Summary: The Winchester brothers have always been heroes. Always fighting the good fight. But somewhere along the way the line blurred between the heroes and the monsters they hunt. With completely broken moral compasses and as they descended into darkness is when they met you.
Rating: 18+
Word Count: 3795
Warnings: AU Sam & Dean, Violence, Hunting, Language, Mentions of past SA, Smut
A/N: Please let me know what you think.
Part 5
NTB Masterlist
Breakfast at the bunker was wrapping up. Dean inhaled the bacon you made, murmuring how it was worth every clogged artery after Sam chastised him about the fact that he ate over half of it by himself. Sam did eat some of the eggs but mostly just sipped on a green smoothie that looked like healthiness wrapped in regret. At least to you and Dean. Sam seemed to love them.
The drive to the cabin was only about four hours and you couldn’t believe how fast it went. Dean had the windows down, hot wind blowing into the car, classic rock turned up enough but not so loud you three couldn’t talk and joke around. The stop for gas was quick but when you showed back up with beef sticks, sodas, and some healthy wrap for Sam it earned you a grateful smile from him and a deep kiss from Dean.
“See how good my woman is to us, Sammy?” Dean grinned. “I love you, sweetheart,” he said, pressing another, softer kiss to your lips.
“I love you too,” you said with a genuine smile.
As the Impala pulled onto the gravel road leading to the cabin, you let out a soft sigh and stretched your arms out in front of you over the dashboard. Dean pulled it around and threw it in park. Sam and Dean grabbed the bags and you got out to greet Jody, who threw her arms around you, almost knocking the air out of your lungs.
You chuckled after she let go. “Well hi, Jody,” you said warmly.
“I’m so glad you guys could make it. I’ve missed you all!” Jody replied, cheerfully. You had met Jody twice and you could immediately tell why the boys liked her so much. She had that protective mom-like vibe and didn’t hold back on telling her thoughts. She was also kind and funny.
Alex stepped out of the cabin and gave Sam a quick hug before working her way to Dean and then you. Claire came bounding up from the lake and stopped just short of hugs. Dean didn’t care; he pulled her into one anyway. She rolled her eyes but still her arms came up to hug him back.
After a day by the lake and dinner from the grill, Dean’s specialty, everyone was sitting on logs around the firepit, listening to the sounds of the woods and the frequent laughter. Claire was recounting her latest hunting stories for the boys, Dean had his arm wrapped around you as you leaned into him, Sam and Alex were chatting about “nerd stuff,” Dean’s words, and Jody was just smiling, eyes lit up like Christmas morning, taking it all in.
Dean turned his head, lips brushing your ear and sending a shiver up your spine despite the warmth of the day and the fire. “Let’s go upstairs.”
You nodded against him and let him pull you to your feet.
“We’re headed to bed,” Dean said, raising a beer to the group. “See you in the mornin’.”
Everybody said goodnight to you both, Jody giving you a not so subtle knowing look and a smirk. You flushed slightly and said goodnight to the group.
The chatter and laughter faded to a light sound as the screen door slammed behind you and you followed Dean up the stairs. At the top he grabbed your hand and pulled you into the second room on the left, closing and locking the door before pressing you back against it.
“I just….couldn’t…. wait any…. longer… to get you….alone,” he murmured against your neck in between, hot, wet open-mouthed kisses. His hands were everywhere. Yours instinctively found their way into his hair, threading into the hair at the back of his head pulling his head harder against you.
Dean’s thigh came up in between yours, pressing against your core with a delicious pressure. The sensation pulled a moan from your lips. Dean groaned against your collarbone in response, still kissing but starting to nip at you.
“Dean,” you whined.
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
You let out another moan and he grinned against your soft skin. “Words, baby. Tell me,” he grunted. “Tell me what you need.”
“You, Dean. I need you. Now,” you said but the words sounded slurred and not from the two beers you’d had but from the heat racing through your veins .
You pushed off the door and backed him up, placing both hands on his chest and pushing him roughly down onto the bed. You dropped to your knees and began to rip his pants off.
“Shit, sweetheart,” he breathed, his voice ragged.
Before he could say anything else your mouth was on him. You grasped his long, thick, rock hard cock in your hand at the base while your mouth took in just the top of him, swirling your tongue around the tip with practiced ease.
Dean who had been propped up on his elbows looking down at you fell back against the bed with a moan. “Fuck.”
You began to pump your hand over his length as you sank, taking him deeper and deeper until he was hitting the back of your throat. A wrecked sound left his lips, his eyes squeezing shut as he tried to not lose himself right then and there. His hands came down to tangle in your hair. He gripped a little too tight but you didn’t stop.
You slowly raised up and sank back down again. After a couple minutes of bobbing up and down on his massive cock you slid back up to the top and began to swirl your tongue again while also sucking, hard while you added a vibrating hum.
That did it. Dean’s restraint snapped. He pulled his hands out of your hair and grabbed you by the upper arms, pulling you off him with a pop. Before you could even react, he tore your clothes off and threw you on the bed with a bounce.
As he watched your tits bounce, it seemed to make him even more feral, his eyes darkened with a hunger that stole your breath. Then he was on you. There was no slow build up, Dean placed one forearm beside you head and the other hand guided himself to your entrance before he moved it to grip your hip with a bruising force. He thrust into you with one hard movement, bottoming out instantly, hips flush with yours. You cried out, your nails digging into his back hard enough to make him bleed. He grunted but pulled back, almost all the way out and did it again.
Dean set a ruthless pace. It only took about ninety seconds before you were teetering on the edge. As your orgasm tore through you, wracking your entire body, legs shaking violently, Dean slipped his hand over your mouth to muffle your moans. Everyone was still outside but the peak was so strong, you didn’t even realize the sounds that he was pulling from your throat.
Dean kept the pace up, hand still over your mouth, working you through it. Once you came back down, he slowed down just a bit and released your jaw. His eyes stared into yours as he crashed his lips down on yours. The kiss was passionate and messy. All teeth and tongue and raw desire, wrapped in a frantic need to be fused as one.
He pulled back, breathing heavily to match your own gasps for air. “Goddamn, baby,” he rasped. “That was somethin’,” he said, awe in his voice at the magnitude of the orgasm he just gave you and how quickly you came. “I love it when you fall apart for me.”
You just nodded, unable to speak. You murmured something incoherent and he chuckled darkly.
“We talked about this. Words, sweetheart.”
You shook your head, chest heaving as he still pumped into you but not quite as forcefully now. After a moment, you regained your strength and your breath. You locked your thighs around his hips and swung your hips hard to the right, rolling him under you.
Dean’s eyebrows shot up, surprised by the sudden change in position and your strength. The surprise quickly morphed into awe as he stared up at you as you began to ride him, just as hard as he had you, a moment ago. You rocked your hips in a fast, deep rhythm. Then you would slow down just enough to roll your hips deeper, popping your ass up a little at the end for added friction. The drag of his cock along your already tight walls each time you did it was undoing him.
The groans you were pulling out of his chest were just driving you harder. His hands were gripping your hips like he needed the anchor to keep from losing his mind entirely. He was staring up at you, eyes locked on yours as you picked the pace back up again. You closed your eyes and threw your head back as your movements became erratic and you fell over the edge again into a climax that was almost as strong as the first one.
Your thighs were trembling and Dean dug his fingers deeper into your hips as he began to snap his hips up into yours, meeting you with his own thrusts. You were floating so high, you didn’t have your moans in check and Dean was sure the entire house could hear you whether they were outside or inside by now.
He didn’t care anymore. You were too far gone to care. Finally, you opened your eyes and gazed down at him, in a haze of sex and passion. He was wrecked. You could see it all over his face. He was about to lose control as his hips stuttered. “I love you, Dean,” you gasped out as he snapped up into you a little harder. Dean was already on the verge and clinging to the last shred of control he had but that pushed him over. He pulled you down on him roughly, as he let go, spilling deep into your needy pussy. He let out a low, broken sound as the waves of his own climax washed over him, his body jerking beneath you.
You collapsed onto his chest, twitching as the aftershocks continued to roll over your spent body. Dean’s hand came up to thread into your hair, holding your head against his sweaty chest as if he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go yet. “I love you too,” he said followed by your name, voice wrecked, chest heaving against your face.
After cleaning up, you practically fell back into the bed, completely exhausted. Dean was already asleep, his large frame taking up most of the bed. He had one hand draped across his stomach while the other was stretched out on your side of the bed as if he were reaching for you in his sleep. You slid into his side and the outstretched arm immediately came to wrap around you, almost protectively, even in his sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The moonlight was spilling through the curtains into the second floor bedroom when you cracked your eyes open. You had reached for Dean but he wasn’t there. You glanced at the fuzzy red numbers on the clock on the nightstand. 12:02 a.m.
You sat up groggily, the sheets pooling at your hips, as your eyes adjusted to the dark room. Your body ached but you couldn't help the small smile that fell upon your lips at the intense sex from a couple hours ago. You slipped your panties back on and wrapped Dean’s flannel around you. You buttoned it up with a yawn as you quietly padded out into the hallway.
You entered the dark kitchen, the only light being a small nightlight under one of the cabinets near the fridge. You grabbed a glass of water and as you took a sip you glanced out the window. There was Dean, sitting alone on the dock. His back was to the house but it looked like he was staring out at the lake.
You put down your glass, the cool water soothing your throat, and slipped out the back screen door silently. The wood of the deck was smooth and slightly damp with night dew beneath your bare feet as you walked down the lawn toward the lake.
The closer you got, the more the easy, domestic warmth of the afternoon seemed to slip away.
Dean was sitting at the very edge of the dock, his boots dangling over the dark water. He was wearing an old t-shirt, his broad shoulders hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees. In the pale moonlight, he didn't look like the playful man who had been devouring bacon that morning or teasing Sam about smoothies. His posture was rigid, heavy, and completely still—like a soldier standing guard in the dead of night.
A cricket chirped softly in the grass nearby, but Dean didn’t move. He just stared out across the black, glass-like surface of the lake, completely lost in whatever monsters he kept locked in the dark. You hadn't even made it halfway to the water when a large shadow detached itself from the side of the cabin.
You froze in the darkness, your heart catching in your throat until the moonlight caught the long hair and massive frame of Sam. He didn't see you standing in the shadow of the giant oak tree. His focus was entirely locked on the dock. His shirt was back on, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, and his stride was heavy, purposeful, and entirely stripped of the relaxed, easygoing brother who had been laughing around the fire.
You instinctively stepped deeper into the shade of the branches, your breath catching.
Sam walked out onto the wooden planks, his boots making a dull, hollow thud. Dean didn't even turn around. He just shifted his shoulders, as if he’d known Sam was coming the entire time.
“Jody and the girls are asleep,” Sam’s voice carried across the grass, low and tight. It lacked any of its usual warmth. “I just checked the police scanners for the county. Nothing yet.”
Dean took a slow drag from a beer bottle, the glass catching the moonlight. “He’s not gonna make a mess in the county, Sam. Not after a mistrial. He’s smarter than that.”
“We don’t have a lot of time, Dean,” Sam pressed, stepping closer until he was looking down at his brother. “If he leaves the state, the trail goes cold. We know what he did to those people in that confinement case. If we don’t close this out tonight, there’s going to be another basement. Another two counts.”
A cold shiver that had nothing to do with the night air raced down your spine. Another basement. Another two counts. It sounded so dark, so clinical, but there was no mention of lore, no mention of salt, or silver, or standard hunter terms. It sounded completely different.
Dean stood up slowly, tossing the empty beer bottle into a nearby bin with a sharp clink. When he turned to face Sam, his profile was illuminated by the moon. His face was a hard, emotionless mask—the exact same ice-cold expression you had caught a glimpse of when he received that text message two weeks ago.
“We close it tonight,” Dean muttered, his voice dropping into a ruthless, guttural register that made him sound like a complete stranger. “Get the blades from the trunk. I’ll meet you by the car in five. I just gotta make sure she’s still asleep.”
Panic surged through you white hot. You weren’t exactly sure what you had just overheard but you were certain that whatever it was you were not supposed to. You waited until Sam disappeared around the corner of the house and Dean had turned back to glance at the lake one more time, dragging his hand over his jaw. That’s when you made the decision.
You walked straight towards him. You stopped at the beginning of the wooden dock, the planks groaning softly under your weight.
Instantly, the stillness shattered. Dean’s head snapped toward you, his posture locking into a hard, defensive frame, his hand instinctively dropping to his side as if reaching for something that wasn't there.
But the moment his green eyes landed on you—standing there in his oversized flannel with the sleeves rolled up—the rigid tension drained from his shoulders as fast as it had appeared. He let out a long, quiet breath, the haunted look vanishing behind that familiar, soft smile.
“Hey,” he murmured, his gravelly voice sounding even deeper in the midnight quiet. He reached out an arm, inviting you over. “What are you doing up, sweetheart?”
You faked a yawn and walked up to him as he slipped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest like he had a thousand times before. He rested his chin on your head.
“I just needed some water and I saw you out here all by your lonesome on the dock,” you murmured into his neck. It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the full truth either.
Dean squeezed his arms around you a little tighter, inhaling the scent of your hair. The familiar, heavy heat of his chest felt identical to the comfort you’d melted into hours ago, but now, the rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek felt like a ticking clock. Five minutes. He had told Sam five minutes.
“Just gettin' some air,” he murmured, his thumb rubbing a slow, lazy circle into the small of your back through the cotton of his flannel. “The cabin gets a little stuffy at night. Didn't mean to wake you.”
You pulled back just enough to look up at him, forcing your eyes to stay heavy and sleepy. You looked for any trace of the cold, ruthless stranger who had just muttered about closing a case and checking the trunk for blades. It was gone. His green eyes were completely soft, looking down at you with nothing but quiet, protective devotion. The transition was flawless, and it terrified you.
“You didn’t wake me,” you said smoothly, your voice a soft, midnight murmur. “The bed just felt empty.”
Dean’s grin turned a little wicked, a flash of the easygoing man from the campfire bleeding back through. He leaned down and pressed a warm, lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips sliding down to brush against your temple. “Yeah? Well, I can fix that. Let's get you back inside before you catch a chill out here.”
He scooped you up into his arms bridal style. As he walked across the damp grass toward the back porch, your eyes involuntarily darted toward the dark side of the cabin where Sam had vanished. There was no sign of him, but you knew he was out there in the shadows, popping the trunk of the Impala, preparing for a hunt that just sounded off but you couldn’t put your finger on it.
When he stepped into the dark kitchen, the small nightlight cast long, eerie shadows across the counters. Dean set you down and reached for the glass of water you’d left by the sink, offering it to you.
“Drink up, sweetheart,” he said quietly, watching you take a slow sip.
Your hand trembled slightly against the glass, and you prayed he didn’t notice. You set it down and turned to him, wrapping your arms around his neck to play the part of the blissfully unaware girlfriend.
“Are you coming back to bed now?” you asked, tilting your head up.
Dean’s expression softened with a flicker of genuine regret. He caught your jaw in his large hand, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “I gotta run out for a little bit, baby. Sammy noticed a weird noise under the hood of the Impala when we pulled in today. Said a belt looked loose. We’re gonna pull her into the garage down the road and tweak it so we don't get stranded on the drive home.”
Another lie. Delivered with the exact same easy, convincing gravel that had made you feel so safe for the last six months.
“At midnight?” you questioned, raising an eyebrow.
Dean paused and searched your eyes. He must have sensed that you weren’t going for it and he pivoted. “You know, babe, you’re right. It can wait until morning. Let me just go tell Sammy. You get back to bed and I’ll be right behind you,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.
You nodded and padded out of the kitchen, heart hammering against your ribs as you climbed the stair and slipped back into the bedroom. You tossed his flannel on the chair and climbed into the bed, pulling the covers up to your chest as you stared blindly into the dark room.
A moment later, the faint, heavy scuff of boots echoed on the porch below. You couldn't hear what was being said, but the low baritone of Dean’s voice cut through the midnight quiet, followed by Sam’s deeper, brief response. There was a pause, a heavy silence, and then the sound of footsteps retreating—not toward the car, but back toward Sam’s room downstairs.
Dean had called it off. Because of you.
The mattress dipped a minute later as Dean slid back into the bed beside you. The cool air of the night clung to his skin, but the moment his large arm wrapped around your waist and pulled you flush against his chest, the heat of him began to take over. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin, breathing you in like you were his anchor.
"See? Told you I'd be right behind you," he murmured sleepily, his voice thick with gravel as his grip tightened around you protectively.
"Mhmm," you whispered back, closing your eyes and pretending to drift off.
Dean’s breathing slowed into a deep, steady rhythm against your back, his body completely relaxing into the mattress. He was right here. He was safe, warm, and entirely present.
But as you lay awake in the dark, watching the moonlight shift across the ceiling, the unsettling pieces of the conversation kept spinning in your mind. Another basement. Another two counts. No matter how hard you tried to rationalize it as just standard, dangerous hunter business, a cold, uneasy knot remained tightly coiled in your stomach. It just didn't sound right.
You didn't know what they were really planning to do tonight, but for the first time in six months, you realized that the wall Dean had built to keep you safe wasn't just shielding you from monsters—it was hiding something else entirely.
synopsis ٠࣪⭑ you were captured by a Djinn and now you’re mourning a life that wasn’t real
contents ٠࣪⭑ Dean Winchester x reader (f), non-explicit, age gap implied cause why not?? innocent/shy!reader implied, mentions having curly hair (can totally be ignored, it was entirely self-indulgent), soft angst, unrequited love (but it’s actually not), yearning!dean, 3.8k word count
notes ٠࣪⭑ This is my first ever fic, please be kind (constructive feedback welcome). I actually had a lot of fun writing this, it was just for myself but I liked it so much that I decided to share it! Also sorry if the lores not right, I haven’t watched the Djinn eps in a min and I was too lazy to confirm every detail
It was days after the Djinn case. The one that had Dean scouring some nowhere town like a madman looking for you, his chest twisting with guilt, the fact you were taken right under his nose settles like an incurable chill in his bones. But it was possibly worse seeing you there, hanging by tied up wrists, body limp and frail, the tube of the blood bag sticking out of your arm like you’re some monster's prepped and ready buffet.
Sure, you were alive and he didn’t have to wonder anymore, but the sight didn’t serve as much of a relief.
Dean cradled your bruised frame so gently in his arms, despite the rage and worry clinging to his insides, as he and Sam took you down. Murmured apologies leaving his lips as he carried you back to the impala, not caring if his little brother or your half out-of-it self can hear him, all he cares about right now is you.
The days following were quiet, you’d tried to bounce back, really tried— but the illusive life promised to you by the Djinn, plagued every thought and every moment of every day.
You could still feel the comfortable weight of the ring on your finger, the feeling of Dean’s rough hands gently caressing your soft skin, you could still hear the sounds of peace and cicadas becoming the soundtrack to your life, only being interrupted by the sweet giggles and babbling of your baby. A baby girl, named Layla Mary Winchester, Dean didn’t even have to convince you to name your first child after an old rock song, you loved it the second he suggested it.
She was all Dean, from the green hue of her eyes, to the freckles on her nose, the plump and pink little lips that could make any grown woman jealous, and the devious little smirk they wore, but the hair, that was all you— her ringlets almost so perfect it’s as if God hand curled them around His own finger. You could see how Dean's face went all soft whenever he touched her hair, so reverently, his mind no doubt going back to the first time he ran his hand through your curls.
