun would be blue.
And She won. By a fucking mile. They stopped in a small corner of the room, and didn’t even bother to compare scores because She’d won. And Dean could’ve said he was just off his game, but She was smiling at him and bouncing on Her feet, looking so fucking happy, and he didn’t know how to do anything but stare at Her.
She’d called him Her husband almost a hundred times tonight.
It was going to haunt him, well past the grave.
“You owe me a dance,” She said, watching Dean like She always had, like he was worth looking at, and Dean would give Her anything.
“Guess so,” he took a long step forward, smirking at Her, and if he played this right he’d be able cast that spell on Her again. Make Her feel half of what he did, when he was trapped in Her orbit with no desire to escape. “You think you’ll be able to keep up?”
“Keep up-“
“I don’t like to dance,” Dean drawled Her name, leaning down. Just a little further down. Flush. Breath. Lips. “But I can. I’m gonna blow your mind, Princess-“
The ring of Her phone cut through the air, and they blinked at each other. Stuck time for a brief, infinite moment before She cleared Her throat, and outstretched Her hand.
Her phone was in Dean’s pocket.
He didn’t remember putting it there. But he also hadn’t really been thinking about anything but Her.
“It’s Sam,” She muttered, frowning at the screen when he passed it to Her. “I’m gonna, uh-“
Dean nodded, fidgeting with his cuffs as he watched her, and something had grown. Dean wasn’t losing his mind, something had become suddenly heavy and potent in the air, and he knew She could at least feel that too. She was leaning forwards into him, Her fingers moving in an awkward motion on the screen where She was always so deliberate and careful, and She may have never felt the pull but Dean was damn sure She could feel this-
“Hey, what’s-“ She frowned into the air, and Dean could hear Sam’s slightly muffled voice over the speaker.
He frowned, lowering his voice to breathe and holding Her gaze as he mouthed at Her. “What-“
She held up a finger, giving Dean a stern glare as she spoke to Sam. “Yeah, I guessed that, where-“
Sam started talking again, and Her brow drew into that adorable, concerning wrinkle.
“Are you-“ Sam said something, and She sighed. “Okay. Get the car started, we’ll probably have to make a run for it-“
“A run for it-“
She kicked Dean in the shin as Sam snapped something through the speaker, and She nodded, dropping the phone from Her mouth.
“Sam says to shut up.”
Dean scowled. “Tell him to shut up.”
She grinned, and raised the phone back to Her mouth. “Dean says you should shut up.”
Sam grumbled something, and Her gaze never broke from Dean’s as Her grin grew.
“Sam says you’re a child.”
“He’s the child-“
“Dean says you’re a child-“
Sam snapped, and She rolled her eyes.
“I am not encouraging him- Yeah, fine, tell me.”
Dean moved a step closer, trying to overhear what Sammy was saying to Her, but she went tense, and he froze.
“Sam.” Her voice had dropped to a firm, almost harsh tone, and that was never a good sign. “There’s no way- There’s not-“
Whatever Sam said sounded like an apology, and She shook her head, frowning at the air.
“Then I’m not-“
Another pause for Sam to speak. Dean was going to lose his mind.
She let out a long breath, the wrinkle fully on Her brow. “You’ve got to be fucking me.”
———
There were more of them. You’d destroyed the arrowhead and almost lost your mind over it, but there were more of them.
Those stupid fucking solemn oath weapons. Jo had said there was an arsenal of them, but they were supposed to be rare. That had been a big part of your fight with Sam, after Dean had eased you back together and you’d fully adapted to Sam knowing.
“What about the arrowhead?” Sam had snapped, his voice hushed even though Dean was out getting food. “You just destroyed something that’s like, thousands of years old, and irreplaceable, do you not even care-“
“No.” You’d hissed. “I don’t, Sam, you know why? It was fucking dangerous, and we don’t need any more of that.”
“They’re rare!” He’d snapped, narrowing his eyes. “That might have been the only one discovered in our lifetime-“
“Good. I hope that’s true.” You’d raised your chin, not breaking your ground, and the fight had, eventually, waned off.
Sam wouldn’t tell Dean. He was still a little pissed you’d broken the arrowhead, but as the weeks had passed and he still hadn’t told Dean, you’d decided he could know more. What the arrowhead did. What the episodes were, and everything you knew about the green demons, and why you couldn’t risk anything. Nothing could be a game, or a gamble, or a chance. You had to place bets you knew you’d win.
Otherwise everything that was already hanging on such a thin fucking line would fall apart, and you lose Dean.
You couldn’t lose Dean. He’s annoyed that you and Sam won’t talk about the episode in the motel, but he’s still here. Still sharing your bed, in a way that’s not everything but still more than you’d ever dreamed. Handsome in the light of the party and making your knees weak, grinning at you when he says a joke, laughing at your side and making every Silver.
And you’d never said it, but Sam still knows. You can see it in his eyes—when he looks between you and Dean shoving and teasing each other with an odd expression—that Sam’s painfully aware that when you’d described everything to him, you’d glossed over Dean for a reason. Because he’s more. He’s golden and peaceful to exist in the gravity of, and you couldn’t lobotomize him out of you if you tried.
You can’t lose Dean.
And there shouldn’t have been another solemn oath weapon.
But here you are, moving silently through the halls with Dean one pace behind you, and you keep checking over your shoulder that he’s still there, because you can never fucking get what you want.
Dean hisses your name, grabbing your wrist and stopping you in your steps. “Sam said left.”
“I-“ You glance around the abandoned area, and shake your head. “He said left after the big cat painting-“
“Yep.” Dean points back down the hall, right to an oil painting of a massive, winged lion. “You’re off your game, Princess-“
“Shut up.”
You stomp past him, your nails digging into your skin, and he’s right. Your head is spinning around Dean’s warm, almost caring eyes on yours at the party and the fact that these weapons were supposed to be fucking rare, and you’re distracted.
Sam had been right. These things were supposed to be once in a lifetime. Not pop up every other month at the worst possible times, ruining your perfectly good chance to crash further into Dean, to make everything about him a little more permanent that just a mark of him on everything you see and a spiderweb of pure, iridescent light in your body.
That was something you haven’t told Sam. Or Jo. Definitely not Bobby. Since the motel room, since the fractured pieces sealed back together and Dean stayed, the White hasn’t been aching and pulling for him. The pain is still strong and blinding and horrible, but the Darkness seems to have soothed by the light of Dean that moves through your whole body like blood.
You don’t know what it is. The spiderweb. You don’t really have time to figure it out, and it’s terrifying and amazing. It hums and refracts around all the time, and sings when Dean is near, and when he’s gone there’s no anguish or whining plea to be near him again. It like he’s stuck into it, and every bit of you is assured that he will come back. Dean, physically, may come and go, but he always comes back. He may glower and grumble about pointless things, and leave the motel with Sam to research Lilith without you, but he always comes back.
It’s like he’s faithful. He’s not even yours, but he’s still a geyser that you always know with burst up with cooling water and shifting colors in the sunlight, and he’ll come back.
At least you have that. If you can’t have reasonable lack of dangerous weapons and one moment without some kind of pain in your life, at least you have Dean.
Still a pace behind you, walking in perfectly matching time with your steps and keeping his voice hushed as he says your name.
“You sure you-“
“I know where I’m going, Winchester.” You shoot him a glower, and he just shrugs.
“Okay.”
“What does that mean-“
“It doesn’t mean anything. I’m just saying okay-“
“No, you said okay-“
Dean grunts your name, taking a large step forward until he’s right at your side, looking down at you with an annoyingly amused expression. “Deep breath, Princess. I said okay. And if you’re wrong, I’ll just pick you up and take you wherever Sammy said the, uh- Thing is.”
It’s impossible not to lean a little into his side when he’s grinning at you like that. Like it’s easy, and nothing is really all that wrong in the world, and he does trust you. You still haven’t told him what you are, and why this is making you lose your mind, but Dean trusts you and that’s going to kill you more than any weapon could.
And he’s baiting you. Giving you a reason to spar back and forth with him, and not dwell on how fucking annoying this is.
It’s never hard to fall for him. It’s impossible not to, when he’s all but asking.
You raise your brows at him, your mouth pulling up slightly. “The thing?”
Dean shrugs, his attention returning to the hallway as he walks at your side. “You didn’t freakin’ tell me what it is, sweetheart, and I’m not a mind reader-“
“It’s a-“ You sigh, sorting out every word carefully before you speak. “Sam thinks it’s like the arrowhead.”
“Like the arrowhead?”
You hum, nodding slowly. “Same kind of weapon. He said it looks similar, on the camera feed, and the event invitation had a picture-“
“Invitation?” Dean frowns. “I didn’t see an invitation-“
“That’s cause we’re party crashers, De, we didn’t get an invitation-“
“Then how-“
You shrug, shooting Dean an amused look. “Sam can be sneaky. I think he might have broken into some cars.”
Dean snorts. “Don’t know how he ever manages stealth cases, he’s a freakin’ mammoth-“
“It’s easy to commit crimes when no one’s watching,” you shrug, bumping your shoulder into Dean’s with a grin. “That’s why we’re doing so well.”
He rolls his eyes. “And I thought we were just a good team-“
“Two things can be true, Deano. And Sam-” You scan around the hall with a frown. “Do you remember if he said left or right?”
“Right.” Dean’s hand rests on your back, turning you in the right direction as he shoots you a wink. “I thought you were leading us, Princess-“
“Shut up.”
“Bos- Shit-“
Dean groans as you elbow him in the gut, and you can’t stop the giggle from escaping your lips.
“Do you want to hear about the artifact or not?”
“I thought we were done talking about it,” he grumbles, his hand finding your back once more, almost like a fucking magnet. “C’mon, we can’t stall.”
You shrug, but let Dean keep moving you down the hall. You’d let him move you anywhere. “I wasn’t the one stalling-“
“Artifact, sweetheart. What else is so damn important for me to know about-“
“If you don’t want to know, just say-“
Dean grunts your name, shooting you a glare, and you fucking giggle again.
This is fucking serious. This is, in several ways, your worst nightmare. But Dean’s here, and he’s adorable and touching you and here, and you can’t stop giggling. Not as the spiderweb seems to cling to every drop of his attention and grow stronger, and your head starts to feel light and easy as the pain eases, and the world blurs to Silver.
And Dean’s just watching you. Not snapping for you to focus or get it tougher. Just moving you down the hallway and scanning from door to door, his hand still on your back, and small grin pulling at his face.
His gaze flicks between two doors, his brow furrowing slightly, and you tug on his arm.
“Three more doors.” You say, angling your head down the hall. “It might be locked, but I can pick it-“
Dean shakes his head. “I’ll just break it down-“
“Do not break it down, Dean.”
“Ooh, Dean.” He shoots you a wink, and you meld a little further into his touch. “You’re serious-“
“Shut up or you get elbowed again.” You mutter, he opens his stupidly pretty mouth with shining eyes, and you wrinkle your nose at him. “You say bossy, and you get stabbed.”
He chuckles—the sound rolling through your whole body—and looks back around the hall. “You actually gonna tell me about the artifact, Princess, or am I just that charming and distracting?”
He is.
He doesn’t get to know that.
“Sam says we’re not supposed to touch it.” You hum, hitching up your dress as you move over the awfully dusty hallway carpet. “It’s- He said it’s like the arrowhead because it has all the same writing, and looks about the same age, and that means it’s dangerous. I brought a napkin.”
Dean shoots you an odd look. “Where-“
You reach over, patting his suit jacket, and he scowls.
“You know, sweetheart, in another life you’re a fantastic criminal-“
You grin at him. “I’m a fantastic criminal now.”
“So you are a criminal?” He smirks, stopping you in front a large, polished, wooden door. “Years of saying you’re not stealing shit, and-“
“Stabbed, Winchester. Gonna get stabbed.”
He laughs, loud and echoing through the empty hall, and you’re too drunk on the sound to remind him you’re supposed to be sneaking around. You just roll your eyes, pull out the bobby pin you’d kept in your dress, and drop to your knees in front of the door.
“No touching anything.” You remind him as you work the door, looking up with your best stern expression. “I’m serious.”
“Yeah- uh. No touching. Got it.” Dean shifts on his feet, rubbing his neck and suddenly looking very uncomfortable, and you frown at him.
“What’s wrong with you.”
He shrugs. It’s not convincing. “Nothing, Princess-“
“Dean.”
“I said nothing-“
“Liar.” You hum, the lock clicks, and you grin up at him. “Ready?”
He blinks at you, nodding, and you tilt your head at him.
“De, you’re being weird-“
“Just open the damn door.” He grumbles, fidgeting with the cuff of his jacket. “C’mon, Sammy’s waiting.”
You wrinkle your nose at him, but push to your feet, and Dean steadies you with a hand on your back. Your lower back. Right where the depression for his touch had never fully mended or faded, sending a rush of lightning up the spiderweb and making you stand a little taller.
“Ready?” He grunts, his expression suddenly steeled and firm, and you nod a little stupidly.
“Yeah.”
You’re not. Dean gives a firm nod—his spare hand wandering to where you know he’s keeping his gun—and you didn’t think you could’ve been ready. Not as you open the door and see it.
It’s not an arrowhead this time. It’s a knife. Made in a blatantly similar style to the arrowhead, with all the same writing carved over the blade and handle, but clean. It’s not dusted and faded like the arrowhead was, it’s polished and shining in the low light of the room, and it’s like a flame. The words that you can read shift as they always do—the glint of the metal entrancing and bright—your breath catches in your throat as if the blade had been driven through your neck.
It looks like it was made to be held. The hilt looks almost identical to that of the knife on your thigh—the knife Dean had bought you, the knife that was yours more than anything else ever has been—and you think, if you held this knife, it would fit perfectly in your hand. No callouses or oddly places fingers. An extra limb, easing everything further to Silver.
The Silver wants to feel it. The knife is calling you forward, and you can vaguely hear someone important and golden and critical calling your name, but you can’t look anywhere but the knife. The closer you move, almost gliding across the room, the more you know that you have to hold it. You can’t read the Latin that well, or the Hebrew and Arabic at all, but the shifting words are all familiar too.
For the Woman of the high, promised of Him.
Your brain feels as if it’s being muffled. Thoughts of woman, not women, and Him flash over your brain with brief scrutiny, but they shrivel up within a second. Every part of you feels like it’s being suffocated by the almost glowing knife, and the spiderweb is bursting like fireworks through your body, trying to vault you back where you belong, but you have to keep moving forward. It’s like there’s a phantom behind you, pushing you forward, whispering in your ear that it’s yours, made for you, take it because it’s been waiting thousands of years for you, and He’s been waiting longer, and all of this is made for you so take it-
Something louder shatters the spell. For half a second there’s a roar of your name from something that feels weaker than the phantom—but louder than your heart and more vital that the blood in your body—rushing your vision into focus and that’s Dean, colorful and running through your blood and over your bones and a little to the right of your heart and Dean-
You almost turn to see him, almost stop moving to the weapon, but the phantom shoves you forward, and you’re gone.
Your hand wraps around the knife, the Silver flares and flashes and consumes your body. You feel some part of your body give out—you’re not sure, everything feels like you and you don’t know what’s your body and what’s just the rest of the universe—and right before it all gets too big you see a flash of white, radiant light dissipate into the air.
And then you’re gone.
The whole world booming out and out and out, and you’re the gravity of the earth and the heat of its core and the flood and turning water in every ocean and the infinite loneliness of every star, and everything is-
It’s too much. Too big. You can’t bear it. You can’t really see anything, but you can see everything and you feel thin, stretched apart, not your own.
There’s no pain in your body for half a second, and you grit your teeth and squeeze your eyes shut to drag yourself back down as something curses and shouts around you and you crash back down into your own body like a comet.
And the pain returns. It hits you, blows right into your guts and rips at your skull as you choke on the Darkness, and it’s still too much. The knife is still in your hands and you can’t drop it, and someone is grabbing you and they feel right but something is wrong-
You choke out a word, and you don’t know what it means but it’s a prayer. A name.
Dean. Where’s Dean-
“I’m here,” the same low voice says your name, and a rough finger in pressed to your brow, running down your nose and easing the world back together. “I- Shit, we gotta go, there’s an alarm-“
You shake your head, repeating the word because it’s making things better. Dean. Dean. Dean-
“I know, I’ve gotcha, just- c’mon-“ Something steady grabs your face, and everything keeps mending as the spiderweb catches the touch and spins it into illuminating color in your body. “Son of a- Sammy said not to touch it, Princess, why’d you-“
You grab the hands over your face, keeping them where they’re supposed to be, and you can see him.
He’s beautiful. Golden. Better than the Sun, or that strange white light from before.
“Dean.” You whisper, and it pulls you a little further down. “You’re- Dean-“
“Yeah, I got that. Sweetheart, we need to go and if I gotta carry you, I will.”
You think he’s scanning over you for injury, but you can’t really tell because he’s just Gold.
Almost just Gold.
There’s something else. Something you’ve never seen on him before, even when he’s only been this same, striking Gold. It’s like a stain, or a scratch, or a wound. A mark on the Gold that’s wrong, because it’s seeping and pulsing like an infection, and it’s not yours. All of the Gold feels like it’s a little bit you. This dark red, bloodied mark doesn’t belong to you, it belongs to something steel gray and wrong and demonic-
Something clicks in your brain. Snaps into place and rushes through your whole body, and the sound that leaves you isn’t fully human.
“Dean.” You choke out, and you think your nails are digging into his skin but you don’t care, he’s going to turn to ash and blood but you need him, you can’t fucking lose him, not now, fucking God, no-
He mutters your name, and you shake your head frantically.
“What-“ You swallow, your gaze fixed on the brand. It’s a brand.
A claim.
“What did you do.” You whisper, and you can’t really hear yourself over the blood in your ears, but you know he can hear you. You know because he freezes. Because the spiderweb is aching and howling, and-
“I-“
“What did you do?!” You’re half screaming. You don’t care. “Dean- you- why?! Why the fuck-“
He grunts your name, but there’s no fire and fight behind his voice. He sounds pained and worried, and it’s too much-
“I don’t- You’re freakin’ me out, I need you to tell me what wrong-“
You shake your head, almost clawing at his skin. “Why. Dean, why-“
“I don’t-“
Something bursts through the ringing and pounding in your head. Something loud and blaring, and Dean freezes again, turning away from you, and he’s going to leave, you’re going to lose him, he’s going to go away and you’re trying to grab at the brand and remove it but everything hurts and you can’t fucking breathe-
“No.” Something drags your hand from your throat—you don’t even remember putting it there—with a firm grip, and suddenly you’re rising. Not on your own legs, shaking and weak and not fully yours, nothing in you is yours but the Silver and the spiderweb, and they’re whining with pain because why, why the fuck would Dean do something so stupid- “We’re not doing that, we need to move. Hold on.”
The words feel like a commandment, and you listen to them without thought. You wrap your arms around Dean’s neck, and everything slowly begins to come back into focus as he holds you.
He’s warm. Solid and warm, panting slightly in your ear as he hauls you down the flashing hallway, and there are red lights flashing around you but they’re not as bright as Dean.
Still Golden.
Still about to be lost.
His touch and the smell of grass and spice are grounding you in your body, but the Silver won’t stop roaring. The Gold isn’t all yours. It’s supposed to be twined and fit with you, but Dean’s marked to be taken away, and it’s all you can do not to burst into tears. Every breath is forced and mechanical. You know you might strangle Dean with your grip, might mark him with your nails sunken into his skin, but then maybe you’d get to keep him. Maybe your stain would be greater than the one on the Gold, and you’d get to keep Dean.
You don’t notice when the blur begins. Not until it’s too late, and the only thing louder than your blood in your ears and the pounding of the Silver against your heart and ribs is the Darkness. Tearing from the Silver and reaching out, an instinct engraved deep onto your nerves that something is wrong, there’s a danger and it’s coming and Dean-
The first one arrives before you can screech and choke a warning in Dean’s ear. All you’re doing is blinking in a frantic, rapid double-pattern, but he’s looking ahead at the hall and can’t see you anymore that he can see the demon. Almost materializing out of the blood-red shadows, raising a knife from Dean’s back and grinning at you like it knows, like it can see what’s making you fall apart and it’s reveling in it.
The blur slams into you full force, and before you can think you’re scraping out of Dean’s hold, shoving him away just as the venomous, raging and violent shape of green crashes into him.
It’s close, but the demon misses. Just barely. It stumbles forwards but recovers fast, and you’re still too much and not enough, feeling all the demons fury and the frantic pulse of the alarms and the ache of the creaking floor under your feet.
Dean shouts your name, and you hear it over the blur, but you can’t move. You’ve pressed yourself up to the wall as the Darkness starts to rip out of your control, you weren’t ever supposed to stop moving but you’re frozen. Everything hurts. Dean is roaring for you but you’ve already lost him and you’re horrible anyway, you never could’ve kept him, but it just fucking hurts-
He’s fighting. You can hear gunshots echoing in what sounds like the distance, but is barely a few feet away, see through the blur that Dean is swinging punches and slamming the rioting green into walls. They’re attacking him. Not you. None of them are even sparing you a glance, they’re all focused on Dean, and you can’t lose him. You need to get to him but you can’t move. You’re going to lose him and you’re not you and he’s not yours but you can’t fucking lose him, and you’re caught in a loop but you don’t know how to pull yourself out without letting the Darkness over take you, and if you do you’ll hurt Dean, and you can’t hurt Dean, not like this, not with the cancerous pain that always infected him but never made him leave for good, but you’re going to lose him for good and you can’t lose him and he’s gone but he’s right there and you can’t fucking breathe, can’t lose Dean, can’t hurt him, can’t move-
The blur freezes. For one quick second everything is captured stasis, and you can see everything so clearly it feels fake.
Three wrathful shapes of green, backing Dean into a corner as he swings a vase he must have grabbed from one of the pedestals in the hall, his face set in determination but something flashing in his eyes that you recognize.
A crack in the armor.
Fear.
But it’s not aimed inward. It’s not caving into and crushing the Gold, not a knowledge that he’s surrounded, the vase isn’t useful against the demons, and his gun is lost down the darkened hall. It’s fear that’s screaming and reaching to get to you, sunken back down to the floor and choking yourself with a firm hand.
He’s not looking at the demon that has its knife raised, aimed right for his chest.
He’s looking at you.
And when everything rushes back, it moves to fast. You’re not breathing enough, so you can’t scream. You’re frozen, so you can’t move.
The demon’s blade sinks into Dean, just a little to the right of his heart, and you don’t care that you’re not you anymore. You don’t need to be you for this.
The Darkness is let out with your will. You urge it on, letting it turn you into more than just a panicking girl in a corner.
You don’t really know what you are. You don’t really care.
All that matters in the weak noise of pain that left Dean when he fell to the ground, and the fact that you want something to suffer for it.
You’re more than the Darkness this time, though. The White is just as savage, and violent, and righteous. You’re something that makes the Green balk. Cower. Fucking retreat.
They don’t get three steps away before they’re nothing. Not killed. Not exorcized. Eliminated. Crushed and folded and turned into just another part of the sheer power you can feeling, rushing through the world and bigger than anything. It’s a part of you. It’s too much and you don’t care, because it more than you should be able to handle, but you’re not overwhelmed. It feels right. Whatever you’re meant to be, it’s this. Silver and vast and furious and-
The spiderweb in your body pulses weakly, and something smaller and concentrated makes a noise that sounds like your name. It sounds important. It’s golden and barely a spot on everything you can see, but it’s the only thing stronger than you are and you’re looking through everything for it—even as something pure and White tugs your further into whatever you’re turning into—because you need it, more than anything you need whatever is calling you-
The noise repeats, and the spiderweb is white-hot with pain, and you see him.
Dean.
Everything falls back into you. And it’s loud—alarms blaring and people shooting from somewhere in the distance—but it’s just you and Dean in the whole world. You fall to your knees at his side because there’s never anywhere else to be, and you don’t know if you’re choking on the darkness, or the air, or your own heartbeat when you see the blood over his chest.
He’s supposed to have time. You’d seen it, on the mark, that he had time. Not enough time, but time. You still need to scream at him for being an idiot, and you need to pretend you hate him for doing this to you when it really just hurts, and you need more time-
He’s making strained sounds that still sound too much like your name, but he’s so pale, and his eyes are barely open, and when your hand finds his brow he’s already cold.
And the Darkness is still bubbling at the surface. And you might hurt him but he’s always half-gone, and you won’t lose him. Not like this.
“Dean,” you whisper, and you think you can feel your heart cleaving in half at the moan that escapes his lips. “I- I’m sorry. I didn’t- You’re- If this hurts, I’m so sorry. Just don’t leave. Please don’t go- I- Here-“ You grab his hand, and his fingers through your like it’s an instinct, but his grip isn’t as tight as it’s been before. “Don’t go. You’re not allowed to go, so fucking don’t. And I-“ You take a shaking breath, and you’re choking on the pain. The Darkness rotting and molding around your lungs, trying to claw out and fix this.
You’ll let it. Just this once, to keep him, you’ll let it.
“I’m sorry.” You whisper, and you know he doesn’t hear you. He doesn’t even move. “I’m sorry, Dean. But I won’t- I won’t.” Another stronger breath. No other way.
You just need more time.
Your head bows to his chest, you press your brow to his shoulder, take a ragged breath that’s just to keep yourself together, and you let go. The Darkness falls out of you, right into Dean. Not just a drop. All of it.
It’s not painful. It takes you a second to realizes, but there’s no pain at all.
And it’s not the Darkness, it’s the Silver. Flowing out of you like a breath and rushing through the Gold—driven on by the spiderweb and moving a little deeper into Dean’s body than you’ve ever known existed—as the stench of metal fades.