You could still remember bath times and teaching Dean how to do pig tails after he failed horribly the first time. You can still smell the home cooked meals mixed with the strong scent of motor oil and that sweet sweat that clung to Dean's skin after working on the car all afternoon, under the warm sun. You’d gotten used to telling him to wash his hands before picking up Layla or trying to steal a bite of whatever was on the stove.
Layla clung to him anyway, that was probably what you missed most. The way Dean had looked at this little version of the both of you with so much love, the way he was always so gentle with her but also teaching her to be tough without dismissing that softness that came from her mother, he’d held her when she cried and contorted his features into the stupidest faces just to hear her laugh.
Stop it, you had to remind yourself, because none of it was real.
Dean wasn’t yours, you didn’t have a cozy little house in a rural area, there was no dancing to oldies on Sunday mornings, no bedtime stories or nap time cuddles, there were no rings or kisses or home cooked meals. It was just another cruel form of torture in your horror-filled lives, one a monster cooked up just for you.
You hate to even think it, but you almost wished Sam and Dean had never found you… just so you could stay in that perfect little dream world, just a little longer.
The boys didn’t know what to do because you wouldn’t tell them, you’d barely said anything other than “sorry”s and “I’m fine” since they found you.
There was no way you could look Dean in his face and tell him that the Djinn looked in your head and found that your dream world consisted of being his wife and the mother of his non-existent daughter, with no monsters and no blood and no hunting.
Not when he didn’t see you that way, not when you were exactly what he didn’t want— a non-confrontational, soft, criminally un-sexy, doesn’t drink or smoke or sleep around, wants something real, girl— to admit that would be a suicide mission.
Sam might understand if you told him. He sees the way you look at his brother, the way you laugh at Deans jokes even if they’re not funny, he catches the way your face heats when Dean calls you “sweetheart” and every excuse you make just to stand or sit a little closer to him. He also sees the wrecked look on your face when Dean leaves with random women, no matter how hard you try to mask it, Sam sees the way you go quiet when a pretty girl slides a hand down Dean's leather-clad bicep, the way you laugh it off when he calls you “kid” as if the word doesn’t feel like a punch straight to your chest. But just because Sam is an observant know-it-all doesn’t mean you are going to tell him about this little dream life you’re mourning.
“Go talk to her” Dean whisper yelled at his brother, the two watching you from across the diner, you still haven’t opened up about anything involving the djinn case.
You’ve been stepping back during hunts, never talking his ear off with your excited rants anymore, and he swears he’s seen more fake smiles on your face in the past week than he’s seen your real smiles the entire time he’s known you.
He’s sick of it— he’s sick of not seeing you light up over little coffee shops or stray alley cats, he’s sick of not hearing your voice quietly singing along to the radio then acting like you weren’t when he caught you, he’s sick of you avoiding his gaze, of ignoring him almost completely. It’s even worse that you’re not cold about it, you’re just… pulling back. He hates how much it affects him.
“Why do I have to talk to her?” Sam whispered back, tearing his eyes away from where you were sitting at the booth across the diner, looking at the raindrops fall down the windows, your untouched coffee going cold in front of you.
“Because—“ Dean started, fighting the urge to pull the older brother card and just say cause I said so.
“Aren’t you like best friends or something?” He decided on instead, crossing his arms over his chest like a child.
“Just because we’re friends doesn’t make it okay for me to say ‘hey you’ve been acting weird since you were kidnapped and slowly dying the other week, everything alright?’” Dean's face fell a little, just a microscopic change in his expression at the reminder of what happened, but he brushed it off.
“that’s not what I meant and you know it” He added, less humor laced in his voice now. Sam sighed, knowing Deans also just worried, it’s just so unlike you to not talk about something. To not even tell Sam anything that’d happened.
You had just gotten out of the shower, pajamas laying on your damp, freshly lotioned skin, your body going through the motions of your somewhat of a night routine, as if you hadn’t just cried under the warm spray at the thought of you never kissing your daughter goodnight again and never falling asleep in Dean’s arms like you had every night in your dream world.
You almost made it to your bed before Dean cornered you, making you look up at him because of his sudden change in proximity.
“What’s going on sweetheart?” he murmured in that undeniably soft voice of his, your chest now clenching at the petname, rather than blushing like before.
“What do you mean?” You replied, voice quiet and thick, probably from the stifled sobs you let out just moments ago.
“Don’t— don’t do that, just talk to me” he said before you could even say anything else, his voice almost pleading, desperate even, but you shook the ridiculous thought away.
“Don’t do what, Dean? What do you want me to say?” You’re playing dumb, doing a good job at it too in your book, because you knew Dean didn’t really care enough to push much further.
“Anything— just say anything at this point, because it’s not like you to be like this… you’re not yourself” his voice came out just a tad firmer, and as if to prove his point you replied with “not myself?” You scoffed lightly.
“Well sorry it’s a little harder for me to go back to normal after what happened, not everyone gets the pleasure of being so resilient as you and Sam.” Your tone was defensive, the tone he only really heard during stupid arguments or research debates, but you never fought, especially not with him.
He was a little taken aback, mouth opening to argue a rebuttal but he bit his tongue— this definitely wasn’t like you, meaning something was up, and it’s not just him being overly protective again. So instead he brushed it off, didn’t take it personally.
“What happened?” He said your name so gently it made your chest twist with guilt already, you just shook your head.
“It’s nothing, I’m f—“ you started again, only to be cut off, “stop it— stop saying you’re fine, you’re not” your resolve started breaking. You turned your head away, throat burning and eyes stinging, all of the emotions you’ve been pushing down for days suddenly starting to bubble up with extra force.
“What do you want me to tell you, Dean?” You cracked, voice louder than before, words tumbling out before you could carefully curate them, “you want me to say I miss it? That I miss the made-up reality that was slowly killing me— you want to hear how I can’t stop thinking about it? You want me to tell you how I almost wish you guys never rescued me?” Your voice broke into a whisper at that, but you still refused to break down in front of him.
The look on his face was almost devastating, the way his confusion turned into shock, and the shock almost turned into sadness, or anger, or both? “You don’t mean that” his voice came out soft again, disbelieving.
“Yeah, well I do—“ you looked away from him, heart hammering under your chest, the burning your throat feeling now as if it was replaced with shards of broken glass. You don’t know how much longer you can hold everything back.
Dean went from disbelief to outrage in a matter of seconds, “what the hell did you have to say something like that—“
“You!” Your voice roared out before you could think about it, eyes burning with the tears you refused to let fall pooling in them, his face dropped but you continued before he even had a chance to blink “I had you, Dean! You were mine, and I was yours— and w-we had this little house in a little town, and the most perfect little girl—“ you’re voice fully gave out at that point, but you were too far gone to stop now. “No monsters, no motels, just us and our stupid little family—“ you choked on your own sobs, your hands going up to cover your mouth as if you were trying to save the shred of dignity you had left.
Dean hasn’t said anything, hasn’t moved, hell— you don’t even know if he’s breathed yet. Here you are, spilling your guts in front of him, the ones you tried so desperately to keep securely in place forever, and he’s just standing there.
“I’m s-sorry—“ you choked in another sob, unable to stop despite the embarrassment clawing at your skin, “I’m sorry— just g-go… please” you pleaded pitifully. That made him move, you closed your eyes, preparing for the sound of the slamming door, but it never came.
Instead, you were surrounded by a firm pressure, with the warmth that can only come from another body, Dean’s unique scent— the musky sweet bergamot and leather smell that you’ve become addicted to— engulfed you, the feeling of his strong arms wrapped around you finally registered in your scrambled brain.
He was hugging you, no not just hugging, he was holding you… in a way he never has before, in a way that you always secretly wished he would. You didn’t know what to do but your body reacted anyway, melting into his touch like this was normal, the moment only pulling more soft sobs out of you.
“Breathe, sweetheart” he murmured into your hair, his voice uncharacteristically vulnerable but still held that gentle authoritative tone of his. Eventually your breaths slowed, listening to him despite everything, your lungs burning and your brain screaming at you, yet you couldn’t find it in you to care. Especially when you’d registered his rough hand moving up and down your arm, the other tangled in your hair holding your head to his chest.
Another moment of silence passed before you tried to speak, “m’sorry—“ you murmured but he just shushed you, “what did I tell you about apologizing too damn much?” He murmurs, but his tone lacks the humor that statement usually holds, instead it’s still so gentle for him, like pouring honey over rough gravel.
You fought the urge to reply with an apology, instead opting for silence, but only for a moment longer.
Your head throbbed and your throat ached yet you continued, “why are you doing this?…” your voice so small and quiet, Dean's chest ached.
He hated that this was so foreign to you, hated that you felt like you had to apologize when you’d done nothing wrong, and he hated that you’ve been hurting and keeping it all in.
“Cause I want to, sweetheart” is all he could come up with, his own voice wavering just a little with emotion.
“Y-you’re not mad?…” you continue, even quieter than before.
His heart couldn’t take it, “why would I be mad?” He said, trying to still sound gentle despite the guilt crawling up his throat. Guilt for every moment he was ever a part of that made you think he’d be mad at you for something like this.
“Because I just blew everything up…” you breathed out, trying not to well up with tears all over again, you wanted to move away but you selfishly didn’t want this to end, either. You didn’t want to look him in the eyes, you didn’t want to escape his warmth, you didn’t want the moment to end, because you were already preparing how you were going to have to walk away from this, from them, from this little friendship that provided the only solace in your life.
You knew it was the beginning of the end; Dean didn’t see you that way, it would be endlessly awkward if things stayed the same, he wouldn’t be able to help you, and you’d rather walk away that make him feel obligated or guilty to try and fix things when you’re the one that fell for him, even if it feels like ripping a vital organ from your own body.
Dean didn’t know what to say, he wasn’t good at this, never has been. He feels things deeply but he’s never been allowed to express them, or share them, or talk about them, or let others share too. So he just keeps holding you, because he wants to get it right. He wants to comfort you, he wants to hear you say what you feel about him, he wants to try and tell you what he feels for you.
He’s been holding it in for months, maybe even longer, and it’s been fine. Sure, he always took a good look at you when you weren’t paying attention, and he’d make stupid jokes just to hear your laugh, or how he’d put on songs he knew you liked just to hear you quietly sing along. Sure, maybe he felt guilty for letting his eyes fall to your sparkling glossy lips and wonder what it’d be like to just kiss you. Even if he just got to do it once, it’d be enough (it probably wouldn’t be but he’d risk it anyway). But you were a little younger, less experienced, such a sweet ray of sunshine, and oh so shy, but secretly a total badass— none of that made him want you less, but it did make him want to be careful. He didn’t just want you the way he’s had other girls, he knew you didn’t deserve that, you deserved so much more than he could give you, and he’d never forgive himself if he was the one to muck you up. So, he still picked up random girls, still flirted, still kept the no-strings-attached bad boy hunter façade alive and well. You were a risk too important to take, even for the thrill-seeker he is.
But now? He knew he couldn’t keep it all in, not when you were saying things like this, not when you had tears covering your cheeks and apologies on your tongue, he couldn’t let you keep thinking this was one-sided, he couldn’t let you think you had to walk away all because you’d admitted things he’d been too chicken to say himself.
“You didn’t ruin anything” he murmured after a moment, snapping himself out of his own thoughts. Your head was still cradled to his chest, he adjusted his grip to hold you just a little closer.
You could feel the tears prickling in your eyes just at his touch, instinctively melting more into him, even if your brain calls you idiotic for doing so. Before you could retort with how he’s wrong and how your relationship has changed forever and apologize for having feelings, he’d pulled back just enough to look at you.
“Tell me about it…”
You were taken aback, your eyes puffy and your heart thumping so loud you’re sure the people in the next room could hear it. You stayed quiet for a moment, processing if you’d heard him right, but the look on his face was so earnest he didn’t need to confirm with words.
So you told him— all about it. The rings, the giggles, the house, the gorgeous kitchen, the little girl that permanently etched herself into your heart even though she doesn’t exist. You talked about the way you’d danced to music in the kitchen after bedtime and how you’d bring him sweet tea while he worked on the car, you talked about how much Layla was like him and how you adored her for it. You could’ve sworn you saw a glimmer in his eye at that.
You were soft and emotional but passionate, he’d had to tell you to keep going a couple times when you got flustered, and he’d wipe his thumb under your eye when a tear would escape. He never called you stupid or reminded you that it wasn’t real or shamed you. He just listened.
“Do you know how wrecked I was when we found you?” Dean had whispered a while later, after you ran out of things to tell him, after you’d moved to sit together, after you finally accepted he wasn’t upset with you.
You swear you could see him get a little flustered, but you were more interested by his words.
Before you could ask him what he meant, he continued, “you uh…” he looked down before meeting your eyes again, “it didn’t look good… I thought-“ he didn’t say it, instead scrubbing a hand over his stubble, but you knew what he meant.
“What I’m trying to say is—“ he paused again, just trying to find the right words even though he’s terrified. He looked in your eyes, “I don’t want you to think that this is all just one sided…” he looked so shy you almost didn’t recognize him in the moment. But his words still stopped you in your tracks.
“What do you mean?…” you asked carefully, voice barely audible, pulse accelerating within seconds. He tentatively reached over and took your hands in his, they were tough and warm and yours fit perfectly in them. You swear you almost choked on your own breath.
“I’ve uh… I’ve been trying to push it down for a while now…” his eyes flicked to yours again, and you could’ve sworn they landed on your lips for a split second, “I didn’t want to be the one to uh, mess you up I guess.”
Your brows furrowed a little at his words, unable to take your eyes off his face, giving his hand a mindless little squeeze to urge him on, or to comfort him, you don’t really know. “You’re scarin’ me” you murmured with a little nervous laugh that fell flat.
He couldn’t help the way his heart fluttered even at that, he was more far gone than he admitted to himself. One of his hands left yours, tucking a loose curl behind your ear, his thumb gently grazing your tear-stained cheek. Your breath hitching, heart beating impossibly faster.
“You don’t need to be in a dream world for me to want you” he finally admitted, voice so stupidly soft but so sincere.
Before you could pass out he continued, “now I can’t promise you a kid” that pulled an amused and shocked little chuckle out of you, “but I do know that these feelings scare the crap outta me, and I can’t let you sit here and continue to beat yourself up for this, like I don’t feel the same.”
Dead. You’re pretty sure you are— is this another djinn? Is this real, you genuinely don’t know at this point. You’re pretty sure Dean knows you’re freaking out by the look on your face, so in an attempt to confirm everything he just said, his hand by your cheek moves to your jaw. Tilting your head up with his finger, just a little, giving you enough time to stop him, and then he just kisses you.
You’re still shocked for a moment, so still that he almost pulls away, but then you just melt, eyes shut, hands reaching up to clutch themselves into his shirt. It’s better than anything he’s dreamed up, and the same goes for you. Who knew just an innocent little kiss could be so blissful.
His thumb gently caressed where it rested on your chin, smiling into the kiss as his other hand made its way into your hair. It wasn’t rough, or quick— it was soft and full of feelings they’ve both buried for far too long, his lips are soft and he can taste the minty toothpaste on your breath. You both pulled away just enough to breathe, chests rising and falling in tandem.
“You believe me now?” He murmured with that little smirk of his. Your smile widened and before he could make another sarcastic remark you pulled him in for another kiss as an answer.
Summary: Four years after Dean disappeared, he comes back to find the life he left behind… waiting for him in the shape of a little girl with his eyes. Now it’s ghosts in the walls, love that never died and a second chance that might heal everything—or break it for good.
-requested-
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: Language
Word Count: 5353
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
The door clicked open softly, the smell of greasy fries sneaking in ahead of Sam. He was balancing a tray of drinks in one hand, a crinkled bag of burgers in the other, looking like the world’s most overqualified delivery guy.
Behind him, Lilah burst in like a firework and her arms full of a bouquet so big she could barely see over the top. “Daddy!”, she whisper-shouted, which defeated the purpose, but at least she tried.
Dean was in the armchair by the window, Henry cradled against his chest in a bee-print onesie you hadn’t even known existed. He looked tiny. Three weeks early had left him all delicate wrists and scrunched-up nose, but his little fists were pumping like he already had demands.
“Hey, Buzz”, Dean whispered back, his grin blooming despite the dark circles under his eyes. He nodded toward your sleeping form on the bed. “Shhh. Mommy’s out”.
Lilah tiptoed in dramatically. She stopped dead when she saw Henry. Her bouquet slipped dangerously sideways until Sam caught it, rolling his eyes fondly.
“He’s so small”, Lilah breathed, climbing up onto Dean’s knee without asking. Her little hand reached out, hovering, not quite daring to touch. “And he’s got bees!”. She giggled, pointing at the onesie.
Dean huffed, pressing a kiss to her curls. “Yeah, figured it was only right”. He shifted Henry carefully, angling him so Lilah could peek without squishing him. Henry squawked, tiny and impatient. Dean sighed, already reaching for the bottle he’d half-prepped on the side table. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you, kid. Give your old man a second”.
The baby squawked louder. Lilah gasped. “Daddy! He’s mad!”.
Sam set the flowers down on the counter with the food, shaking his head with a smile. “Guess impatience runs in the family”.
Dean muttered under his breath as he jiggled Henry gently, “Man’s three hours old and already yellin’ at me for bein’ too slow”.
Henry hiccupped, let out a high little cry, then latched onto the bottle the second Dean got it in place, still frowning even in his sleepiness.
Dean smirked, rocking him gently. “Attitude. Just like his uncle”.
Sam leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a faint grin. But the longer he watched, the more his brows crept up.
“You’re… actually feeding him”, Sam said, surprised.
Dean shot him a look, adjusting the bottle with care as Henry suckled noisily. “No, genius, I’m playin’ poker with him”.
Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “I mean… you’ve got him swaddled right, you’re holding his head, the angle, hell, you look like you’ve done this before”.
Dean rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t stick. “The nurse showed me three times, Sammy. Three. I wasn’t about to screw it up in front of her and get that look”. He shifted Henry slightly, his palm cradling the tiny back of his son’s head, softer now. “Besides… not exactly rocket science”.
Henry let out a greedy little grunt, his eyes squeezed shut, fingers twitching like he was still arguing.
Sam grinned, unable to resist. “Still. Didn’t think I’d walk in and see my big brother like this”.
Dean glared at him, cheeks pinking as he instinctively slowed his rocking motion. “Shut up”.
Lilah giggled, leaning into Dean’s side and petting Henry’s blanket like it was a puppy. “Uncle Sam, Daddy’s the best bee daddy ever”.
Sam raised his hands in mock surrender, smile softening. “Yeah, Buzz. Looks like he is”.
Eventually you woke up slowly.
Dean caught your movement instantly. His eyes snapped up, that protective instinct kicking in before anything else, and when he saw you awake, his whole face softened. “Hey”, he murmured.
Lilah bounced once, careful not to jostle Henry. “Mommy! Daddy’s feeding him all by himself! And Uncle Sam brought fries!”. She beamed like it was the best news in the world.
Your lips curved, even through the heaviness weighing down your limbs. “I see that”.
Lilah tugged on Dean´s sleeve. “Daddy”, she whispered. “Can I hold him now? Please? Please? I’m big enough. I’m five”.
Dean glanced at you, the kind of look that said you hearing this? before sighing like a man already defeated. “Buzz… you gotta sit real still, alright? No wiggling. No spinning. He’s not a doll”.
Lilah gasped. “I know that! He’s Henry!”.
Dean chuckled under his breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe his life these days. “Alright, Buzz. C’mere. Sit right there—”, he nodded toward the foot of your bed, tone all mock-sergeant—“and grab that pillow”.
Lilah scampered over and plopped herself down exactly where he told her, dragging the hospital pillow onto her lap like she was preparing for a mission. She looked up at Dean with the wide, serious eyes of someone about to be knighted.
“Ready”, she whispered.
Dean’s mouth tugged into a grin he couldn’t fight. “Alright, big sis. Let’s do this”. He angled Henry carefully, cradling his tiny head with one big hand, and lowered him slowly onto the pillow in Lilah’s lap.
At the same time, you leaned back against the bedrail with your burger in one hand, fries in the other, and moaned around a mouthful. “Ohhh, Sammy, you’re a saint. Actual angel. Fries and a double cheeseburger? This is the real post-birth medicine”.
Sam smirked, flipping the top of the bag closed. “Glad to be useful”.
You swallowed down another bite and reached for a fry, your voice softer now, shy under the hum of machines and the quiet little family gathered around. “And… thanks for the flowers too, Sam”, you said, lifting your gaze to him with a small smile. “They’re beautiful”.
Sam ducked his head, ears tinged pink. “You deserve it”.
It hit you then how different this was. Lilah’s birth had been quiet and lonely, no one waiting outside, no warm food smuggled in, no laughter filling the air. Just you and a baby, scared. This time… this time you weren’t alone. And it felt like a weight had lifted you hadn’t even realized you were still carrying.
At the foot of the bed, Lilah leaned so close over Henry you were surprised her curls didn’t tickle his face. Her little hands stayed folded in her lap just like Dean had shown her, but her eyes were huge, drinking in every inch of her baby brother.
“He’s moving!”, she squeaked suddenly, looking up at Dean. “Daddy, look—his hand, it moved!”.
Dean chuckled low, crouched beside her, one steady hand still hovering under the pillow. “He’s sayin’ hi”.
Lilah’s mouth dropped open in awe. “He’s sooooo small”, she whispered, her whole voice reverent. “I can be careful. I’ll always be careful”.
-
Four weeks later, the rhythms of your life had shifted into something you never quite believed you’d have: messy and loud, freaking exhausting, but steady.
Dean was thriving.
Daycare drop-offs? He handled them like a bro. He’d walk into Lilah’s classroom with her bee backpack slung over one broad shoulder, her little hand swinging from his, and somehow leave with half the staff giggling like teenagers. Lilah loved it. “Daddy’s the coolest”, she’d declare when you picked her up later, already covered in paint and glitter.
At home, Dean had claimed the laundry like it was a hunt. Sorting loads with military precision, even if he still occasionally shrank a sweater or dyed the socks pink. Dishes? Done. Counters? Wiped. Floors? Well, floors were negotiable, but damn it, he tried.
Cooking, though? That was another story. The first two times he’d attempted a “real” dinner, anything beyond pancakes or scrambled eggs, the smoke alarm went off so loud Henry startled awake and Lilah declared, very seriously, “Daddy’s banned from dinner forever”. Dean took it on the chin, grumbling about “ungrateful critics” while you rescued the kitchen. After that, he stuck to breakfast duty and left the rest to you.
But where he wasn’t perfect, he more than made up for it with the kids. Henry, barely a month old, was already used to Dean’s arms. He’d settle faster against his chest than anywhere else. You’d find them in the recliner, Dean humming under his breath, Henry’s tiny hand clutching his shirt in sleep. Lilah, meanwhile, had her dad wrapped around her finger. Swing pushes, coloring sessions, elaborate Lego castles, he was there for all of it.
And watching him? Watching Dean Winchester turn fatherhood into second nature? It was enough to make your chest ache.
-
Today, Henry had been fussing all morning, the kind of colicky cry that made your nerves hum. Dean had scooped him up, one arm cradling the tiny bundle against his shoulder, bouncing gently while muttering under his breath about “how come I can take down a nest of vamps but one ten-pounder’s got me sweatin’”.
Meanwhile, Lilah had turned the kitchen table into a war zone of glitter, glue and construction paper. She was determined to make “welcome home banners” for Henry—never mind that Henry had been home for five weeks already. When the glue bottle clogged, she squeezed harder until the lid popped clean off. A geyser of sticky paste shot across the table. “Daddy!”, she wailed, throwing her hands up, now sparkly to the elbows. “It exploded!”.
Dean adjusted Henry with one practiced motion, the baby tucked into the crook of his elbow, bottle balanced in the same hand, while reaching for paper towels with the other. “Alright, Buzz, don’t panic. Nobody move. This is a Code Glitter”.
Henry suckled noisily, oblivious. Dean dabbed at the glue, grabbed the glitter jar before it tipped further, and tossed a fresh towel across the table toward Lilah. “Wipe what you can, and for the love of God, don’t sneeze”.
She giggled at his mock-serious tone, smearing glue across her cheek in the process.
By the time you walked in from swapping laundry, Dean looked like he’d been through a small war. Dean glanced up at you, hair mussed, chest rising like he’d just finished a hunt. “Don’t. Say. A word”.
-
Lilah stood in front of the mirror with her brand-new backpack. Bee-yellow with black stripes and almost as big as she was. Her curls were neatly braided (Dean’s work, of course; he was faster at it than you. Way faster), and she clutched Henry’s soft bee rattle like it was battle gear.
Henry babbled from his play mat, hands slapping at the toys, drool soaking his onesie. At eight months, he was sturdy and curious, already trying to pull himself upright on anything in reach, including Dean’s jeans when Dean crouched to tie Lilah’s sneakers.
“You sure about this, Buzz?”, Dean asked, his voice caught somewhere between proud and worried. “We don’t have to rush. School’ll still be there next year.”
Lilah rolled her eyes, the exact same way you did when Dean was being dramatic. “Daddy, I’m six soon. I have to go. I’m gonna learn to read big books and paint, and I already know my numbers”.
Dean’s mouth pulled into a smile that cracked at the edges. He tied the last knot and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Alright. But you better not forget about us little people when you’re famous”.
You swallowed around the lump in your throat as you helped her into her jacket. “You’re gonna do amazing, baby girl”.
The drive to school was quiet and heavy with anticipation. Lilah sat shotgun like always, her backpack buckled beside her, Henry gurgling in his car seat, kicking his feet.
When you pulled up to the school, the sidewalk buzzed with other kids and other parents. Lilah bounced in her seat, suddenly shy but determined.
“C’mon, Buzz”, Dean said gently, lifting her out. He crouched, adjusting her straps, brushing a curl out of her face. His voice cracked just slightly when he added, “Go show ‘em what a Winchester can do”.
She threw her arms around his neck, squeezing hard. “I love you, Daddy”. Then she hugged you too, carefully kissed Henry’s forehead, and marched up the steps.
You and Dean stood there long after she vanished inside. He slid an arm around your waist, pulling you against his side. His eyes were damp, but his grin was boyish and so damn proud.
“She’s really growing up”, Dean murmured, forehead resting against your temple. “And we… we made it here. All of us”.
And for the first time in years, you believed it.
-
It was late-August. Your hallway smelled like coffee and pancake syrup.
“Shoes!”, you called, tying your own laces by the door.
“I have shoes!”, Henry declared, skidding in socked feet around the corner. Six now, all big opinions, he wore a tiny flannel over a animal tee, his backpack already sticker-bombed with cars and a single, stubborn bee. He held up his sneakers triumphantly and then, because he was Henry, tried to put them on without sitting down.
Dean caught him mid-wobble by the back of the shirt. “Easy there, Hot Rod. Park it”. He dropped to a knee and laced Henry’s shoes. “You gonna show first grade who’s boss?”.
Henry grinned, missing-tooth wide. “Already am”.
“Attitude”, Dean muttered, but he was smiling so hard it softened the whole line of his jaw. He flicked a glance over his shoulder. “Buzz? You almost ready?”.
Lilah stepped out of the hallway. Eleven: taller, wearing ripped jeans and bee pendant on her neck. Dean had braided her hair in two neat plaits that made her look like the exact midpoint between little-kid and almost-teen. She posed, deadpan. “Voted least likely to cry today”.
Dean pressed a hand to his heart. “Least likely to cry? You wound me, Buzz. After all I’ve done for you. Braids, rides, endless glue refills…”.
Lilah smirked, tugging her jacket straight. “Yeah, yeah. You’re slipping, old man”.
Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Old man?”. He shot you a quick glance. “Did you hear that? She called me old”.
You bit down on a grin. “Well… you did make that dad noise when you sat down last night”.
“Traitor”, Dean muttered, then turned back to his daughter, squinting in exaggerated menace. “Slipping, huh? You think just ‘cause you’re all middle-school fancy now, I can’t still—”.
Before Lilah could react, Dean swooped forward, scooping her up around the waist. She squealed, kicking her sneakers in the air, but he had her hoisted effortlessly. With one practiced flip, he had her upside down, legs dangling, hair flying like a curtain of curls.
“—do this?”, Dean finished, grinning ear to ear.
“Dad!”, she shrieked, laughing so hard her voice cracked. “Put me down! My jeans!”.
“You sure about that?”, Dean teased, walking in a slow circle. “’Cause I can keep this up all day. Gotta prove to you I’m not that old”.
“Mom!”, Lilah tried to appeal, upside-down face red with laughter. “He’s embarrassing me!”.
You leaned on the doorframe. “First day of school and already upside down. Pretty sure that’s a record”.
Dean patted her calf with mock solemnity. “Say ‘Dad’s not old’, and maybe I’ll let you down”.
“Never!”, Lilah yelled, still laughing, trying to twist herself right side up.
Dean just chuckled, tightening his arm around her middle like it was the easiest thing in the world to carry an almost-teenager. “Stubborn. Definitely my kid”.
He held her upside down a few more beats, her laughter shaking his shoulder. He grinned, but in his chest it twisted, because her laughter wasn’t the same high-pitched squeal it used to be. It was older now. Not the sound of a toddler or a four-year-old climbing into his lap with sticky fingers and curling up like a kitten.
“You’re heavy, you know that?”, he teased, spinning her carefully until her sneakers tapped the floor again.
Lilah staggered upright, cheeks flushed, hair half out of its braids. She swatted at his chest with one skinny arm. “You’re just weak”.
Dean caught her wrist, tugged her in, and kissed the top of her head before she could wriggle away. “Nah. I’m strong as hell. Just—”. He paused, swallowing something thick. “You’re not little anymore, Buzz”.
Her grin softened, just for a second, before she rolled her eyes in the way only an eleven-year-old could. “Duh, Dad. That’s how time works”.
Dean huffed a laugh, ruffling her hair even though he’d just braided it. “Smartass”.
But when she turned toward the mirror to fix her jacket, Dean’s smile slipped. He remembered nights on your couch, her tiny body stretched across his chest, her fists tucked under her chin, legs no longer than his forearm. He remembered her head fitting under his jaw, her weight a feather compared to the heaviness in his heart back then.
And now? Now she was almost as tall as his chest. Quick wit, her own world beginning to spin separate from his. He loved it, loved watching her grow into herself, but God, it pinched too.
“Hey”, Lilah said suddenly, catching his reflection in the mirror. “Don’t look all sad. I’m still your favorite bee, right?”.
Dean cleared his throat, his voice rough. “Always, Buzz”.
She smiled, satisfied, before starting to bounce toward Henry.
Dean reached out, hooked two fingers through the strap of Lilah’s backpack, and reeled her back in before she could escape down the hall.
“Dad!”, she squeaked, half-laughing, half-exasperated.
He ignored her protest, wrapping both arms around her in one of those bear hugs that pinned her arms. He buried his face in the crown of her hair, breathing her in like he had when she was tiny, when her curls still smelled like baby shampoo and syrup.
“Daaad”, she complained again, though there was no real fight in it. “You’re crushing me!”.
“Good”, he muttered into her hair. “Keeps you from growing too fast”.
She rolled her eyes, but after a beat, she softened in his arms. She let her head tip against his chest, her hands tugging lightly at his shirt instead of wriggling free. Sassy, yes, but still sweet. Still his little girl.
“I’m not little anymore”, she reminded him gently, like she knew exactly what he was thinking.
Dean pulled back just enough to look at her. “Don’t matter, Buzz. You’ll always be my kid. My first bee”.
That earned him a small, real smile. She squeezed him once, quick but strong, before stepping back and shrugging her straps into place.
Dean’s hand lingered in the air a second after Lilah slipped out of his grasp, the absence of her weight hitting harder than he’d admit. He cleared his throat, blinking once, and turned toward Henry.
The kid was already standing with his backpack zipped. There was no hesitation in his stance, no glance back for reassurance.
Where Lilah had always curled into Dean’s lap, Henry had been different from the start. He’d cry when he needed to, Dean had made damn sure both kids knew tears weren’t weakness, but even then, Henry cried like he had a point to prove. Quick, fiery bursts, then jaw set, fists balled, moving on before anyone could coddle him.
Dean saw so much of himself in the kid it hurt sometimes. That stubborn tilt of his mouth, the way his eyes flicked over a room like he was cataloguing exits, the quiet determination that made him seem older than six. It wasn’t that Henry wasn’t soft, he could be, especially with you, and sometimes when Lilah coaxed him into her games, but his softness was earned, deliberate. He didn’t give it away easily.
Dean rubbed the back of his neck, watching Henry check his jacket pockets. “You good, Champ?”.
Henry gave him a thumbs-up, no hesitation. “Yeah. I’m gonna sit in the front row so the teacher knows I’m serious”.
Dean huffed a laugh. “That’s my boy”.
Lilah snorted, rolling her eyes but hiding her smile. “Of course you’re sitting in the front”.
“Where else am I supposed to sit?”, Henry shot back, all righteous indignation. “The back’s too far from the board”.
Dean grinned despite himself, heart squeezing tight. Lilah: soft edges, open heart, always reaching out. Henry: all Winchester grit, jaw set even when nobody asked it of him. Dean loved them both so fiercely it scared him, but in different ways.
One reminded him what he’d almost lost. The other reminded him who he’d been and who he wanted to be better for.
A few minutes later, Dean pulled onto the road.
After a while, Dean drummed his fingers on the wheel, glanced at the rearview, then at you. His grin tugged up slow, dangerous.
“You know”, he drawled, “Buzz’s got middle school now. Champ’s already takin’ over first grade. Feels like I blinked and they stopped bein’ little. Might be time we—”. He lifted his brows, eyes twinkling. “—made ourselves another one”.
You groaned, pressing a hand to your face. “Dean”.
Lilah snapped her head around, horrified. “Oh my God, Dad, ew! Don’t even say that! You’re ancient”.
Dean barked a laugh, one hand thumping the wheel. “Ancient? That’s cold, Buzz”.
Henry, without looking up from tracing the stitching on his lunchbox, chimed in matter-of-factly: “Babies cry too much. Don’t do it”.
You bit your lip to keep from laughing, shaking your head. “See? Even your son’s voting against you”.
Dean flicked a look at Henry in the mirror, mock-offended. “Traitor”. Then, softer, his hand reached over to squeeze your knee where it rested between the seats. “Don’t care how big they get, though. Always gonna be ours”.
Lilah slumped deeper into her seat with a dramatic groan. “Can you not be gross before school?”.
Dean chuckled while his gaze flicked to the mirror and caught your eyes and… winked—slow, deliberate and freaking shameless. Heat crawled up your neck instantly, and you had to look out the window before Lilah caught you turning red. Of course, she caught enough.
“Ew! Mom, are you blushing?!”, Lilah groaned, burying her face in her hands. “No. Nope. I don’t wanna know. I know how babies are made now and—ugh—I’m never forgiving health class”.
Dean nearly choked on his own laugh, coughing into his fist. “Health class beat me to it, huh?”.
Lilah shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Don’t. Don’t say another word. If you even think about talking about it, I’ll walk to school”.
Henry perked up in the backseat, curiosity written all over his little face. “What’s health class?”.
“Nothing!”, Lilah yelped, spinning back around so fast her braids slapped her shoulders. “It’s nothing, Henry. Don’t ask. Ever”.
Dean snorted so hard the wheel wobbled in his grip for a second but he recovered quickly with that boyish grin.
“Relax, Buzz. I’m not gonna—”, He leaned back more. “I’m just sayin’, me and your mom… „.
“DAD!”, Lilah shrieked, smacking the dash with her palm. “Stop! Oh my God, stop! I’m getting out right now!”.
Henry cackled from beside you, no clue what he was laughing at but thrilled by the chaos. “Buzz is mad”, he sing-songed.
Dean chuckled, but his smirk softened as he peeked back at Lilah, who had now yanked her jacket over her head like a makeshift shield. “Alright, alright. I’ll cool it”. He paused just long enough to make it suspicious. “But, you know, you’re gettin’ older. Sooner or later, we’re gonna have to have that talk”.
Lilah groaned dramatically, muffled by denim. “No. No talks. Ever”.
-
Two weeks later, the house felt too quiet.
Lilah was at Mia’s for a Friday-night sleepover with movies and nail polish, and the kind of giggle-storm that always ended with Sam texting you both “send help (kidding) (maybe)”. Henry had finally fallen asleep upstairs, warm and heavy with a little flu, the humidifier purring and the baby monitor whispering white noise through its tinny speaker on your dresser.
You were already in bed, propped on pillows, scrolling just to keep your eyes open. The bathroom door opened and Dean padded out in nothing but a towel slung dangerously low on his hips.
He let himself plop onto the mattress beside you with an exaggerated groan, like he’d just hauled salt bags across three states. Then he flopped onto his back with all the theatrics of a man begging for attention. The mattress dipped, bouncing you a little.
You didn’t look up from your phone. Not once.
Dean cracked one eye at you, then huffed. “Seriously? My wife can’t even appreciate the effort? I showered”. He sniffed his shoulder pointedly. “Smell pretty damn good, if I say so myself”.
Still nothing.
“Unbelievable”, he went on, rolling onto his side to face you, towel gaping a little too conveniently. “I even shaved”.
That made you flick a glance up. His jaw was exactly as scruffy as it had been this morning. Your brows arched. “Uh-huh”.
Dean grinned. “Not here”.
Your phone slipped a little in your grip as you bit down hard on a laugh. He looked so goddamn pleased with himself, with his green eyes gleaming, waiting for you to take the bait.
When he saw you fighting that laugh, he smirked and propped himself up on one elbow. The towel slid a dangerous inch lower, his voice dropping into that husky, drawling tone you remembered from years ago. The one that used to make your knees weak back when you were too young to know what the hell to do with it.
“Y’know…”, he murmured, tracing one finger lazily up your shin, under the blanket, “all those years ago, you couldn’t keep your eyes off me either. Don’t think I didn’t notice”.
You tried to scoff, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.
Dean leaned in, close enough for his breath to brush your ear. “Hell, I remember you lookin’ at me like I was already in your bed—”, his grin widened“—and we both know what happened when I finally got you there”.
Your breath hitched despite yourself.
He chuckled, low and satisfied, nipping at your earlobe before dragging his lips down your throat. “You were so sweet, so easy to ruin… And damn if you didn’t make me work to keep up after. I swear, you were tryin’ to kill me”. His hand slid higher up your thigh, warm and.. so heavy. “Still are”.
“Dean—”.
He pulled back just enough to catch your gaze. “Don´t Dean me like that. I put two kids in you, and I’m not done yet”.
Your pulse jumped.
He grinned and kissed the corner of your mouth before whispering against your lips, “Now, tell me again you don’t wanna find out how smooth I shaved”.
You tipped your head back against the pillow, glaring at him even as your lips twitched. “You’re insufferable”.