When you lift your head back up, Dean’s eyes are fully closed, but his wound is gone, his breath is even, and his heartbeat is steady under your hands.
But there’s something new. You blink at him, looking so peaceful—his face relaxed and full of color like nothing ever happened at all—and right next to that brand, there’s something that hadn’t been there before.
It grooved and running over him like little cracks of iridescent color. Glowing and pulsing and rushing through his whole body, and they don’t look wrong but there something deep, deep under them. Shifting and humming and-
Silver.
You marked him. More than just one small spot, more than just condemnation. There’s Silver in the Gold because you’d lost control and marked him, and it doesn’t seem to be painful but you never should’ve fucking lost yourself, you should’ve found another way, should’ve tried harder to only let less of the Silver out, should’ve just called-
Sam shouts your name, and you hear him barreling down the hallway behind you. Dean shifts a little against you, leaning closer to your body, and you don’t know what to do.
The knife is discarded on the floor, the hilt pressed right against your shin.
All you can work out is that Sam can’t touch it. You remove your own knife from against your thigh—keeping one hand tangled in Dean’s—and replace it with the new, dangerous one, right as Sam stops at your side.
This is going to be hard. And complicated. And painful.
But you don’t know what to do.
So you’re glad Sam is here.
“What the hell happened?” He breathes, and you take a deep breath, brushing your hand over Dean’s brow.
He’s warm again, and something loosens in your chest.
“We got jumped,” your voice is soft, but you’re afraid that you’ll wake Dean, and he needs rest. “The Assassins. But they went for Dean, and he got hurt.”
Sam drops to your side in a fraction of a second, and you don’t need to look at him to know he’s panicking. “Fuck- Where’d they-“
“He’s fine.” You mumble. “I fixed him.”
“You-“ You can feel Sam’s gaze on you as he says your name. You don’t really care. You don’t want to look away from Dean. “What did you do.”
“I fixed him.” You repeat, and Sam sighs.
“You didn’t use the-“
“I did.”
“And the demons-“
“I destroyed them.” You don’t like how passive you sound about it, but they hurt Dean. He’s the world, and they hurt him, and no guilt festers in your gut.
You hope it hurt. You hope that they didn’t end up wherever dead demons go. You hope that they spend the rest of eternity sufferings as a million disbanded particles, feeling the pain of everything the same was you always have.
Sam repeats your name, and there’s a caution in his voice that he’s not very good at hiding. “I thought you said you weren’t going to use it-“
“I know.” You shrug, finally tearing your attention for Dean’s pretty, consuming face and meeting Sam’s eyes. “And I don’t care.”
“Look, I-“ Sam glances down at Dean, running a hand over his face with a shake of his head. “I know you care about him, a lot. Like, so much I don’t really understand it, but-“
“Sam.” You say, keeping your voice so neutral it rots on your tongue, because this is going to kill you, but you can’t let it. Not when you still have time. “When is it going to happen?”
He blinks at you, his expression faltering slightly. “When-“
“When is his time up.” You whisper. “When are they coming for him.” and Sam flinches, but doesn’t deny it. You’d prayed you were wrong.
You’re not that lucky.
“I- did he tell you-“
You shake your head, and every movement is too much. “I saw it. When.”
Sam just stares at you, and you swallow.
“Please, Sam.” You’re begging. There’s nothing else to do. “I- I need to know. Please.”
“Three months.” He mutters, and he won’t meet your gaze. “We- We should go. We can’t stay here, and this is-“ He sighs, shooting Dean’s sleeping body a glower. “This isn’t the place to do this.”
You nod, everything in you feeling a little numb, and help Sam haul Dean up between your body, shuffling him out a back door to the Impala.
Sam could’ve carried him. Dean’s not small, but Sam’s bigger and stronger, and it might have been faster to just toss Dean into Sam’s arms.
But you think Sam knows now isn’t the time to pull Dean from your side. Not as your head continues to spin around three months. Dean has three months.
You can’t lose him.
But he only has three months.
You’ve never been so purely numb like this. There’s still the pain—increased tenfold and almost knocking you to your knees as the Darkness shreds itself apart—but everything else is numb. Not numb like nothing. Numb like too much. Numb like the spaces between the stars, filled with something but too big for it to be identifiable. The world suddenly too much in a way you’ve never experienced before, where it’s vast and cold and lonely like a pit left in your chest by something you’d never know was removable in the first place.
It’s numb like grief.
But Dean isn’t gone yet. He has time. You’d marked him in a way you know you’ll never forgive yourself for, and you’re almost strangling the Darkness to keep yourself upright—with nails and bitten lips and held breaths, by fucking force because there’s no other way—but you’d bought Dean more time.
And he’s here. He’s still here. Just for now Dean is slumped into your side on the Impala’s back bench, his head pressed into your stomach as he holds you like you’re a buoy in an invisible storm, breathing heavily but still breathing.
You can hear him breathing. You can feel him holding you. You can run your fingers through his hair and feel him almost relax from the movement, and you can see every shadow of the road dance over his handsome face. You don’t need to grieve him now because he’s here, and he has time.
You have time.
“I got the blade.” You mumble, tracing over the line of Dean’s cheekbones. “It’s in my- fuck-“ Your breath catches in your throat, and you look up to Sam as panic start to seize over your chest. “Sam, my knife-“
“I grabbed it.” He mutters. “It’s in my jacket. I know it’s important to you. It’s- Dean got it for you.”
You nod, hoping Sam can feel your gratitude, because you don’t know what to do. To say or figure out, and you’re stuck in loud noise and too much color like a broken TV, and you’d talk to Sam but you really can’t look at him, because he’s still one shade wrong, and you don’t know what to do-
“How’d you work it out?” Sam asks, his voice barely audible over the engine, and you swallow.
“I told you, I saw it. It was like a- sort of- I-“ You take a shaking breath, shaking your head. “I don’t want to talk about it. Please.”
Sam grunts, and time stretches so slow. You don’t speak again until you’re parked back at the motel, until Dean’s hauled back into bed—your bed, the bed you share, if you lose him you’ll have to learn to sleep again without Dean, and you don’t think you ever really knew how—and Sam drops in a chair, running a hand over his face with a long breath.
“I wanted to tell you.” He mutters, and you look up from the dresser with a frown.
“What?”
“I swear,” he says your name, and there’s something in his voice that so desperate you can’t look away. “I told him, over and over again that he needed to tell you, but he- It’s Dean and he, I think he was worried you- Shit, he thought you’d leave-“
“I know.” You pull out the new blade from your thigh, turning it over in your hands. The words are still shifting, they still read the exact same, and the Darkness wants it almost as much as the White and the spiderweb are screaming for you to return to Dean’s side. “I have a theory about something. I’ll need to run it past Jo and Bobby, but I think I’m right.”
Dean would laugh and say you always think you’re right.
Sam just blinks at you. “A-“
“Theory.” You shrug, grabbing a spare, dirty shirt from the top of the dresser. “I’ve told you about all the colors, like with the arrowhead-“
“Yeah, but-“
“I think I worked out what they are. It- It really makes a lot of sense, and I don’t know how we’d confirm it, but-“
Sam says your name, his voice firm as you wrap the Blade in the shirt. “Why are we talking about this?”
“Because.” You whisper. “I- I need to.”
“But now that you know, you can help us-“
“I don’t know how, Sam.” You flinch at your own tone, and you have to brace a hand on the dress to keep yourself from the ground. “I- I can’t fix this, I’ll make it worse, I’ll make Dean worse-“
Sam mutters something, and you can’t hear him over your own short breaths or the ringing into your ears.
“I hurt him, Sam. I’m going to hurt him and I don’t know what to do- I don’t know what to do-“
You can’t breathe. Sam moves like he’s going to try to help you, but he’s too slow and too hesitant and you stumble back with a strangled, weak sound.
“I can’t- Please- I don’t- I can’t-“
You’re pressed back into the wall when Sam reaches you, and you’re too tired to fight. Too frozen to claw and scream, only able to take uneven breaths and sob into Sam’s shirt as it sinks further into you.
You’d hurt him, and you needed him like he could never need you, but you were going to lose him. Forever. No coming back, no spell or ritual or scream of his name to the sky bringing him back to your side. You marred Dean with the Silver, you’re going to lose him, and he didn’t trust you-
That one’s new. Dean didn’t trust you, and the broken sound you make is almost inhuman. Sam knew. Bobby probably knew. And Dean didn’t want you to know.
He thought you’d leave. He didn’t trust you enough to know you couldn’t drag yourself away from him—not permanently, not in a way that razed every piece of your body more that it hurt him—if you tried.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” You whisper, leaning a little further into Sam’s hold. “I- If we talk about it, it’s real. Please.”
Sam sighs your name, and when he pulls back his expression on yours unreadable, but he nods all the same. “You need to promise you’ll talk about it with him. For my sanity. Please.”
“I will.”
You’re not lying.
You will. You need to.
Because you kick your dress of like it’s poison on your skin, and take a burning shower until your skin is raw, and scrub your body with sugar until everything stings, and the Darkness is totally under your control, but there’s a thin layer of grime over your organs that’s made of Dean.
Dean didn’t trust you. He wants you enough to keep you around, but he didn’t trust you. He thought you’d leave. He obviously can’t feel he pull—if he did, he know truly leaving is impossible—and that should remind you that you can never really have him, but it just hurts.
It worms and whines over your heart, and it hurts. More than just pain in your body, pain in something deeper, a little to the right of your heart and bursting will dulled colors because this hurts.
Dean’s right not to trust you. You wouldn’t trust you. You still haven’t told him about how wrong you are, but that knowledge doesn’t help. Knowing never helps.
It just makes this hurt more.
And you should get through this. You’ve always gotten through it.
But you can’t say that with certainty. This is too much, and you don’t know what to do.
You’ve always known what to do. And sometimes it was pain and isolation and suffering but it was something. And you’d known Dean was fine. Safer, even, without you there.
But you hadn’t been there, and you’d lost him without knowing it. If you’d been there you might have stopped it. You don’t know what it is, but you could’ve found another way because there’s always another way. You’ve always gotten through it, and you’ve always found another way, and you’re caught in the loop again, but you don’t know what to do-
You don’t know how you end up there—the world blurring in and out as you shuffle around, trying to find something that can keep you busy—but you’re lying flat on the bed, right at Dean’s side. Staring up at the ceiling and caught in the loop with no sign of breaking out.
Sam said he was going out for a drink, and to call him if you need anything.
He just doesn’t want to be here when Dean wakes up.
When you hear a throat clear, and a low groan escape his lips, and turn your head to find him already watching you. Looking right through your neutral expression with a small frown, shattering whatever composure you’d had in a just a second, just by existing.
Dean opens his mouth to say something.
He doesn’t get the chance.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He blinks at you, frown deepening as he scans over your face. “I- uh-“
“The demon deal.” You whisper. “I know, Dean. I- Why?”
You don’t know what you’d expected him to do. Fight. Deny. Lie and spin his way around it.
But he just… caves.
“Sammy tell you?” He mutters, and you’ve never heard him sound more hollow. No charm lining his tone, no fury laced through his every word. Just heavy exhaustion. “I told him not to tell you.”
“Why.” You repeat, pushing up on your palms to stare down at him. “Why, Dean, why didn’t you want him to tell me- I-“
“You didn’t need to know-“
“You don’t get to make that choice for me!” You half scream, and he doesn’t even flinch. “I- I don’t know why, Dean, I just need to know why-“
“You didn’t need to know. It’s not like you’re the one that’s dying, Princess.” He snaps, but there’s still no fight in it. You wish he would fight.
Because you want to scream at him. You need to tell him that you’re furious because you are the one that’s dying. Some part of you that you’ve never understood is going to fucking die because Dean’s-
You can’t say it. You can only be caught on repeat, curling into yourself as you shake your head over and over, repeating the only thing you can think of.
“Why-“
“Why what?” He grunts, and it’s still not angry enough. “Why’d I do something so stupid? Why’d I sacrifice everything for the one person I got left? Mom’s been gone, Dad was gone, you left-“ He pauses, blinking at you with a small shake of his head. “I- It was just Sam, he can live a life-“
“You can live a life!” You protest, digging your nail into your skin to keep yourself from reaching for him, and he scoffs.
“Yeah, okay-“
“I mean it-“
“I know you do.” He mutters. “But that’s not how this shit works-“
“I don’t care! I don’t care how anything works, I don’t care why you did it, I care that you didn’t fucking tell me-“
“Why, you gonna save me, Princess? Gonna work one of your best hunter tricks and pull one over on Lilith for my soul?” He raises his brows at you, and blink.
The Darkness is riot in your body, but caged all the same, and the Blade is over on the dresser, but you can see Dean. Right into him. Past the skin and bone and tissue, right into him.
He’s vulnerable. There’s something that’s deep, deep in his eyes that you’ve never seen in full light before, but something is shifting and it’s like a floodlight has pushed right through it. As if all the stars concentrated into one thing and aimed to the ocean, looking right down into its trenches and pits and seeing every bit of life hidden under.
There’s so much color. It’s luminescent and strange and lonely, but there’s so much. It’s beautiful. Dean’s beautiful. Even when you want to fucking murder him, he’s beautiful.
He’s waiting for you to leave. You can see it. How he’s tensed to build up some barricade to prevent a flood of burning gold. How those cracks you’d left on him are already festering, preparing for your departure.
And that’s something you can do.
You can prove him fucking wrong, and keep him, and save him.
He’d said it like it was a joke.
You mean every single word that spits out of your mouth.
“You’re not going to die.”
He grunts, still just staring at the ceiling, and you lean over to eclipsed the ceiling light. He needs to see you.
“I’m not fucking leaving.” You hiss, and he stares at you with a slightly parted mouth. He’s Golden. He’d have to toss you away with his bare fucking hands and bullets, and even then, you’d still crawl back.
Dean says your name slowly, and you shake your head.
“Partners, Winchester.” You snap. “Safer together, remember? You’re not dying on my watch, so suck it the fuck up.”
Something strange flashes in his eyes, and his voice slightly hoarse. “You should go. Now. Before Sammy gets back.”
“No.”
“It’s your best shot-“
“I don’t fucking care. You’re fucking stuck with me, asshole, and we’re getting you out of this if it kills all fucking three of us. Got it?”
He scans over your face, then down your body, and you don’t understand the expression on his face at all.
“No.” He mutters, his gaze stealing slightly as it meets yours, and there it is. The fucking fight. “You’re not dying, Princess.”
“You’re not the boss of me-“
“Yeah, I got that, but if you die, and I’m dragging you to hell with me. Swear you won’t die.”
He raises his pinky, and you blink. He looks like he wants to kill you.
He’s making you pinky promise.
You raise your own slowly, but narrow your eyes and yank it back at the last second.
“Anything else you need to tell me, Winchester?”
“Nah.” He shrugs. “Deal’s kind of a limit one per customer thing.”
He’s smirking. You don’t laugh.
“We’re doing this my way.” You snap. “Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You keep something like that from me again, I’m killing you myself.”
“Got it. You gonna just keep making demands about my death-“
You hook your pinky through his, and shake it firmly.
“Stop calling it your death.” You snap, leaning back to lie at his side. Keeping your pinky hooked. “You’re going to be fine, you fucking idiot.”
He chuckles. “Bossy.”
You roll your eyes, and decide to strangle him later. After this is done, you’ll shout at him all you want.
But you have three months, and it’s not enough time, but you’ll make it enough time. The only thing you won’t do is use the Darkness—you won’t hurt him further, and he still doesn’t know, and that’s too fucking dangerous and complicated to touch—but you won’t need it.
You only need Dean. And he’s not allowed to die.
So you’re not going to fucking let him.
End Note: That might have been the most Babylon chapter I've Babyloned yet.
Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3
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The whole world booming out and out and out, and you’re the gravity of the earth and the heat of its core and the flood and turning water in every ocean and the infinite loneliness of every star, and everything is-
It’s too much. Too big. You can’t bear it. You can’t really see anything, but you can see everything and you feel thin, stretched apart, not your own.
how the fuck you write this. my brain lagged a little as i tried to visualize it. i am sold.
Author's Note: Much lore and emotions and banter incoming. Enjoy!
Chapter title from Miss Jackson by Panic! At the Disco ft. LOLO
Word Count: 17.1k
Chapter Summary/Warnings: Everyone adjusts to shifting dynamics and a secret is revealed. Usual warnings.
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action
Chapter 10 - Chapter 12
Read on A03!
She drooled in Her sleep.
Just a little bit. Just enough to be caught the streetlights leaking through the curtains, and let Dean know that it was there. A little line that—if he stretched out his hand and allowed himself to pretend he was someone who could be worthy of Her—he could wipe from her cheek.
He never did. He lay in the dark and listened to Sammy’s occasional snore and the wind howling outside their window, and just watched Her until he passed out.
He didn’t have dreams anymore. Every single dream of Her that had been gripping him by the throat had become faded when Dean had found his way back into Her orbit, but now they were gone. He hadn’t had one in weeks. Even his nightmares—where Sammy was only a body, and he pulled the trigger on Dad but it didn’t work, and She was on fire on the ceiling but he couldn’t just fucking reach Her—had been dulled around the edges. Now slightly faded, washed out, as if someone had scrubbed them away and all that was left was a faded, washed-out imprint.
Now all Dean did was flop down on the bed without a word, watch Her stretch out and curl into herself on the other side of the mattress, and try not to drown in how close She was. He could feel the heat from Her body. See every small bump on her beautiful face, every dip in the fabric of Her shirt, and—when that same shirt would ride up, pooling a little higher around Her abdomen—the faded scar over Her stomach.
That always made him a little sick, his stomach turning and heart missing a heavy beat.
He could never bring himself to look away.
She looked amazing like this. Peaceful. Dean had never seen Her so relaxed, never seen Her fingers rest against something without tugging at it, never seen Her body without tension that she’d always scratch at herself to relieve.
But here She was, facing Dean in Her sleep. Vulnerable and drooling and—against all reasonable odds—trusting Dean.
And he was being a fucking creep. Watching his best friend in the dark, imagining what would happen if he reached out and pulled Her into his chest. Held Her there until the sun rose, and then a little while after.
It was a new ritual he’d made for himself. Watching Her. It made it more real that She was there. In Dean’s bed. Not in the way that he ached for in his gut and a little to the right of his heart, but there.
She was still there.
Every night. In every town.
They had woken up in that train car, and Dean’s eyes hadn’t still been swollen and heavy with exhaustion. She had stared at him from Her own side of the bed—rubbing that scar on Her palm, an unreadable expression on Her pretty face—and when She’d broken the silence, it hadn’t hurt.
“Thank yo-“
“Don’t.” He’d cut Her off with a shake of his head, watching Her carefully. Trying to see if he could get Her to break this apart first, because he knew deep, deep down he’d never be able to do it himself. “It work?”
She’d nodded, and hadn’t broken anything. She’d fixed something. She’d given in a small, soft smile and things had healed. Clicked and set up Dean’s spine, making him feel a little taller, and stronger, and more durable where he’d been pliable and muddied before. He’d done something for Her, and it had worked, and maybe the crashing and razing aftershocks of their conversation could’ve not had consequences.
They had.
But even then, they hadn’t been all that bad.
“I really-” She’d cleared her throat a few hours later, and Dean had looked up from his sandwich with raised brows. “I didn’t want to leave. I had to, and you can’t blame Bobby, and I promise, Dean, I-“
“I trust you, Princess.” He’d shrugged, and he did. Even if he didn’t, She’d said his name, and that always made his instincts a little blurred and bias in Her favor. “But if you ever pull a fucking Houdini like that again-“
“I won’t.”
He’d scanned over Her open features, trying to find a new excuse to hate Her and push her back, away—where he couldn’t hurt Her and She couldn’t see him—but he was running out of them. And all the remaining ones were weak.
She was still being insanely stubborn about the arrowhead. Keeping it in Her jacket with Her knife or hiding it in corners of Her bag Dean could never seem to find. Not that he was trying to take it—She'd kill him if he did, arguably in a more painful way than any demon or hellhound—but because he needed to know. To understand why She was losing her brilliant, usually sharp and rational mind over something so stupid.
And he couldn't work it out. He could never work Her out.
He couldn't hate Her for that either.
No matter how it drove him up the wall, Dean couldn't despise Her for being an enigma. It was beautiful. Like the stars on a long highway in a flyover state, or how when the sunlight would angle just right in a dusty motel room, the air would swirl and shine like a small, glowing tornado. It trapped Dean's attention. It trapped Dean. And he would never be able to hate Her for it because when his whole life was truly just the mud—now tangled and mixed with guts and grime and bile—it was almost like a drug to look at Her.
Beautiful. Drop-dead gorgeous. Strange in a way he'd never want to change, even as he was dying and losing his mind and everything was so complicated—fucking complicated—but She still fit like a puzzle.
No matter how the last two years had changed Dean, She still molded against him and filled up that pit inside of him like it was what he was made to be.
Something for Her.
And he couldn't hate Her for that either.
Because it would be better to be for Her. It would certainly be worth far more than he was now. If Dean lead any other life, if he wasn’t him but She was the same, then he could imagine always just being for Her.
It was another reason to hate Her he’d never been able to hold onto. He could breathe and exist in the fact that She was starlight, and Dean was only a void that absorbed Her light and never gave anything in return, but it never stuck. It slipped through his fingers, and he still wanted Her—almost fucking craved Her, resting in his car and smiling at him from across a table and suddenly everywhere but still never enough—and he’d never know how not to.
She was too beautiful. It was almost wrong, almost inhuman, if it wasn’t the only thing Dean felt like he’d ever really known. They weren’t fighting anymore, and it made Her even more striking because he was permitted to look once more, and it was corrosive in his body. How She was somehow still a siren, still calling him, and he could never just stop falling.
She could be mean and bossy and annoying and test his patience, but that was always eclipsed by how bright She was, how Dean was blinded by Her, being beautiful and near him and made of some kind of glorious, wrathful, unexplainable light that made him shine, deep in the cavity of his chest. The only thing Dean could find wrong with Her was that she’d left. She’d lied about being sick, and She’d hidden, and She left him, but he fucking understood it.
Dean ran the scenario over and over in his head and knew that, if it was him, he'd have done the same. And he loathed that. How the limited parts of Her that he did understand were the ones where he was reflected, where She vanished because she was an idiot who just acted without damn thinking, and Dean would've always done the same.
He was doing the same. And his only hope for the thing—the deal, the contract, the timer, his lie that gave him no ground to stand on against Her—was that he would bet almost everything he had that She would've done the same. If it was Her, and someone She cared about had been empty-eyed and cold on the ground—Dean tried to pretend it would just be Bobby, but then an image of Her cradling his body would flash through his head, and a painful fever would mold and tighten around his heart—Dean knew She would’ve made the same choice he did.
And maybe that would save him. When She found out.
Because that was the only real reason he had left. Dean was on a deadline. Literally. And She still didn’t know, but he couldn’t figure out a way to tell Her—hey, Princess, you know how we said Sammy only ‘almost’ died? Well, that was a fucking lie—and he’d never dreaded anything more than Her face, or wrath, or fear, or worst of all, care, when he told Her, so he didn’t. He’d have to—because it was clear She was embedding herself back into his life and he’d never been strong enough to carve Her out and toss her away—but he hadn’t.
And he didn’t bite or lash or sneer, or just get Her away.
At the end of the day—in that train car when he’d believed Her when she said she wouldn’t vanish on him, and he’d tried and failed not to let that sink too deep into his body—Dean would never be able to just get away from Her.
He wished there was at least something in him that could learn how to be cautious or angry about that.
But She was here, and everything was better, and there was nothing left but Her. In the whole universe, Dean could still only really fucking feel Her.
“Sam will be here in a day,” he’d told Her as they’d wandered off the train station in Chicago, re-reading Sam’s message as he spoke. “He thinks we should lay low.”
She’d hummed, scanning over the paper map She’d gotten—stolen, but Dean knew better than to point that out—from a concession stand. “He’s right.”
“Did I say he was wrong, Princess?”
“No, but you were going to suggest we try to meet him halfway.”
Dean had scowled. She’d been right, and he didn’t really love how that let Her push a little further into his existence. Her knowing him like that was dangerous.
“Well, what do you think we should do-“
“There’s a motel. Few blocks away.” She’d raised Her brows at him. “Back on lockdown, Deano.”
He’d rolled his eyes, but followed Her out of the train station all the same. He’d follow Her anywhere. A beatdown, cracked pavement and rusted door-hinges motel was—in the grand scheme of things—nothing at all.
And they’d been at the check-in desk as Dean asked for a room and She flipped through the free magazines with a bored expression, and the whole world had tipped on its head.
“We’ve only got a one-bed room available at the moment,” the receptionist had said, eyes fixed on the grainy computer screen. “But checkout is in an hour, so if you come back-“
“The available room is fine.” She’d hummed, and Dean felt something bright and technicolor burst through his body.
He had to turned to stare at Her, his mouth slightly open, and She’d just been raising her brows at him.
Daring him to say otherwise.
So he’d said nothing, and they’d never fucking gone back.
At first, in Chicago, Dean had told himself it was because of safety. They’d been on the run from Hell’s Assassin’s, they hadn’t had the time to just wait for a two-bedroom to be open.
Then Sammy had picked them up. Dean seen the look of quiet shock on his brother’s face, when Sam had walked into the motel room and seen to single bed, but the kid had been smart and shut his mouth.
For at least a few days, Sam hadn’t said anything. Dean hadn’t said anything. She hadn’t said anything.
But they’d gotten to the next motel, and Sam had raised two fingers at the desk, and She’d shaken her head.
“We can share one.” She’d shrugged, fidgeting with the cuff of Her jacket as she spoke to the receptionist. “Two-beds, though. Please.”