Dean grinned wider, his hand inching higher under the blanket. “Insufferable? Please. You were climbing me like a tree when you were barely legal. I’ve still got the scratch marks”.
You smacked his chest lightly, but he just caught your wrist, pressing your palm flat against his warm skin. His heart thundered beneath your hand.
“C’mon”, he drawled, his lips brushing down your throat again. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember the way I used to make you cry for it. Beggin’ me. Neighbors probably thought I was killin’ you”. He chuckled. “Turns out I was just teachin’ you how good it could feel”.
You sucked in a sharp breath, and he smiled like he’d won. “Still teachin’ you, baby. And you still can’t keep quiet”.
Aaand… you broke. You always did with him. Your phone slid to the side, forgotten, as you grabbed the knot of his towel and yanked. It fell open and Dean’s smug laugh turned into a groan as you wrapped your hand around him.
“Geez, sweetheart—”. His hips bucked into your palm before he caught himself, biting back a curse. “Fuck, I missed your hands on me”.
You smirked, kissing down his chest, and he tangled a hand in your hair, guiding you, half desperate, half reverent. “Yeah—yeah, that’s it. Damn, you’re gonna kill me tonight”.
The towel hit the floor. Dean hauled you under him, mouth hot and messy against yours, grinding into you through your thin sleep shorts. His cock pressed hard and insistent against you, making you gasp into his kiss.
“Tell me you want it”, he rasped. “Tell me you want me to put another one in you”.
Your answer was a broken moan, your hips arching into him, and that was all the permission Dean Winchester ever needed.
But when he hovered over you, one arm braced on the mattress, the other tracing down your side, from your ribs to your hip, his grin softened. His eyes roaming your face like he couldn’t quite believe he still got to be here, with you, after everything.
“You know”, he murmured, brushing his lips along your jaw, “I could’ve had a lot of lives. None of ‘em would’ve been worth a damn if I didn’t end up right here”.
You swallowed, your fingers curling in his wet hair. “You’re only saying that ‘cause I let you in my bed”.
He chuckled before pressing his mouth to your collarbone. “You were way too good for me back then. Still are”. His lips trailed lower, lingering at the top of your breasts. “Guess I just got lucky”.
You shook your head at him, shy smile tugging at your mouth. “Shut up”, you whispered, and leaned up to catch his lips before he could say something else that would make your heart ache in that helpless way.
Dean kissed you back without hurry, like he had all the time in the world. His palm slid up to cradle the back of your head, thumb brushing behind your ear. When he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his grin faded into something softer, something that lived only in the lines around his eyes.
“Not gonna shut up”, he said quietly. “Not about this”. He shifted so his forehead rested against yours. “I ain’t ever been good at the whole ‘big speech’ thing”, he murmured. “But I’ve spent most of my life running head-first into stuff that didn’t matter near as much as I thought it did. This—”, he gave a small, crooked nod toward you, the bed, the closed door, the whole life the two of you had built—“this is the best damn thing I’ve ever been part of. You. The kids. I love you, and I’m not gonna stop sayin’ it just ’cause I sound like a sap”.
Your eyes stung, but you laughed anyway, brushing your nose against his. “You really do talk too much”.
“Yeah”, he said with a huff of a laugh, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Lucky for you, I mean every word”.
"I know", you whispered, the sound catching against his mouth as you kissed him again. “But stop talking for now”, you whispered, “and help me make another one”.
Dean’s laugh rumbled deep in his chest, warm against your skin. He brushed another kiss to your forehead, softer this time. “Yes, ma’am”.
Summary: Eighty-five years after Soldier Boy left you behind, he finds you frozen, kept as leverage, and drags you back into a world you never got to live. Far from Vought’s spotlight, you and Ben try to stitch a marriage back together from ash.
(sequel to "the softest thing")
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language, angst
Word Count: 6657
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
Seven months later, the quiet still felt borrowed. But it had held.
You and Ben lived in a small town outside Oklahoma where the roads ran flat and long under a wide white sky, where people still waved from pickups and left pies cooling on windowsills and minded their own business with the kind of stubborn politeness that passed for mercy. Vought barely existed there except as a name some folks had maybe heard once on a television they didn’t trust much anyway. Supes were city nonsense. News was what happened to other people.
So you got your quiet.
A rented little house with a porch. A kitchen with too much morning light. A bedroom where the dresser drawers stuck in damp weather. A church three streets over with white clapboard siding and a bell that sounded thinner than the one you remembered from home, but near enough.
You and Ben had built a routine because routine was safer than promises.
Coffee. Groceries. Laundry. He fixed things badly at first and better after you made him do them twice. You learned which modern food brands were edible and which ones tasted like punishment. He drove into town for hardware and came back with tools, soap, canned peaches, and once—absurdly—a bouquet of grocery-store carnations he shoved at you like he was handing over ammunition.
You had not let him kiss you much. Not really. A few quiet ones. Careful ones. Mostly when emotion got too large for words and both of you were tired enough not to fight it.
Touch had been slower still. A hand at your back crossing a street. His palm hovering at your elbow when the steps iced over. Fingers brushing yours over a grocery list.
Sex was nowhere near the table. He knew better than to push, though that didn’t stop him from trying his luck now and then in that shameless, infuriating way of his.
He was trying, though. God, he was trying.
With all the charm he’d still somehow kept. With all the rough-edged patience he’d had to teach himself. With all the, "But I’m your husband", he could pack into one glance, one muttered comment, one hand lingering a second too long at the small of your back before he made himself step away.
And every Saturday for the past seven months, Soldier Boy had gone to church.
Because you had insisted.
“You need to wash yourself clean”, you had told him the first week, standing in the kitchen with your arms folded while he stared at you like you’d announced he was joining a convent.
He had barked out a laugh. “Sweetheart, I don’t think a Baptist church in Oklahoma has enough holy water for me”.
“It isn’t funny”.
“No Baby”, he’d said, still grinning a little. “No, it really isn’t”.
Then he went anyway.
The first time, half the congregation had turned to look because even in a town that didn’t care much about the outside world, Ben looked like trouble in a dress shirt . Broad shoulders, hard face and too much confidence even when he was trying to sit still. He had looked personally offended by the hymnal and deeply suspicious of the potluck sign-up sheet. But he went. Sat beside you in polished shoes he hated and listened to the pastor talk about repentance while his jaw worked like he wanted to argue with God directly.
Now it was habit.
This morning, sunlight striped the bedroom floor through the curtains while you got dressed. The air already held the dry warmth of early day. You slipped into your long soft satin skirt, the pale cream one that moved quietly around your legs when you walked. Then you buttoned your blouse and tucked it in with careful fingers, smoothing the fabric at your waist the way you always did. Old school, Ben had called it once, half-teasing and half-awed, watching you pin your hair back at the vanity like the whole century ought to slow down and take notes.
Now he sat on the edge of the bed in dark slacks, bare-chested still, because he had not yet bothered to pull on his shirt. One elbow rested on his knee. He had been pretending to lace one shoe for the last minute and a half, but his hands had gone still.
He was just watching you.
You caught his gaze in the vanity mirror. “What”.
Ben blinked once, as if remembering his own face. “Nothing”.
“Benjamin”.
That made one corner of his mouth twitch.
“You want the truth?”.
“I assume I’ll regret it”.
His eyes moved over you again, slower this time. Not vulgar for once, not even really hungry, though that lived under his skin often enough. Something softer and fuller. The kind of look that made you feel seen in places you weren’t sure you wanted seen.
“You look beautiful”, he said.
The words came plain. No clever line. No grin built around them. Just the truth, and somehow that made them land harder.
You looked back at yourself in the mirror instead of at him. The blouse was modest. The skirt fell nearly to your ankles. Your hair was pinned simply, the way the older women in town wore theirs, though yours always came out a little softer around the face no matter how neat you tried to make it.
“It’s for church”, you said.
“As if that changes anything”.
You almost smiled.
From the bed, he exhaled and finally bent to finish with his shoe. “You know”, he muttered, “this has gotta be some kind of crazy ass joke”.
You reached for your earrings. “What is”.
“Me”. He tugged the lace tighter than necessary. “Sitting in a bedroom in Oklahoma on a Sunday morning—”.
“Saturday”.
He pointed at you without looking up. “That too. Getting ready for church while my wife looks like…”. He stopped, then glanced up with that familiar rough heat in his eyes. “Like that”.
You put one earring in and gave him a warning look through the mirror. “Behave”.
“I am behaving”.
“That was not behaving”.
“That was admiration”.
“That was trouble”.
His mouth twitched again. “Yeah. Maybe”.
You turned from the vanity to reach for your cardigan, and the movement made the satin shift around your legs with a soft brush. Ben’s eyes dropped to the sound. He looked for one second like a man remembering far too much all at once. Then he checked himself.
That part still struck you sometimes. The stopping. The fact that he could now. The visible act of reining himself in not because he feared your anger, but because he had learned, finally learned, that wanting something did not entitle him to reach.
He stood to pull on his shirt. White, clean, sleeves rolled once before he shoved his arms through. On anyone else the motion would have been ordinary. On Ben, even dressing looked faintly combative. Buttons did not deserve that much force, but he gave it to them anyway.
When he was halfway done, he looked at you again and said, quieter now, “You sure I’m not gonna burn alive in there one of these days?”.
You slid on your cardigan and picked a speck of lint from the cuff. “One can hope”.
That got a real laugh out of him.
Then, because he was still Ben and because every so often sincerity came out of him before he could catch it, he added, “I go because you ask”.
You looked up. He was standing at the foot of the bed with his shirt open at the collar.
“I know”, you said.
His expression shifted a little. “And because I like sitting next to you while you sing”.
The room went still for a beat. You hadn’t expected that. Maybe he hadn’t either.
“You sing loud”, he added, with a shrug that tried and failed to make it casual. “Not good. Just loud”.
You stared at him. Then you picked up the nearest hairbrush and threatened to throw it.
He held both hands up at once, laughing properly now. “All right, all right. Beautiful and loud”.
“Awful man”.
“Your husband”.
That could have irritated you. Some days it still did. But this morning the words landed softer than they once would have.
You adjusted his tie when he couldn’t get the knot right.
Neither of you commented on the intimacy of that.
Your fingers worked at the silk while he stood very still above you, looking not at the tie but at your face. You could feel his gaze there.
“Don’t”, you murmured without looking up.
“Can’t help it”.
“Yes, you can”.
“Not this one”.
You tightened the knot a touch more than strictly necessary.
He made a face. “Cruel”.
You smoothed the tie flat against his shirtfront. “Clean enough for church”.
Ben looked down at where your hands rested for the briefest second against his chest, then back to your face. Something warm and almost wondering moved through his expression.
You stepped back before it could become too much. He let you. Then he reached for your coat from the chair and held it open for you without a word.
Small things like that had become the shape of this new life. Not declarations. Not grand speeches. Just a thousand ordinary gestures done a little more carefully than before.
You slid your arms into the coat. He settled it over your shoulders without touching more than he had to. When you turned toward the door, he caught your wrist lightly and you looked up.
His fingers loosened at once, giving you every chance to pull away. His eyes searched yours in that old restless way of his, hope and apology and want all mixed together.
“Can I kiss you before church”, he asked, “or is that sacrilegious?”.
You shouldn’t have laughed. You did anyway. And it surprised both of you.
Then, because he had earned at least this much, you tipped your face up. Ben kissed you softly. Just once. Brief and careful. His hand never left your wrist. His mouth was warm and familiar and still capable of stirring old grief and newer tenderness in the same breath. When he pulled back, he looked steadier somehow. Less haunted for the moment.
“There”, he said quietly.
You smoothed your skirt once, though it didn’t need smoothing. “Try not to fight with the pastor today”.
“No promises”.
“Benjamin”.
He sighed like the burden of righteousness had once again fallen unfairly upon him. “Fine. I’ll behave”.
You gave him a look. He reached for the front door before you could say anything else, opened it, and stood aside for you to step out into the Oklahoma morning first.
-
Over the next few weeks, you started fitting into the town a little better.
Not into the century. That still felt unlikely. But the town, yes.
You learned which grocery store carried decent flour, which older lady at church made a pie crust worth respecting, and which roads Ben should avoid if he didn’t want to get trapped behind tractors for twenty minutes and come home muttering about “agricultural tyranny”.
You also learned, unfortunately, that the world had invented something called smart TVs.
Which was how, on a Tuesday afternoon, you walked back into the living room carrying folded laundry and found Ben sprawled on the sofa, one arm slung over the back, watching the sort of thing that made you drop a dishtowel in pure outrage.
“Benjamin”.
He jerked like he’d been shot. Not because he was ashamed, exactly. More because your voice had hit that sharp note he had learned to fear. He grabbed for the remote. The television went black.
You stood there with a pillowcase over one arm and stared at him.
His expression shifted through guilt, annoyance, and the faintest trace of a grin he was trying very hard not to let happen.
“What", he said, too casually.
You pointed at the television. “In my living room?”.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “It’s our living room”.
“That makes it worse”.
Ben rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Sweetheart, I was alone”.
“You were not alone. The Lord was here”.
That finished him. He bent forward with a laugh he tried and failed to hide in his fist, and you marched across the room and smacked the back of his shoulder with the pillowcase.
“This is not funny”.
“It is a little funny”.
“You need help”.
“I’m aware”.
You stood over him in full offended-wife splendor, cardigan buttoned, hair pinned up, and gave him a lecture so pointed that by the time you were done he had actually muttered, “Yes, ma’am”, just to get you to stop.
You did not stop.
But later that night, when you found the television parental controls mysteriously switched on and Ben acting like it had happened by divine intervention, you had to bite the inside of your cheek not to smile.
Another day, you discovered TikTok. This happened by accident, which somehow made it worse.
A woman from church had said, “Oh, honey, you should look up recipes on there” and you had nodded politely, only to discover three hours later that modern people apparently took cooking instructions from dancing girls, shirtless men, and women narrating casseroles in voices too cheerful to trust.
You were scandalized.
You were also fascinated.
So the next morning you announced, with great dignity, that you were making “that baked feta pasta everybody seems possessed by”.
Ben looked up from the newspaper. “The what”.
“Don’t mock. It has millions of views”.
He lowered the paper slowly. “You know what, that sentence alone tells me this century was a mistake”.
Still, he hovered in the kitchen doorway while you worked, arms crossed, watching you treat the whole absurd thing with way too much seriousness. Cherry tomatoes. Olive oil. A block of feta you regarded with suspicion. Pasta boiled properly because no internet person was going to tell you how to salt water.
When it came out of the oven and you stirred it all together, Ben leaned over the pot, sniffed once, and said, “That actually smells pretty good”.
You gave him a smug look. “I know”.
He took one bite that evening, chewed, and pointed his fork at you.
“Don’t get cocky”.
“You ate half the pan”.
Also, your mouth had grown back. Just in little flashes. A comment under your breath. A look. A soft answer with enough edge tucked into it to make him blink, then grin despite himself. Ben had started to live for those moments in a way he would never have admitted plainly. You could tell. Especially when you caught him off guard.
One Saturday after church, while he was trying and failing to fix the porch step without swearing in front of Mrs. Tallou next door, you stood in the doorway and said, “You know, for a man who spent years being called a hero, you are surprisingly bad with a hammer”.
Ben looked up from where he was crouched with the toolbox at his feet.
Mrs. Tallou covered a laugh with one gloved hand.
“You trying to embarrass me in front of the neighbors?”.
You folded your arms. “No. I think you managed that on your own”.
He stared at you for one beat, then laughed hard enough he had to sit back on his heels.
That night, he kissed you in the kitchen while the dishwater cooled in the sink and murmured against your mouth, “You’re getting brave”.
You had looked up at him and answered, very softly, “Maybe I’m just remembering myself”.
That had shut him up in the best possible way.
You baked more too. Partly because it calmed you. Partly because baking still made the house smell like something stable and decent and yours. Partly because in a world that had become almost too strange to hold in your head all at once, flour and butter and sugar still obeyed.
You made banana bread from another TikTok recipe and declared it “acceptable, though overpraised”. You made cinnamon rolls one rainy afternoon that had Ben standing in the kitchen pretending not to hover while they cooled. You learned that modern ovens ran hot and modern measuring cups were somehow more annoying than old ones.
And then one day, without telling him why, you made his favorite cake from the fifties.
Yellow cake. Chocolate frosting. A simple one. The one he had once loved so much he used to eat ate night in the dark kitchen while you were asleep. The one you’d made for his birthday the year before Vought gave him Compound V, when he’d come into the kitchen behind you in his work shirt, stolen a fingerful of frosting, and kissed your temple while you pretended to be annoyed.
He came in from the yard that afternoon smelling like cut grass and stopped dead in the kitchen doorway. For a second he only stood there.
Then he looked at the cake. At you. Back to the cake.
“No”, he said quietly.
You looked up from the counter. “No what”.
“That’s not fair”. His voice had gone rough in a way that had nothing to do with humor.
You wiped your hands on a dish towel. “Do you want a slice or not?”.
Ben crossed the room and stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell sunlight on his skin and the faint soap from his shower that morning.
“You remember that?”.
“Yes”.
Something moved over his face too quickly to name.
When you cut him a piece, his hand brushed yours taking the plate. He looked down at it for a second like he was afraid of what it might do to him.
Then he took one bite. Closed his eyes. And had to set the fork down before he said, very low, “Jesus”.
You smiled a little. “Still good?”.
He looked at you over the plate, eyes too bright for something as ordinary as cake.
“Yeah”, he said. “Still good”.
It was a few nights after that when he asked about the baby.
The question came out of nowhere and yet, somehow, not out of nowhere at all.
You were in bed with a book open and unread in your lap. Ben sat on the edge of the mattress. He said your name first. Just your name. You looked up.
“I saw it in the file”, he said.
Your chest tightened before he even finished.
“The medical records”.
You closed the book carefully and set it aside. Your fingers stayed resting on the cover for a second longer than necessary. “I didn’t know for sure”, you said after a moment. “Not really”.
Ben didn’t move.
“I thought maybe”, you went on quietly. “I’d been late. Tired. But then… then it happened”.
He stared at the floorboards.
You looked down at your own hands in the blanket.
“For over two years before that, it never worked”. Your voice thinned around the old shame, still somehow alive enough to sting. “I used to cry in the bathroom so you wouldn’t hear me. I felt like…”. You let out a small breath. “Like a terrible wife”.
Ben’s head came up so fast it almost startled you. “No”.
The word came sharp. Immediate.
You looked at him.
“No”, he said again, softer now but no less certain. His jaw flexed once. “That was never on you”.
The old grief shifted inside you, surprised to find itself contradicted so forcefully after all these years. You looked down. “I know that now”, you murmured. “Mostly”.
For a few seconds neither of you spoke.
Then Ben rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, glanced at you sideways, and because he was still himself enough to reach for humor when the pain got too close, he said, “Well”.
You blinked at him.
He looked almost cautious now, which on Ben was a strange enough sight on its own.
“I’m just saying”, he muttered, “if we ever wanted to… take another crack at it, I do still remember the basic mechanics”.
You stared at him. Then your cheeks turned hot all at once. “Benjamin”.
He held up both hands. “What? I’m trying to raise morale”.
“You are impossible”.
“Not impossible”. His mouth twitched. “Motivated”.
You pulled the blanket higher though it did absolutely nothing to hide your face. “That was indecent”.
“Probably”.
“You should be ashamed”.
“I usually am”, he said, and then, because he saw the way your mouth wanted to soften despite yourself, he added more gently, “I meant someday. If you ever wanted. No pressure”.
The room settled around that. Your face was still warm. Your heart too. Because the truth was, for all your modesty and all the hurt still sitting between you, you had missed him. Not just the idea of him. Not just having a husband in the house or another body in the bed. Him close. His weight of attention. His mouth at your temple. His hand at the small of your back. The private softness that had once belonged only to the two of you.
You looked at him for a long moment.
Then you said, quietly, “You talk too much”. That made him grin.
But only a few nights later, it happened.
You had been lying awake listening to him breathe. You turned toward him first. His head shifted on the pillow, eyes finding you in the dim.
“You all right?”, he asked, voice rough with sleep.
You nodded once.
Then, because the words felt old and tender and humiliating and true all at once, you whispered, “I want my husband again”.
He went completely still.
Your hand found his wrist over the blanket. Warm skin. Steady pulse. “And I want”, you said, softer now, “to be your wife again”.
Ben made the smallest sound in his throat. He turned onto his side slowly, like any sudden movement might scare the moment away. Even then he didn’t touch you yet.
“Yeah?”, he asked.
You looked at his face, half-shadowed on the pillow beside yours, and saw how hard he was trying not to rush even this. “Yes”, you whispered.
His hand came to your cheek. When you leaned into it, his eyes closed for one beat, like that small permission had hit him harder than anything else.
Then he kissed you.
Slowly. Like he had all the time in the world to relearn you right. Your hand slid up into his hair. He shuddered at that, the reaction so immediate and honest it made your own eyes sting.
When his hand moved to your waist, it stayed light until you pulled him closer. When his mouth found your throat, it was with reverence instead of hunger first. When the old want came into him stronger, sharper, he held it back with visible effort until you asked for more in your soft, shy way that had always undone him worse than anything bold ever could.
It was not the same as before. It could never be. It was gentler. Sadder. More careful. Full of pauses and quiet checks and his voice rough in the dark asking, “Like this?” and “Feels good?” as though he needed every answer from your own mouth before he trusted himself to keep going.
And when you finally let yourself have him again, it was not because you had forgotten anything. It was because, for the first time in a very long time, he was loving you like your heart and body were both things worth protecting.
By the time it was over, you were utterly spent. You lay half across him with your cheek on his warm chest, one leg tangled weakly with his under the sheets, the summer-dark room smelling like cotton, skin, and the open window where the night air still moved the curtains in slow, lazy breaths. Ben’s heart beat strong and steady under your ear. Sweat cooled along your spine. Every muscle in your body felt loose and heavy, the kind of deep exhaustion that only came after being held too close for too long in the best and worst ways.
He had not stopped after the first time. Or the second.
By the end of it, more than an hour had slipped by in pieces too soft and blurred to count properly, and now you could barely lift your head. Your fingers rested uselessly against his chest. Even your scolding energy had mostly gone thin. Mostly.
Ben, unfortunately, looked far too pleased with himself.
His hand moved lazily up and down your back, broad and warm, while the other rested at your waist beneath the sheet. Every now and then his fingers flexed there like he still couldn’t quite believe you were really in his arms letting him hold you like this.
Then, in that low, rough voice that always sounded like trouble when it dropped into a tease, he said, “You alive there, sweetheart?”.
You made a faint, exhausted noise against his skin.
He chuckled under you. “Thought I might’ve fucked you tired”.
You lifted your head just enough to give him a glare. It was not your strongest glare. You knew that. He knew it too. That only made his mouth twitch.
“Don’t you start”, you murmured, voice breathy and ruined with tiredness.
“There it is". His grin turned lazy and shameless. “That face”.
You narrowed your eyes. “What face”.
“That offended little look you get when I say something, in your words, filthy”. His thumb brushed once at your side, absent and warm. “Cute as hell”.
Your cheeks heated at once. “Benjamin”.
The satisfaction on his face was immediate. He loved this. You could tell he loved this. Not just teasing you, but specifically getting you just scandalized enough to lecture him. Over the past months it had become one of his favorite games and he played it with the delighted patience of a man who had discovered a private treasure.
“You hear your voice when you scold me?”, he asked, entirely too smug. “All soft and breathy”.
You tried to push yourself up straighter and failed halfway, your arm giving out and dropping you right back onto his chest. Ben laughed outright then. Not cruelly. Warmly.
“You’re impossible”, you muttered.
“And you married me anyway”.
“I was young”.
“You still like me”.
That earned him another look, weaker than before but no less sincere.
Ben only smirked and brushed your hair back from your face. His touch gentled almost immediately under the teasing. That was the way of him now more often than not, mouth shameless, hands careful.
“Go on”, he said. “Tell me I’m indecent”.
“You are indecent”.
“Mm-hm”.
“And vulgar”.
“Sure”.
“And entirely too full of yourself”.
That actually made him grin. “There she is”.
You tried to stay stern. You really did. But exhaustion and warmth and the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek made it difficult to hold onto proper outrage for long. Your eyelids had gone heavy again. The room had softened at the edges. His hand kept moving in that slow rhythm over your back, making it even harder to remember why you were meant to be offended.
Ben noticed the exact moment your body started melting back into him.
His voice changed with it, dropping lower, softer. “Tired?”.
You let out a tiny hum that was probably yes.
He pressed his mouth to the top of your head. “Yeah. Thought so”.
-
Over the next few months, Ben stopped pretending he could keep his hands to himself. And you stopped pretending you wanted him to.
It was small and constant. His palm on your lower back when you passed him in the kitchen, his mouth finding the back of your neck while you stirred a pot, his fingers sliding into your hand like he owned the right to comfort now and wasn’t wasting it. He was still cocky about it too, because of course he was.
You’d be rolling dough, flour on your cheek, and he’d lean in and murmur something filthy-soft in your ear just to watch you freeze, scandalized. Then you’d swat him with the dish towel and hiss, “Benjamin”, and he’d grin like that was his favorite hymn.
He stayed gentle with you. Always checking without making a big show of it, always in control in a way he hadn’t been decades ago. But he was still so… him. All muscle and heat, that masculine smell of soap and sweat and sun, shoulders filling doorways, voice so deep when he was amused. It made it easy to be soft again. Easy to be your feminine self, not because he demanded it, but because he made room for it like it was precious.
Some mornings you didn’t even make it to coffee before he’d catch you around the waist, pull you back against him, and mutter, “You’re killin’ me, sweetheart”, like you were the problem.
And you’d roll your eyes and say, “Then go be strong somewhere else”.
He never did.
He took you shopping in the next town over like it was a mission.
He was weirdly into checking the modern world’s lingerie while you stood in front of a rack of ripped jeans looking like you might faint.
That made his mouth twitch. “Try ‘em on”.
You did, because he was your husband and because, annoyingly, the jeans fit. You came out of the dressing room stiff as a board, tugging the hem of the too-short shirt downward.
Ben leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, eyes dragging over you like he couldn’t help it. “Yeah”, he said, smug. “You look hot”.
You narrowed your eyes. “I look like I’m auditioning for sin”.
“Same thing”.
You threw the hanger at him. He caught it and laughed like he’d won.
Then you found a little 50s-style dress with soft fabric, modest neckline and a nipped waist. You stepped out and immediately felt like yourself again.
Ben stopped talking. For a beat, he just looked at you like the air had changed.
Then he cleared his throat and said, rougher, “That one”.
You tilted your head. “You like it?”.
He blinked like you’d asked whether he liked oxygen. “Yeah, I like it. Christ”.
He bought it without checking the price, then acted annoyed about the whole thing in the parking lot because being openly tender still embarrassed him.
He learned to do small domestic things without acting like they were beneath him. He replaced a broken hinge. He even installed a smoke detector and complained the entire time.
“Why’s it gotta beep.”
“So we don’t die.”
“I’m not dyin’.”
“I am.”
He stared at you.
Then he installed two.
At night, he’d pull you into his lap on the couch like it was casual, like it was nothing, like his hands hadn’t once been the reason you feared beds. He’d watch whatever you put on. Old movies, sermons or the news he pretended not to care about, and he’d keep one hand on your thigh under a blanket with his thumb moving slow over your skin.
And when you scolded him for the way his mouth worked, for the way he teased, for the way he’d whisper something indecent at the worst times, he’d grin and say, “You’re cute when you’re mad”.
“I am not cute”.
“You’re fucking adorable”.
“You need prayer”.
“I need you”.
That shut you up every time, because it sounded too honest to fight.
Then days were passing.
You were tired in a different way. Hungry, but picky. Your temper a little shorter. Your body softer around the edges.
One morning you were folding laundry and Ben leaned in the doorway watching you like he was doing math.
“You’re late”, he said.
You blinked. “Late for what”.
He stared at you like you were joking. “Your period”.
Heat rushed to your face. “Benjamin”.
“What? You are”.
“That is not your business".
He walked over and took the calendar off the kitchen wall with one finger like it had personally offended him. Flipped the page. Counted silently.
Then he looked at you, brows lifted, mouth already twisting into that smug, dirty humor.
“Sweetheart”, he drawled, “you are so bad at that simple women stuff”.
You grabbed a dish towel and snapped it at him. “Stop talking”.
He caught your wrist gently and his eyes went bright in a way you recognized instantly. Not fear, not even shock. Something that looked suspiciously like excitement, filtered through Ben’s ego like everything else.
“We’re goin’ to the store”, he said.
You frowned. “For what”.
He smirked. “For the little stick that tells you whether you made me a baby”.
Your mouth fell open.
At the pharmacy he bought two tests. Back home, he hovered so hard you finally snapped, “Do you want to come in with me too?”.
Ben leaned on the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed. “I’m your husband”.
“You are not watching me take a test”.
He looked mildly offended. “I wasn’t gonna watch”.
“You’re literally standing guard”.
He shrugged. “Habit.”
You shut the door in his face.
From behind it, you heard him mutter, “If it’s positive, I’m naming it John Wayne”.
“You are not!”. A pause. Then, quieter: “Okay. Maybe we talk about it".
When you finally opened the door, he tried to look casual and failed completely. His eyes went straight to your hands. You held up the test with a palm that had started shaking. Ben went still. Then his face changed.
“Yeah?”, he whispered.
You nodded once, breath catching.
Ben exhaled hard through his nose like he’d been punched, then stepped forward and stopped himself halfway, hands flexing at his sides.
“You okay?”, he asked, too careful for a man like him.
You swallowed. “I think so”.
He nodded, eyes bright, and tried to make his mouth work around something cocky. Something dirty. Something that wouldn’t show how much it meant.
What came out instead was, “Holy shit”.
Then he cleared his throat and recovered just enough to add, “Guess I’m still good at my part”.
You smacked his arm. He laughed and finally, finally, he reached for you. Slow. Asking with his body first. When you didn’t pull away, his arms came around you like he’d been holding his breath for months. “I got you”, he murmured into your hair.
-
The morning you told the pastor, the sun came up clean and gold over the little town like it didn’t know anything about the years you’d lost.
You sat on the porch step afterward with a glass of water sweating in your hand, watching dust drift down the road behind an early truck. Ben paced the yard, then stopped and pretended he wasn’t pacing by “checking” the fence post for absolutely no reason. He’d been doing that a lot since the test. Hovering, without admitting it. Like if he kept moving, the joy couldn’t turn into fear.
You watched him for a moment.
“Ben”, you called.
He stopped instantly. Looked at you like you’d snapped a leash. “What”.
“You’re wearing a hole in the grass”.
He blinked. Then that crooked little grin tried to show up and couldn’t quite find its place. “Habit”.
“You’re allowed to sit”.
He hesitated, then came over and dropped down beside you with a heavy exhale, shoulder brushing yours. His knee bumped yours and stayed touching, as if he’d decided he didn’t want any space left between you today.
You held your water with both hands, staring out at the quiet street.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then Ben said, rough and oddly careful, “You want tea?”.
You almost smiled. It was such an ordinary question. The kind of question a husband asked in the morning in a small house on a quiet street. The kind of question you’d once answered without thinking.
“Yes”, you said softly. “Please”.
Ben nodded like he could do that at least. Like tea was something he could make right when so much else had been ruined. He stood to go inside, then paused and looked down at you. His eyes moved to your hand. To your wedding ring. To his ring on his own finger. He reached out, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted, and tucked one loose strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckles barely grazed your cheek.
“Still can’t believe you’re here”, he murmured.
You leaned into the touch before you could stop yourself. “Neither can I”.
He huffed a breath through his nose and left his hand there for a second longer than necessary. Then he went inside.
You listened to him in the kitchen: cabinet doors opening, the old kettle filling, the low curse when he bumped his hip on the counter because he still hadn’t learned that small houses didn’t move out of the way for big men.
The sound settled something in you. It reminded you, painfully and sweetly, of another small house. Another quiet street. Another kitchen where you used to sit with a mending basket at your feet and listen for footsteps that didn’t come.
Back then, you had waited in silence. Now, you didn’t have to.
Ben came back out with two mugs. He’d even put a spoonful of sugar in yours the way you liked without asking. That made your chest ache in a small, secret way you didn’t name.
He sat beside you again and handed you the mug carefully, then stared out at the street.
After a minute he said, “You scared?”.
You glanced at him. He didn’t look at you when he asked it. He was looking past the fence line, past the mailbox, out at nothing. The question sounded like it had cost him.
You blew gently on the tea. “Yes”.
Ben nodded once. Like he had expected that. Then he finally looked at you. His eyes were too honest for his own comfort. “Me too”, he admitted.
You shifted your mug to one hand and reached for his other on the porch step. His hand was warm, callused and heavy. He stiffened for half a second, then let your fingers lace with his like he’d been waiting for permission.
“You know”, you said softly, “in the beginning… I used to sit and sew and listen for you”.
Ben’s mouth tightened. “I know”.
“I stayed up because I thought one day you’d walk through the door and be him again”.
Ben’s gaze dropped to your joined hands. For a moment you saw the old shame try to rise. The old instinct to get mean or dismissive to escape it. But he didn’t. He stayed. You watched the choice happen in his face, and it made something in you loosen, just a little.
“I’m… sorry”, he said, quiet as breath.
You didn’t answer with forgiveness. But you squeezed his hand. Ben’s thumb moved across your knuckles.
“You still gonna make me go to church every Saturday?”, he asked.
You tilted your head. “Yes”.
He sighed like a man enduring terrible hardship. “Unbelievable”.
“You need it”.
“You need it too”, he grumbled, then added, quieter, “I’ll go”.
You smiled into your mug. "I know".
———————————
A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 AND I may have a surprise for you 🙈
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Babylon Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Part 5✦
✦pairing: Dean Winchester x female!reader✦
✦summary: Dean stays with you for a week, and people get suspious.✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action, implied smut, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: they're back!!! we're about to earn that E rating folks. enjoy!✦
He called for more time off. Dean would stay through the whole week, just to stick around you.
Charlie spent half an hour teasing him about it over the phone. You’d been on the couch, knees drawn up to your chest while Dean rubbed your thigh. His head was tossed back, eyes rolling at every word through the phone, and his hand never once left your body. You’d been eavesdropping, nervous and quiet. You knew Charlie was on your side, but she might say something that accidentally made him reconsider.
You couldn’t make out her words through the phone. For a moment, you wondered if Dean would want some privacy. It was a private phone call.
When you’d tried to get up, Dean had grabbed your wrist and yanked you back down. You’d squeaked, collapsed onto his chest, and glared up at his amused smirk.
“You suck.” You’d hissed, and he’d laughed.
It was hard to keep pretending to be pissed at him, when he’d leaned down and kissed you so sweetly.
You’d grabbed his forearms for balance, despite being off your feet. His arm had gone around your chest, bicep near your neck and fingers splayed over the curve of your breast, and you hadn’t been ready for what that would do to you.
It was like drowning in him. You could feel every breath, every word vibrating through your chest, every flex of his muscles when he shifted. He was a wall of heat behind you, and you wouldn’t have minded if he turned you into steam. With his hold on you, you’re sure he would’ve been able to keep you in one place anyway.
“Yeah, I’m gonna tell her that, I-“ Dean had cut himself off, frowning at the air. His lips did a little pucker thing, when he frowned.
You wanted to feel him all over your skin.
“You have her phone number.” Dean had snapped, arm tightening around you. “You tell her yourself.”
Charlie had given a muffled response, and Dean had snorted.
“Good.” He’d looked down at you, and you’d blinked up hopelessly.
He was so pretty. And all yours. You’d never want to take him away from his friends, but there was a tiny, loud part of you that wanted all his attention forever. You’d been trying to smother it. You had no right to ask such a thing.
But Dean had looked at you, and you think you might’ve slipped.
His brow had furrowed. He’d mouthed a you good? And just looked more concerned when you nodded.
You’ve been trying to be good. But he was everywhere, and you couldn’t be blamed for standing under the sun, and hoping it shined just for you. It was that type of thinking that made empires rise and fall. That built religions.
It would be very easy, to build an empire to worship Dean. You think you could build a world to worship him. A whole universe where nothing would ever hurt him. Where hurricanes and tidal waves moved around him, and flowers bloomed in his name, and he could call for what he wanted on the wind and it would always be there.
“I’m gonna call you back, Charlie.” Dean had muttered, eyes never leaving your open expression. “Yeah- Just tell him I’ll be back on Friday. I’ll pull double to make up for the notice. Yeah, thanks.”
He’d hung up the phone, tossing it onto the other side of the couch without a glance.
“You gonna tell me what’s- Woah-“
You’d rolled over, planting your hands on his abdomen and climbing up his chest. Dean had grunted, but let you press over him, holding you steady with a hand on your waist. You’d hovered over him, breathing heavy as you tried to figure out what to do with yourself.
Dean’s lips had twitched. “Hey, Princess.”
“Hi.” You’d breathed.
He’d reached up, tucking some hair behind your ear. “You want something?” He’d teased, and you’d swallowed.
A nod was the most you could manage. Dean had grinned like a child in a candy store.
“I’m all yours.”
He was. Dean was all yours.
It had been enough of a push for you to straddle him. Then a few more seconds of working yourself up to actually kiss him. Dean hadn’t rushed you. His hand had dipped under your shirt, massaging sensitive skin with his calloused hands. You’d started to get dizzy with need for him. Chewing on your lower lip until it was swallow, grabbing at his shoulders in an attempt to coax him on.
But he’d just waited, and teased. You’d be angry at him, if it didn’t work.
You’d almost attacked him, with the intensity of your kisses. He’d grunted in surprise when you finally moved, slamming your lips over his. You’d been clumsy, desperate and frantic. You’d just needed to feel him, and you wanted him to leave a mark. You hadn’t meant to be so brutal about it that your noses bumped and he grabbed your waist like he was trying to leash an animal.
But when you’d tried to pull away, Dean hadn’t been having it.
“Where’re you going?” He’d muttered, dragging you back down with a hand on the back of your head.
Nowhere.
You had no plans to go anywhere without him again.
Your Dean.
Which was the problem of long distance. Dean was in favor with his boss, and he could use sick time for this because you’d been having a melt down less than twelve hours ago. Although sick time was technically something he should only be using for family. When you’d pointed that out to him, Dean had shrugged and kissed the top of your head.
“He knows you’re family. It counts.”
“No, it doesn’t.” You’d crossed your arms over your chest. “We’re not related, legally or biologically.”
“Well, I’m fixin’ that soon.”
“What?”
“Nothing. You wanna watch a movie?”
You hadn’t wanted to watch a movie. You’d wanted to get to the bottom of what the hell that meant. But Dean’s unfair influence over your body meant you’d ended up cocooned in his arms on the couch. You’d dozed off like that, despite it only being ten or so.