Sam had shot Dean a what the fuck look, and Dean was starting to get a little pissed that Sammy couldn’t figure out that he didn’t know. With Her, Dean never knew.
He could only repeat that it was cheaper, even though none of the money they spent was actually theirs. And it wasn’t like She’d ever cared about cheap before.
“Is this cashmere?” Sam had asked a few weeks back, picking up Her sweater off the counter. “Where did you find cashmere?”
She hadn’t even looked up from Her book as she answered. “Don’t remember.”
“You don’t-“ Sam had said Her name slowly, shaking his head. “This is like- this looks vintage-“
“Sam.” She’d given him a flat look over hooded eyes, and Dean had been very glad he was sitting at a table and no one could see how he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”
Sam had swallowed and dropped it, and Dean had been forced to come up with another reason.
Staying all in one room was safer. Against any monsters, against any demons, against the green-eyed sons of bitches that were still on their tail.
“How they’d even find you?” Sam had asked him in a diner, and Dean had grunted, his eyes mostly fixed on where She’d disappeared into the bathroom.
“Dunno.”
“You can’t just not know, Dean-“
“Well, I don’t Sam, and I’m not just gonna have a freakin’ epiphany because you told me to-“
“I’m asking you to think, dude, not have an-“ Sam had paused. “When did you learn what epiphany meant?”
He’d shot Sammy a glare. “I can know five-dollar words, college boy-“
Sam had drawled Her name, and something Dean really needed to get under control had flashed through his blood like lightning.
“What about her-“
“She used that word, didn’t she.”
There had been a very annoying look of glee of Sam’s face, along with something strange Dean hadn’t really been able to place.
So he’d just scoffed, and forced himself not to keep glancing back at the bathroom door.
“Shut up.”
Sam had just kept grinning. “I like having her around. It makes you smarter.”
“I said shut up, Sammy-“
“And happier.” Sam had added, his voice slightly softer. “I don’t know what happened before Chicago-“
“Sam-“
“But you’re happier, Dean. And you’re drinking less, and you- I don’t know it’s just good to see.”
Dean’s jaw had twitched. He knew all that shit. He didn’t need Sam to say it. Sam saying it made it real. Made it something he was going to lose, when it came to the end. Made Her something Dean was going to have to lose, made it so much fucking harder not to cross that line.
“You guys are- Uh-“ Sam had poked at his diner salad with a fork, and Dean had felt like he was being studied. “You’ve been sleeping in the same bed.”
Dean had scowled. “Believe it or not, Sammy, I fucking know that-“
“Did you before?”
“Before-“
“She left. The whole- with Dad and Azazel-“ Sam had paused, frowning at his plate. “You know. All that.”
Dean had let out a long breath. “No. We didn’t.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Sam had given Dean another strange look. Dean was getting a little tired of them. “What changed-“
“I don’t know.” He’d grunted. “And I don’t want you bringing it up, Sam. It’s- it doesn’t matter.”
Sam had blinked at him. “Dean, this is the first girl I’ve ever seen you wake up next to-“
“We’re friends.”
“Yeah,” Sam had scoffed. “Sure, man.”
Dean had scowled. “What the hell does that mean, sure man-“
Sam had cut off Dean’s crude impression with a flat look. “If you were friends, you would’ve told her already. About the deal.”
“That has fucking nothing to do with this.” Dean had hissed, leaning across the table. “I’m hiding it because I have to-“
“I don’t think she would agree-“
“Of course she wouldn’t, Sammy, I’m not an idiot-“
“So tell her-“
“No.” Dean had snapped, raising his fork to point at Sam as he spoke. “I’m serious, Sammy-“
“So am I-“
“I’m more serious. You tell her about the deal, or bring up the whole sleeping thing in front of her, and I’ll dump your laptop in the next river we drive past. Got it?”
Sam had sighed, running a hand over his face. “I’m not bringing it up with her, Dean, I’m talking to you. And you have to admit you’re not just sharing a bed because it’s convenient-“
“It’s because it’s safe.” Dean grunted, and the metal of the fork had felt like it was going to bend in his hand. “We’re being hunted by demons while chasing demons, Sammy, it’s not smart to split up.”
“Yeah. That’s true.” Sam had shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest and raising his brows. “Why doesn’t she ever share a bed with me?”
Dean had recoiled like Sam had burned him. There was another reason to make this reasonable, and simple, and nothing really to think about, flushed down the toilet by Sam’s bored words.
He hadn’t gotten time to come up with a witty, smooth response before the bathroom door had opened and She’d returned to their table. He’d only given Sammy his most threatening keep your fucking mouth shut glare, and grinned at Her as she’d rejoined their booth.
“God, that bathroom was fucking disgusting. I think I saw shit on the walls.” She’d nudged Dean’s shoulder as She slid in next to him. Right next to him. If he leaned just a little to the side, their shoulders would bump again and She’d be real, really there, really staying with Dean until he found a real way to lose her- “Close your mouth, De.”
Sammy had laughed, and Dean had snapped his jaw closed with heat rising up his neck. She wasn’t looking at him anymore. She couldn’t know he’d been thinking about Her, about how soft her skin looked and how shiny her hair was and how she smelled like fruit, she always smelled like fruit, she was going to drive Dean out of his mind because what the fucking Christ was that fruit-
“I’ve got a case in Arkansas.” Sam had said, looking more to Her than to Dean. “Town called De Queen seems to be having a rush season of missing people, and lot of them have their hearts missing-“
“So wolves.” She’d said, turning Her glass in her hands.
She hadn’t ordered a drink, but Dean knew Her—even after years apart, trying to forget just how much She was, everything he’d ever learned about her was still tattooed on a place more vital and obvious than his brain—so he’d order one for Her. Orange soda.
As Sammy had kept talking about the case and She’d listened, her lips wrapped around the straw without thought, and things sparked in Dean’s body. Things that were bright and swollen and likely pride—he’d done well, he’d known Her, and she was watching Sammy but Dean had gotten Her something she liked—and other things that he’d never been good at pretending he didn’t feel.
His pants had been tighter. He’d almost been able to see Her eyes fluttering at him slightly, and watching him with that same intensity but a blown-out expression, and Her lips around him, and She was so pretty and she’d just hummed and what would that sound feel like, vibrating through around his-
“It’ll be in and out.” Sam had been saying, and Dean had needed to almost physically shake those images out of his head. “It’ll be quick. Easy. Something to do until Ruby finds us a way to stay off those- uh- the Hell’s Assassin’s radar-“
“I’m already sold on it, Sam. You don’t have to keep convincing me.”
She smiled at Sammy’s sheepish expression, something in Dean had whined that the smile wasn’t at him, but then She’d given him an quiet, amused look that had been just for Dean, and he’d grinned back.
He was grinning a lot more lately.
Nothing had ever been more complicated, more exhausting, more draining, but She’d smile and Dean would feel light and infinite and satisfied all while still starving for more.
He’d grinned at Her in the mirror the whole ride to Arkansas, and this—trading jokes and teasing comments and laughter over the music and Sam’s bored and half-annoyed expressions—was so much better than trying to pretend She wasn’t there. Dean didn't know how he’d managed that for a whole month, now that he was back to something closer to what they’d been before, he’d never go back.
It wasn’t the same. But it was closer.
If it was the same, She wouldn’t have walked into the motel room at his side, set down Her bag on the bed they’d be sharing that night, and sprawled across the couch like it was Her’s.
It might be. Everything, in some way, seemed to be made for Her.
Dean was certainly getting no better at pretending he himself wasn’t. Not when over the next few days he’d crashed further back into Her, following Her clever orders and walking one pace behind her all the damn time. He’d slashed and hacked at the wolves—Sammy doing the same just a few paces away and Her spinning her knife in her hands and moving in an oddly smooth dance with her every target—until it was over and She was back in his car.
And the streetlamps cast shadows that were designed to make Her more beautiful, and Dean’s eyes were magnets that were meant to draw to Her.
Weeks passed, just like that. Small, simple cases across the country, all of them sharing one motel room, and Her on the other side of Dean’s bed. They never touched. They never spoke about it. And Dean wasted every night away, pretending that in some other world, he’d be worthy of touching Her and he’d cross that final line.
He never would be.
He couldn’t be.
Not when he was still lying to Her. It was for the best, be he was still doing it. He was finding times to sneak around with Sammy and keep working on his way out of the deal, all while lying to Her.
And She’d only ever smile at him, when he and Sam left Her to go do some research on Lilith.
“We’ll be back in a few hours,” he’d said, grabbing his jacket from the bed as Sam stuffed his laptop in his bag, and She curled at the headboard of their bed, not looking up from Her book as she’d responded.
“Alright.”
“If demons show up-“
“I’ll be fine, Dean.” She’d turned a page, Her voice so fucking neutral. She hadn’t been pissed, or worried, or afraid, or anything. It might have driven him crazier than anything else could. “I’ll handle them-“
Something red had flashed over his eyes. “The hell you’ll handle them-“
“And then I’ll call you.” She’d looked at him under Her eyelashes, and they’d fluttered slightly, and Dean didn’t know when the fuck She’d picked up that habit—he didn’t really want to know—but it was going to kill him. “And hide until you come to save me.”
His eyes had narrowed at Her mocking tone, but he’d pushed on. “Good girl.”
It hadn’t helped anything. The way Her eyes had widened, and She’d flushed. And a hitched breath, and parted lips-
Sam had cleared his throat, looking between them with an odd expression, saying Her name like he was worried it would set off a bomb. “What are you, uh- You got plans while we’re gone?”
She’d nodded, ripping Her gaze away from Dean as if just looking at him was electrocuting her.
“I- um-“ She’d swallowed, glancing back to Dean. Almost seeming to check he was still there. “The case. And the arrowhead. I’m going to keep looking at it.”
Sam had sighed. “I don’t get why we can’t just turn it over to Ruby.” He’d said Her name cautiously, because they’d had this conversation a few times, and it had never ended in Sam’s favor. “I know you don’t want anyone else to touch it, but-“
“Yep. I don’t.” She’d raised Her chin, her voice smooth and bored, and poor Sammy had already lost. “Anything else I can help you with?”
Sam had looked to Dean for help, Dean had shrugged—he didn’t know why Sam bothered, She was immovable and powerful and Dean couldn’t do anything but be a little more Her’s every passing day—and given up.
“Fine.” Sam had grabbed his own jacket, shuffling to Dean’s side at the door. “And Dean’s right, keep the doors locked, and the blinds closed. Don’t answer if it’s not us, too. We can’t be possessed, so-“
Sam had cut himself off with a frown, giving Her a strange look, and She’d wrinkled Her nose and looked back to Her book.
“Okay, Dad.”
“I- I’m younger than you-“
“And he’s right,” Dean had jumped in, forcing himself not to snort at Sam’s indigent expression. “One wrong noise or knock, Princess, and you need to call us. We need to be careful-“
I’m always careful, De.” She’d smiled at him again, he’d blinked at Her like an idiot, and if Sam hadn’t half dragged him out the door, he was pretty sure he would’ve been stuck there—trapped near Her like a fly in honey—for the rest of his life.
His very limited life.
“Did you see her toothbrush?” Sam said from across the table, glancing up at Dean over his laptop. “It’s glittery.”
Dean grunted, turning another page in his book. They’d been here damn near three hours, searching for some sort of loophole in the deal, hitting dead-ends and coming up empty handed. Just like always. “Yeah. What about it, Sammy? You want one?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “No, Dean, I’m just- It’s new.”
Dean raised his brows. “Toothbrushes?”
“Living with a girl, jerk.”
“Oh.” Dean took a fry from his basket, frowning as he chewed. “I mean, we’ve got conditioner now. Seems to be the only difference-“
“I’m not saying it’s bad. It’s just different.” Sam’s nose scrunched slightly. “I found a pad in the bathroom last night.”
Dean sputtered. “That’s- I’m eating, dude, for fuck’s sake-“
Sam rolled his eyes. “Grow up, Dean, it’s not like I’ve never found your jizz-filled socks in the trash-“
“That’s not the same-“
“You’re right. It’s a lot fucking worse-“
“Shut up.” Dean snapped. “I’m sorry living with a girl is so revolutionary for you, Sammy, but-“
“It’s not.” Sam shrugged. “For me, at least. I was- uh-“ He swallowed, frowning back to the table. “Jess.”
Shit.
Dean opened his mouth to say something—he wasn’t quite sure what, but he’d find it, just to make Sam stop looking like a kicked puppy—but Sam was faster.
“This is your first time living with a girl, man.” Sam gave him a pointed look, and Dean had a bad feeling about where this conversation was going. “Who’s- I don’t know- It’s her, Dean. It’s-“
Sam said Her name, something bright and powerful reared its head just to the right of Dean’s heart, and he scowled as he cut Sam off.
“I know who it is, Sam.” He muttered. “I- We’re not fucking talking about this. Read your book.”
“Have you guys ever kissed?”
Dean was going to break a jaw. Either his own, or Sam’s. “I said read-“
“Look- I didn’t-“ Sam ran a hand over his face, letting out a heavy breath and leaning back in his seat. “I know things are complicated-“
“They’re not.” Dean grunted. “We’re friends. That’s it.”
“Friends don’t share a bed-“
“We’re not fucking talking about this-“
“We need to, Dean!” Sam wouldn’t just look back to his laptop. Suddenly the nerd was more interested in having a conversation instead of researching, and Dean had never been more annoyed by it. “You have four months- Less than that, and she’s going to find out, and if- fuck, she could help, dude. I know it, maybe more than you know it-“
Dean narrowed his eyes. “What the hell does that mean-“
“Never mind, just,” Sam braced his hands on the edge of the table, tilting his head slightly at Dean. “She could help. With this. And until you two figure out what this whole thing between you is-“
“There’s no thing-“
“I’m not blind.” Sam’s voice was flat, and he looked almost disappointed in Dean for even daring to try and deny it. “There’s a thing. And you don’t want to di- You’re not going to want to go with it unresolved. If it comes to that.”
Dean kept his face painfully flat. Bored. Empty. “Are you done?”
Sam sighed. “Dean-“
“No. I said we’re not talking about this.” Dean looked back to his book, even as his head started to spin around that thought of Her, holding his body, crying and screaming if She’d ever dare to grieve for him. “Keep reading, Sammy, or get your teeth knocked out.”
“Fine.” Sam still didn’t look back to his laptop. “But I still think you should tell her.”
“No.” He grunted. “Read.”
“But-“
“Read.”
Sam finally fucking listened, and Dean felt like there was iron pressing on his chest. He knew everything Sam was saying already. He’d said it in every fucking diner they’d moved through, every moment that they were alone, always shifting in exact words but never ending a different way.
But Dean wouldn’t tell Her. He’d repeat it over and over to himself until it was a rule, a law, a commandment. Dean wouldn’t tell Her. He wouldn’t cross the line. He’d try not to think about Her body across the mattress, or be haunted by the sounds on the wind that sounded like Her screaming his name, or close his eyes and see Her burning on the ceiling.
He’d forced himself not to dwell on how, in the end, whatever had gotten Azazel to threaten Her had probably been his fault. Azazel had no reason to just threaten Her. She was awesome and perfect. And Dean had driven Her away just by fucking existing, but he was selfish so he’d pulled Her back into an unstable and crumbling place She’d never be able to stay.
Himself.
He wouldn’t never be able to keep Her.
He tried not to think about that either.
A lot of Dean’s time lately was spent just clinging to things in quick moment he couldn’t be allowed to think about after, because it would make him feel sick about how it would all be gone so soon.
He’d let the car engine idle for just a few seconds longer, to ingrain the sound on his ears, and hope it would follow him to the grave with Her voice.
He ate a little slower, because son of a bitch he was going to miss burgers, and he wanted the taste to linger on his tongue like fruit until he wouldn’t suffocate on the smoke when they burned his body.
He’d trace his hand over Baby’s wheel, and hold his gun with a little more care, and touch that fluffy blanket—the one She’d been taking with them from town to town—whenever She and Sam weren’t looking. He stared at the sunset a little longer, because who knew how many colors there would be in Hell, and he took colder showers because he’d heard where he was headed was burning.
And She liked warmer showers.
She liked shower that would fill the room with steam when She opened the door, and make Her look like an Angel or spirit or something when she walked out wearing a too big shirt and too small shorts.
It was hot, at night. And the motels didn’t exactly have great air conditioning, and She had every right to wear whatever the hell She wanted, when she wanted.
It didn’t stop Dean from standing a little too rigid when She passed him, or having to shift his hand when She sat down, or needing to make a rule about what he wasn’t allowed to sit in an memorize.
Her. So close to him. Closer than She’d ever been but never further away. Beautiful and intoxicating and untouchable.
And God, did Dean want to touch Her. He’d always wanted to touch Her, but now it felt like a cancer. It was most of what he thought about, when he wasn’t hunting or looking for a way out. Too much time had been spent behind the wheel of Baby, forcing himself to focus on any desire or sensation but the phantom of touching Her.
And She was really trying to kill him.
Because when he and Sammy got back to the motel—no new paths, no hope for Dean to have more time—She was on her knees, groping around under the bed with Her perfect ass high in the air.
Sam said Her name, frowning at Her on the floor, and Dean felt like he was going to fall over when She crawled backwards at looked up at them with wide, bright, pretty eyes.
“You’re late.”
Dean frowned. “Didn’t know we had a curfew, sweetheart-“
“You don’t.” She shrugged. “But you said you’d be back in a few hours. That was more than a few hours.”
“Aw.” He couldn’t fight the smirk curling over his lips. “You missed me, Princess, didn’t you.”
She flushed. Breath hitched. Mouth parted for only a second before She scowled, and Dean needed to stop pushing his luck because something was bound to cave, and it really couldn’t afford to right now.
“Yeah,” She gave him a flat look, twisting a ring on Her finger. “I was really lost without you, Dean. Don’t know how I made it by myself. For five whole hours. I should’ve called CPS.”
Her tone was dry, and dripping with sarcasm, and that was a lie. She was lying, Dean fucking knew She was lying, but he couldn’t figure out what She was lying about, or why-
“You find anything on the arrowhead?” Sam asked, moving to the table, and She looked away from Dean with a shake of Her head.
He wished She’d look back. He wished She’d never stop looking, because he’d really forgotten how completely alive he’d feel when she did. It was incomparable.
He really wasn’t supposed to think about it.
“No,” She hummed, still playing with Her rings. Lie. “But I got the vamps.”
Dean frowned. “The vamps-“
“The case, De.” She looked back to him with an amused expression. “The reason we’re here.”
“Right. Case.” Dean scratched his head, give Her his best grin to try and cover how he had completely forgotten they were actually working a case. “Vamps.”
She stared at him for another second, giggled, and looked back to Sam with an amused expression.
They kept talking about the vamps. It took a minute for Dean’s brain to catch up, because he was caught on that fucking giggle. It was still a musical, lovely sound that a looped and filled his every dream, and it was better. Coming out of a Her he could see—instead of just an echo or ghost of Her in a dream—was like being shot up with pure fucking euphoria. And She’d given him that high like it was nothing, without even knowing what it did to him, how Dean was suddenly willing to do whatever She asked him just because She’d fucking giggled and smiled at him. How it took him a minute to refocus on the conversation, because his brain moved faster than his willpower, and he had to force himself not to get lost in thoughts and ideas of other, equally perfect and bright sounds She could possibly make.
Sounds like that giggle, but breathier. Higher. More needy, maybe a little dazed or strangled, maybe formed in a noise that could be his name-
“Dean.”
He blinked, trying to keep his expression as blank as possible, keep at least the illusion that he’d been paying attention. “Princess.”
She sat a little taller as She made a face at him. Dean didn’t even remember when She’d sat down. “Back me up.”
“I- uh-“ He glanced at Sammy, who mostly just looked annoyed. “You-“
“He wasn’t listening.” Sam waved him off as he said Her name. “And I’m not doubting you. I’m just- you need to be sure. We don’t have the time for mistakes-“
“I know that.” She snapped. “And I don’t make mistakes. It’s the warehouse.”
Dean frowned at Her. “The warehouse? For the vamp nest?”
“Wow,” She grinned at him. “Sam was right, you were not listening-“
He rolled his eyes. “Shut up. When the hell did you have time to find the nest-“
“While you and Sam were coming up with more dead ends on Lilith.” She gave Dean a pointed look, and he rolled his eyes.
“Alright.” He said Her name, bracing his arms on the back of Her chair and smirking as she stared up at him. “What’s making you so freakin’ sure?”
“The current owners have had it for generations. It’s abandoned, wired off, but people still report sightings of people moving in and out, usually around the same time every year. My guess is it’s an old vampire family that likes to visit home.” She tilted Her head at him. “Your rebuttal, Mr. Winchester?”
His grip on the chair tightened, and he leaned down a little further. He could smell the sugar and fruit. He was drowning in it. “No rebuttal.” He drawled, giving Her a mocking pout.” Why do you always think I’m gonna fight you, sweetheart? Pretty fucking rude, if you ask me-“
“I didn’t ask you.” She leaned up herself, holding his gaze, and Dean was sure the wood was going to splinter under his hands. “And maybe because you do always fight me-“
“No, I don’t-“
“Yes, you do-“
“I fight you when you do something fucking crazy, Princess. This,” Dean reached around Her tapping the papers on the table. “Is awesome. Good job.”
She flushed slightly. “Shut up.”
“I was being nice-“
“You were being patronizing-“
“No. Nice.” Dean winked at Her. “You did your part, sweetheart. This next bit is all me and Sammy.”
She wrinkled Her nose at him, and She was so close. If Dean was even just a little drunk he might have tried to kiss that little wrinkle, tried to tip Her chin back with a hand just greedily see more-
“You guys are gross.” Sam muttered, obviously ignoring their glowers as he continued. “And I actually did find a lead on Lilith. So this one isn’t me. It’s you two. Together.” Sam sighed, looking back to his laptop. “Yay.”
Dean scowled. “What the fuck around talking about, Sammy. We came up empty handed-“
“You came up empty handed. I found something I had to double check with Ruby, but now I’m sure.”
She turned in Her seat, and Sammy was going to get punched for taking that away from Dean. “What is it?”
Sam sighed. “Just a hunch, but I want to see if it leads out.”
She frowned. “Leads-“
“Looks like it’s just you and me then, Princess.” Dean smirked at Her, sparing only a quick, acknowledging look over Her head at Sam. “Stay safe, Sammy. Use protection.”
“Eat me.” Sam muttered, and Dean rolled his eyes, looking back to Her.
“I was talking about a gun,” he mock whispered. “But now I’m worried he’s leaving us to go get some ass-“
“Dean.” She slapped his arm casually, and it was like She’d fucking burned the feeling of Her skin onto his. It took all of Dean’s effort not to rub where She’d touched him, like he could make it sink in further. “Shut up. Sam, are you sure this can’t wait until after the nest-“
“Yeah- uh- Pretty sure.” Sam shot Dean a nervous look. “I mean, I know it’s just a vamp, but you guys will have it handled, I think-“
She shook Her head. “It’ll be safer with more people-“
“You trying to get out of spending time with me?” Dean jumped in, and if Sammy had a brain, he’d let Dean handle this. “I’m wounded-“
She narrowed Her eyes. “I told you to shut up. And you’re the one who’s always telling me to hunt with people-“
“Wrong. I tell you not to hunt alone. And you won’t be alone.” Dean threw Her his most charming, winning smile. “I’m all yours, Princess. Just you, and me, and a bunch of vamps.”
“It’s- I really don’t think-“
He said Her name, making his voice a little more stern. “Sammy’s a big boy. He’ll be fine.”
“I’m barely going a state over.” Sam added. “You can call me if something happens, and I’ll be back.”
She looked between them, rubbing the scar on Her palm, and fuck She really needed to stop being so brilliant and hypnotic, just for five minutes. Just until Sammy was out the door, had a stolen car, and left before She could think even just a little deeper about their argument.
Because She was right. Dean was being a hypocrite, and they would be less safe, and chasing Lilith could wait until they ganked the vamps.
But Sam wasn’t going to chase Lilith.
He’d used the code phrase. See if it leads out.
Sam had a lead on Dean’s deal, and that couldn’t wait, but they also couldn’t just fucking say that.
So there was a rush of relief through Dean’s body when She sighed, and let it go. She never let anything go. Ever. The fact that She let Sam walk out of their motel room with such little fight was nothing short of a miracle.
And Dean was alone with Her. Again.
But this time would be better. This time would be that same similarly to before. This time he wouldn’t have to pretend that he didn’t want anything more than to be pressed right up against Her, pretend that every time he looked at Her he didn’t stare, because he needed to make sure She was real. That She was there. He needed watch Her move so gracefully and carefully, needed to see how the whole world always seemed to change just to fit around Her.
And he still needed to pretend he wasn’t craving all of Her. Every part of Her. Whatever the hell She’d offer him, how She wanted him to have it, all the damn time.
But he didn’t need to pretend he hated Her. That a little part of him was always whining to see Her smile and hear Her voice.
“This should be fast.” She muttered a few hours after Sammy had left, sorting back through Her papers with that furrow in Her brow. “In and out, Deano. Get the vamps, no messing around.”
He scoffed. “I have never once messed around in my life, Princess-“
“Uh huh.” She smiled up and him, and Dean was pretty sure that if he reached out and touched Her, she’d be warm and shock his body like a defibrillator. “Are you ready?”
“Born it. Popped out of the womb waving a gun around, blasting freedom music-“
She rolled Her eyes, but Dean didn’t miss the small smile on Her gorgeous face. “I am going to stab you.”