But Dean felt safe. You hadn’t really ever felt a safe like Dean was before him. You knew you’d never feel one after him.
Which was the problem again.
You didn’t mind long distance. You’d have him however you could, and right now this was the only way. At least until you graduated, and you—eventually—told Sam.
But you also missed him more and more when he left. You always felt better when he was here. And no matter how he dismissed it as nothing, he’d flown across the country just because you’d been having a breakdown.
You had a lot of breakdowns. You were feeling better now that he was here, but that wasn’t going to last forever. This was something that was bigger than Dean. Sometimes it felt bigger than you. You’d been swimming upstream in your own mind your whole life, and Dean was strong enough to anchor you from being swept back under the water for a little while. But he couldn’t stop the flow of the water. He couldn’t always be there to keep you afloat.
But you didn’t like trying to swim when you didn’t know there was a guard in place. It made you feel safer, even if you didn’t need him to jump in.
Dean couldn’t keep buying plane tickets and dropping work whenever you needed him. He’d say he could, but it wasn’t financially sustainable. Still, selfishly, you just wanted him here all the time. Just like this.
Maybe not just like this. He was kind of a prisoner like this. No leaving the apartment without telling you, in case Sam was around. No going out with you, in case Sam was around. No FaceTiming Sam, because the observant little fucker would recognize your apartment.
“He’s called me three times today, Princess.” Dean mutters, leaning against the counter in the kitchen. “He’s gonna start poking around. And if he calls the garage, they’re gonna tell him I took time off for my girlfriend.”
“Which he’ll probably come over to tell me about.” You mumble, glaring at the dishes in the sink. “You- You could hide in the closet-“
Dean snorts. “Sweetheart, I’m not gonna fit in your closet.”
“You could if I folded you.”
“Like a pretzel?”
You nod, and Dean smiles with too much softness and affection. You were threatening to turn him into a pretzel. He should be angry.
Instead he just walks over to your side, resting one hand on your hip and dropping his face against your neck. His breath is warm. Shivers run up your spine, and you wobble a little when he kissed over your shoulder.
“You could go under the bed.” You breathe, and he chuckles. The sound rolls through you, and you think he might be able to wreck you with just his voice.
“Not gonna fit there, either.”
“We- We don’t know until we try. That’s the scientific method-“
Dean says your name, strict but not angry. Your face burns and you stare at the sink. He reaches around you, turning off the water before spinning you to face him.
It’s impossible to look him in the eyes. You’d melt on the spot.
Dean noses at your jawline, peppering sweet kisses until your shoulders relax. You tip your head back with a tiny sigh, and he smirks against your skin.
“You trust me?” He murmurs, and you nod.
With everything.
“Good girl.” Dean kisses your cheek, and a downright pathetic sound escapes your throat. “I’ve got this, alright? He’s not gonna know.”
You’d grumble a protest about all the ways Sam could know, if you were able to think in more than colors and music right now. You’re putty under Dean’s hands, tugging hopelessly at his shirt in the hope you’ll be offered a little something more.
But he keeps going on about your first time being special. You don’t want special. You just want him.
Here. With you. On you, all the time.
Not in Chicago. You can’t touch him, when he’s in Chicago.
“Would you ever want to move again?” You ask softly one night, your legs resting over his.
Dean shrugs, rubbing your calf absentmindedly. “I mean, I’m probably gonna have to.”
“Have to?”
“Yeah.” He gives you an amused look. “I can’t live with Charlie forever.”
“Oh. Right.” You flush, picking at your fingers. “Where- Where would you go to live next?”
“Don’t know yet.” He’s silent for a moment, still watching the TV. “What about you? If you could live anywhere in the whole world, where would you take us?”
Us. You and Dean, together.
And you know that tone of his. It’s the deep, overly causal one he uses when he really wants to know something, but doesn’t know how to directly ask. You can see it all over his face.
“To live?” You ask. “Or for vacation?”
“Hm. Both?”
You nod, leaning into the cushions and watching him while you think. You trust him. You do. And you love him, and he loves you. He said it. He can’t take it back.
“I wouldn’t want to live in Chicago.” You say, and Dean’s head whips over.
“You- You wouldn’t?”
You shake your head. You can see it. The ache behind his eyes, and the way he works his jaw. He’s quickly trying to shift his face back into something neutral, to not let the hurt show, because he’s amazing and never wants you to feel bad.
It’s a little too late. You’re already wishing you’d phrased that differently, and throttling your tongue for being so stupid.
“Alright.” Dean rasps, looking back to the TV. He’s not rubbing your calf anymore. “That- That’s alright-“
“I’d want to live with you.” You say quickly, and Dean snaps his attention back again.
“You would?”
You nod, hugging yourself tight. “Stop moving your neck so fast, De. You’re going to crink it.”
“Yeah, yeah I know- You’d want to live with me?”
He sounds like you’ve just told him I rented a whole diner for you to eat whatever you want or Scooby Doo is outside, and real, and he wants to invite you to join the Gang. You can’t help your own smile from creeping over your face.
“Of course I would. I love you.”
Dean grins, squeezing your ankle. “Love you too, sweetheart.”
You flush, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. “Thanks.”
“Always.” He kisses your knee, watching you for a moment before murmuring. “Why not Chicago?”
“My- My family.” You whisper. “They live in Chicago.”
Dean’s eyes narrow. His hold on you tightens.
You haven’t told him much about your family, but he knows enough. And from the glint in his eyes, you don’t think he’s going to let you live near them if you try.
“Not Chicago.” He mutters, and you nod.
“You- You’re not going to try and confront them-“
“No. Not yet.”
You frown. “Dean-“
“Joking.” It doesn’t sound like he is. “We probably live in way different parts of the city anyway. Don’t think they’re slumming it near me and Charlie’s two bedroom with rats in the basement.”
“The rats are back? I told you to buy those traps, De-“
“I did! But the little sons of bitches, they’re persistent.”
“Did you tell your landlord?”
“Nah, we got it.”
“You have to tell him, the longer you wait the worse it’s going to get-“
“We will-“
“You just said you wouldn’t.” You challenge, narrowing your eyes. “And if you get eaten by rats, I’m going to be very mad at you.”
Dean’s lips twitch, and he huffs a low laugh. “Bossy.”
“Shut up.” You kick him softly, and he doesn’t even pretend to flinch. “Tell your landlord about the rats, or I swear to god-“
“You gonna do something to me, Princess?” He smirks, his hand on your calf slowly gliding up. Teasing the soft skin on the back of your thigh.
You squeak, kicking him away on instinct, and he laughs. He’s stronger, holding you in place as he traces up the sensitive area. Rough, careful fingers tickling over places you didn’t know could feel electric, then a little higher, and higher.
Dean’s hand lingers right on the curve of your ass. If he shifted a little to the side, he’d be thumbing at your clothed pussy.
You stare at him, breathing ragged and short. His lips twitch, but his eyes are dark and hungry as he watches you twitch under him. You want to grab his hand and force it between your legs. You can’t remember how to move.
“You’re real quiet, baby.” He teases, kissing your knee and pushing his hand a little higher. “Feelin’ alright?”
You whimper, arching up into his touch. “Dean…”
“You were saying something about how you were gonna be very mad at me.” He drawls, fingers drifting slightly to the side. Still not touching. Still so close.
“I- I will be.” You try to breathe out. “If you don’t do… The thing.” For a split second, you’ve completely forgotten what.
“That right?” Dean hums, and you raise your chin.
“Mhm.” You whisper, and he laughs.
“Alright, Princess.” He leans over you, pressing a sweet, chaste kiss to your lips. It’s entirely unfair how he pushes up your knee, almost completely exposing you to his gaze. How he presses his hips over you, so you can feel the hard outline of his cock over your heat.
You grab his shoulders, digging your nails in, and he hums.
“We’ll figure out where we’re going later, okay?”
You nod, then actually hear his words. “Where we’re going?”
“To live.” He pauses, rising over you wide eyes. “Y’know, if that’s something you’d wanna do with me-“
“Yes.”
Your answer is far too quick, but Dean only grins. “Really?”
You nod, fiddling with the buttons on his henley. “I- I mean- We’ve been dating a while, and- And eventually the next step is-“
“Meet the family?”
“No! I- I mean, yes, but I can’t meet your family until we tell Sam, and my family is in South Dakota, and-“
Dean silences you with a kiss. You’re grateful. You would’ve rambled for another twenty minutes.
“Breathe.” He mumbles, and you grumble.
“I am.”
“Good.” Dean smiles against your lips. “We can do all the steps when you’re ready, baby. I’m just happy to be on the ride.”
You flush, but nod. Dean kisses the corner of your mouth, his knee between your thighs but not against your core, and-
“You have to fuck me first.” You blurt, and Dean sputters and freezes so fast you think the words might’ve punched him.
“I- You can’t just-“ He’s leaning back, and when your eyes dart to his crotch, you can see the hard outline of his cock straining against his sweats. “Jesus, woman-“
“Sorry, I- I just- I want to do that soon. Please.”
Dean looks at you like you’re from another planet. Smiling and shaking his head, huffing a low laugh that just makes you feel all tingly.
“Yeah. Okay.” He sighs. “I’m on it.”
If it is having sex with you, that seems to be the only thing Dean isn’t on. He’s on kissing, and touching, and teasing you until you’re a livewire under his hands. But he never does anything about it. The electricity just hangs in the air, and you grind into the pillows when he’s not looking, desperate for some relief. You’re worried he’s going to wake up to you humping his leg, if he doesn’t do something soon.
He’s lucky he’s a perfect boyfriend in every other way. The week passes slowly, and he doesn’t once complain about his lockdown in your apartment. You text him when you’re with Sam so he can go out to get groceries. You kiss him goodbye in the morning, and he’s waiting for you at the door like a dog when you get home. You’re smiling more than you’re crying, because Dean’s good at making you smile.
People are noticing. The smiling, and his… other effects.
“Look at those.” Kai jeers, following you out of class again. You’re still tensed, but less worried than before. Dean spent a good part of yesterday teaching you how to defend yourself against an attacker, which mostly meant you trying to beat him up and him happily praising you whenever you landed a punch.
Crotch and eyeballs, Princess. His voice drawls in your head. Chin up, shoulders back. No one fucks with my girl.
You give Kai your usual, unimpressed look, but this time you really mean it. You can’t imagine why he’d think he stands a chance, when you have Dean.
Kai whistles, smirking like a wolf. “Oh, she’s angry today. Your fake boyfriend not giving you enough attention?”
“He’s not fake-“
“I can tell.” Kai sneers, and you think he was setting himself up for that. “Look at you. It’s disgusting.”
He spits, and you lean back slightly. “Kai-“
“You let him touch you like that? Bet he can’t even make you cum, and you let him mark you like fuckin’ property-“
“Hey.” Sam barks from behind you, and your shoulders sag. “Don’t talk to her like that, dude. You’re not doing yourself any favors.”
Kai rolls his eyes, though it must be hard to appear unintimidated by Sam’s six foot bajillion height and mass. “Fuck off, Winchester. Bet you’re the one marking her up, cheating on that blonde bitch you’ve got-“
You move faster than Kai can react, or Sam can hold you back. You go for the groin. Just like Dean told you.
Kai’s a lot less intimidating, when he’s a whimpering little ball on the floor. You smile smugly. Sam mostly just looks exasperated.
“You- Where did you even learn to-“
“My Dad.” You lie smoothly, fidgeting with the skin on your ring finger.
Sam gives you a disbelieving look. “Bobby taught you to roundhouse groins?”
You shrug. “We grew up in the woods. Never knew who we’d run into.”
Sam doesn’t look convinced, but he also lets it go. Probably just so he can drag you away from the crime scene and switch gears to interrogating you about the hickeys.
“You were with your mystery boyfriend.” He accuses over lunch, and you sigh.
There’s no use denying that part anymore. You’d glanced in the mirror while Sam got dinner, and you were going to need to buy a spray bottle for your feral boyfriend. Dean didn’t seem to believe there was a spot on your neck that shouldn’t be covered in little love bites and bruises. You look like you’d been in a loosing fight with a swarm of bugs.
“Yeah. I was.”
Sam sighs. “Do I still not get to meet him?”
“Soon, Sam-“
“You keep saying soon.” He mutters, glaring at his salad. “You know, I introduced you to Jess before we even went on our first date.”
You swallow, guilt building like bile in your stomach. That’s true. He did. And you always used to tell each other everything, but now…
It’s been almost two years of sneaking around behind Sam. Months of fully dating and not telling him. You’ve said I love yous. You were talking about moving in together, and last night Dean got a little drunk and started rambling about how you’d make the cutest babies together. There aren’t even real doubts in your head anymore. Not about Dean. Everything that hurts it just the permanent sting of being alive, and being you. Everything that you’re certain of is Dean.
But before it was Dean, it was Sam. It still is Sam.
And you need to tell him. But not right now, in the middle of the cafeteria, without warning Dean. You’ve ran through every possible scenario, and most of them end in at least some form of Sam trying to punch Dean. In the best case, Dean invites Sam to hit him to get them all over it, Sam does, and everyone moves on. In the worst, you tell Sam right now, he realizes Dean has to be here to give you the hickeys, and he drives to your apartment right now to beat the shit out of the unprepared dork who’s probably eating pie on your couch.
“It’s complicated.” You mumble, poking at your own food. “It’s- It’s not because I don’t trust you, I promise-“
“Well, do you think I won’t like him? Because if that’s it, I don’t think you should be with someone you’re worried about your friends meeting-“
“I’m not worried about you liking him. I- I think you’re going to love him.” You already love him. He’s your brother, and you spent years hyping up how much I’d like the massive, handsome loser, so really this is your fault, Sam. “He’s sweet.”
“Sweet.” Sam echoes, flat and unimpressed. “He marked you up like you’re a turkey,” Sam says your name, and you flush.
“I didn’t mind-“
“Gross-“
“And he’s just… insatiable, okay?” You give Sam a pleading look. “He loves me. He’s really good to me.” Except for the fact that he won’t fuck you, but you don’t think Sam’s going to appreciate that detail. “And he’d just- He’s so stupid and smart and nice and- And funny and helpful and perfect and hot- He’s so fucking hot, Sam, it’s crazy-“
“Okay, okay-“ Sam recoils, raising his hands in surrender. “I get it. He’s great.”
“He is.” You press your lips in a tight line. “Please. Just- Give me a little more time.”
Sam nods, sighing heavily through his nose. “Fine. I can’t wait to meet Jesus, I guess.”
You laugh softly, and Sam’s lips twitch. You’ll talk to Dean about it tonight. Make a solid, no backing out plan about talking to Sam.
You mean to talk to Dean about it.
But you get home, and he’s made you dinner. You get distracted. It’s your favorite, and he’s letting you ramble about all your classes while bumping your feet under the table, and you only remember the serious conversation you were supposed to be having when Dean’s phone starts to ring.
“Shit.” He mutters. “It’s Sammy.”
Your eyes widen. “Dean-“
“C’mon.” He grabs your hand, and suddenly your standing and letting him lead you out of the kitchen. “Told you, I got a plan.”
Dean did have a plan. And it’s not bad, but it’s not amazing either.
You sit across from him on the bathroom floor, his back pressed against the wall so there’s only a white plaster wall behind him. Nothing identifiably yours. Not even a towel that Sam could see the next time he comes over. Just wall, and Dean in the frame.
“Are you sure this-“
“I’ve got it.” He smiles at you, winking once before picking up the call.
“Dean!” Sam shouts, and you flinch at the sudden volume.
Dean grins at his phone, stretching his leg so his foot presses against your thigh. “Hey, Sammy. What’s-“
“You’ve been dodging my calls all week! I thought something happened to you, I thought you were going on another cross country drive and got kidnapped-“
“I’ve never been kidnapped-“
“But you could be, that’s my point-“
“Aw, you think I’m worth kidnapping? I’m flattered, dude-“
“I’m serious, Dean, I was worried about you. I called Charlie, and she said you were out all week. What the fuck does out mean, where are you-“
“I’m in New Orleans.” Dean shrugs. “Visiting Benny.”
Sam’s silent for a moment, and Dean glances at you over the phone, brows raised. You nod, squeezing his ankle three times, and his lips twitch.
“If I call Benny, is he going to tell me you’re there?” Sam finally snaps, and Dean rolls his eyes.
“Of course he is, bitch-“
“Is he with you right now?”
“He’s gettin’ us dinner.”
“Dinner? It’s almost midnight, why are you eating dinner so late?”
“We got distracted. Out drinking.”
“Drinking.” Sam repeats, and you can hear the suspicion in his voice.
“That’s what I said, Sammy.”
“With Benny.”
“Do I need to get you to a freakin’ ear doctor or something-“
“Did you bring a girl back with you?”
Dean sits up, his grip on the phone getting white knuckled. “No, I’ve told you I don’t do that anymore-“
“But you went drinking with Benny.” Sam says. “You only go to visit Benny when you want to go on a bender and get laid, Dean.”
“Well, I’m growing as a man. Just visiting my friend, didn’t know that was a crime-“
“Did you break up with your secret girlfriend.”
“No-“
“Does she know where you are-“
“She always knows where I am, I share my location with her-“
“You share your location?” Sam sounds shocked. You can picture his gaping expression without seeing the screen.
Dean’s ears go a little red, his eyes darting up to yours before he looks back to Sam. “Yeah.” He mutters. “We’re long distance. Good to know where the other is.”
“Long distance? I didn’t know you were long distance.”
Your eyes widen, and you shoot up with a panicked expression. Dean doesn’t look away from the phone, but his leg wraps over yours. Keeping you firmly on the ground.
“We don’t talk about our relationships. Didn’t think you cared.”
“Of course I care- I tell you about Jess all the time-“
“Because you’re a nerd and you need my help flirting with your own fiancée-“
“Because you ask what’s going on with me, Dean! And- I ask what’s going on with you, and you just say Charlie and I ate dog food again.”
You give Dean a disbelieving look, eyes narrowing, and he shoots you a quick sheepish smile as Sam keeps rambling.
You ate dog food? You mouth, and he shrugs.
Charlie dared me. Wasn’t gonna be a pussy.
You kick him, and he grins.
“Dean!” Sam shouts. “Are you even listening to me?”
“Of course I’m listening to you.” Dean looks back to his phone. “You think I’m awesome and the coolest brother alive, and you wanna hear every detail of how my girlfriend loves me and adores me and dotes on me-“
Sam makes a gagging sound, and you lie flat on your back, unable to keep looking him in the eyes.
“That’s- So gross-“
“Sorry I’m loved, dork.”
“No, you’re not.” Sam grumbles. “If you were so freakin’ loved, then it shouldn’t be a problem for me to meet your girlfriend, should it.”
Dean sighs. “Look, Sammy, I-“
There’s a loud sound from Sam’s end of the phone, and you prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him. He looks nervous. You rarely see Dean nervous.
“De.” You whisper, and he shoots you a shut up look.
“Is that Dean?” Jess barks. “Give me that, Samuel- Dean.”
She sounds like she’s about to torture him for information. You can’t blame him for looking so worried.
“Hey, Jess, what’s up-“
“Where are you.”
“New Orleans. I’m visiting my friend-“
“I don’t care.” Jess snaps, and Dean’s throat bobs.
“Yeah. Uh- Alright-“
“You have a girlfriend.”
“Um-“
“How long have you been together.”
“Seven months.”
“Long time.” Jess says, and Dean nods.
“Yes, ma’am.”