“That’s not very nice-“
“I’d say it’s incredibly nice.” She hummed, pulling on Her shoes as Dean stood above Her, failing to not lose himself too much at the vision before him. Her on Her knees, right below him, smirking up at Dean with bright eyes, so fucking close-
“How is stabbing me nice-“
“I’m giving you a warning.” She pushed back to Her feet, her eyes never once leaving Dean’s. “I could just stab you, De. But I’m being sweet and giving you a chance to run.”
He laughed, shaking his head and opening the door. “Nah, sweetheart. You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”
Something pulled and twitched in his chest at his own words. She wouldn’t have to work to get rid of him. Four months and he’d be gone forever, and She’d probably hate him for it.
Maybe Dean should start taking Sam’s get out of the contract thing a little more seriously. Because he had been working for it. Despite what Bobby and Sam might claim, Dean wasn’t just rolling over. But he wasn’t scratching and biting and straining right up to edge to be free. To fix this.
But—somewhere deep and empty in the cavity of his chest and for into that pit in his body—Dean hadn’t really cared. Sam would move on, probably better than he could if Dean stuck around. Bobby would drink, but he always drank, and he’d move on too.
She’d move on. Watching Her pull Her knees to her chest in the passenger’s seat of the Impala—rubbing Her calves and letting her hair fall a little over Her face as she hummed along to Dean’s music—Dean knew She’d live without him. It wasn’t even a question. The world fucking molded and blended for Her, so of course She’d move on. Find someone forged and crafted from the same diamonds She was.
That strange, obvious and colorful and bright quality She’d always had, where She lit up everything. Where those same deep, dark corners of Dean existence were no longer daunting, because She made them easy and smooth.
And there was the problem. Dean could see into himself, and it was hideous, but She wasn’t flinching away. And She’d move on, but he didn’t want Her to. Whenever She traded teasing words with him or settled further into the seat of his car, Dean just wanted to freeze the moment and exist in it like an old, oversaturated photo forever.
She giggled again—Dean didn’t even remember what he’d said, only that She’d giggled and his grin had split his face for the first time since that fucking deal—and Dean might have to keep himself around just to hear that sound over and over and over-
“You’re not using a gun for this, right?” She glanced up at him from the trunk, and Dean frowned. He didn’t even remember leaving the car. All he’d been doing is following Her, always, anywhere She told him to go, he’d go-
He needed to get a damn grip.
“I’m using the, uh-“ He reached around Her to grab the machete with a smirk, forcing himself not to dwell on how She stood a little taller—maybe even shivered—when their arms brushed. “Here we go. Ready to gank some-“ Dean glanced at Her—watching him with Her arms crossed and an expression like She was watching an adorable child with ice cream—and frowned. “What are you doing.”
“Waiting. You two,” She nodded to the machete. “Seemed to be having a moment. Didn’t want to ruin it.”
“You’re a riot.” He muttered Her name, rolling his eyes. “Grab one and let’s move.”
“Grab one-“ She cut Herself off with a strange look, shaking her head. “A machete?”
“Yeah, unless you’ve got one shoved up your ass-“
“I’m not using a machete, De.”
He scowled. He could not let the use of De cloud his judgement. “Princess, you better not be trying to do what I think you’re doing.”
“What do you think I’m doing?”
Dean’s jaw clenched, his words low and firm. “Being fucking stupid-“
“Rude-“
“And taking on a vamp nest with a freakin’ knife!”
She paused, then nodded. “That- Yeah, that’s what I’m doing.”
For a brief moment, Dean wondered if She’d really been made just to test the limits of his sanity.
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to say no, Winchester. I know what I’m doing-“
“I know you do.” Dean grunted. No matter how much he fucking hated it, he knew better than to pick an argument with Her about her infuriating, strange, and cardiac arrest inducing hunting tactics. “But you said in and out. And if you use that little baby knife, this will take us fucking years. Sammy will come back and find us skeletons. So no.”
She gaped at him. “First of all, that is not how time works. Second, you got me this knife-“
”I didn’t think you’d make it a fucking religion-“
“A relig- I- Your-“ She flushed slightly. Dean didn’t get to think about it before she was pushing on. “I am going to kill twice as many vamps as you, even if you use two machetes.”
“Sure, Princess.”
“I will-“
“I said sure-“
“No you didn’t, you said sure, it’s not the same-“
“Yes, it is-“
“No, it’s not. And I will kill more vamps, Winchester.”
“You wanna bet on it?”
“Yeah!”
He paused, frowning at Her as a lot of the raging fire in his body—the amazing, furious, demanding life and attention of it only seeming to ever come out fully around Her—was cooled in a second. “Really?”
She blinked at him, Her own stance relaxing slightly. “Why not?”
“Uh…”
Dean didn’t have a good reason not to. It would be more fun. If he won, he’d get to lord it over Her for four whole months—maybe more if that odd flare of maybe he should put more effort into trying to live continued, and whatever Sammy’s thing was panned out in their favor—and if he lost…
“What are we betting?” He asked carefully, and Her brow furrowed slightly.
“We’re both broke,” She said, and Dean realized She was really thinking about this. “And I don’t want to put Sam in the middle of anything-“
Dean scoffed. “He’d live-“
She cut him off, just by raising Her hand. “I think that, maybe- Yeah. That’ll work.”
“What-“
“I use my knife.” She pulled out the blade from inside Her jacket, and Dean had never been more envious of a weapon. “You use your dumb machetes, and whoever gets the most vamps wins. The loser,” She grinned at him, raising her chin. “Owes the winner a favor. Any favor.”
Dean raised his brows. “Any favor?”
His head was going to some places it shouldn’t be, very quickly. Her on Her knees again, or under him in Baby’s back seat, or naked above him, on his lap-
“Yeah.” Her voice was a little soft, and there was a pretty flush on Her face, and Dean felt shame—hot and prickling—over his skin at the thought that she’d maybe somehow seen exactly what he’s craving. “Anything.”
They were just staring at each other. Dean didn’t know when it had gotten so humid, or when the rest of the world had blurred into only color, or why he wasn’t moving to grab Her and pull her into him, letting them both crash down, down, down-
“Uh-“ He said Her name, swallowing slightly, and the ring of Her phone sliced through the taut air.
She pulled it out with a frown, scanned over the contact, and shoved it back in Her pocket.
Whatever composure She’d lost a second ago had returned. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d have thought he imagined that moment.
“Spam call.” She said, holding out Her hand as Her attention returned to Dean. “We got a deal?”
“Yeah.” His voice was still a little gravely. She didn’t seem to notice. “But I’m not shaking on it.”
“Dean-“
He raised his pinky silently, his challenge written all over his face, and this felt far more important than it should. Critical. Almost cosmically vital.
And that was insane.
But Dean couldn’t fake the flood of light through his body when Her pinky locked with his.
“You’re going fucking down, De.” She taunted, Her smile wide as they shook. “I’m gonna kick your ass.”
“Maybe.” He drawled, memorizing the small gasp that left Her mouth as he pulled Her forward, until he was colliding and crashing into Her once more. Just as he always had. “Or maybe I’m gonna wipe the floor with you, Princess.”
She grinned. “Big talk.”
“I can back it up.”
“You sure about that, Winchester?”
He smirked, leaning down closer. He could be selfish and brave enough to be a little closer. “Yeah. I am.”
—————
You won.
It had been closer than you would ever tell Dean. Had he gotten a little luckier and you’d been just slightly more distracted—Dean moved with shocking grace through the fight, a gritted expression of determination on his face that had made the world silver and your gut a little fuzzy—he would’ve taken it. But you’d gotten the jump on a few more vamps than Dean with the whole maybe you’re a monster thing, and you’d known you’d only barely won before it was even over.
When the vamps were all just bodies on the floor and you and Dean were drenched in blood, he’d looked over to you with a proud grin and puffed out chest, dropping his raised machete to side.
“Six, Princess.” He’d smirked, closing the space between you and leaning over your body until you were almost consumed by him. His smell and pretty face and the warmth of his body, pressed almost right up to yours-
I had been a miracle you’d been able to raise your chin and smirk right back.
“Wow. Amazing.” You’d kept your voice causal as you crossed your arms, and you were pretty sure you’d seen the exact moment he’d realized why you weren’t worried. Something had flashed into his eyes, and he’d almost seemed to brace his body, like the impact from your words could possibly cause him real harm.
He’d said your name slowly, and you’d shaken your head, giving him a mock pout.
“Don’t you want to hear my result-“
“Not if it’s more than six.” He’d grumbled, and another giggle had escaped your mouth.
You’d been standing in a body-filled warehouse, and you’d reeked of blood, and there had been some guts and odd fluids clinging to cuffs of your pants, but you’d giggled. You couldn’t stop fucking giggling.
“Tough luck, Deano.” Your grin had widened as you’d bounced on your toes. “Eight.”
He’d stared at you, then around the warehouse, and shaken his head. “How’d you even find eight-“
“Pure-“
“Don’t say talent.” He’d raised the machete at you, narrowing his eyes, and his tone had been really low. Low and deep and rough, and he hadn’t really been pissed but there had been a firm look on his handsome face and something shining in his eyes that you’d wanted to pry out of his body-
Dean should count himself lucky he was able to make you so fucking dumb just by being around you. It was what made you let go of any gloating, suggest you head back to the motel with only one, mockingly cheerful reminder of the favor he now owed you. He’d rolled his eyes with a small grin, and his shoulder had brushed yours as he’d walked past you to the car, and you’d gotten a little stupider, and fallen a little further.
It had been that, and the fact that you have… Things to do.
Things Dean doesn’t get to know about, because they lead to longer, more complicated decisions that will likely result in him finally seeing you for the disease you are, and leaving you for good.
And you’d like to hold onto him a little while longer. Just long enough to not infect him, just long enough to feel him, just long enough to keep resting in the almost inevitably of Dean.
Because you’ve been sleeping. Since that night in the train car, all the pain has been slightly soothed and eased because you’ve been sleeping, and Dean doesn’t hate you anymore, and things aren’t good but they’ve gotten better. You’ve gotten better. You still burn your skin and pick your fingers bloody to fight the Darkness, and the White still overwhelms you with just how violent and demanding it can be in Dean’s presence, but you’re not clawing your way through just fucking existing anymore.
It’s easier to be, when you have Dean. When he grins at you and the world is silver, and he grabs your arm or trades a small, almost secret look with you, and you feel a little less like a plague or a parasite.
And there’s still pain. There’s always pain. Dean and his gravity aren’t a cure, and the pain is far from gone—in the worst moments you have to lock yourself in the bathroom, because Sam and Dean can’t see you flay yourself apart just to keep them safe—but your exhaustion has waned slightly, and you don’t know how you’re going to go back when something breaks.
Something will have to break. You never trust it—trust yourself—to stay together.
But you’re letting yourself have this for now, even if that makes you even more of a monster. At least you’re still hurting. It feels like a toll you can pay for daring to invading Dean’s life, for taking everything he gives you and letting it blur the Darkness and White back together, letting it mend those fractured pieces in your body just a little further.
And there’s some fear. Corrosive and loud fear, over your spine and skull. Fear of how close those pieces are to fusing fully back together, and what that might end up meaning.
Maybe nothing.
Likely not. It’s never that easy.
But hopefully, whenever all the glass-like pieces in your body hum and move back into each other, nothing will have to change.
It’s a fear you’ll have to swallow for now. Let is fester and grow as Dean guides you into the motel room—with a hand not quite on your lower back, but between your shoulder blades—and a new flurry of life sparks in your body and everything gets a little better.
Right now, you have things to do.
You’d sent Dean out to get dinner as soon as you’d both cleaned up. Whatever he wanted, as long as it kept him out of the motel room. As long as it gave you time to call Jo back.
It takes her two rings to pick up, and when she does, you don’t waste any time.
“Did you find it?”
You can hear her sigh through the phone. “You gonna say hi to me-“
“Hi, Jo.” You drop on the foot of your bed, spinning your knife in your hands. “How are you?”
“Hi,” She hums your name, and you can hear the turn of pages in the background. “I’m doin’ well. You know, you’re worse than Sam and Dean-“
You let out a mock gasp. “That’s so mean-“
“Don’t make it less true.” There’s a pause through the speaker, her voice suddenly much softer. “You sittin’ down?”
“Yeah?” You swallow. “Did you-“
“I got it. Like, five hours ago. But you weren’t pickin’ up-“
“Dean and I were hunting.” You mumble, and Jo lets out a loud gasp.
“Without adult supervision-“
“Shut up.”
“Does Sam know you were goin’ out without a chaperone-“
“Jo.” You snap, glancing at the door as your face starts to heat. “The arrowhead, or I tell Bobby to stop giving you cases.”
You can almost hear her eye roll. “You do that, I’m tellin’ him about how you sleepin’ with Dean-“
“Sleeping! Literally sleeping! Why did I-“ You let out a long breath, flopping onto your back. “We don’t even touch. We’re definitely not-“
“Fuckin’?”
“I’m going to drive to the roadhouse and burn all your clothing-“
“Don’t do that. Dean’ll follow you and it’ll be a whole thing-“
“Arrowhead.” You snap, and Jo sighs.
“Fine. You got it with you?”
“Yeah.” You roll over, reaching over the edge of the bed to grab it from your bag and bracing for the impact of touching it.
It’s immediate. You pick it up and all the golden mess of Dean that you’ve gotten so good at ignoring start to almost glow. He’s tangled in the sheets and marked on the mattress, carved into the wooden seat and chairs, scarred over your skin wherever he’d touched you in the past few days.
There are a few stains of Sam, too. You can’t ever see them unless you’re holding the arrowhead, but they’re there. The color is less metallic than Dean’s, and it doesn’t almost capture and demand you in the same way, but it’s Sam. It’s a little wrong. A little off-hue, like you’re looking at something that had been mixed with what it never should’ve touched, and now it’s simply… different. A deep, vibrant purple that’s bloodied with red, dull but present on Sam’s bed and the stack of books he’d left of the coffee table.
“You got it?” Jo asks, and you nod before realizing she can’t see you.
“Yeah. Go.”
“Alright, it’s,” she lets out a long breath, static in the speaker, and you tense. That can’t be good. “I’m thinkin’ it’s more than a witch artifact.”
“Yeah, we got that already-“
“No,” she says your name carefully. “I’m- It’s a lot more. It’s somethin’ real old. Every single thing I’ve found is just a big red warnin’ sign sayin’ no. Don’t touch.”
You frown at the air. “Did you check the witch books I emailed you-“
“Yeah.” Jo sighs. “Those things are the firmest ‘bout it. Every mention of anyhthin’ like it I can find in them is just tellin’ you not to go close to it. It’s- Seems like it’d be an overload. Like they’re weak circuits, and the artifacts are a fuckin’ lightning bolt.”
“I- Artifacts?”
“Yeah. Seems like there’s a whole collection of ‘em.”
“Okay.” You swallow, turning the arrowhead between your fingers. “Do we have a name?”
“Yeah, but there a little bit of an issue with it. I sorta- I can’t read it.”
You blink at the air. “What?”
“It ain’t in any language I can find. I even had Ash run it through one of his dumb fuckin’ translators.”
“And?”
“It broke the computer.”
“Fuck. Okay.” You stare at the ceiling, hoping the roof will fly off and there will be some sort of answer written in the sky. “So what do we know?”
“Right, so, it’s part of that collection I was talkin’ about, and it looks like it was made by some group of old, kinda taboo witches. I couldn’t read what they were called either, same language as the arrowhead, but I got that they don’t seem to be around no more.” Jo takes a deep breath, and you can practically hear her brain turning. “Seems like it’s made to be an enhancer of their powers or somethin’. Some stories say it’s a weapon worse than an atomic bomb, but it seems more like the witches were the bombs. This just makes ‘em stronger. More focused.”
You can feel a heavy, crushing weight start to press on your chest, and the Darkness is beginning to stretch out of your body. You can feel the wear of your shoes by the door, and the weakness of the motel lamp’s lightbulb, and the pressure of the creaking floorboard to support all the furniture-
You screw your eyes shut, digging your nails into your palm. “Can we destroy it?”
“I’m not sure.” Jo says. “I mean. We got two options, if that’s what we’re doin’-“
“It is.”
There’s a pause over the speaker. “You can use it, can’t you.”
“Yeah.” You whisper, some odd sort of fear that the wind will hear you and tell Dean overtaking your senses. “It’s- It’s like being jumpstarted or something.”
“Maybe we should keep it-“
“No.” Your eyes shoot open. “We need to get rid of it.”
“I-“ She sighs. “I know you don’t like usin’ your- the thing-“
“Jo.” Your voice is soft, and you can hear your own desperation, but you don’t really care. You need this thing gone. You’ve spent too many hours when Sam and Dean aren’t looking, running your finger over the carvings on the arrowhead, getting a little dizzy as you read the words written in that odd, shifting language, over and over. “Please.”
Another pause, and you don’t have the energy to argue or push about this. You have too much to do, too much to worry about, and never enough time because Dean will be back soon-
“Can you read the words on it?” Jo asks, and you frown.
“Some of them-“
“Which ones? The Latin?”
“Yeah, but,” you glance back to the arrowhead. “There’s, um, the fourth language-“
“Shit.” Jo mutters. “That’s lookin’ like the same language the names are in. And I- I’m gonna tell you how to destroy it but I need ya’ to think about not doin’ it. Please.”
You frown. “What do you mean, the names-“
“What the arrowhead is called. And the name of the witches. I’ll send you some photos. Promise me you’ll consider it-“
“Consider-“
“Not destroyin’ this thing.”
You sigh, but nod. “Yeah. Promise.”
You do mean it. Even as you sit up and jot down Jo’s instructions to destroy the arrowhead, you really do plan to look at those photos and consider not destroying it.
Looking at the needed ingredients to do so, you’re not sure you have a choice.
“Dude, where the fuck am I even supposed to get Prophet’s blood or the tooth on a Levia- What the fuck is a Leviathan-“
“I’m just readin’ what I found,” Jo says your name with a sigh. “And I told you, we got one other option, but you ain’t gonna like it.”
You glare at the long, impossible list. “Try me.”
“Usin’ the thing.”
“The-“ You choke on your own tongue as you realize what she means. “No.”
“It’s the only other way. Says it can be razed as it was made-“
“We don’t know that my- that that is how it was made-“
“We’ll know when you see the photos.” Jo’s voice was a little too soft. The paper is crumpling in your hand. “I told you that you weren’t gonna like it.’
“Jo-“
An engine revs outside, and you freeze. That’s the Impala’s engine.
Dean’s back.
“Send me the photos.” You hiss into the phone, shoving the arrowhead back into your bag and pulling out a book. “I- I’ll figure it out.”
Jo starts to say something, but you hang up before you can hear it.
Dean shuffles back into the motel room right as you settle at the headboard of the bed, giving him your best, perfectly innocent and harmless smile.
He frowns at you. “What are you up to.
“I- I’m not up to anything-“
He sets down to bags, crossing his arms with a firm, disbelieving gaze. “Try again, Princess.”
You hold up your book with a shrug. “I mean, I’m reading-“
He grunts your name, and you’re going to punch him. You need to figure out how he just does that. How he just knows.
“I promise, De.” Your smile is sweet, somehow more docile than before. Right now your best bet is to roll over and hope he drops it. “Nothing but me and a book.”
He stares at you for a long second, but lets out a breath. “Fine. Keep your freakin’ secrets-“
“I’m not keeping secrets-“
“I said fine, sweetheart-“
“I’m not-“
He gives you an unreadable expression, and you can feel the White curling and cowering because you are keeping secrets, and you do that all the time, but this gnawing fucking guilt about it only ever happens with Dean-
“Are you hungry or not?”
You sigh, but nod. “What did we get?”
“There’s a diner few roads over,” he pulls out some paper containers, sliding the larger one to you and setting three more in front of his own seat as he drops down. “I heard they make awesome pie-“
You giggle, moving to sit across from him. “You think everywhere makes awesome pie-“
“Yeah, well, pie is awesome-“
“Or you’re just predictable-“
“Two things can be true.” He winks at you, and you scowl, glaring at your own burger as you open the container. It’s not good how quickly the Darkness stopped bellowing about your lie and the whole arrowhead situation when Dean only just winked at you.
Your phone buzzes as you and Dean eat in easy silence, and you can feel the stutter in your heartbeat as you read the message on the screen.
Jo Harvelle
Here u go
Ash wants me to remind u not to try and translate them
But i dont think itll be a problem
She’s right. You open the attached image and almost crush the fry in your hand, because you can read that. It’s moving and flowing strangely on the screen—just like on any page, or the arrowhead itself—but you can still read it.
The arrowhead is a solemn oath weapon. Created by the women of the-
God fucking damnit.
It’s exhausting, to see that fucking word, over and over and over, and never know what it means. To only get more questions than answers, to try and understand but come up with nothing, to want to at least show it to Sam, but know that’s not a fucking option.
At least you have a good reason to destroy it now. If it’s made for you—for the Darkness—you can’t feed it. You can’t indulge it. You’ve worked too fucking hard for some ancient, weird weapon to overpower your resolve to be better, to make you into whatever Azazel had thought you were-
“Why’re you makin’ that face.”
You blink up at Dean, a little bit of ketchup smudged on his cheek as he watches you. You want to wipe it off with your fingers.
You can’t.
“Swallow your food, Dean.”
He rolls his eyes, but does, and you can’t let that sink too deep into your skin.
“You gonna answer my question-“
“Ketchup.” You point to your own cheek. “Here.”
Dean frowns, tries to lick it off with his tongue—which is incredibly cruel and distracting—and only manages to get it when you chuck at napkin at his stupid, amazing face.
“You’re a child-“
“You like it.” He mutters, and you almost fall out of your chair. “Stop distracting me.”
“Distracting you-“
“Yep.” He snaps, leaning forward as he watches you, his attention wrapping you in gold and the world is so good and if you shift in your seat your knee could bump his- “You were making a face, Princess. Why.”
You wrinkle your nose at him. “I was not making a face-“
“Yeah, you were.” He waves you off, like this isn’t even something to try and argue about. “What’s wrong.”
“Nothing-“ You sigh, twisting a ring on your finger. “Everything is fine, Deano-“
“Lie.”
“I- Stop doing that-“
“I’m not doing anything-“
“You’re getting cocky.” You snap, not even sure what you’re saying. Most of your mind is trapped on Dean. “You can’t know when I’m lying, Winchester-“
He smirks. “Ah, So you are lying-“
“I- no-“
“Yeah-“
“Dean.”
Your voice is a little harsher than you’d wanted, but it does the trick. He closes his mouth and stares at you, and you take several deep breaths, just to ensure that the Darkness is truly all the way down.
“It’s fine. I’m fine.”
He looks like he’s going to protest, so you push on.
“Please.”
His jaw twitches slightly, and you can see his grip tighten on his own burger, but he lets it go. By some miracle Dean nods and takes another bite of his burger.
There’s a long moment of silence before he speaks again through his mouthful.
“How you gonna use the favor?”
You sigh. “Chew, De.”
He starts to make exaggerated chomping noises, and he’s really lucky he’s cute.
“You’re a child.”
“You sound like Sammy, sweetheart.” He shrugs. “How you gonna use it?”
You sigh, leaning back in your chair and poking at your fries. “Not sure.”
“Can you give me a heads up on what you’re thinking?”
“Hm.” You scan over him, a small smile creeping over your face. “No.”
He scowls, a little bit of meat falling out of his almost pouting mouth. “C’mon, Princess-“
“Chew-“
“Is that your favor-“
“No.” You raise your chin at him. “But if you don’t, you’re sleeping on the floor.”
It’s a strange, empty lie. You both know that. Dean could just sleep on Sam’s bed. He could sleep on the couch. And you’re not going to kick him out, because for reason you don’t understand—you never do—your body had decided it needs Dean Winchester to sleep. And you won’t let him sleep on the floor if he tries to call your obvious bluff, because it’s already been a long day, and you have no interest in getting lost in your own body, swallowed by the Darkness and clutching your knife like a lifeline.
But Dean listens to it like is real. Chewing and swallowing, muttering under his breath before he takes another bite.
“Bossy.”
You kick him under the table, and he barely flinches, but still whines like a dog.
“Fuckin’- Son of a bitch-“
You roll your eyes. “You’re fine, you big baby-“
“I’m wounded, sweetheart. You killed me-“
“You look fine to me. Incredibly alive, even.” You grin at him, pretending you can’t feel how the Silver—blending easily once more under Dean’s gaze—keens and bucks in your body at just that thought of Dean being wounded. “I’d say you’re thriving. You’ve got a burger and pie. I’m worried you’re going to cum.”
He coughs, and you don’t miss the red at the tip of his ears. “Shut up.”
“No-“
“Unless you’re gonna use that favor to keep talking.” He drawls, and the room is suddenly very warm. “I’d suggest you listen to me, Princess.”
You scoff. He doesn’t get to win, no matter how pretty and… Dean he is. “Don’t you want to know what I’m going to use the favor for?”
He raises his brows in a silent question as he chews, and you shrug.
“I’m going to save it.”
Dean chuckles as he swallows, his tone made of pure amusement. “Of course you are.”
You frown. “What does that mean-“
“It’s the smart thing.” He shrugs. “Shoulda guessed you’d get all fucking practical about it-“
“Sorry for planning ahead-“
“Planning?” He smirks at you. “What’re you planning, sweetheart?”
He has to be doing this on purpose. Making you stupid with how he’s the only thing you’ve ever really seen, the only person that’s ever made everything technicolor, made the world, made you ready to crash down and move into him at just his boyish grin and teasing words. You’re going to kill him.
“I hate you.” You mumble, twisting a ring on your finger, and he laughs.
“Sure-“
“Well what would you have used it for?” You snap, almost immediately regretting the question when his grin grows.
“That’s a secret, Princess.” He drawls. “You’ll have to lose to me in another contest to find out.”