You almost snort, and he shoots you a glare. You mouth sorry. You don’t mean it. He’s cute when he’s nervous.
“So, what’s goin’ on with you, Jess-“
“Your girlfriend is long distance?” Jess cuts him off, and Dean sighs.
“Yeah. She is.”
“Where does she live?”
He blinks, and you love the man. He’s a genius about a lot of things.
You’d bet a lot of money it hadn’t once crossed his mind that they might ask questions about his girlfriend like they had for you. When Jess had given you the same interrogation, you’d been smooth. Said her that you weren’t going to tell her anything. You’ve seen her stalk people online too many times to risk it.
But you hadn’t warned Dean about that skill of her’s. And you try to mouth don’t answer at him, but he’s too panicked to notice.
“Uh… She’s- She’s from-“
You sigh, pushing fully up on your palms. “Say Canada.” You hiss, and he blinks hopelessly.
“California.”
You’re going to kill him.
“She’s from California?” Jess pushes, and you shake your head.
Dean swallows. “Uh- No.”
“You just said-“
“She lives in California. She’s- She’s from Chicago.”
God, he’s such an idiot. You can’t believe you’re going to have his babies one day.
“Chicago?” Sam asks, confused in the background. Dean looks like he wants to run.
“Yeah?”
“Where in Chicago.”
“The… Rich part?”
“Your girlfriend is rich?” Jess asks, and you groan, flopping back onto the floor.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, she is.”
“What does she do?”
“Television?”
“So she’s based in LA?”
“Sure! I mean-“ He clears his throat. “Yeah. She is.”
Jess hums. “How old is she?”
You don’t even bother to shake your head at him this time. He wouldn’t see it.
“Twenty-one?”
Sam coughs. “You’re dating a twenty-one year old? That’s like- My age, Dean.”
“Uh- Technically it’s a year older than you-“
“And she’s rich.” Jess mutters. You cover your face with your hands. “Where’d she get her money?”
“Family?” Dean says weakly. Your best bet is that he just hangs up the phone.
“What does her family do?”
“Money stuff.”
Money stuff? You mouth at him, and he cringes.
He’s usually a very good liar. Jess must just be a better interrogator.
“Is she hot?”
“She’s beautiful.” He answers quickly, and you’d like the ground swallow you whole now. “You’re gonna adore her, I promise. She’s smarter than Sammy, funniest person I know- She’s awesome.”
Jess hums, words slow and careful. “You love her.”
“More than anything.”
“Hm.”
“I have to go, alright.” Dean glances at you, lips twitching up. “Benny’s back with dinner.”
“Oh, can I talk to him-“
“No. Bye.”
Dean hangs up, tossing his phone to the side and grinning at you. You’re still on the floor. You have no plans to come back up.
“What’re you doing down there, Princess?” He teases, and you grumble.
“Dying.”
“Yeah?” He grabs your foot, dragging you across the floor until you’re a puddle at his knees.
You turn your face into his thigh, nodding. He laughs, rubbing your shoulders gently.
“Don’t die on me, baby. I’d have to learn how to bring you back.”
“There’s no reversing death.” You grunt, and Dean shrugs.
“I’d figure it out. For you.”
You flush, pressing your face further into him.
“I’d figure it out for you too.” You mumble, and Dean chuckles.
“I know.”
“What happens when Sam calls Benny-“
“Benny tells him I’m there, and plays a clip of me in the background asking him for something, then hangs up the phone.”
You roll over with wide eyes, and he shrugs.
“I can plan stuff.”
“I know.” You whisper. “It’s always just really hot when you do.”
You don’t know what possessed you to say that, but it slips from your lips and Dean’s nostrils flare like he’s smelled something sweet.
“Is it?” His voice dropped impossibly lower. When you nod, his tongue darts over his lips. “What else do I do that’s really hot?”
“I- I, um- I-“
“Come on, Princess.” He coos, smirking down at you. He’s rubbing your thigh again. He always does it like he’s starting a fire. “Talk to me. What do I do?”
You take a deep breath, fixing your eyes on the ceiling. “You, um- When- You- This.” You breathe out, eyes fluttering shut.
Dean grunts, squeezing the very top of your thigh. “This?”
“Mhm.”
“Alright.” He says it low. Careful. “What else?”
“When- When you talk to me.”
Dea chuckles. “Princess, I talk to you all the damn time-“
“I know.”
He’s silent for a second, and you curl into yourself. You know Dean wants you. He’s never been shy about it.
But the longer he’s refused to just fuck you, the more you’d been worried about it. How vast your desire for him is. How you’re a little scared of it yourself, sometimes. You’ve been worried about just this, that Dean would see you and decide that you weren’t worth all the trouble, that how much you wanted him was weird, that you were weird, that he wasn’t interested in having to guide you through all your depraved daydreams about his biceps and his hands and his mouth-
“You get turned on by my voice?” Dean rasps, and you wrap your arms protectively around yourself.
“Maybe.”
He says your name, and you shake your head.
“I- I do, but- I can’t control it-“
“Do you want to control it?”
Your heart stops for a second. His voice is deep, words less teasing and more commanding. An offer that demands a quick answer. You open your eyes and find him staring at you with blown out eyes. He’s restrained, his touch lighter than a moment ago, but you can see the heave of his chest.
And when your eyes drag down, the bulge in his pants.
You let out a sharp breath. Dean grunts your name, and you look up at him with wide, anxious eyes.
“Do you want to control it?” He repeats, and you shake your head. “Use your words-“
“No.” You whisper, and Dean nods.
He starts to drag his thumb in small circles, on your bare upper thigh. You shiver, and he tracks the motion with a predatory focus. You think you might be about to pass out with desire.
“What do you want, Princess?”
“You.” You breathe, and Dean’s smirk is proud and self-satisfied.
“Me?”
You nod, and he chuckles.
“You know, I’ve been trying to ease you into shit. You like attention, baby. Like me giving you things.”
Your face burns. “I- I just like you-“
“I know.” He coos, and you snap your mouth shut. “You like me so much you don’t need to be eased in, do you? You’re just that ready for my cock.”
Oh. There’s nothing you can say to that. Your body feels like jelly.
Dean leans down, brushing his lips lightly over yours. You try to reach up to deepen the kiss, but he pulls away too fast. You’re left blinking up at him, mouth hanging and breathing shallow. Dean runs a splayed hand up your side, and squeezes your ribs.
“In.” He mutters, and you take a long, deep breath. “Out.”
You left the air go, and he smiles.
“Good girl.”
You’d strangle him if you could remember how. “Don’t be a butt.” You mumble, and Dean snorts.
“Don’t be a butt?” You nod, and he raises his brows. “How would I be a butt, Princess.”
“If- If you pull away.”
“Hm.” Dean presses further down, his bulge rubbing against your core. A humiliating sound comes out of you, and Dean’s eyes just spark. “What if I’m not plannin’ to pull away?”
You can’t look away from where he’s grinding against you. “That would be nice.” You whisper, and Dean laughs.
He cradles your cheek, and taps your lower lip. “Eyes.”
Your gaze snaps back to his, and if you hadn’t melted you before you are now. He’s looking at you with a soft reverence, over taking even the hungry glint.
“Hey.” He smiles, loving and careful. “You sure?”
“Very.” You answer quickly. Dean’s jaw ticks.
“Alright.” He mutters, scanning over your limp, ready body. “You trust me?”
You nod, and he takes a deep breath.
“You love me?”
Another nod. You open your mouth in offering, and his throat bobs slightly.
Slowly, Dean pushes his thumb between your lips. Not as deep as you want it, but enough for you to suck and flick your tongue against the pad of his finger. He grunts, fully thrusting his hips against yours. The pressure makes you keen, your eyes fluttering back as you suck on his thumb.
Dean pulls it away, smearing the spit over your cheek. You watch him, unsure what to do with yourself but watch him. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him so focused.
“You really want it, huh.” He rasps.
“Please.”
He seems satisfied with the answer. Strong arms are suddenly dragging you forward across the floor, and before you know it you’re being carried bridal-style out of the bathroom.
“Dean-“
“I’ve got you.” He mutters, face set with determination. “Gonna take care of you, Princess. Don’t worry.”
You were not the least bit worried. Dean has done nothing but care for you since the moment you met. “What- What about you?”
He sets you down on your bed, frowning slightly. “What about me.”
“You- It should- I don’t want to-“ You take a deep breath, fixing your gaze on his chest. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” You mumble, face burning with shame. You’re not enough, you’re not enough for him-
“That’s fine.”
You blink at him in shock. “But- It should be good for you, too-“
“Baby,” he smirks. “You could lie there and call me names and it would still be good for me.”
“I- I don’t want to call you names-“
“I know.” Dean shrugs, pulling off his shirt. “’S why I got you.”
You will not let yourself be distracted by his naked chest. “But if you’d like names-“
“I’m gonna like anything you do. Shirt.”
You sit up, pulling off your top as you glare at him. “You don’t know you’re going to like anything I do. I could be horrible at this.”
“You won’t be.” Dean waves you off, and you scowl.
“There’s no review board yet, we have no data to support your claim-“
Dean grabs your ankles again, and you squeal as he drags you down to the end of the bed. He swallows the sound with a deep kiss, and you pull at his hair. You can’t remember why you were anxious. Everything is just Dean.
“Stop tryin’ to think your way through sex.” He mutters against you lips, voice lined with affection.
You shake your head weakly. “I- I can’t. What if I’m bad at it, Dean, I’m serious-“
“I know you are, sweet girl.” He kisses the tip of your nose. “But I am too. You don’t have to do anything.”
“But-“
“I don’t want you to do anything.” He rises over you, dropping his voice back down. To the borderline growl from the bathroom floor. “I want you to lie there, look pretty, and only react if I earn it. Can you do that? For me?”
You nod, mouth hanging open. Dean’s lips twitch.
“That help?”
“Mhm.”
“Awesome.” He leans back down, kissing you gentle and lazy. “You’re adorable, you know that?”
You grumble, and Dean grins..
“I got an idea of what you might like, alright-“
“How?” You ask, even knowing you shouldn’t. Dean doesn’t seem bothered.
“Because,” He pushes back up, eyes shining in the low light of your room. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed Princess, but I’m sorta in love with you.”
You flush. “I- I love you too, but- I don’t know what-“
“You don’t know what you like, baby.”
“Yeah.” You shrink a little into the mattress. “Good point.”
“Thanks.” He grins. You could swear he puffs out his chest. “But- Listen, just because I got more experience or whatever doesn’t mean I’m going to bat a hundred. And if I’m wrong about anything, you stop me. No hesitation.” He grabs one of your hand, squeezing it gently. “Kick my ass if you have to. You shouldn’t, but-“ He sighs. “We’re gonna work this out together, alright? And if you don’t like something, you’re the boss. You shut it down. Got it?”
You nod weakly, and Dean gives you a half-amused look.
“I know it’s hard, sweetheart, but you gotta talk to me. Got it?”
“Got it.” You echo, and his smile relaxes.
“There you go.” He squeezes your hand again, moving back to his feet. “I’m gonna get you undressed, okay? Just try to feel it.”
You nod, grabbing at the sheets before he even moves. The anticipation is enough to spark all your nerves. You think you might be seconds from bursting into flames, when you feel his hot breath over the plane of your stomach.
Then Dean actually starts to touch you. And it’s nowhere he hasn’t touched you before, but you’ve never lain on the bed for him like this. And he’s never touched you like you’re a present he’s trying to unwrap without damaging an inch of your shiny paper.
His touches are light and deliberate. Rough fingers tease up your sides as he starts to kiss your neck, and your hands immediately fly to his hair.
“Sorry-“
“No,” Dean reaches up, pushing you back when you try to let go. “Put ‘em wherever you want.”
You mumble an agreement, closing your eyes. You want to try and follow his advice. Just feel it.
It’s easier than you thought it was going to be. Dean’s touch is like a wildfire, and you’re more than happy be swept up in the flame.
He keeps kissing your neck, over the marks he’s almost tattooed onto your throat. After a few moments of just winding you up with flicks of his tongue and light touches, one hand glides behind your back. You arch up, gasping softly. Dean grunts, trailing up your spine until he reaches the hook of your bra.
He gets it in one move, and hums against the base of your throat as he pulls the cloth away.
Your instinct is to cover it. Your arms even go to cross your chest, but Dean shoots up, grabbing your wrists and pinning them at your sides. You let him.
Under your own eyes, your breasts look like lumps of fat.
Dean’s staring at them like he’s unearthed diamonds, and it makes you feel fuzzy. Turned on and exposed in the best way. He lets go of one of your wrists, moving to roll one peaked nipple between his fingers.
Your whole body trembles like he hit a button. Your legs spread, head tossing back into the mattress.
“Hell yeah.” Dean mutters, switching to the opposite breast. You buck slightly, and he smirks. “You like that?”
“Yes.” You grab his wrist, trying to hold him there. “Don’t- Don’t stop.”
Dean hums, pushing his hips down. You can feel his bulge again, and the combination with Dean’s toying of your breast feels like you’re being shocked in the best way.
“Look at you.” Dean mutters, soothing his thumb over the little bud. “So pretty, baby. And reactive.”
He pinches your opposite nipple, and you mewl. Your hips have started to roll up, seeking release. Dean groans, dropping his brow to your chest.
“Drive me crazy.” He mutters, leaving scattered kisses over the top of your chest. “You got no idea, amount of times I’ve dreamed of this. Even better than I thought, and- Hold on, I gotta-“
Dean takes one of your nipples in his mouth, and another disgustingly lustful sound leaves your body.
He’s good at this. Impossibly so. His lips wrap around your peaked bud, sucking as his tongue flicks up and down. You try to stay still, but he’s still pushing you into the mattress with his legs and hips, and the need there is becoming unbearable.
But you also never want him to stop doing this. It’s an impossible dilemma.
Dean choses for you. He switches to the other nipple, lapping there for enough time that your breasts have a pleasurable ache. It leaks down between your thighs, making them sticking and tense. You need something to relieve the feeling. You need Dean.
“I’ll be back.” He tells your breasts, kissing each one gently, and you giggle.
“You’re such a dork.”
“Yeah,” he winks. “But you’re into me.”
There’s no arguing with that.
Dean leaves open mouthed kisses over your tummy, pulling down your shorts and underwear in one, smooth motion.
Leaving you completely exposed. Completely naked.
You press your thighs back together on instinct, and Dean pauses. Looks up at you with a curious expression.
“I- I don’t-“
“More time?” He asks it so casually. As if you could possibly want to walk away right now.
“No! No.” You stare at him, then at his jeans.
Still on. With a slightly bigger crotch than usual, but on.
Dean follows you gaze. He smiles.
You don’t even have to ask before he’s standing over you, pulling off his belt. It’s maybe the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. How lazily smug he is, how he looks at you like he thinks you’re the thing he should be smug over, how deliberate and quick his fingers are. His muscles flex, and he pulls off the belt, and that’s even sexier than before.
Then he’s pulling down his pants. Taking his boxers with them.
And any quiet, persistent worries like flies that had been buzzing in your head—that he wouldn’t want this as much—are punched out of your head.
Dean’s hard.
Big and thick and so hard you’re worried he doesn’t have enough blood to aide the rest of his body.
You push up on your hands slowly. You want to touch him. To see what it feels like, so you can get ready for that to be inside of you. If it can even get inside of you.
“That won’t fit.” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.
“It’ll fit.”
You shake your head. “No, I- I’ve felt it myself-“
“You’ve felt it yourself?” He teases, and you shoot him a glare.
“I was curious.”
“Of course you were.”
You ignore him. “And I tested it, De. I could barely fit two of my fingers, and- You’re- You’re very-“
“I’m what, Princess?” He teases, and you swallow.
You might be about to drool. As you’d been talking, Dean had started to slowly stroke his cock, and the sight is doing funny things to your brain.
“Come on, smart girl. Use your words.” Dean takes a slightly step forward, the head of his cock close to your lips.
Your legs spread, and you bite your lip when he twitches in his hand.
“What am I.”
“Big.” You mumble. “Very big.”
He smirks. “There you go, look at my girl, talking to me-“
“Dean.” It’s meant to be a scold. It comes out a whine. “You- You’re not going to fit-“
“I’m gonna make it fit.” He vows, grabbing your chin between two fingers. “Can you look at me, baby?”
You tear your gaze from his cock, and he smiles softly.
“You good?”
“Yeah.” You whisper. “Just- Thinking-“
“I know.” He tips your head a little further down, leaning down for a kiss. “Let me do that part.”
You nod. Feel it.
Dean starts to push you back onto the mattress with his kisses, and you let him. You close your eyes, humming and kissing him back. Letting yourself feel every brush of him over you, every trace of his fingers on your hips and the warmth that spreads from his every touch.
He touches your core, and you let out a soft, airy breath. Dean groans, pressing his brow against yours as he teases between your folds.
“You’re so wet.” He mutters. “Son of a bitch, you always walkin’ around like this?”
You nod, dazed and quiet. Dean kisses the corner of your mouth, almost coaxing the words out as he starts to rub his palm over your pussy.
“When- Whenever you’re here.” You mumble. “Or- After I call you.”
Dean grunts, pushing his hand a little harder. “You think of me when you touch yourself?”
You shake your head. “I- I’m not good at doing that. I just-“ Your breath hitches when Dean starts to grind his palm into your clit. “Deean-“
“I know.” He kisses your cheek as you whine. “Keep going, baby, you’re doin’ so well. What aren’t you good at?”
You don’t know how he’s speaking so casually. Like he doesn’t have a hand between your legs and his cock pushing into your thigh.
“Touching-“ You whimper as he teases the tip of a finger inside your pussy. “Touching myself. I- I’ve never been- Fuck-“
“Keep goin’.” Dean coos, sliding thick finger slowly inside if you.
It takes a second for you to find your voice again. It’s just a finger. Just one of Dean’s fingers, filling you up to his knuckle. He pumps it slowly, dragging through your fluttering channel, and you grab at his shoulders.
“I- I always think about you.” You say, words slurring slightly. He’s hitting something deep inside of you, and it’s gooey. Makes you feel like you’re floating on a cloud.
Dean grins. “Yeah?”
“Mmhm.”
He’s pumping a little faster, his palm still pressed over your clit. Your toes curl, as he kisses under your ear.
“What do you think about me, sweetheart?”
“Lots of things.”
“Hmm.” Dean pulls his hand fully away, and before you can protest all the air is knocked out of your body with a small slap to your clit.
You squeak. It feels like he shot lightning into your veins. Your hips even buck off the bed, trying to chase his touch.
Dean’s eyes sparkle, and splays a firm hand over your abdomen, pushing you back into the mattress.
“You like that?” He teases, and you nod desperately.
“More.” You grab his wrist, trying to push him back down. “More-“
“So bossy.” Dean drawls, his free hand moving back to your core. Slowly dragging circles around your clit with his thumb, while never actually touching the swollen bundle of nerves. “You wanna try again?”
You nod, giving him your best, most hopeless eyes. “Please.”
“Hm. ‘S not a full sentence.”
“Yes, it is-“
“You’re supposed to say my name.” He grins down at you, flicking his thumb against your clit. “Say please, Dean,” he raises his voice to mock yours. “Then I’ll fuck you nice and stupid on my big cock.”
That shouldn’t make your pussy squeeze around nothing the way it does. “Dean, just- Just fuck me-“
“Ah.” He pushes his finger back into your pussy, just holding it inside of you. “You can do it, Princess. Just say please.”
You glare at him. He smiles back.
“Please.” You mumble, and he raises his brows.