“Well, that’s never happening-“
“It will.” He shrugs. “And I know exactly how I’d use that favor.”
You roll your eyes, even as his words settle too deep in your stomach. “Have you been planning for it-“
“Yeah.” Dean grins at you, and it might make you pass out. “I get a lot of downtime in the car, gotta pass it somehow.”
“What-“
“I know how I’d use a favor from you, from Sammy, from Bobby,” he counts off each name on his fingers, and they’re broad and callous and you miss touching them, having them touch you-
You need to pull it the fuck together.
“Not my fault I think about these things and you don’t,” Dean says your name with another fucking wink and you glower at him.
“Well, I don’t need to think about it that much.” You cross your arms, holding his gaze. “Most things I need I could just convince you to do.”
Something flashes over his face again. It seems important. You wish it would linger, just a second longer, so you could figure out what it meant. Why it drew you further into Dean, if it was part of that magnetic and impossible pull to him, if maybe, just maybe, against any and all reason and odds and logic and evidence, maybe Dean could feel this too-
“You’re gonna regret not thinking about it when the genies come.” Dean shrugs, and you blink at him.
“The genies-“
“Like in Aladdin-“
“I- I know what they are-“ You shake your head. “De, genies aren’t real.”
“Djinn are.” He shrugs. “Why can’t we have something nice for once. Just one freakin’ monster who’s fun and doesn’t try to kill us.”
He looks so grumpy. And adorable. And he’s frowning at his burger like it’s personally responsible for every monster in the world, and God, it’s so hard to fight the smile on your face.
“You think about how you’d use genie wishes a lot, Deano?”
His glare flicks up to you, and you could swear it softens slightly. “You don’t?”
“No, not really-“
“Well, now we gotta work it out.” He smirks at you, raising his burger for the last bite. “Three wishes. Basic genie rules. Go.”
“What are basic genies rules-“
“Can’t kill anyone. Can’t bring someone back from the dead. Can’t make anyone fall in love.” Dean frowns at you. “You haven’t seen the movie?”
“You have?”
He shrugs. “Came out when Sammy was nine. Snuck out to see it in theaters with him will Dad was hunting. Wasn’t shit.”
You swallow. You can’t let how equally cute and infuriating that is—the tragic but sweet image of a thirteen-year-old Dean taking Sam to the movies, sitting with too much candy and popcorn and watching just a normal, easy movie John never would’ve let them see himself—make you fall further into him.
“So you know exactly what you’d do with yours?”
He nods, chewing on that last bite, and you tilt your head at him.
“Is it a secret.”
Dean rolls his eyes as he swallows. “First I’m not supposed to talk and chew, now I’m keeping secrets cause I’m following your rules, pick a fucking lane, sweetheart-“
You kick him again. “Tell me what they are, and I’ll figure out mine.”
“Nah, I don’t trust you-“
“Dean-“
“I’ll tell you one, you tell me one.” He braces his forearms on the table, holding your gaze. “Just like our old game. You in?”
You swallow. You hate that he remembers that. You don’t know why’d he’d forget, but you still hate it, because it tells you that this means something to him. Not as much as he can’t stop meaning to you, but something.
“Yeah.” You mumble. “You first.”
“Free food.”
“Free-“
“Food.” He smirks at you. “Forever. I’d get to walk into any diner, tell them what I want, and get it for free.”
You laugh, and it’s loud and clear and real. “You already do that, De. You don’t have any real money.”
He shrugs. “And now I wouldn’t be committing a crime, sweetheart. Everyone’s winning. You go.”
“Bobby gets a vacation.”
Dean frowns at you. “Just one?”
“No.” You fidget with the napkin in your hands, thinking through your wish as you speak. “More like… once a year. One week, every year, all the monsters and spirits take a break. Just fucking chill. And Bobby gets a break.”
“Why not just get rid of all monsters, all the time-“
“No killing people, De. And genies love loopholes. I feel like a wish that big would have some consequences.” You narrow your eyes. “Stop telling me how to use my wish, and say yours.”
He rolls his eyes, but does. “Good water pressure. Everywhere.”
You snort. “You’re adorable.”
“Shut up. You’re-“
“I want my own car.” That one is easy, and well worth it for the way Dean’s eyes light up.
“I can make that one happen, Princess.”
You raise your brows. “By stealing it?”
“No, by fixing up one of Bobby’s scrapped ones. I’m good at it.”
“I-“ You swallow, and you’re once again in danger of falling over from how fucking sincere he looks. Sounds. Is. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah.” He says, something odd flashing in his eyes. “You pick one out, I’ll do it. It’ll take me three months if I actually try.”
“Will you?”
He winks. “I always do, Princess.”
“Okay.” Your voice is a whisper. You like this game. “Third wish?”
“I-“ He pauses, and when he continues his voice has dropped slightly. “Would be nice for Sammy to go back to college. Live a normal life.”
You frown, speaking before you can think. “What about you?”
He stares at you. “What about me?”
“You hated it last time he left, De-“
“Yeah, I remember-“
“No, I just mean-“ You sigh. “What would you do? Your whole life is Sam.”
Something flashes in his eyes again. You’re getting desperate to learn what it is. “It’ll be fine, Princess. Sammy- he deserves a break. Been a long year, and he’s a smart guy-“
You glower at him. “You’re a smart guy-“
“Yeah, and I’m-“ He cuts himself off abruptly, shaking his head. “It’s just a wish. Not real.”
He looks so sad. You don’t know why.
It’s going to make you insane.
And you can’t stop the words out of your mouth.
“Fine. Then my wish is you get a normal life too.”
“I- What?”
Dean’s almost gaping at you. You don’t know how to shut the fuck up.
“You heard me, Winchester. Sam gets one, you do too.” You swallow, the words spilling out of you as a damn doesn’t break, but forms a small crack. It’s just enough. “You deserve it, and don’t say you don’t because you’re wrong, and I’ll kick your fucking ass, and you should- I don’t fucking know, if Bobby gets a break and Sam gets to be normal, you should probably get more-“
Dean says your name, but you’re on a roll, and the crack hasn’t quite patched.
“So my wish is that you get more, actually. Something good. My wish is that you, you massive asshole, get something good.”
The crack seals.
Dean’s just staring at you.
And you can’t look away from him, or move, or take it back because you had meant it, and you don’t really want to.
You’re just staring at each other, and suddenly there’s a violent fear bursting through your body that you’d said too much. That Dean can see it. How you’re always just a little bit his, even when you know you shouldn’t be. That you do know you shouldn’t be, but that never stops you, and you’d do more than you’ll ever allow yourself to think about, just for Dean, always for Dean, always Dean-
“It’s-“ You swallow, still unable to tear your gaze from his. “It’s late.”
He coughs, his voice a little hoarse. “Yeah. We should, uh-“
“Sleep.”
“Yeah, that. Sleep.”
You stare at each other for only a few more seconds, and both seem to remember how to move at the exact same time.
You don’t speak as you get ready for bed. You can predict what he’ll do and how he’ll do it like a sixth sense—because you know him, nothing is ever easier than knowing Dean—and he seems to be able to do the same.
Probably not for the same reason.
Can’t think about that. Not now.
Not when—once you’ve both showered and brushed your teeth and shuffled into your respective sides of the beds with only occasional nods and glances—you have a job to do.
A job you can’t fuck up.
You stare at Dean for a long while after he falls asleep. You tell yourself it’s just to check that he’s really asleep.
And you know it’s a lie.
But you don’t really care.
He’s amazing. He can’t be yours, because you already make everything for him harder than it needs to be, but you’d also seen how he stared at you when you’d said you want him to have a normal life. Like you shot him up with light, that same odd, critical thing flashing in his eyes as his broad chest had heaved slightly, and you’d seen the whole room wash in gold, almost twining right into the Silver, and those fractured pieces-
They’re like crystal, they’re so close to being back together. You’re close to being back together. To being whole a way you haven’t been in eight fucking years.
It’s terrifying. It’s hitting you now, watching Dean sleep peacefully in the dark, just how fucking scary that is. Something might change. You might change. You might get worse, grow sicker, start to crumble as more pain overtakes your body-
But it’s doesn’t feel like that. It feels luminescent.
You’d like to feel it more.
But you have work to do.
You slide out of bed, move to the bathroom with the arrowhead in one hand—your eyes squinting as the gold of Dean starts to blind you—and lock the door behind you.
This is going to fucking hurt. It’s everything you’d sworn not to do. You’d promise yourself you wouldn’t use the Darkness like this again—it’s wrong and make you too much and you can barely stand to just be you as it is—but you don’t really have that much of a choice. Jo’s list was too long. This needs to be done tonight.
The blur begins. You’re not fighting, but the blur still kicks in, and you don’t know how you manage, but you do it. With teeth that might crack and a grip that could strangle a god, you hone the Darkness through your body and the arrowhead crumble in your hands.
There’s something else, a little lost in the blur, that numbs the pain of the Darkness ripping through your body. It’s a slightly damp towel that smell like spice and grass and is washed in Gold, pressed to your thigh as you sit on the floor and take long, strained breaths.
You’re not only you anymore. You’re the sting of the bathtub, still burning from your scorching shower earlier that night. You’re the mirror, not cracked but a little frustrated, like it wasn’t to scream things it’s captured but can’t share. You’re the grime on the tiles and the howl of the wind outside the motel, begging to find a place to finally rest.
You’re that towel, and it doesn’t feel foreign. It’s almost familiar. Like a lullaby, or anchor in a hurricane, or compass pointing you back to where you need to be.
Dean’s side.
Laying flat on your back once more, staring at the ceiling until the ache of the White to just look is overwhelming, and you have to roll onto your side to watch him.
You’re pathetic, and weak, and wrong and sick and vile. You’re staring in the dark like a weirdo as he sleeps—peaceful and slack faced and easy—and you have no intention of looking away.
Because it’s Dean.
And he’s beautiful.
He’s beautiful everywhere, but here—in the shifting light and shadows of passing cars light of the sky through the window, making his pretty face look like it was carved rather than simply born—he’s ethereal. Heavenly. Nothing on his face but Dean. Full, slightly parted lips and mussed hair and deep snores that could knock you out if you’re not careful.
But you’ve never been careful.
The only thing that keeps you awake is how, as the blur begins to fade and Darkness fails to settle back into that barbed and beaten cage you keep it in, everything becomes pain. Throbbing at your head and making the world waver, twisting like a spike behind your eye and keep them open.
It’s going to kill you. You think that maybe, this time, when you can’t it out at all but it’s cancerous and savage through your whole body, you might just wither away and die. Dean will stay safe. You’ll be saving him, if anything, from yourself.
And it won’t kill you. It will only feel like it, for a long, long time, but that’s just how it’s always been. And you’ve always gotten through it.
But now it hurts. And Dean’s right there, and he’s maybe the closest thing to perfection you’ve ever seen—his crooked nose more rugged than broken, the scars that you can see on his arms evidence that he’s fighting and sturdy and if you touched him, he might actually feel it with a fraction of the intensity you do—so you think dying at his side would be easy.
But hearing his deep and guiding voice would be better. Falling further into him would be the best thing you’d ever do with your rotten little life. Because he’s always Dean, and you’re always you, and all you’ve ever really known—understood and learned and repeated and worshipped—is that moving into Dean is right.
You don’t remember reaching out to take his hand, but his fingers tangle between yours like it’s an instinct, and he squeezes his grip in his sleep, and it’s as if all the pain is pushed through his body.
It may be a restless delirium—made of exhaustion in your every nerve, and the moonlight and just another passing pair of headlights—but just before you pass out, you could swear the world is all only silver and gold, molten and glowing and flowing together in the spaces between everything you can see, and everything else you can’t.
When you wake up, it’s all gone.
And the first thing you realize is that Dean’s hand in still in yours, and his body as shifted so that he’s holding arm over his stomach, and his body is half blocking you from the sunlight of the window and the noise of Sam-
The second thing you realize is that Dean has maneuvered himself to block you from Sam, brutally attacking you both with a pillow.
“Sam, knock it off, you’re gonna wake her-“
“I’m trying to, genius, she’s the only one who can help-
“That’s fuckin’ rude, Sammy, I’m right damn here-“
“Do you know where the arrowhead is, Dean?”
Dean shrugs, and the movement is careful. Controlled.
Like he’s really, actually trying not to wake you up.
“Maybe I do-“
“Dean-“
“But I’m not gonna tell you! I’m not trying to get freakin’ murdered by the Queen of Stabbing over here-“
Sam scoffs. “Please, dude, like you actually think she’d ever stab you-“
“She’d stab me!” He sounds offended. It almost makes you giggle, because you can perfectly picture his indignant expression. “I’m stabbable, Sammy. I’m more stabbable than you-“
“Do you want her to stab you? Is this a new kink of yours I’m going to have to deal with-“
“Shut the fuck up, bitch-“
“Does she know about how you’re into hentai, De?”
“I’m gonna fucking kill you-“
“No. You won’t. You’d have to let go of her hand.”
You can feel Dean tense against you. He still doesn’t let go.
This is starting to feel like you should really pretend to wake up.
“Sam, I swear on my Baby, if you say one more word I’m going to make Azazel look like a damn saint-“
Sam mock gasps, Dean’s grip on you becomes almost bone-breaking, and you fake a loud yawn before this end with Sam’s head bashed against the wall.
You decided—as you blink your eye open and look between them with a perfectly fake sleep expression—that they never really need to know you were listening. That you’re going to be replaying and picking it apart in your head for maybe the rest of your life, but they will never need to know.
“What’s-“ You give another fake yawn, just to really fucking sell it. “Oh, Sammy, you’re back.”
Dean’s grin could make you move mountains. “She called you Sammy-“
“I heard it.” Sam snaps, but he doesn’t really sound all that angry. More stressed. There’s a tick in his jaw and a vein in his neck.
You don’t know Sam the same way you know Dean—deep in your body, woven somewhere into the fabric of your existence and with a depression that’s made only to fit Dean on the White—but you do know him.
And something’s off.
“Where’s the arrowhead,” Sam says your name, standing tall with his arms crossed, and you feel something curl in your gut that’s made of you didn’t come up with a good lie yet. “Ruby messaged me last night, she wants to look at it again.”
“I- uh,” you swallow, and it can be part of the show. “I may have, kind of, uh-“
Sam grunts your name, and you curl a little into the mattress as your brain spins and spins and tosses and digs and comes up with-
“I sort of fucking lost it, okay!”
Sam blinks at you, and you really wish you did know him as well as you know Dean. His jaw is clenched, and he’s just staring, and he’s leaning a little back like he’s afraid you burning him or something, and you don’t know what any of it means. Not like you do with Dean. If you knew, you’d know if you sold it, how serious that is to him, just fucking anything at all about what Sam’s thinking-
“Dean.” He mutters, his gaze barely flicking away from yours. “Go get us some coffee, please.”
Dean frowns between the odd standoff that begun to form, and shakes his head. “You go get it-“
“No. Go, Dean.”
“I’m not your fucking butler-“
“Dean!” Sam shouted. “Get the fucking coffee.”
There’s a heavy tension of silence over the room. Sam shouted. Really fucking shouted. At Dean.
Even Sam looks shocked with himself. But he doesn’t back down. He just narrows his eyes at Dean—rigid and gaping and very much still on the mattress—and you’re worried it’s going to turn into something with broken walls and chairs and skipping town again-
“Dean.” You mutter, squeezing his hand—still fucking in yours—before you can stop yourself. “Can you please get me some food, too?”
He frowns at you, saying your name slowly. “I’m not just gonna leave you-“
“It’s Sam.” You keep your voice soft, but flat. “And I really would like some coffee. Please.”
It’s a shock he doesn’t argue. That Dean just scans over your open, carefully neutral features, nods, and stands up. He looks between you and Sam with a tight frown as he pushes on his shoes and grab his jacket, you give him a soft, reassuring smile, and it somehow soothes whatever had been rooting him in place.
He half-slams the door behind him.
And then it’s just you and Sam.
“You didn’t lose it.”
You frown at him. “Sam-“
“What did you do.”
“What did I-“ You scowl. “I didn’t do anything-“
“Yes, you did-“
“How would I have done something-“
Sam sighs, running a hand over his face. “I don’t know, I just know you did! You- I don’t know what was going on with that thing, but you messed with it or broke it or changed it or-“
“Sam.” You snap, moving to sit on your knees as you glare at him, twisting a ring on your finger. “It was an artifact older than most modern countries. Older than fucking Rome. I would not have done something, I couldn’t have done something-“
Sam says your name, and you’ve never seen him look that heavy. Defeated.
Worried.
“I know.”
“You-“ You stare at him. “What do you know-“
“I know what you are.” He mutters, suddenly unable to meet your eyes. “Dad told me, before he died.”
The world freezes, only for a brief moment, but when it rushes forwards, you can’t really feel it.
You can’t feel anything but the pain of the Darkness, threatening to knock you out, down, over, cave you in and rip you to shreds and stitch you back together as something worse than you’d been before. Because this is your worst nightmare. This is your worst fucking nightmare, but it has to be real because you’re in so much fucking pain and Dean isn’t here-
Sam says your name slowly, and you shake your head. You must have misheard him.
“I don’t-“ You voice is weak. Unsteady. You don’t really think you sound like yourself. “You’re- You- I’m-“
Sam moves like he’s going to reach for you, you flinch back on instinct, and he hangs his head with another side.
“I haven’t told anyone.” He says, watching you like you’re a feral, cornered animal. “I mean, I’m guessing Bobby knows-“
You’re still shaking your head, and the movement has become almost manic. “I- I’m not- Sam-“
“I didn’t tell Dean.” Sam makes his voice a little firmer, and you don’t know how to handle how quickly that makes things slightly better. “And I’m not- I know- knew, my Dad.” He runs a hand through his hair, shifting on his feet. “I’d be willing to believe he made it sound worse than it is-“
“It’s not good, Sam.” Your whisper escapes you before you can stop it. “I- I’m trying to be better, but it’s not good. Whatever John told you- It’s- He’s probably not wrong.”
Sam frowns. “He told me you were a witch. That Azazel said you were damnation or something-“
“He did.” Your body seems to think that, if it makes itself small enough and your hand—moved to your throat before you can really reckon with it—tightens enough, you’ll be able to strangle the Darkness out of your body and turn into only air. “I am.”
“You’re-“
“A witch. Or- I don’t know. Witch is too-“ You swallow. The room is spinning, and now you can feel all of it, and it’s too big, and it’s too much. “I don’t know-“
“It’s- I’m not- shit.” Sam swears under his breath, and you think he’s trying to help but you can’t really see anything but blurred color and the whole universe. “I’m not gonna tell Dean,” he says your name, and it sounds a little like how you’d say a child’s name. “I’ll keep it a secret, but I- You can trust me, I need you to know you can trust me-“
“I destroyed it.” You mumble. Your voice sounds like it’s echoing through your bones. “It was- You were purple, and everything was gold, and I- I had to-“ You stare at Sam as he becomes sharp. Dark purple with that red, right there and critical, and heavy. You can feel how fucking heavy he is. “Sam- I had to- It was- Please- I’m trying, I’m trying- I’m trying so fucking hard but it hurts-“
Sam moves for you again.
You can’t stop recoiling away, and it’s not because it’s Sam.
It’s because it’s not you. Nothing is you, and the world is too much, it’s too fucking much and you can’t let go because you’ll hurt something that matters but it fucking hurts and you can’t breathe and Dean, where’s Dean-
“I, uh- I think I’m gonna go get-“
“I’m not-“ You don’t think he’s there anymore, and you’re not sure who you’re pleading with, but everything is crashing, and the sky feels as if it’s on your shoulders and where’s Dean-
What you mean to say is I’m not going to let it decide what I am.
What comes out is a strangled scream as the world blurs once more, but you’re the monster. You’re what’s being hunted.
You don’t know when the Gold arrives. He’s shouting at something that matters, but not nearly as much, and he’s touching you but you don’t bother to flinch away.
You know him.
He fits here.
He pries your hand from your throat and pins it against the mattress.
His thumb is pressing against your nose and stroking down, and it’s like some sort of song that calls you, moves you back into you.
Dean’s right in front of you, his brow drawn in concentration and concern, and he smells like spice and grass and he’s there. Warm.
His skin is a little golden in the morning, and his hair is still spiky, and he’s real and all focused on you.
“Dean,” you whisper—you don’t know why, but it feels critical to say—and he lets out a long breath, and nods.
You drop your head to his shoulder with a shaking sob, and he holds you there. You’re vaguely aware that Sam is gone, and you’ll need to apologize to him later. Explain everything in a way that doesn’t end with Dean keeps your hand pinned to the mattress because he somehow knows what you’ll do if they’re free.
But right now, all you can do is lose yourself in Dean. Here. Holding you. Touching you. Letting you rest somewhere safe, and breathing in what has to be an accidental time with you, and Dean.
“You gonna talk about it, Princess?”
Dean’s voice is so quiet you almost don’t hear him. And when you shake your head, he only sighs.
But he doesn’t go. You keep your head on his shoulder, and he lets you, and neither of you even try to move
And inside your body, it’s luminous and colorful as all those fractured pieces move and blend back together.
End Note: I just know that Sam isn’t even that bothered by the witch thing. He’s more annoyed he can’t bitch to Bobby about how she and Dean are sharing a bed.
Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3
Taglist (If you want to be added, please fill out the form!)
Author's Note: Going back to my roots (forced proximity)
Chapter title from Thank You by Led Zeppelin
Word Count: 17k
Chapter Summary/Warnings: You, Sam, and Dean finish a case from Ruby, and it has consequences. Usual warnings.
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action
Chapter 9 - Chapter 11
Read on A03!
“Can you drive any fucking slower?”
Dean shot Her a glare in the rearview mirror, trying not to get lost in how Her eyes were shining in the low light of dusk, or how all Her features seemed to be washed in the cool, pastel colors of sunset. “No, Princess, because I’m trying not to give the cops an excuse to pull us over after you blew our fucking cover-“
“I did not blow our cover,” She hissed. “I said we needed to leave now, and you decided to stick around and try to find more caviar-“
“We weren’t done, and I was hungry-“
“You’re always hungry! And we were done, you just don’t listen to me-“
“Maybe I don’t listen to you because you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
Her eyes narrowed, and Dean could almost feel Her gaze burning and twisting on his skin. “We both know that I’m the only one who knows exactly what I'm talking about-“ She paused, and Dean could see Her giving Sam an apologetic grimace in the mirror. “Sorry, Sam-“
“It’s fine.” Sam shrugs, his attention forcefully fixed on the book in his lap. Dean had a feeling Sam had entirely been tuning them out. “I mean, you’re not really wrong.”
“Don’t tell her that, Sammy, she’ll explode from her ego-“
“My ego? That’s fucking rich from you, Winchester-“
His grip began to strangle Baby’s wheel. “At least my head is in the game, sweetheart-“
“My head is in the game-“
“Didn’t look like it was,” Dean hissed. “It looked like you were more worried about flirting with that old son of a bitch rather than getting the knife-“
“It’s not a knife,” She snapped. “And I wasn’t flirting, I was looking for information, dumbass-“
“Yeah, that seemed to really pay off for you-“
“It did-“
“Dean.” Sam cut in with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “You guys can keep fighting, I just want to make sure you remember-“
Dean rolled his eyes. “I’m going to Norfolk, Virginia, and the black-eyed bitch will meet us there.”
“Ruby’s trying to help-“
“Well, shit load of good it’s doing, we didn’t even get the damn knife-“
“It’s not a knife.” She leaned forward, resting Her forearms on the bench, and Dean could feel the heat from Her body. It was a little dizzying, and She smelled like sugar and fruit, there was that damn fruit again-
Sammy was frowning, shaking his head. “Ruby said it was a blade-“
“And She was wrong. And I’m-“
“Right?” Dean muttered under his breath, glowering at the road. “You’re always right, aren’t you-“
“Yeah, I am.” Her words were clipped, and Dean hated how that made his heart split and howl in his chest. “And you better say thank you, because I didn’t break my nail just for-“
Dean snorted, and he hated the sound. It was louder than it should be, and toxic in his ears. He hated all of this. He didn’t know how to stop it. “How fucking tragic, her majesty broke a nail-“
“It hurt, dickwad. And,” She leaned back, only for a second, and Dean had to bite the inside of his mouth to stop himself from reaching over the bench and pulling Her back to where he could still feel her warmth. “You’re welcome.”
Sam was frowning, twisting in his seat to look at Her, and Dean wished he could do the same. Especially as Sammy gasped, and he felt as if his jaw was going to snap and his teeth were going to grind to ash. What was She doing that made Sam gasp, why did She always have to be so awesome and insufferable and annoying and brilliant, why couldn’t Dean just know when to quit, why wouldn’t she just leave him alone to die in goddamn peace-
“When did you-“
“While Dean was drinking half the bar,” She cut Sam off with almost a sneer, and it was burning over Dean’s head. “I got the museum curator to show me the collection.”
“And that’s-“
“Yep.”
Sam swallowed, and when Dean glanced over, the kid’s eyes were nearly bulging out of his head. “And you’re sure-“
“I’m always sure, Samuel.” Her tone was smug, and Dean could picture the proud, pretty smirk on Her face. “And it’s not a knife. It’s an arrowhead.”
Sam reached back, Dean heard a slapping sound, and when he glanced in the mirror She was clutching something to Her chest, glaring at the front seat.
“Don’t touch it.” She snapped, and Sam blinked at Her.
“It’s just a rock,” Sam said Her name carefully, shooting Dean a what the hell is happening look.
Dean didn’t know. With Her, Dean never fucking knew.
“It’s not- You-“ She took a deep breath, Her voice suddenly far too soft and measured. “Just, I’m going to hold onto it, okay?”
“But-“
“Sam. Please.”
Sam frowned at Her, but nodded, and Dean scowled.
He had to bite down vile, spitting words about Her thinking she was better, about not even trusting them to hold the weapon. There was a line, and Dean refused to cross it. He couldn’t stop toeing right up to it—driven by the bitter, furious part of him that still hated how She’d lied about being sick, how She’d left him fucking dying in the hospital, how She was better and Dean couldn’t be allowed to have her—but he wouldn’t cross it. He couldn’t leave a real mark on Her. It would fully drive Her away, make her finally snap and leave him in the mud for good.
And She’d been working with them for several weeks, and Dean was still being a selfish piece of shit.
He couldn’t fall out of Her orbit. He couldn’t bring himself to save Her from himself, from all the horror that came with being in his life, but he couldn’t hate Her enough to lie that he didn’t want Her here and mean it. He couldn’t just mean it.
Dean couldn’t sneer that She knew everything and believe it to be the truth in his bones. He couldn’t snap that She’d been flirting with that old asshole—and he knew it was the museum curator, and he knew it was for the case, and he didn’t care—and not put extra venom in his voice because She wasn’t smiling at Dean like that. She was barely smiling at Dean at all.
He didn’t blame Her. He was being a dick, but it was for Her own good. He was lying, but it was for Her.
He repeated, over and over in the dead of night, that it was for Her. For the best. And, it was but he still couldn’t quite convince himself.
He had five months left. If he was smart, Dean would stop swallowing his crueler words and just vomit up every false reason he hated Her—She was too pretty, She did strange things to his heart and body he didn’t like not being able to control, he’d follow Her anywhere but knew she wouldn’t do the same for him—until She left, and he’d rescued Her from caring about him.
Because Dean was damned.
But he never wanted to be damned for hurting Her.
So he was being a fucking asshole and not crossing the line, because he wanted Her. He couldn’t stop wanting Her, he didn’t know how, it had become such a critical part of him now—to always crash down, down, down into Her and that soft, sliver light that She always cast over the pit inside of him, even when She hated him and he was supposed to hate Her—that Dean was pretty sure he’d only ever stop wanting Her when his soul was carved up and split into pieces.
Yet he still wouldn’t tell Her. He still couldn’t allow himself to look Her in her bright eyes and tell her I’m dying, Princess. I’m pretty much already dead.
Dean didn’t have a good enough memory to keep track of all the lies he was telling Her. And Sammy was barely creative enough to come up with a proper story that explained the Devil’s Gate and Azazel and Lilith while completely omitting the whole demon deal thing.
But they managed.
And She had no idea.
She believed they were hunting Lilith because that was their job. That they were researching crossroads demon because Lilith was known to work with them. That they were working with Ruby, getting this arrowhead for Her, because they needed anything at all to try and kill Lilith.
Dean had called Bobby, and told him that, under no circumstances, could he tell Her about the deal. About Dean’s timer, and how it was slowly creeping closer and closer to zero. That they were hunting together again, and Dean wouldn’t ask Bobby why the hell he’d lied about Her being sick, as long as Bobby didn’t rat them out.
“I won’t say anythin’ unprompted,” Bobby had grunted through the phone. “But if she asks, I ain’t gonna lie to her.”
Dean had scowled into the air, keeping a careful eye on the sidewalk through the window. She and Sammy had gone to get coffee. Dean had needed to wrap this up before they got back. “Bobby-“
“No. You know you’re my family, boy, but she’s always gonna be first.” Bobby had sighed. “Listen, I won’t tell her ‘less she catches it herself. But you know she’s far from dumb, Dean. She’ll pick up that something’s off, and there ain’t nothin’ that’s gonna save you from how pissed she’ll be that you kept it from her. At least try and give her the dignity of learnin’ it from you.”
Bobby had hung up, and Dean hadn’t told Her. He couldn’t. Bobby and Sam didn’t understand that he just fucking couldn’t.
Couldn’t tell Her.
Couldn’t fully push Her away.
“How are you sure?” Sam was watching Her carefully, and Dean kept his eyes on the road. She was there. Right now, Her being there was all the relief he could allow himself. “I mean, I trust you, but we just need to be positive before we show this to Ruby-“
“It’s jade, and that’s what Ruby told you it would be, right?”
Sammy nodded. “Yeah, but-“
“And if you trust her-“
“I do.”
Dean frowned. Sam, for some reason, did seem to trust Ruby. Dean didn’t, because She was a demon. Being trustworthy was against her freakin’ nature.
“Well, she said it would have writing on it, right-“
“Yeah, but-“
“Look.” Dean saw Her shift in the rearview mirror, and felt Her brush his arm as she leaned back forward.
Little sparks flew through his body, and he sat a little taller, and he could see Her side-profile in his periphery and She was glowing, and there was the fruit again-
She was trying to make him crash the car.
“That’s Hebrew.” She tapped the arrowhead she spoke. “That’s Arabic, and that’s-“
“Latin.” Sam finished, and Dean rolled his eyes. Fucking nerds. “What about that one-“
She jerked Her hand back as Sam went to touch the arrowhead, and elbowed Dean in the shoulder.
He grunted, gritting his teeth as the dull pain. “Son of a bitch-“
“Shit, sorry, De-“
“Whatever.” He muttered, refusing to look Her in the eyes. She’d almost called him De. And maybe She’d been about to say Dean, but that wasn’t any better. His whole body felt like it was buzzing and heavy, and took a tight grip on the wheel to stop himself from leaning closer to Her. “Answer Sammy’s question.”
“Yeah, it’s, um-“ She swallowed. Dean could goddamn feel Her gaze. “Sorry, it’s just like, witch symbols. Probably.”
Sam’s face twisted slightly, and Dean didn’t understand that look. It was more tense than Sam’s usual, doubtful bitch-face. It was almost pained. Weary.
“Probably?” He asked, and She shrugged.
“Yeah. You’re the one who said it’s a witch artifact-“
“Ruby said it’s a witch artifact, I just passed it on. And, I dunno, can you not tell-“
“Tell what?” Her voice became clipped again, and something in the air shifted. Became heavier, more taut.
“That it’s a witch artifact-“
“I know all the same things you do. If Ruby says it’s a witch, it’s a witch.”
Sam frowned, Her arm brushed against Dean’s again, and the taut thing was now frayed.
Dean didn’t know what was happening.
“Okay.” Sam broke their odd stand-off first, letting out a slow exhale. “I just wanted to-“
“Be sure.” She muttered. “Yeah, I know.”
There was a long pause—Dean forcing himself to focus on the low sound of the radio rather than how close She was, how her breathing was heavy and measured, how he wanted to follow the pattern with his heartbeat until he was moving with Her all the time—and when She leaned back, Dean couldn’t stop himself from glancing at Her small frown in the rearview mirror.
“What did Ruby say this was for?”
Sam shrugged, turning in his seat as he spoke. “She told me it could help kill anything inhuman or unholy. Stuff that even her knife and the Colt can’t gank.”
“The nasty sons of bitches,” Dean muttered. “Worst of the worst.”
There was another pause, and when She spoke again her voice was small. “I- anything?”
“Powerful things,” Sam explained. “Ruby said it was designed for things outside of nature. Like Lilith.”
“Like Lilith.” She repeated, and She sounded strange. Nervous.
Dean glanced back in the mirror to see Her curled into the backseat, turning the arrowhead between Her fingers with a tight frown, Her body braced in the way it always was when She started to freak out, her free hand gripping slightly at Her throat, that little wrinkle in Her brow obvious and prominent-
He couldn’t reach back and run his thumb over, no matter how much he itched to. She probably wouldn’t even let him.
But God, the sight of Her like this made him feel sick. He hadn’t seen any real, full episodes since Her return, but he’d seen the bags under Her eyes, the raised marks on Her skin, the dried blood around Her nails.
It wasn’t his place to say anything anymore.
But it still torn him to pieces. Still made him feel like he was doing something wrong, still made Dean feel wrong. If he was good, he’d never allow something as amazing as She was to be in pain. He’d stop being selfish and set Her free of his burden, because even his proximity stole and hoarded Her light.
But he needed Her here. Even if She couldn’t be his.
And he needed Her to stop clawing at Her throat.
So he did the only thing he could think of, and coughed for Her attention.
Her eyes flicked to his in the rearview mirror, and they set off fireworks over his ribs. Colorful and hot and bright and Her-
“Nice work.” He muttered. “With the case. You were-“ Dean choked on the word right. Of course She was right. She was the only right thing in the universe. “You did good.”
He wouldn’t apologize. Dad said to never apologize for making the smart, right call, even if it was the tough one. Especially if it was the tough one, because that meant he was being strong, and it wasn’t his responsibility to make sure people understood that.
And what he’d said seemed to be enough. She sat a little taller, Her chin tilting a little higher, and when She spoke again Her voice was back to its usual tone. Smooth and clear and designed to haunt Dean in his sleep.
“Of course I did good.” She snapped. “I know what I’m doing, Winchester. I always do.”
Something in Her suddenly seemed to be glowing, leaking out through Her eyes on Dean’s in the mirror.
It made Dean glow. Like he was being called further down into Her. He didn’t know how the hell She always did that to him. He’d likely never get a chance to find out.
So all Dean did was roll his eyes and look back to road, because now he had a new lie to drill into his brain.
The lie that—if that hadn’t succeeded in returning Her to the proud, sharp, blinding woman She usually was—Dean would’ve said sorry.
That if She ever did lash at him with words that left bigger and more purposeful scars than the ones he already carried—the ones that seemed to line his every thought and breath, where he was haunted by Her when she was gone and consumed by her when she was there, and he was almost certain She didn’t even know how deep she was branding him—Dean would fall to his knees and fucking grovel for Her to heal him. For that shifting, easy light to cast over him and Her warmth to fuse him back together, better than he’d been before. For Her.
Dean would do most anything for Her.
And that meant—even if Bobby and Sam disagreed—lying to Her about the deal.
“Dean,” Sam was shifting through his backpack as they pulled into a gas station, his attention mostly focused on trying to find a credit card that hadn’t gotten frozen. “If they don’t have pie-“
“We’re in Carolina, they’re gonna have freakin’ pie-“
Sam sighed. “Yeah, but if they don’t-“
“They will.” Dean snapped. The world was already fucking tormenting him. They didn’t need to take away his pie as well. “Pie, Sammy. Nothing else.”
“Dean-“
“Pie-“
“We’ll find you pie, you giant baby.” She rolled Her eyes from the backseat, stretching as she scooted to the door. Dean could see a little bit of bare skin from the movement.
His pants got a little tight.
He was fucking pathetic.
Sam said Her name carefully, shooting Dean a weary look from the corner of his eyes. “We can’t control what the gas station has-“
“We’ll figure it out.” She shrugged. “C’mon, buddy. Let Deano brood in peace.”
Dean scowled, half because of Her drawling, bored use of Deano that still made him bend a little much for her, and half because he wasn’t brooding. And if he was, he should be allowed to. He was dying-
She didn’t know that. She was going to find him pie anyway.
And he hated this.
It was the good moments that were the worst. Moments when they glanced at each other when Sam said something dramatic, and he wanted to whisper a joke, but he wasn’t allowed to anymore. Moments where they brushed past each other and didn’t flinch, where Dean would see Her early in the morning and She’d look downright adorable with that small, pouting frown.
Moments like this one. Where She got back before Sam, passed Dean his pie without a word, and sprawled out in the backseat. And Dean could glance at Her as he filled up Baby’s tank, and She fit so naturally that he wasn’t sure how his very foundation hadn’t crumbled to nothing while She was gone.
She looked beautiful. She was wearing the jacket he’d left Her, and Dean could see the poke of the blade he’d given Her, and she was frowning at the broken nail she’d mentioned earlier, and it would be so easy to reach out and run his thumb down Her nose until she let out a soft, easy breath and everything was okay again.
“Have you met Ruby?”
Dean blinked at Her. “Yeah.”
She hummed, not looking away from Her nails. “What’s she like?”
“She’s a demonic bitch.” Dean muttered, glaring at the gas pump, and She snorted.
“Eloquent, De.”
He felt like he was falling from a million feet. She’d really called him De again. Out of fucking nowhere, like nothing had happened, She was smiling at him and calling him De and there was something in Her that was guarded and Dean wanted to shred it down and crash right into Her-
“Why are you working with her?” She asked, tilting Her head at him. “Is it because of Sam?”
“He trusts Ruby.” Dean’s words were pushed through his teeth. “And I trust him.”
“Should I trust her?”
Dean let out a dry chuckle. “Gonna matter what my answer is?”
“Yeah.” She said the word like it was nothing, and Dean’s lungs stuttered and caved for a brief second, as if he’d just been shot. “I didn’t ask for shits and giggles, Winchester-“
“Then don’t.” He grunted. “Don’t trust Ruby.”
“Alright.” She shrugged. “I won’t.”
There was a pause, and Dean didn’t know why She wasn’t trying to fight with him. He didn’t understand Her, how she could be acting like nothing was wrong when it so clearly freakin’ was, when they hadn’t even dared to speak about how She’d left him and lied and obviously didn’t want anything real to do with Dean-
“Did you see Sam trying to flirt with that waitress-“
“I have to shit.” Dean blurted, refusing to meet Her eyes as he returned the gas pump to its station, because She might look sad or surprised or hurt, and he wouldn’t know how to deal with that in a way he could permit. “Watch the car.”
He walked away before She could say anything, and Jesus, he was an asshole.
She’s been trying to be nice to him. Dean didn’t know why, but She seemed to be determined to try and patch at least something between them, and it made everything so much goddamn worse. She’d sneer at him one second—when the air around them was heated and weighted in Dean’s lungs, when Dean was biting at Her and she didn’t resist his silent plea for Her to bite back—and then do something like that the next, and Dean couldn’t live with it.
He couldn’t live with himself. It might be a good thing he was damned, because otherwise he’d have no justification for how he’d just walked away, how Her trying to reach out to him just made him recoil, because nothing had ever been as good as Her, and no one had ever been less deserving of Her than Dean.
And that was why he hated the good moments the most. They reminded him that She really was better, and Dean wasn’t worthy of Her infinite… everything. They forced him to build his walls higher, to line them with further barbed wire, because if he didn’t, She’d slip through a crack without effort.
Dean couldn’t afford to let Her back in. She needed to hate him. This whole thing would be so much easier if She would just hate him.
Maybe one day he’d walk away like that again and not glance over to check that She was still there. He had to drive Her away, but he still made sure She was still there.
And She was. She always was. Every day for the past few weeks, Dean had looked for Her and she’d been there. Legs folded in a chair as She chewed on a pencil, lying flat on Her back and humming to herself in a way that made Dean’s head a little fuzzy, standing tall as She scanned over a room and rubbed Her thumb over that scar on Her palm.
She was doing that now. Leaning over the front seats and rubbing Her palm, head slightly bowed so Her hair blocked a full view of Her face, occasionally reaching down to touch something that was on the bench. Probably Sammy’s book.
She was so pretty.
She could never be Dean’s.
Sam didn’t say anything when Dean shuffled to his side in the station, just raising his brows, glancing out the window, and letting out an unnecessarily long breath with a shake of his head.
“Wanted some coffee.” Dean muttered, grabbing a paper cup and ignoring Sam’s flat expression of disbelief. “Long drive ahead.”
“Sure, dude.” Sam was still looking out the window, an odd expression on his face. “Huh.”
“What-“
“See the Cadillac? The silver one?”
Dean followed Sam’s gaze to the parking lot. “Yeah, what about it-“
“It was behind us, on the highway. For a while.” Sam ran a hand through his hair, shooting Dean a tight look. “Did you seriously not notice?”
“Course I noticed.” Dean muttered, and he very much had not fucking noticed. He’d been distracted. She’d been right there whenever he used the mirror, and there had still been a little bit of lipstick stained on her mouth from the case, and he’d wanted to wipe the smudge on Her cheek off with his thumb, just to test if She’d gape at him or look at him like he mattered. Like he could matter to Her, if that was allowed. “Lotta cars in the world, Sammy, some of them are bound to be going from Carolina to Virginia-“
Dean cut himself off as the Cadillac stopped in the middle of the lot, its door opened, three large men climbed out.
They were walking towards the Impala.
He could see the sun catch light off of something in the largest one’s hand, and it was glinting and long and-
Dean was roaring Her name before he could think better of it. There was red lining his vision and a blaring, alarm-like sound in his ear, and She was in danger-
Sam was right on his tail as he burst out of the lot, sprinting back to the car—back to Her—as the men started crowding the windows, but She was faster. Right before Fuckhead Number One could bash Baby’s windows in, She pushed the door open into his gut, vaulting forward with Her knife in hand as the man let out a guttural noise of pain.
Dean slammed his body right into Fuckhead Number Two—the big, ugly one who’s knife he’d seen—right as Sam caught up to him, grabbing Fuckhead Number Three and pushing him down onto the concrete with a grunt.
They all had the same knives. Somewhere in the whirlwind of the fight—fists flying, Dean trying to reach for his gun but always fumbling as he had to dodge another punch, Sammy scrambling with Fuckhead Three on the ground as She danced around Fuckhead One—Dean realized that it wasn’t just the asshole he was fighting who had a that knife.
It was the same one that had stabbed Her in Colorado. Same curved, sharp blade he’d seen a few times on Bobby’s desk, that had damn near killed Her-
They’d gotten separated. Somehow Sam had ended up wresting with Fuckhead Three in the grass, She and Fuckhead One were the middle of the lot with Her knife in hand, and Fuckhead Two had backed Dean up to the stations walls.
“If it ain’t the Winchesters.” Fuckhead sneered, and Dean barely managed to duck the blow aimed at his jaw. “Didn’t expect to see you here-“
“Shut up.” Dean snapped. “Unless you’re gonna say why you’re trailing us, I don’t wanna here a word out of your ugly mouth-“
Dean side-stepped another punch, and Fuckhead gave him a crude smile.
“Not trailing you.” He sneered. “Trailing what you’ve got.”
“If it’s Sammy, you can have him,” Dean slammed his knee into Fuckhead Two’s side, sending him stumbling back with a grunt. “But I’ll warn you, he snores like a bitch-“
“We have no interest in Azazel’s little experiment.” Fuckhead let out a dry chuckle, not balking as Dean finally grabbed his gun, aiming the barrel at his temple. “Our kind deal in far… bigger, older affairs.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “This the part where I’m supposed to ask you what your kind are instead of just shooting you-“
Fuckhead smirked. “I’d imagine you’d like to know, Dean. Not like you can kill me anyway.”
“You wanna bet on that-“
“I’m not the betting type. To risky. And we- Well, we aren’t the kind to take risks.”
Dean was about to scoff and pull the trigger, but Fuckhead held his gaze, and his eyes shifted.
Eclipsed with a venomous, neon green for a long second, the grin on his face widening until he was laughing.
“You have no idea what you’ve begun to meddle with, Mr. Winchester-“
Dean shot Fuckhead’s foot. He didn’t need a villain rant right now, worst that would result in was a limp for the vessel, and goddamnit why couldn’t anything ever be easy-
“Sammy!” He roared across the lot. “Demons!”
Sam nodded, locking his arms around Fuckhead Three’s neck and started to chant the exorcism, and Dean sprinted forward to where She was still fighting Fuckhead One with a shout of Her name-
She was faster. She was always faster.
Dean watched as She brought Her knife right up to Fuckhead One’s throat, hissed something in his ear, and seconds later bright green smoke erupted out of his mouth.
The same happened with Fuckhead Two and Three, and Dean frowned. He’d never seen Sam do the exorcism that fast.
He muttered Her name, fisting his hands at his side to stop himself reaching for Her. “Are you-“
“I’m fine.” She snapped. “Let’s go before someone calls the cops.”
She didn’t look okay. Sam rejoined them at the car—dusting the grass and dirt off his pants and looking between them with a frown—and Dean had to restrain himself with brutal reminders that She didn’t need him, because She looked the furthest thing from okay and it was eating at his gut.
She wasn’t speaking. For the rest of the drive She was lying on her back, eyes squeezed shut, body half curled into itself and arms wrapped around Her stomach. For the first time since She’d returned, she really did look sick. Colorless and pallid, lips drawn in a thin line as if she was in pain, breathing loud enough for Dean to hear over the music. Sammy kept asking damn questions about the demons, about what Fuckhead Two had said to Dean and what green eyes could possibly mean, but Dean couldn’t really hear him.
His tongue was caught in his throat to stop him from spitting out that they needed to stop, because he was worried about Her. His chest felt like it was contracting and aching and ripping, and his heart was loud in his ears, and why was this so goddamn horrible, why couldn’t he just not care that She was in pain-
“Dean.” Sam muttered, long after the sun had set, a little while after She’d fallen asleep. “We need to tell her. About the deal.”
Dean scowled, his gaze flicking back to Her in the mirror. She seemed to be really, truly asleep.
Dean wouldn’t bet on it.
“Not now, Sam-“
“Bobby was right, she’d going to work it out eventually-“
“No, she won’t. She’ll leave first.”
Sam gave him an odd look, glancing back to Her with a shake of his head. “Why are you so fucking convinced she’s going to leave-“
“She always leaves.“ Dean snapped. “She left at the hospital-“
“Because she was sick-“
“Does she look sick to you-“
“Yeah, she does.” Sam seemed to suddenly, somehow, be taller. “And I know she does to you too, Dean. I mean, just look at her-“
“I did.” Dean muttered, glowering at the passing white lines on the highway. “And it’s not my business. I’m not talking about this, Sammy. So fucking drop it.”
Sam sighed. “You know can convince her you don’t care about her, shit, you can even convince yourself, but you can’t convince me. If it were anyone else, you’d have shot them in Utah, and we both know it.”
“Shut up-“
“I am. Just-“ Sam said Her name, and Dean felt like he was going to vomit. “You’re not good at being right about her. You get blinded, Dean, and I think she needs us just as much as-“
“She doesn’t need us.” Dean couldn’t stop himself from glancing at Her in the backseat.
Hauntingly beautiful in the night, the shadows and moving lights of the road making Her look even more like something that had fallen from the sky, like a piece of a star or comet that had started to breathe and walk the earth. The breeze breaking through the cracked windows blowing through Her hair and giving her cheeks a slightly flush.
Her knife was gripped tight in Her hands, and she was folded around it like it was gravity.
Dean wanted Her to fold around him like that. He wanted to be the thing that grounded Her.
But he wasn’t.
“She doesn’t need anyone, Sam.” He muttered, ripping his gaze back onto the road. “We’ll be there in an hour.”
And when Sam dropped it with a sigh, Dean made himself focus on the music. Normally, he’d turn it up to drown out his own thoughts, louder than even Sam’s chastising voice.
Tonight he kept it low, because louder meant there would be a possibility of disturbing Her. And Dean was already pretty sure She didn’t get as much sleep as she needed.
So he’d give Her this last hour of the drive—going a little slower to extended the time—and he’d let himself look at Her a little more when she couldn’t see.
Then he’d park the car in the motel lot, mutter to Sam that he needed to work out how to get Her up without getting himself stabbed, and steel himself as he exited the car.
He couldn’t care. It would be unfair to Her for Dean to care, when he’d be gone in five months.
Maybe, if he repeated it enough in his head, it would feel true.
Dean stopped in front of the room from Ruby’s message to Sam, and he’d barely had a chance to raise his fist to knock before the door swung open, and Ruby was glaring at him from the other side.
“Where’s Sam.”
“Hi, Dean.” He muttered, shoving past Ruby with an eye roll. “Thanks for taking time to get the thing for me, I’m going to try and not be a fucking bitch for five seconds to show my gratitude-“
“I’m not going to be grateful when you probably didn’t to shit.” Ruby crossed her arms, turning to him with narrowed eyes. “Where’s Sam.”
“I’m here,” Sam’s head poked around the door frame, a tense frown on his face. “Dean, she’s not moving-“
Dean froze at the foot of the bed. “What do you mean, she’s not moving-“
“She woke up, but she said she just wants to stay in the car-“
“She can’t stay in the car, Sammy, she has the arrowhead and we- shit, we just got jumped by demons-“
Ruby stared between them, her eyes wide. “You just got- who the hell are you talking about-“
“Oh, yeah, you guys haven’t met yet.” Sam swallowed, running a hand through his hair. “I- uh- You remember how I mentioned that girl Dean used to hunt with-“
“You told Ruby about her?!” Dean hissed, and Sam shot him an apologetic look.
“Just like, once-“
“Wait,” Ruby looked between them, said Her name, and Dean was going to rip out Her tongue. The bitch shouldn’t be allowed to say Her name. Nothing evil should even be allowed to know about Her. “She’s here?”
“Yeah,” Dean narrowed his eyes. “You got a problem with that?”
“Of course I do, you two idiots weren’t supposed to tell anyone what you were doing-“
“You don’t get to tell us what we do and don’t do,” Dean hissed, his glare turning to a very worried looking Sam. “She’s not coming out of the car?”
Sam shook his head. “No, uh-“
“I’ll take care of it.” He grunted, not looking at Ruby as he moved back to the door, clapping Sam on the shoulder with short words. “You kids keep it in your pants while I get her majesty inside.”
Dean didn’t bother to wait for Ruby to make a snide remark, just marching to the Impala and opening the back door, glaring down and where She still lay.
“C’mon, Princess, we’ve landed-“
“Don’t care.” She mumbled, twisting onto Her side and burying Her face in the seat. “I’m fine here, Dean.”
Dean jaw clenched. “Fine, just- give me the arrowhead thingy-“
“No.”
Dean grunted Her name. “You can wallow in the car all you freakin’ want, but we need that arrowhead-“
“Why.”
“The hell do you mean why, the whole point of that whole damn thing-“
“Why was it the point?” She rolled onto Her back, meeting Dean’s eyes with raised brows. “Who would want this thing?”
“Ruby wants it, and she’s going to be a real bitch if we don’t give it to her-“
“Should I give it to Her?”
Dean stared at Her, saying her name slowly. “What the hell are you talking about.”
“You told me not to trust her, Dean.” She held his gaze, and Dean felt like She looking right down into the pit. Daring him to admit something he didn’t understand. “Why should I give her the arrowhead if I shouldn’t trust her.”
It took a second for Her words to sink in. She was just watching him, a challenging expression on Her pretty face, and when it clicked, Dean had to go rigid and still to stop himself from crashing down into Her pouting, drawn lips.
She was taking him seriously. She was taking Dean—Dean, of all damn people—and his opinion and trust of Ruby, seriously. She wasn’t trusting Ruby because he told Her not to, and there wasn’t an ounce of doubt in Her voice. It had been flat, pointed, filled with that same dry tone She’d used when she’d asked Dean a rhetorical question about a hunt or a monster She’d already known everything about. The voice She used when she was half quizzing him, but She’d also been in charge of designing all the answers.
He couldn’t think about that. Couldn’t sit in how it made him stand a little taller, how Her gaze on his was almost certainly looking all the way into him, how She was seeing into every piece and sunken hollow in Dean’s body and not moving away.
Why the hell couldn’t She just move away.
He couldn’t have this. He couldn’t have Her. Dean needed to keep moving, and Her looking at him like that—like She could see him, like he was real, like She wanted to fall up into him just as bad as he wanted to tumble down to Her—made him want to stay in this parking lot for the entirety of his remaining months.
“We still gotta work with the bitch,” Dean said Her name, forcing his gaze to remain on Her’s, all while trying to remember how he’d ever managed to convince Her to do anything. “She’s our best line to Lilith-“
“That can’t be true.”
Dean blinked at Her. “You got a better idea?”
“No. But I could find one.”
“You planning to find it in the car?”
She scowled. “Shut up-“
“Look, you-“ Dean sighed, running a hand over his face. “You don’t need to give it to Ruby. But you need to come inside.”
Her eyes narrowed, Her mouth opening to probably say something harsh and firm along the lines of shove it up your ass, Winchester, you don’t tell me what to do, but Dean pushed on before She could.
“Please?” He watched Her carefully, trying not to get lost in how She was blinking at him, how he could move just a few inches and brush the hair off Her face, trace his fingers over her parted lips. “Can’t just leave you alone in the car at 3am. You never know when more demons might jump out of the bushes, sweetheart.”
“It’s three in the-“ She cut Herself off with a yawn, and God, she could be real damn cute when She wasn’t glaring at him.
“C’mon, Princess.” Dean nodded to the motel room, hoping She was too tired to hear the affection in his voice. “Let’s go.”
When She pushed herself to her feet, Dean’s hand almost shot out to rest on Her lower back and guide her inside.
He regained control of his body at the last second, and flinched back. He was falling again. Further and further every time, because he always thought he’d reached the deepest part of this strange pull to Her, and he was always wrong.
She didn’t see it. Didn’t see how he recoiled from Her body. Shit, Dean hoped She hadn’t seen it. That might be the line crossed—might be something She took as Dean hating her, when he couldn’t, he didn’t know how—and Dean didn’t want to lose Her. He would. He’d have to.
But not now.
Not when She was listening to him. Not when he could feel something start to bloom to the right of his heart, because She was trusting him. Against all odds and logic and reason, She was trusting Dean. He didn’t understand it. He never did. But this was good, and it would all be gone soon regardless, and Dean can’t be allowed to have something so good just to break it, but he also couldn’t live with himself if he shattered Her without having her at all.
His head was spinning around that idea. How could She still trust Dean, he was Dean, he was damned and selfish and mean to Her, but she still trusted him-
He almost missed the chorus of shouts that broke through the motel room.
She flying at Ruby, knife in hand and eyes slightly crazed, blocked only by Sam jumping in Her path and holding Her back as Ruby scrambled away.
“What the fuck-“
“Let go of me!” She was screaming, thrashing in Sam’s hold and watching Ruby with a slightly crazed expression. “Sam- Fucking let go- I- I can’t-“
Sam said Her name, his voice in the calming tone he used on the vics. “That’s just Ruby, she’s an ally-“
“Just an ally?” Ruby shot him a glare. “Ouch, Sammy, I thought we were friends-“
“I- Maybe wait until after I calm her down to start yelling at me-“ Sam cut himself off with a groan as She elbowed him in the gut, but didn’t waver his hold. “Fuck-“
“Let- Sam, let me go- I need to- fuck- Dean!” She screamed for him, and whatever daze Dean had been shocked into was destroyed by the sound of it. “Dean, it’s a- Dean-“
“Fucking hell,” Ruby shook her head slightly, her back still pressed to the wall, her body a little more rigid than Dean had seen it before. “She’s a dramatic one, isn’t she-“
“Don’t talk about her like that.” Dean snapped, giving Ruby a firm, harsh, don’t fucking test me, bitch, glower before taking Her face between his hands, lowering his voice until only She could really hear it. “You need to calm down, Princess-“
She shook Her head, hair sliding over Her brow, and Dean had a striking realization that this was the closest he’d been to Her in over two years.
“Dean, she’s- If- It’s wrong- Something’s wrong-“
“Ruby’s a demon,” he said Her name carefully, scanning over Her open features. “You knew that-“
“I- I’m not-“ She shook Her head, Her voice more panicked by the second. “It’s wrong, Dean, something’s wrong-“
“I know. Just, son of a bitch-“
He gave in. Dean let his control slip just a little, gave into his every deeply rooted and natural instinct, and ran his thumb down Her nose.
The effect was almost immediate. Her eyes closed slowly, the tension leaving Her expression and body as she half-slumped into him, and this was everything Dean had been trying to avoid, but he also couldn’t ignore how his own bones felt lighter in his body, how the world felt bigger—in a relieving, colorful and bright way that made Dean’s head not feel like a weight on his neck—because She wasn’t freaking out.
He moved Her to the bed without a word, letting Her lie flat on her back and curling his fingers to stop himself from falling further—from tracing Her cheekbones and tucking Her hair behind her ears—and only managed to remember they weren’t alone in the whole universe because Ruby coughed behind him.
“What the hell was that-“
“She must have, uh-“ Sam swallowed, glancing to Her on the bed as he said Her name. “Are you-“
“I’m fine.” She muttered, eyes still closed as She twisted a ring on her finger. “Forgot she was a demon. Sorry.”
Lie.
That was a lie.
Dean frowned at Her, keeping his voice level and casual. “How’d you manage to remember-“
“I must have flashed my eyes.” Ruby jumped in, and she hadn’t moved from her spot on the wall. “Happens sometimes.”
Sam shot Dean a confused, slightly questions look, and Dean gave a small shake of his head.
“I’ve never seen you do that shit by accident, Ruby-“
“Well you don’t look at me, Dean, so kindly stop being an ass and have your girlfriend hand over the arrowhead.”
Dean scowled, but couldn’t bring himself to properly protest the girlfriend thing. Not when his brain was still in a scratching loop of Her face so close, Her warm cheeks under his hands, the intoxicating smell of that goddamn fruit dragging him higher and higher-
“No.” She muttered from the bed, and when Her eyes opened they found Dean’s so fast he’d have thought he was a magnet. “It’s staying with me.”
Ruby’s eyes narrowed as she pushed off the wall, Dean body moved a slight inch to the side—just enough to stop Ruby if she tried something on his- his whatever She was—and Sam sighed.
“Oh, shit.”
“What do you mean, no?” Ruby sneered, taking a slow step forward. “I sent you to get it for me, you can’t just keep it-“
“You ever heard of finders keepers?” Her voice was bored, and whatever panic Ruby’s black eyes had sparked in Her seemed to have vanished entirely. “This is that.”
Ruby scoffed. “That doesn’t work here, you spoiled brat-“
Something hot filled Her eyes, and Dean felt like something was rotting in his chest.
“That’s rude.” She cut Ruby off with a shrug, nothing in Her tone shifting, but Her eyes remained different. Dean wasn’t sure anyone else had noticed. “And I’m sorry, but I’ve never been good at being peer pressured. Try again later.”
“Later? Are you-“ Ruby whipped around to snap at Sammy. “Make her give me my arrowhead.”
“I- uh-“ Sam glanced to Dean, his face filled with worry. “I’m not-“
“Shut it, Ruby.” Dean grunted, and Sam’s whole body seemed to slump with relief. “If her majesty says no arrowhead, you don’t get an arrowhead.”
Ruby glared at him. “Are you fucking kidding me-“
“I dunno,” Dean looked to Her with raised brows, and he could’ve sworn he saw Her mouth tug slightly upwards. “You kidding, sweetheart?”
“Not really, no.”
“Alright.” He shrugged, turning back to Ruby with a shrug. “You heard the lady. No arrowhead.”
Ruby’s jaw twitched. “This is stupid, I mean, even for you, Dean-“
“It’s not stupid.” She snapped from the bed, and Dean glanced over to find Ruby on the end of one of Her coldest, most threatening glares. “I’m holding onto it. No one else.”
“You could try and take it from her,” Dean suggested, crossing his arms over his chest. “But I’ll warn you, she plays it real fast and loose with that knife.”
There was a long, silent stand-off—Sammy shifting on his feet in the background, looking around the group like he was trying to work out which bomb in a pile would go off first—and Ruby caved first.
“Fine.” Ruby sighed, shooting Her a glare. “Be a fucking child. In the meantime, we need to go back to how Sam said you three got jumped by demons.”
“Jumped is a strong word,” She muttered, arms wrapping around Her stomach. “More like snuck up on-“
“This isn’t a joke.” Ruby snapped. “If demons are following you, it’s because of the arrowhead, which means more will be coming if we don’t do something about it.”
She sat up on the bed, an odd and unreadable expression on Her face, but before Dean could ask what the hell it was for, Sam was talking.
“They were- uh-“ He looked to Dean and Her, his voice filled with slight nerves. “They were green? The demons-“
“Green?” Ruby stared at Sam, the almost frightened look returning to her face. “Sam, what the hell do you mean they were green-“
“He means they were green, genius.” Dean muttered, rolling his eyes. “Green smoke, green eyes. Green-“
“Demons.” Ruby was shaking her head, the movement almost frantic. “For- God, for fuck’s sake, can you two not making anything easy-“
“Do you know what they are?” She was fully sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing Her palm with a thumb as Her attention fixed on Ruby. “The green demons, have you heard of them-“
Ruby let out a dry laugh. “Of course I’ve heard of them. They, shit, they’re like nightmares. In hell we use them to scare little baby demons into brushing their fucking teeth-“
Dean frowned. “Hold up, you’ve got baby demons-“
“Obviously not, dumbass, I’m just trying to drive home how fucked we are-“
She took a long breath, pushed off the bed, and Dean was worried he was going insane. He thought he saw Ruby fucking flinch at Her movement.
“Ruby.” She said, and that was the tone She used on a hunt. When She wasn’t looking for anyone to argue with Her, and wasn’t going to give way for the opportunity. “What are the green demons.”
“Hell’s Assassins.” Ruby said, her words pushed through teeth. “They do things that are above every other demon’s pay grade, usually staying in the shadows and only showing themselves when there’s no other option. If they’re out now, that means, shit-“
“We’re screwed.” Sammy muttered, and Ruby nodded.
“Royally fucked. Our best bet is throwing them off the trail.” Ruby sighed, started to ramble about how if they could convince the green-eyed douchebags that they’d taken the arrowhead somewhere else and dropped it, maybe they could buy enough time to figure out how to avoid them once they worked out it had been a trick, but Dean wasn’t listening.
He was looking at Her.
And She looked horrible.
Drop dead gorgeous—just as She always was—but horrible. Sick. She looked truly, awfully, deeply sick again. Sunken and afraid and small, curled into Herself and eye screwed tight, and this was worse than any of the fear because Dean felt like he needed to do something, but he wasn’t a healer, he’d break Her further and She’d leave for good once more, and it would kill him. He was an asshole, and if She walked away now—right as he was starting to see parts of him that had been hollow and cracked fuse back together, brighter and stronger than before—it would kill Dean before the contract even got the chance to catch up with him.
But Her obvious pain was clawing at Dean’s throat and burning over his skin, he needed to fix it, needed to make things better for Her, everything had to be better for Her-
“I’ll take Sam, then.” Ruby’s words cut through his thoughts, and Dean turned with a scowl.
“Take Sam where-“
“To drive off the demons, you meat-headed idiot-“
“Shut up.” She snapped from the bed, and Dean wasn’t imagining it. Ruby flinched. The bitch was actually fucking afraid of Her.
Which was understandable.
She could be scary.
And right now, with Her furiously beautiful features and firm glare, She was downright terrifying.
“Don’t talk to him like that,” She muttered. “And you’re not just taking Sam-“
“I’m- I think it’s a good plan.” Sam scratched his neck, shooting Her an apologetic look. “I mean, she’s right, Ruby. Talk to Dean like that again and I won’t hold her back when she tries to carve your eyes out, but I’ll go with you. For the team.”
The team. They were a team. And She and Sam were standing up for him, and cared about him enough to maul Ruby or put up with her for an extended amount of time, and this exactly what Dean was afraid of-
“You two will have to go on lockdown,” Ruby snapped, and Dean didn’t miss how she was standing a little too tall. Too guarded. “Buddy system to get food, doors shut day and night, no one in or out that’s not me or Sammy-“
Sam frowned. “Don’t call me that. Or I’m not driving these demons off with you.”
“Well, Sammy, you don’t really have a choice. Just like Elizabeth and Darcy,” Ruby turned her smirk of Her and Dean. “Are going to have to hole up here. Together. Just them, all week.”
“All-“ She swallowed, and something stung at Dean’s heart at the expression on Her face. “Can’t we just go to Bobby’s-“
“In Dakota?” Ruby laughed. “We don’t have time for that. Besides, we’re taking the car-“
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Like hell you’re taking my car-““Don’t worry, Sammy will drive. Ready?”
Sam blinked. “I- are we leaving now-“
“Like I said, we don’t have time. Those things- They’re a bigger threat than Lilith. So unless you’re going to hand over the arrowhead-“
“Not a chance.” Her chin raised slightly, and Dean couldn’t stop a smirk at the sour expression on Ruby’s face.
“Fine. Have fun on lockdown.”
Everything moved in a flash. Ruby and Sam got stopped at the door as She moved in front of it—Dean didn’t know how She was suddenly back to her usual, sharp and quick self, but he did know that Ruby froze at the sight of Her in their path—and She demanded the full, detailed plan. Ruby and Sam were going to draw the green-eyed demons away by fucking off to Oklahoma, She and Dean were going to stay here and keep the arrowhead safe, and once they were in the clear Sam and Ruby would come back.
And before Dean could find the proper words to express how he was so fatally close to completely giving back into Her, to moving fully back into Her orbit and doing everything he’d sworn he wouldn’t—forgiving Her again, being whatever She needed him to be, trying to hold Her when he’d really be nothing more than literal dirt and blood by the end of the year—Sam and Ruby were gone.
Dean was alone again.
But this was worse.
Because he was alone with Her.
And it didn’t matter what Ruby claimed.
That was a bigger threat than Lilith.
————
This is going to kill you.
You should’ve protested more. Insisted that you and Dean didn’t need to go on lockdown together, that there had to be other options.
You couldn’t think of other options, but there had to be some.
Dean wouldn’t have let you stay alone. You had to stay with the arrowhead. There was no world where you’d let Dean go off with Ruby. You didn’t even love Sam going off with Ruby, and she’d only been insulting him while casting a broader net for Dean.
Nobody should go with Ruby. But you had a feeling she wouldn’t have allowed that, just as you wouldn’t have allowed her to take Dean.
And you’re certain she’s not your biggest fan either, given how she flinched at the sight of you, even before you tried to kill her.
You’d almost let the Darkness slip there. If Sam hadn’t held you back, you would’ve let it rush out and stomp Ruby down to nothing, because you’d never seen a demon that hideous. They all had horrid, twisted and marred faces, shifting and moving in the smoke, but Ruby had been awful. Glinting and rolling and stained along her vessel like a disease.
And maybe she was just an ugly bitch.
But maybe you’d have to keep an eye on her. She’d wormed her way into Sam and Dean’s life like a parasite, and you now had to ensure they came out the other side with all their organs intact.
And that’s not your job. Not your place.
But you’re going to do it anyway.
You have to repay them somehow. For putting up with this. For putting up with you, and the danger you brought just by daring to try and breathe in their proximity.
In Dean’s proximity.
You can’t stop drawing closer and closer to Dean.
And you know he hates you. He has every right to, even if you don’t know why. You have a theory it starts and ends with John, and how you never said goodbye, but it doesn’t matter.
You’ll spend your time with him trying to keep yourself on a leash, and pretending you’re not already addicted to his voice and smell and face once more.
You’d never truly been clean of him. You’d never stopped dreaming of him, never stopped wanting him, and the White had never hesitated to whine and buck and scream for you to turn around and return to where you should be.
Wherever Dean was.
But one month back, he hates you, and you’ve never needed him more. Because he makes it easier. The pain is harsher and sharper when it comes—on worse cases and when you don’t sleep for long nights that never seem to end, until color breaks the horizon and Dean is at your side once more—but every waking moment doesn’t feel vile. Sometimes you breathe and it’s not poison in your lungs. Your heart beats and it’s a steady time that isn’t shredding itself apart. Dean brushes past you in the hall, or meets your eyes in the Impala’s mirror, and snaps your name like he cares about, and everything turns silver.
So you can’t stop trying to fix it. Dean so plainly loathes you, but then he’ll smirk at you, or laugh at a joke, or pull you away from danger, and you’ll fall further into himo. It fuels you. To patch this vast crack between you with whatever you can find, scavenging for thread that isn’t frayed in heated moments—when he cares, or when he’s furious—that fuse this back together a little more.
And God, it’s so unhealthy. How you’re scrambling to fix something you’d never had a right to break in the first place, especially when Dean doesn’t even care to see it fixed himself. When, even if you manage to salvage this, it will crumble once more when the Darkness gets a full hold of you, and everything crashes down.
But knowing that had never stopped you.
And it’s Dean. And he’s magnetic and strong and still somehow the only certain thing in the universe. You’re drowning in him every second, and the whole world has become sharp and stained in gold because he’s right there and you could touch him if you tried, so you can’t just give up. He’ll snap and you’ll snap back, but you won’t leave.
You can’t leave.
When Dean’s finally here, you don’t think you could pull fully away if you tried.
Now would be the time to learn. When you know that the demons hunting you are Hell’s fucking assassins, and they’re here for you. You’ll let Sam and Dean believe it’s the arrowhead—and you have a sense that Ruby is already aware it’s not—but it’s you. They’d been there for you, and the Darkness had started to seep out no matter how you chewed your tongue red or dug your nails to your skin, and nobody was safe with you but you still couldn’t leave.
Not when you’re locked down.
With Dean.
You won’t let him touch the arrowhead. You’d caught him, the first day, trying to shift through your jacket and pull it out while you’d been taking a shower. You’d cleared your throat, your arms crossed over your chest, and he’d turned with a wide-eyed, guilty expression.
“I- uh-“
“It’s not nice to snoop, Winchester.” You’d said, giving him a pointed look. “And it’s not there anyway.”
He’d blinked at you, but recovered quickly. Charming, boy-ish grin returning, expression a picture of mock innocence, so painfully unaware of how the White in your chest was begging you to close the space and just hold him-
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart, I was just looking for something. Is a guy not allowed to look for things anymore?”
You’d raised your brows at him. “What were you looking for?”
“Gun.”
“In my jacket?”
He’d paused at that. “Thought it was my jacket.”
“I didn’t know you wore women’s jackets, Deano.” You’d taken at step back into the bathroom, reaching for your spare towel as you continued. “You are not a good liar.”
He’d scowled. “I’m a freakin’ fantastic liar-“
You’d hummed, shooting him a look of amusement. “Sure.”
“I’m better than you are.” He’d snapped. “I always have you figured out, Princess. And I’m lying right fucking now.”
It had been hard not to wince at that one. Dean was better than you were. Everyone was.
And he could be lying, and you don’t even know about what, but he could be. And you’d deserve it. Whether it’s a punishment or just another way for Dean to hate you, you’d deserve it for making everything so much worse.
So you’d sighed, grabbed the arrowhead from folded towel, and held it up for him to see.
“Just- don’t try and take this. Don’t touch it.” You held Dean’s gaze, and there had been something hot inside of it. Something that seemed more turned on him than aimed at you.
It still hurt.
“Please.” You’d added, just because he really couldn’t touch it. “Dean, I need you to say-“
“I won’t touch it,” he’d grunted. “Bossy.”
And the White had relaxed. A little less danger for Dean to be in.
Another thing to take and let ignite you from within. To grab onto and cast around your body, until those fractured pieces could grow a little further back together, and the world could be a little more colorful.
Days later, you’re still keeping the arrowhead under your pillow. Dean hasn’t tried to take it, but there’s no other place for it to be.
It has to stay with you.
Because whatever Ruby thinks it is, she’s wrong.
There had been a brief moment of terror, when Sam had said made to kill powerful things, but then you’d looked at it and you’d known that wasn’t the truth. The weight over your chest and pressing on your lungs had been relieved, but only for a second.
Then you’d looked closer, and it was something far worse.
There were four languages carved into the jade, and one of them was shifting and strange the same way your thoughts always did when you created a ritual, the same way the words women of the high always moved on the paper. You’d told Sam it was simply witch symbols, and it hadn’t been a full lie. They were symbols, just as all letters were. And they were likely carved by a witch.
But they were likely more.
Because this thing was powerful.
And it fed the Darkness more than anything you’d seen before.
Everything was louder and bigger and sharper when you held it in your hands. Even Dean’s presences didn’t fully soften the sheer vastness of everything when the arrowhead was in your hands. The world was still silver, but it wasn’t blurred. It was harsh and bright and violent inside of you, barely contained and pressing up under your skin to be freed.
And then there was Dean. How when you hold the arrowhead, he’s not just leaving stains.
He’s branded into you.
It’s visible. You can feel it. You can fucking taste him, lingering in the back of your throat despite never having been that close to him before. He’s embedded in your chest and marked all over you in places that he hasn’t touched in years. There’s something faint golden painted all over your body—tangled in your hair and glowing in your guts—and it spurs all those fractured pieces into an overwhelming frenzy. They grasp onto every bit of light the gold provides and toss it all over your body until even the Darkness feels like it’s blended into the White and everything is all just silver.
But then you drop the arrowhead, your hand growing weak from just how fucking much everything is, and it all becomes numbed pain and shifting gold on the couch and Dean’s bed.
So whatever the arrowhead is, Ruby can’t have it. And Dean can’t know what it is, or why you keep staring at him with a tight frown when you hold it, watching his… everything. How he’s like a walking, breathing pillar of gold.
“Take a picture, Princess.” He mutters from the table, his attention on the laptop Sam had left you. “It’ll last longer.”
You scowl, shoving the arrowhead back under your pillow. “Shut up.”
He does.
You don’t think it’s because you told him to.
About three days of your lockdown have passed. Dean’s barely speaking to you.
It’s eating you alive.
Every day has been the same. You exist in Dean’s gravity, and he doesn’t even know you can’t pull away, and time passes in barely a crawl. You watch the tiny box TV and flip through the motel’s provided magazines and your own books, while Dean drinks and hunches over Sam’s laptop.
Half your trash is beer bottles, and you haven’t even had one. You still don’t drink—now doesn’t really feel like the time to start—and Dean probably remembers that, but it still worries you. You know he’s had a rough two years, that he had to watch John die, and Sam almost die, and fight Azazel, and deal with the Devil’s Gate, but this seems worse. Dean drank before.
He didn’t quite drink like this.
And he still won’t really look at you.
The most you get from him is grunts about food, strange looks that end the moment you catch his eyes on yours, and muttered words about how Sam sent a message, and he and Ruby are still alive.
It’s moves the Darkness to an edge. Everything is still silver, but the Darkness is still a part of that, and it’s volatile. Hateful and wrathful. Cracking over your ribs and rotten on your tongue, and at night—when Dean snores in his bed and you stare at the ceiling with your knife in hand—you feel so fucking sick once more.
And this is another one of those nights. The day had been the same as all the others, and Dean’s fast asleep across the room, and you allow yourself to look at him.
He’s still so pretty. There are a few more lines on his face and a slightly heavier expression on his face, but he’s still Dean. Still the best thing you’ve ever seen, and the only one that had ever managed to make you falter. To sit down and want to stay there, to have that strong, unexplainable pull that makes you watch him in the dark like a creep, that drags you down, down, down when he’s only existing near you.
It’s just as terrifying as it’s always been. How Dean is just more. How he was like a phantom behind you in the years apart, and how he’s all the world in front of you. How there had been moments—while you’d been apart with no belief you’d ever fall back into him again, when you’d skipped every town you set foot in and never allowed yourself to stop moving—where someone at a bar had smirked at you and asked for your name, and you’d given it, and when they’d repeated it with a drawl and heated promise in their eyes, all you’d been able to think was not Dean.
And he’s right there. In the dark.
And you’re not running.
But you are growing sicker. Watching him makes the White rear its head, and that sparks the Darkness, and Dean has always been able to set you off more than anyone else, and he’s just lying there and looking like everything you could ever need, and you’re losing control.
You push out of your bed—holding your breath and taking light steps on the creaking floor—and move to the bathroom.
You can’t use your usual methods. Dean would wake from the sound or notice the blood in the morning, and you don’t need that right now. So you take the second-best choice and turn the sink on, letting the hot water flow until steam is rising from it, and run your hands under it.
Your skin feels like it’s raw and peeling. It fucking hurts, and you might not be able to really turn a page in the morning without wincing.
But the Darkness sinks back down.
So it works.
You bow your head, eyes squeezed shut, and push on. You need the Darkness to go be tamed, to go so deep into your body that you’ll be able to go at least the whole day with no fear of losing it, with no fear of hurting-
“You shouldn’t do that.”
When your eyes shoot open, he’s right there. Dean’s frowning at you from the door, supporting himself with one hand on the frame and rubbing his eyes as he speaks.
“’S not good for you.”
“Yeah, well,” you narrow your eyes at him, furious at yourself for not locking the door, furious at him for thinking he has any right to tell you what to do. He doesn’t know you’d follow him anywhere, and trust him with your soul in his hands. As far as Dean’s concerned, you’re nothing, so he doesn’t get to tell you what to do. “You shouldn’t drink.”
He blinks at you. “What.”
“Half the motel room is beer bottles.” You snap. “And if you’re allowed to do that, I’m allowed to do this.”
“You-“ Dean jaw twitches, his eyes darting to your hands, still pressed until the steaming water. “There’s no fucking reason for you to be doing that shit-“
“Is there a reason for you to drink?”
He scowls. “That’s different, Princess-“
“Is it?” You hum, looking back to your hands. They hurt. You won’t pull them away. “How?”
“That’s not your business- It just fuckin’ is-“
“So this isn’t yours.” You shrug, letting out a long, slow breath. “Go back to bed, Dean.”
There’s a long moment where you can still see him in the doorway. You think he’s going to argue, or push you, or keep trying to convince you to step back from the sink.
But the floorboards creak, and he’s gone. You follow him, a handful of minutes later.
Neither of you mention it in the morning.
“We need to get more food,” Dean mutters that afternoon. “But Sammy took my fucking car-“
“There’s the shop down the street we used last time.” You don’t look up from your book, because if you do, you’ll meet Dean’s eyes and fall a little further. “It’s like, a five-minute walk.”
“I don’t wanna use that place, they didn’t have bacon-“
“They were out of bacon. Three days ago.” You sigh, glaring at the words on your page. You’ve read them ten times before, and you’re getting bored, but Dean will only talk to you about necessity so repetition is your only option. “I’m sure they’ve restocked.”
Dean mutters something under his breath you can’t hear, and don’t really want to.
But you’re right. When you’ve dressed and walked down to the tiny, acceptably useful grocery store—Dean one pace behind you, your body leaning slightly back as if it can’t help but try to be a little closer to him where it’s allowed—they’ve restocked on bacon.
“I’ve got a list of what we need,” you’re trying to ignore how he’s shifting at your side, like he can’t wait to move away. You wish you could blame him. “Find whatever else you want, and try not to go overboard.”
“You can’t go overboard on food, Princess.” Dean’s words are casual. Easy. Your heart skips and beat then freezes in your chest. “You try not to get lost.”
You glare up at him. “I am not going to get lost, asshole-“
He’s already walking away.
It takes all your willpower not to chase after him.
The grocery store really is small, and you don’t need much. One of the—countless—amazing things about Dean is how he’s a man of habit. Even after two years apart, you can still predict him like he’s the moon in the sky. Beer, jerky, the bacon he was so whiny about, a few pre-made pies. A lot of butter and meatballs because you refuse to not take advantage of having a real, small kitchen for the first time in years, and Dean will be eating with you whether the asshole likes it or not.
And you don’t know where he’s wandered off to at first, but you realize quickly it’s not as far as you thought.
Because you glance over your shoulder at the exact right time, and Dean’s there. Half hidden behind a shelf, glaring at a bag of vegetable broth that is so obviously a cover, you almost laugh.
You don’t know what the fuck he’s doing.
You’re too starved and desperate for his proximity—how easily everything is bright and silver in your body—to confront him.
So the rest of the grocery trip passes exactly like that.
You wander the isles to cross every item off your list. Dean stays several, poorly hidden paces behind you like some kind of oddly trained guard dog. You indulge him and pretend he’s being stealthy, when in reality he’s just a massive man very obviously following you around in a grocery store.
At one point you catch his eye and raise your brows—because you just can’t fucking help it—and you could swear he blushes before he looks away.
This is so strange. He’s barely looked at you all week, and suddenly he’s doing this.
You wish you could bring yourself to care about that a little more.
Around the canned goods isle—chicken soup because it’s easy—a woman approaches Dean. She’s not a demon, just a pretty human with soft eyes that are fixed on your—not your—Dean, but you still feel something stabbing and biting in your gut when he even looks at her.
It’s pathetic. You have no claim there, no valid reason to want to march over and link your arm through Dean’s like you used to, to suddenly wish he’d just fucking stop the whole act and come stand at your side, but that doesn’t stop the feeling
Or the way the whole world—in and out of your body—sings when Dean dismissed the woman barely a chance. When he glances at her, shrugs off her overly sweet words, and doesn’t shift at her fluttering lashes. When she shuffles off with slumped shoulders, and Dean keeps up his stupid little charade of trailing you through the store.
He probably was just being cautious. You’re both a little wired and vigilant given the whole situation.
But those featured pieces still bloom and grow along your body. And you can’t bring yourself to be bitter about it.
Neither of you mention anything when you meet back at the checkout isle. Dean shoves his hands in his pockets with a short nod and grunt of done, stays his usual one step behind you, and pretends nothing odd happened at all.
“I got you one case of beer,” you say as you approach the front of the line. “If you want more, I’d go get it now-“
“One is fine.” He leans slightly forward, and you can feel the heat from his body, and he smells like grass and spice- “Where the hell is my bacon.”
You turn to glare at him, and fuck, that’s a mistake. He’s very close, and you can see the slight crook of his nose and how full his lips are, and if you moved your hand up a little you could trace along his jaw-
“Did you forget my fucking bacon-“
You pull yourself together, and give him a flat look. “Such little faith, Deano-“
“I’m not seein’ it-“
You shift around the basket, pushing items aside as you take a step forward, revealing the three packs of bacon and placing them on the checkout belt.
“It was the first thing I got,” you shrug, moving the rest of the food out of the basket. “Add whatever you grabbed to the belt.”
He hadn’t grabbed anything. You were pretty fucking certain Dean hadn’t actually gotten anything, because he’d spent the whole time following you. The only reason he missed the bacon was because you’d gotten it first, and he’d been-
Getting something. Dean reaches into his jacket and pulls out a few candy bars and fruits, dropping them onto the belt without a glance in your direction.
“What-“
“They’re for you.” He mutters. He’s still not looking at you. “You never freakin’ remember to get yourself something.”
You blink at him, and nod slowly.
He got you things. He’d followed you through the grocery store and got you things, but he still won’t look at you. He’ll barely speak to you.
Another day passes, and Dean won’t just look at you.
You’re not sleeping. And that’s no different than normal, but this feels worse. When it had been you and Jo—before your party got crashed—Jo had agreed to do shifts. She’d known what was happening, known that there was no world where you’d sleep easy, especially not with another person in the room, and she’d talked you into rotating schedules.
It had worked.
And in the past month with Sam and Dean, you’d had your own room. If demons burst through the door, you’d be the only target.
But now you’re putting Dean in danger.
So you don’t sleep. You keep yourself functional with quick naps in the middle of the day—when Dean’s awake and not looking at you—but you can feel cracks starting to form over your head. Somethings set to snap.
You’re going to break.
You can feel it coming, like a storm moving in and pressure shifting in the air.
Your only hope is to hold it down. You try to hold it down. The hot water is running out faster, and the skin around your nail is raw and bloody, and Dean still won’t look at you-
And your guard slips.
When they arrive, you’re not ready.
Your head is a little fogged. You’d left your knife on your bed, in your jacket from when you’d gone to the motel lobby for more toilet paper. Your back is to the door because the sun is too bright, and it’s giving you a headache. You’re curled on the couch because everything hurts, and Dean’s still in the lobby grabbing ice and you wish he’d just finish the fuck up, because you need him close but you’re never allow to say that-
You’re too tired to think anything of the first bang on the door. It’s likely just housekeeping, even though you’d put the do not disturb sign up, and carried the toilet paper back yourself.
The second bang makes you frown, and you can’t see anyone outside.
Third bang. Your voice is dripping with exhaustion when you raise it, trying not to flinch at the fourth bang.
“Sorry, we have do not disturb-“
“Don’t be sorry, darlin’.” A drawling, almost honeyed voice drawls from the other side of the door, and your blood runs cold. “And I can promise this ain’t gonna be disturbin’ if you make it easy.”
You try to launch to the bed, to grab your knife, but the door crashes open before your jelly-like body can even get off the bed.
You manage to scramble to the edge of the mattress, grabbing the arrowhead and shoving it into your jeans, but you’re barely turning before the violent, rioting and furious green grabs you by the throat and yanks you up-
Instinct kicks in, and you ram your knee into the vessels gut. It’s enough for the grip to falter, enough for you to pry his grip off your neck with shaking finger and scramble back, but there are three more and one grabbing your arms and the second has it’s knife aimed right into your chest-
“Dean!” It’s the only thing you can think to say. Scream. Pray. “Dean, I- Dean!”
You hear a gunshot go off, and a choked sound leaves your throat, but no abnormal pain comes.
The demon behind you slumps, you got right down with its weight, and the one with the knife stumbles right over your head.
You’re still too tired to fight properly. But you’re not useless. You slam your body into the knifed demon’s legs, and roll away as he topples down.
Then you look up, see Dean’s jaw clenched as he wrestles with the fourth demon, and demon you’d kneed earlier is coming up right behind him with the knife-
It wouldn’t have killed you. If the demon on the floor had gotten you, you’d have screamed and shattered but lived.
You don’t think Dean will live.
And the rush kicks in.
You launch yourself at the demon that’s behind Dean, wrapping your arms around it’s neck and squeezing with all the strength in your body.
Dean turns with wide eyes and a roar of your name, and you rear all your body weight forward. Slamming your demon into the one that Dean’s had been fighting, because the dumbass hadn’t knocked him down and he’d been barreling at Dean like a tank.
You jump off right in time, and Dean catches you. Steadying you on your feet and scanning over your face like he’s looking for something, opening his mouth to say something but shutting it closed when the still conscious demon on the floor start to stumble upwards.
Dean shoves you behind him and draws his gun once more, the shot echoing around the motel room as you dunk under his arm and run to the bed-
Dean shouts your name, and you can feel his gaze searing into your skull. “What the fuck are you-“
You grab your knife—jumping up on the bed and spinning it in your hand—and launch forward, grabbing Dean’s head and shoving it down as you land on the first demon’s shoulder’s driving your knife right into its chest.
These vessels weren’t going to live. You hadn’t bothered to tell Sam and Dean at the gas station—it was already a shit day, and you didn’t want to be fucking bummer—but you’d learned the hard way that the moment a green demon possessed a human, they were done. That ripping and tearing violence inside of them killed them the same as any bullet or blade.
So you don’t pull punches.
And you tear your knife right down the demon’s skin.
Dean catches you again, when the demon under you collapses. Holds you right to his side as he shoots the last demon—crawling up behind you with a blade angled at your calf—and keeping you there in the long moments after.
He looks like an avenging angel or something else stupidly beautiful. The arrowhead is still a weight in your pocket, and Dean’s muttering words you can barely hear over the ringing in your ears, and he’s glowing and golden and powerful—rioting in an almost righteous way, in stark contrast to the vicious fury of the green demons, rocketing out of their vessels and screeching out the windows—and you put him in danger.
Dean could’ve died. You could’ve gotten him killed.
You could’ve killed him.
And suddenly you’re not your own anymore. The rush fades and it’s all too real and Dean’s right here, but you could’ve lost him and had no one to blame but yourself because you’re cancerous and evil and wrong and can’t just save him—save something so permanent and beautiful that you have no right to be protected or served by in any way—because you’re the bad thing, you’re the sickness, you’re worse than the demons. And you’re everywhere. You’re the jagged pain of the shattered windows and the ache of the cracked walls and the shredded fever of the torn blankets and ruined couch-
“Hey,” Dean’s muttering your name, his voice low and firm, and it’s the only thing in the world that isn’t painful. “You’re good. We’re both alive, Princess, don’t- Shit, don’t cry-“
Something warm but not burning is cupping your face, and tracing your cheeks, brushing away a white-hot stain that had begun to wash out of your stinging eyes-
You are crying. And Dean—those were his hands, touching you carefully, like he was afraid you’d shatter in his hold when you’ve never felt more whole—is wiping away your tears.
You’re fucking pathetic.
And you can’t stop yourself leaning into his touch, falling into his focused certainty, and letting out a shaky breath when he starts to pet down your nose and the world sinks right back into your body.
You’re only you again.
But you’re still Dean a little, too. He’s so golden and you’re molten silver a little to the right of your heart, and those fractured pieces are surging up and around you, blooming and furious and bright, so fucking bright-
It’s good Dean pulls away right then. You’d been seconds from fusing fully back together, from something not snapping apart, but into place.
You already too far gone.
You still need to be able to pretend you’re not completely, irreversibly his.
Neither of you speak. You don’t really see a reason to. Dean just watches you, and you watch him, and then you’re both moving.
The motel is trashed. Cracks mark up the wall, the bed and couch have been flipped, the door was fully crashed through, and there’s really no universe where anyone who sees this doesn’t call the cops. Ruby checked in, and the room was under her fake name and credit card, so all you and Dean need to do is leave.
Dean starts to gather everything together—including your blood-stained jacket, the arrowhead stuffed safely in the jacket—as he calls Sam, telling him what happened, and that you’re skipping town. You head outside while that fun conversation happens, surveying the cars and picking the fanciest, fastest one you can find.
“No.” Dean snaps, glowering down at you in the driver’s seat. “You’re fucking begging for attention in that this thing, sweetheart, cops will catch us in an hour-“
“So we’ll drop this at 59 minutes.” You say, holding his gaze. “And take the train from there. This car only needs to get us the furthest away, not fully out.”
Dean scowls. “I am not taking the train-“
“Yeah, you are.” You nod your head to the trunk. “Pack up and haul ass, car boy. Now.”
You get a mutter of fucking trains, but Dean does what you’re telling him and soon you’re bound for Chicago, staring at Dean from across the train compartment.
You’d gotten a compartment. And a bed.
One bed.
You’re going to stab someone. You did not pay almost two thousand dollars on a fake credit card for a double private room, only to be stuck in your most beautiful, terrifying nightmare.
Sleeping next to Dean.
You’d been careful. You’d been so fucking careful, for so many years, to not give in to being that more for Dean. Because it would never be enough. Dean could’ve flirt and tease all he wanted, he never wouldn’t convinced you to share his bed because you’d never just share his bed. It would’ve been a catalyst. Something would’ve shifted in you, and there would never be any coming back from Dean. There was the whole, vast, amazing and horrible world, and then there was Dean, and he could maybe be yours.
He’d never be yours. You weren’t something someone wanted to have.
But that being the truth didn’t stop the longing or craving or need. It never had. So you’d made it clear that you barely slept in the same room, and you never shared a bed.
And almost six years of effort—four if you didn’t count those two years apart, which was still far too many years—were crumbled because you said room for two people, the ticket lady added who are sharing a bed in her head, and you’d only caught it when it was too late.
It could be fine. You feel like you’re about to pass out but you’re also far too paranoid to sleep, Dean had been up at the crack of dawn to steal all the hot water and it’s almost midnight, and this is a twenty-one hour ride so eventually you’ll both need to sleep.
You could stagger it. Dean could sleep, then you could sleep.
But then he’d realizes you don’t actually sleep, and that would be a whole thing that you didn’t need. You know you need rest. You are perfectly aware sleep is good for you.
Every single nerve is alight in your body with fear that a demon will crash through that door as well, the Darkness is one wrong nightmare or sound from bursting out of your body, and guilt is swollen in your stomach and sticking in your throat as one single thought loops in your head.
You could’ve gotten Dean killed.
He could’ve died. He’s fine—his arms crossed as the glares at the room around you, splayed out over the compartment’s chairs—but Dean could’ve died. Because of you. Because you’d dragged the green demons there, and you’d put him in danger, and you’d been useless, you’d barely held it together, you hadn’t held it together, and Dean had been there to pull you back up but what if he wasn’t-
“Stop doing that.”
You blink at him, he jerks his head to your hands, and you realize that blood is running down your fingers.
You hadn’t even felt it.
And you make a choice. He needs to know. He needs to understand that you don’t mean to, you never mean to, and he’s in danger as long as he’s with you so he should run, he should kill you or put you down and then run-
“Dean.” You whisper, bracing yourself for the fallout. Telling Jo went alright, and she’d only just met you.
Dean isn’t Jo.
He’s so much more. And even just him running might break something fundamental in your body, that lives just to the right of your heart.
He grunts. “What.”
“I- the demons-“ You stare at his hands, because you can’t stand to look at his face. Maybe those same hands will be strangling you in only seconds. You’ll find out. “I- We need to talk.”
“We’re talking right freakin’ now, Princess.”
“I know, but I-“ Deep breath. Nails in your skin. Keep it together. “They were at the motel for me. The demons, they were there for me-“
“I got that, Princess.” He grunts, and your gaze shoots up find him glowering at you, his words low and his jaw clenched.
He knows. He’s known, or he figured it out, and it’s over but why didn’t he say anything and why aren’t you dead but why does he look like he wants to throttle you or pin you against something-
“You still have that freakin’ arrowhead.”
“I-“ You swallow, your brow furrowing as you stare at him.“What?”
“The damn arrow thing, that you wouldn’t give to Ruby-“
You shake your head, your voice growing a little stronger. “That’s not- I couldn’t give it her-“
”I’m not complaining about that, the bitch is a demon. You’d be better off trusting a damn witch or vamp.”
It’s hard not to flinch at that. You manage. “Then what are you-“
“You’re just-“ He scowls. “You can never fucking listen.”
You stare at him. “What?”
“I told you to fucking wait for me,” Dean snaps, sitting a little taller. “Those sons of bitches never would’ve even gotten to you if you’d just stayed with me.”
You don’t remember that. Your brain had been the same, blurred haze it is now, deprived of sleep and aching for Dean while only knowing that it can’t have him.
It pokes through the fog. Dean grunting wait for me, we gotta stick together as he hunched over the ice machine, and he’d smelled so good, and you’d almost collapsed over him.
You’d barely heard him. You’d just known you couldn’t be there, or you would’ve destroyed something that already barely held together.
But Dean can’t know that. It will lead to more questions you’re not ready to answer, because he’d just said witch like it was barely better than demon, and just as bad as vampire.
You’re bending. You can’t.
So you raise your chin, and hold his gaze. “I didn’t hear you. And I’m fine-“
He scoffs. “You were fucking sobbing-“
“Because I just got attacked by demons-“
“Which happened,” he leans forward, his voice a hiss. “Because you didn’t listen to me. You never just fucking listen-“
You roll your eyes. “Fuck off, Winchester, you’re not my dad-“
“No. And that doesn’t matter. You don’t listen to anyone. You-“ He shakes his head, and you think he’s seeing right into you. Finally, really seeing just how wrong you are, and getting ready to deliver the killing blow with only his words. “You’re so goddamn stubborn, and you’re going to get yourself fucking killed and I won’t be there to save your ass-“
“I don’t need to save my ass.” You snap. “I’m fine, Dean. I can handle myself, and I’m stubborn because I know what the hell I’m doing-“
“You’re stubborn,” he sneers. “Because you can’t stand that sometimes, sweetheart, you’re fucking wrong. You don’t listen because you hate not being in control-“
It cuts deep. You can cut deeper. “At least people listen to me, Dean. At least I can tell people what to do, instead of following someone around like a fucking dog-“
“Well at least I never fucking run! At least I don’t leave people whenever things get hard, when they-“ His shout is pushed through his teeth, and it’s almost venomous. “You fucking run. You just goddamn vanish, and act sick, when you’re fine, just can’t fucking stomach having to deal with something instead of fucking running.”
“Are you talking about the-“ You gape at him, shaking your head. “I had to leave, asshole! I fucking had to-“
He rolls his eyes. “You never have to, you just didn’t want to deal with all of our shit, but you never- You just-“
“Azazel threatened me.” You hiss, the words falling out like vomit, before you can stop them. “He told me he’d kill Bobby if I didn’t vanish.”
Dean stares at you, and you hadn’t meant to tell him that. You’d meant, earlier, to explain what was wrong with you and leave John and Azazel fully out of it. Dean had loved his dad. You’d known that, and you’d known better than to make him face the horrid truth that John was a fucking asshole, shit-headed cunt-face of a father.
Maybe that’s why you still hadn’t mentioned that John had been a part of it. Dean already looks like he’s tearing his head apart trying to figure out if he should believe you for what you did say.
You don’t need to make this worse than you already have. For either of you.
“Azazel…” Dean trials off, shaking his head like he’s trying to physically remove something from his skin. “He fucking- what-“
“He said if I didn’t leave, he’d- He’d kill Bobby.” You let out a slow breath, scanning over Dean’s shocked expression. You’re a little worried he’s going to hurt himself, with how you can see his brain whirling behind his eyes.
There’s not a lot of color on his face.
“And you- You just-“ Dean’s throat bobs, and something flashes in his eyes. “You should’ve fucking told me, I would’ve protect you-“
You shake your head, and whatever burning anger in your body had been there moments before was gone.
You’re really just so fucking tired.
“You have enough people to protect, Dean.” You’re looking at his hands again. Curled back into fists. You want to touch his knuckles, a little bruised and swollen from the fight. At least press ice to them, keep them from getting worse. Keep Dean from being in pain. “And I was okay. Bobby’s okay. Nothing- I didn’t want to.” You swallow, choking on a lump in your throat. “I never wanted to.”
“Bobby- He said you were sick-“
“I am.” You mutter. “Two things can be true.”
“How?”
You frown at him. “How-“
“What’s wrong with you.”
You can’t tell him. Not now. You will, when you have more courage than a martyr and you’re feeling a little less intelligent, but not now.
Now you just give him a sad, soft smile. “My- I don’t know. I’ve never been able to figure it out.”
He nods slowly, and suddenly he won’t meet your eyes. “Sammy could look at you. He’s smart.”
“I’m smart-“
“Yeah,” he offers you his own little half-smile, and his teeth flash white in the low light of the compartment. “But you can be real dumb, Princess.”
He hasn’t said Princess like that since you returned. In a way that feels like a name, in a way that’s almost more than affectionate. Filled with an odd honor you can’t place, and tugging your own smile a little wider.
And everything blends, so easily, back to silver.
You pull out a book. Dean locks the door and starts to clean his gun, humming low music until you chuck your iPod at his face.
He grumbles, but put his earbuds in, and starts to stretch out on the seats.
It’s a silent decision he’s making himself. Dean will sleep on the seats, you’ll sleep on the bed.
You won’t sleep on the bed. You’ll pretend to, ignoring how he’s right there. You’ll stare at the ceiling and count the little dot on it to pass the time, and everything will be better in the morning, when Dean is—maybe, just maybe—your friend again, and he’s safe, and you’re in pain and exhausted, but that’s okay-
“Go to sleep,” Dean mutters your name, and you frown.
“I am asleep.”
You think you hear him chuckle. “Sleep more, than.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are, De. You always are.”
You can hear his frown through the dark. “I don’t love the third degree, sweetheart-“
“You’re being dramatic.”
“Maybe. You need fuckin’ sleep.” He pauses, his voice getting slightly softer. “I’ve- You don’t sleep. You gotta sleep.”
You let out a long breath, frowning at the ceiling. “I can’t.”
“Because you’re sick?”
“Yeah.” You swallow. “It’s- Yeah.”
There’s a beat of silence, then- “What does Bobby do.”
“He-“ You swallow. “When I was younger he’d do a sweep of my room. Like a real hunt.”
“And now-“
“Nothing.”
“Oh.”
You think you can hear Dean’s brain moving, and you don’t know why this matters to him so much. It’s just sleep. You’ve lived like this forever, worse and worse over time, and eventually you’ll just pass out and everything will be fine-
“Would it help if I was there? With- uh- with my gun?”
His voice isn’t as firm as usual, and it’s almost nervous. Like he’s afraid of the answer.
And you should say no. A gun wouldn’t even do anything, not with these demons.
But you’re tired, and that always makes you weaker. And Dean’s here, and that always makes you dumber.
“Yes.” You whisper. “Please.”
You hear him moving from the seats without any further conversation, and when his weight settles beside you, his thigh presses to yours.
It would be too much if it was Dean. If his warmth wasn’t something you’d always chased after, even when you’d both be sweating in Georgia or Texas, even when your blood had been running high and the sun had been beating down on your skin.
Up close, it’s so easy to fold into. It’s soothing, and he smells like grass and spice all around you, and when your eyes flutter open for even a second the whole world is softly glowing with gold.
It’s imprinting deeper on your body, just from how close he is. Not everywhere, but close. And the gold is sinking so far down you’ll never be able to pull it back out. Those fractured pieces are so terrifyingly close to growing fully back together, and you don’t know what you’ll become when they do.
You can’t really find it in you to care.
The sound of Dean’s snoring is like a lullaby, and the smell of his is like an anesthetic and just his presence is making the world something peaceful.
For the first time in years, sleep comes fast, and you go down without a fight.
And for the first time in your life, you feel truly rested when you wake up.
End Note: Sam Winchester you are once again God’s strongest solider for not grabbing them and mashing them together like they’re barbie and ken dolls. I just know he spent his whole trip with Ruby bitching about how impossible they are. Thank you for your service my king.
Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3
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