“Didn’t get that. Big girl voice, come on-“
“Please! Please, Dean, please- Oooh-“
Two fingers. Dean pushes a second finger inside of you, and your hands scramble against the sheets. You almost fly off the bed, but he’s pinning you firmly down. There’s nothing you can do but feel the stretch.
“Good girl.” He crooks the finger, rubbing on that floaty, tingly spot. “You never told me what you thought about, y’know.”
“Don’t- Remember-“ You cut yourself off with a moan, as Dean starts to move again. He’s faster than before, scissoring his fingers deep inside you. Making you shiver and mewl, when he hits your g-spot.
“Try for me, baby.” He coos, voice shockingly firm over the wet sounds of what he’s doing to you. “Come on, what where you doin’ while you were thinking about me-“
“Trying to pretend you were there.” He must be putting a spell over you. The words drizzle easily out like honey. “I- I’d think about you and need to- To pretend you were there- Oh my god-“
He slaps your pussy again, and there’s a feeling like lava building in your gut. Good, sweet lava. You need it to explode more than anything.
“De- Dean-“
“You’d hump the sheets wouldn’t you.” He mutters in your ear. “Would need me so fuckin’ bad you’d start squirming and cryin’, thinking about this, about how good I was gonna make you feel.”
“Yes.” You turn your face into the pillows, babbling on. Anything to get him to keep talking. “Yes, Dean, yes-“
“You went crazy, didn’t you sweetheart.” He kisses your cheek. “So crazy, wishing I was there. Calling my name, dreamin’ about me-“
“Dean-“ You pull on his arm. You can feel it, about to burst. He leaves a sharp hit on your clit before shoving his fingers back in, and it’s caught right in your throat. “De- Dean-“
“It’s getting there.” He mutters to himself. Like he just knows. “You’re close, sweetheart, you’ve got it. You’ve got it-“
Dean slams against that spot inside of you, voice deep and enchanting in your ear, and it’s all you need to fall right over the edge.
Your vision goes white. You lose control of your body, shaking and spasming as you come apart under Dean. And he doesn’t seem to consider an orgasm his job done. He kisses you once, quick and bruising, then attaches his mouth back to your tit. Sucking and flicking in time with his thumb on your clit.
You scream his name, shaking with the pleasure. Your body doesn’t know what to do with it but tremble and make incoherent pleas of Dean’s name.
He hums against your nipple, pressing down hard on your clit. Your arms wrap around his neck, almost putting him in a headlock.
Dean doesn’t seem to mind at all. His fingers don’t stop until you’re twitching and limp beneath him, and he rises back over you with an affectionate smile.
You’re already wrecked. You didn’t know you could feel so unraveled without wanting to put yourself back together.
Dean kisses you, and you find the strength to cup his face.
“All good?” He asks, quiet and careful.
You almost giggle. You’ve never been better, and you haven’t even been fucked yet. “Amazing.”
His shoulders sag with relief. “Awesome.” He pauses, hovering over you. “If you think that’s all you’re ready for-“
“No.” You spread your legs, and Dean looks down to track the movement. His eyes get darker than before.
He rasps your name, and you shake your head.
“More.” You pause, then add. “Please.”
Dean chuckles, looking up at you with that same awe from before.
“You get real mouthy when you wanna be fucked, huh?”
You shrug, even as you feel that tingle of embarrassment. “Apparently.”
Dean grins, wide and unrestrained. He crawls back over you, and it takes a lot of effort to not just watch his cock swing between his thighs. You don’t care if it won’t fit anymore. You want him to take everything you have, and maybe a little more.
“You know.” He says, still using that annoyingly casual tone. “I’d dream of you, too.”
You look up at him in surprise. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah. Dream of you just like this.” He squeezes your hip, smirking as your body jumps from the touch. “Vivid dreams, too. Everything I’d do to you, once you let me.”
You can’t help yourself. “Like what?”
Dean smirks. “Want to get a peek at the program, dirty girl?”
“No- No.” You flush. “I just- I-“
“S’alright.” He kisses you, sweet and slow.
You’re so lost in it, you almost miss his cock notching against your pussy.
“Dean-“
“Shh.” He kisses you again, and you melt into the mattress. “Relax. I’ve gotcha.”
You hum, and let yourself go loose as he starts to rub himself between the lips of your pussy. You can hear it, the obscene sound of him smearing you all over his cock. It’s enough pressure to keep you building up, but also enough for you to realize how empty you are. Your cunt keeps squeezing around nothing, and the spot inside of you is burning for Dean’s touch.
But he just keeps rubbing himself. And you want to be good for him. So you relax.
“I’d think of putting this sweet little pussy,” he taps his head against your clit, and you whine pathetically. “On my mouth. Holding you there for hours, letting myself drown between your thighs. Having you just sit on my cock, and wait until you’re crying to fuck you.”
He starts to push inside, and you gasp. It stings, but it doesn’t hurt.
Dean keeps going, slowly bullying every inch inside of you as you writhe.
“Be lying if I said I didn’t want you on your knees.” He drawls in your ear. “Sucking my cock like it’s candy. You got no idea, Princess, how fuckin’ hard you make me when I take you to the beach. Spend the whole day hiding a boner ‘cause you can’t keep those damn lollipops out of your mouth. Then I kiss you and you taste like strawberries or somethin’, and now I’m thinking about how it would feel to taste myself on those perfect fuckin’ lips.”
You gape, his cock still slowly pushing into you. Dean smirks, bumping your noses.
“Already so quiet?” He whispers, breath fanning over your lips. “You know, I thought about makin’ you taste yourself. Would be so easy, and you’d like it. I know you would.” He thrusts slightly, and you squeak as he bottoms out. “But- Shit.”
Dean closes his eyes, jaw working, and you try to ask him if he’s okay, but you think he knocked your voice out of your throat.
You’d already been sensitive, or whatever Dean said. Now your body feels like a live-wire—as if just one word from Dean would make you explode all over again—and you’re stuffed with Dean’s cock. It feels like he’s trapping the pleasure inside of you. Making it grow and grow until you’re shaking again.
Dean lets out a sharp breath, dropping his brow against yours.
“Stop- Stop clenching.” He grunts, and you tense. “Shit-“
“I’m sorry- I’m-“
“No, you’re good, just-“
Dean’s hand snakes between your bodies, and you moan as he starts to rub your clit. You go limp again, and he makes a deep, rumbling sound of relief.
“Son of a bitch.” He huffs a laugh, kissing your open mouth. “Nearly blew it, you’re- Jesus.”
He laughs again, and you blink at him in confusion.
“Is it- Bad-“
“No. Christ, no, you’re just-“ He grunts, rutting slightly into you. “You’re tight. Really fuckin’ tight.”
“Oh.” It’s a stupid question. You can’t help but ask it. “Which is good?”
Dean stares at you for a second, almost in disbelief. That softness is back in his gaze, his lips curved in a tiny, secret smile, and he looks at you like he’s not sure you’re a dream.
You know the feeling.
He kisses you even softer than before, and you fully relax beneath him. Whatever ache had been between your legs before is gone. It’s just the sheer fulness of Dean, and the need for more.
“It’s good.” He murmurs. “Real good, Princess.”
You hum happily, and Dean starts to slowly grind his cock into you.
“You’ve got the prettiest, sweetest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever seen.” He mutters. “Taking my cock better than a pro, sweetheart.” He smiles, all boyish pride. “Told you it would fit.”
You don’t even care about the teasing. You can’t think beyond Dean’s cock, repeatedly bumping into your g-spot, and his deep voice saying things that sound like liquid gold. You want him poured over you until you shine.
“Dean…” You’re not sure what you want. You know he can give it to you. “Deeean, oh- Oh-“
“That’s right.” Dean pulls fully out, before slamming back in.
Your back arches. Sparks might fly behind your vision.
“That’s it, baby. Just like that, let my cock fuck you, nice and dumb.” He kisses all over your face, and you babble something close to his name.
He’s finding a pace, and it’s pulling you apart in the best fucking way. You thought you’d been remade before, on his hands, but that had been nothing. Like this, there isn’t a space where you can’t feel Dean. His chest draped over yours, his mouth kissing and muttering praise, his voice and cock overtaking all your thoughts until there’s no noise.
It’s just Dean, drilling into you. Dragging you open before shoving back inside, making your whole world spin.
“Knew how good you’d feel, knew you could take it. You’re so fuckin’ gorgeous, sucking my cock in like a perfect little slut-“
You mewl as he hits even deeper, and Dean’s chuckle vibrates through you.
“Yeah, I know- I know, baby girl.”
You wrap your arms around him, letting the way he’s pounding into you take you higher and higher.
“My girl, my- Fuck-“ Dean moans, right in your ear. It’s maybe the hottest thing you’ve ever heard. “Never gonna get enough of this pussy, made for me, so- So fucking good-“
Dean cuts himself off with another moan, and you can feel him start to slip. His thrusts get shorter, and his shoulder ripple with restraint but he’s thrusting harder and harder. You call his name, scraping at his shoulders, but you don’t get any response except a borderline feral kiss.
“You’re- You’re so good, Princess.” He mutters, like he can’t even help it. “Love you so fuckin’ much, love you- Fuuuck-“
He groans in your ear, and cock rubbing against your g-spot as he starts to finger at your clit again, and your orgasm hits you without warning. Pulls you under Dean’s tide, flooding the world with light as you call his name. ‘
Dean roars yours as you clench and flutter around his cock, and you didn’t know the orgasm could feel better. But the mess between your thighs is lewd and loud as he fucks both of you through it, and a perverted, hungry part of you wants to taste it. Taste the hot cum he’d painted your gummy walls with, mixed with your own release. When Dean pulls out, you can see it sticking to him.
You want him in your mouth, like the candy he’d teased you about earlier.
Later. Right now, you’re not sure if you’re ever going to walk again.
Dean kisses your brows, mumbling low praise before going to the bathroom. He comes back with a warm washcloth that he dabs between your legs, his voice soft as he almost talks you down from the floaty, colorful world the orgasms had slipped you into.
“You did perfect.” He murmurs. “But if you got feedback for me, we can start a suggestion box-“
“No.” You say, your voice hoarse. “Good.”
Dean chuckles. “Just good?”
“Really good.”
“Out of ten.”
“Zintillion.”
He pauses. “That a real number?”
You shrug, smiling at him stupidly. He shakes his head, climbing back over to give you a soft kiss.
“What am I gonna do with you,” he says, voice still filled with affection.
You beam at him. “That again?”
Dean laughs. “Trust me, we’re doing that until Little Dean stops.”
“They make pills-“
“Jesus. I woke up a monster.” He starts to pull you up, and you go easily. “C’mon, pornstar. You have to pee.”
Dean carries you to the toilet, kissing the top of your head and muttering something about getting you water. You hum, staring at your hands as he walks away.
You had sex.
Very good sex. You’re not sure if that’s because of Dean, or sex in general. You’re guessing the latter, but you’ll need to compare notes with Jess. But that might just also be a Winchester thing, so you should find some books about it, just to be sure. It’s not like you plan to have sex with anyone else—and you’re sure Dean is better at it than everyone, because it’s Dean—but you’d still like to know, just to understand-
There’s a loud noise from the living room, and your head shoots up.
“Dean?”
“I’m fine!” He calls back. “You just- Uh- Stay there-“
“Do not stay there.” A third voice calls your name.
A third voice.
Fuck.
Your head is still moving too slow to recognize who it is. But you know you know them, and they sound pissed.
“Get out here right now.”
“Don’t- I’ve got it, sweetheart, stay there-“
“He does not have it. Come here-“
You roll your eyes. You are not a dog. You are choosing to go there.
And you’re planning to lecture both of them on as much, when you throw on Dean’s shirt and shuffle into the living room.
Then you see them. And your heart stops.
Dean bowing his head sheepishly, already moving to block your bare legs from view.
Jess is standing with her hands on her hips, glaring between you and Dean.
“I knew it.”
✦Part 7✦
✦End note: the way i'm living through them may but unhealthy but you know what i don't care they're so important to me✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Summary: Four years after Dean disappeared, he comes back to find the life he left behind… waiting for him in the shape of a little girl with his eyes. Now it’s ghosts in the walls, love that never died and a second chance that might heal everything—or break it for good.
-requested-
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, Language
Word Count: 8790
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
It was hot for June. You shifted your weight on the little stool, tugging at the hem of the stretchy dress you’d worn in, your belly impossible to disguise now at eight months.
Sally fanned herself with a catalog, perched in the plush chair by the mirrors. “Only Dean Winchester”, she muttered with a grin, “decides on a Wednesday he’s getting married by Saturday. God help us”.
Lilah was twirling between the racks, her bee backpack bouncing, her curls springing loose from her braids. Every time you came out of the dressing room, she gasped like it was Christmas morning. “Mommy, you’re a princess! Daddy’s gonna say ‘wow! so pretty’”.
You smiled, but it was a shaky thing. Because, yeah. This was Dean. Impulsive, stubborn, impossible. He’d kissed you across the kitchen table last night and just said, “Marry me. Now”. Like it was the simplest thing in the world.
And the thing was… you’d said yes.
Now here you were, trying to wedge yourself into gowns clearly not designed for women who could barely see their feet. One zipped halfway, another refused to go past your hips, and the third made you look like you’d been swallowed by a cloud.
Sally caught your expression and snorted. “Relax. You’ll find something. Or we’ll hack one of these into shape. I don’t care if Dean’s a certified panty-melter, he doesn’t get to demand a wedding without giving you a dress to match.”
Lilah bounced over, hugging your thigh as you stepped down carefully in another gown, this one softer, flowier, hugging the bump instead of fighting it. Her eyes went wide. “That one! Mommy, that one!”.
You met your own reflection, hand smoothing over the curve of your belly where Henry shifted under the fabric. For the first time that morning, your throat tightened.
Sally was already on her feet, grinning like she’d won the lottery. “Oh honey. That’s the one. No contest”.
You blinked hard against the sting in your eyes. “It’s just… the first one that actually fits”, you mumbled, brushing a trembling hand over your bump. Henry kicked right on cue, like he agreed.
Then Sally peeked at the discreet little tag dangling behind the zipper. Her eyebrows shot up. “Oof”.
“What?”, you asked, instantly suspicious. You craned your neck, saw the number—and nearly burst into tears. “Oh, no. Nope. Forget it. That’s… that’s insane”.
“Sweetheart”, Sally said carefully, “it’s a wedding dress. They’re all insane”.
But your chest was already tight, your pulse too fast. Between the heat, your low blood pressure, the hormones—God, the hormones—you actually felt your eyes blur. “I can’t. I can’t spend that much. Not on one day. Not when—”. You broke off, pressing your palms to your cheeks.
“Mommy?”, Lilah’s little voice piped up, muffled against your skirt. “You don’t like it?”.
You crouched as much as the dress and belly would allow, gathering her face between your hands. “Baby, I love it”, you whispered, kissing her curls. “I just… it’s a lot”.
Behind you, Sally fished your phone from your purse with zero shame.
“Sally—don’t you dare—”.
But she already had it against her ear, pacing toward the window. “Hey, Winchester? Yeah, it’s me. Don’t panic, everyone’s fine”. She smirked back at you, ignoring the daggers you were shooting her. “I just need to know how much money your fiancée is allowed to spend on looking amazing for you”.
Your mouth fell open. “SALLY”.
On the other end, you could hear Dean’s voice, tinny but sharp: “What? What the hell are you talking about? Put her on the phone”.
“Nope”, Sally said cheerfully, twirling the dress tag around her finger. “She’s currently hyperventilating because she thinks she can’t buy the only dress that actually fits her eight-months-pregnant self. So. What’s the number, Dean?”.
There was a long pause. Then Dean’s voice, incredulous and rough: “The number? It’s whatever the hell it costs. She likes it?”.
“She loves it”, Sally said firmly.
“Then buy it”, Dean snapped, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Sally grinned triumphantly and mouthed, you’re welcome. Then, into the phone: “Good answer, Winchester. I’ll make sure she doesn’t faint before the cashier”.
Dean’s voice softened, muffled but unmistakable. “Put me on with her”.
Sally handed you the phone like she’d just won a prize.
You pressed it to your ear, your voice already trembling. “Dean—”.
“Sweetheart”. His voice was a low rumble, steadying you through the line. “You look beautiful, don’t you?”.
You let out a shaky laugh. “I don’t even know what I look like right now, Dean”.
“I do”, he said simply. “I can see it in my head. And I don’t give a damn about price tags. You hear me? You’re my wife, and you’re gonna walk toward me in the dress that makes you feel like you. That’s it. That’s all that matters”.
A few minutes later, you stood at the counter, carefully draped over the attendant’s arms. Sally had one hand on your elbow like she didn’t trust you not to faint, and Lilah was twirling in the middle of the boutique, humming to herself about how bee-utiful you looked.
The attendant cleared her throat gently. “Will this be on your card?”.
You fumbled for your purse, already wincing at the thought of the number. But before you could pull out your wallet, your phone buzzed in your other hand, Dean’s name lighting up the screen. A new text.
Dean: Use the black one with the gold stripe. Trust me.
You frowned, thumb tapping back.
You: Dean. Please tell me this isn’t one of your fake ones.
His reply came instantly.
Dean: Doesn’t matter. It’ll go through. Just swipe it. I’ll handle the rest.
You shook your head, laughing despite yourself. Only Dean Winchester could make dropping thousands on a wedding dress sound like hustling a pool table.
The attendant gave you a polite smile as you handed over the card. It beeped green on the first swipe. Approval.
Sally whistled low. “Guess your man knows what he’s doing”.
“Oh, he knows”, you muttered, half to yourself, pocketing the card again. Your phone buzzed once more.
Dean: Told you. Now stop worrying. Can’t wait to see you in it. I’ll probably forget how to breathe.
Heat crept up your cheeks. You clutched the phone to your chest like a teenager, even as Sally caught you blushing and smirked knowingly.
The second you stepped through the door, Lilah exploded like a firecracker.
“Daddy! Daddy! Mommy was a princess! Like a shiny, sparkly, twirly princess!”. She bounced in front of Dean, tugging at his hand with little fingers. “She got such a pretty dress! You won’t believe it!”.
Dean crouched automatically, catching her mid-bounce and settling her on his hip. “A princess, huh?”. His eyes flicked to you, soft and amused. “Guess I’ll have to see this for myself”.
You felt your cheeks heat instantly. “I—uh…”. You smoothed your hair back, suddenly nervous. “Do you… want me to try it on? For you?”.
For a moment, Dean looked tempted, his lips parting just slightly like the thought of you in that dress alone with him was too much to resist. But then his grin curved softer.
“Nah”, he murmured, shaking his head. “Not yet. I wanna see it for the first time at the chapel. When you’re walking down to me”. His throat bobbed. “That’s the picture I want burned into my brain for the rest of my life”.
Your heart thudded so hard you almost swayed where you stood.
Lilah frowned dramatically, her little nose scrunching. “But Daddy, it was so pretty. I can draw you a picture!”.
Dean chuckled, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’ll take you up on that, Buzz”. Then, his gaze shifted back to you. “But the real thing? That’s mine to see on the day”.
After you and Lilah got out of your shoes and jackets, Dean guided te two of you up the stairs. “Close your eyes, Buzz”, he teased as he scooped her into his arms halfway up the hall. “No peeking”.
Lilah squealed, throwing her hands dramatically over her eyes. “I’m not peeking!”, she promised, then immediately cracked one finger open.
Dean snorted. “That’s cheating”.
At the top of the stairs, Sam leaned in the doorway with his arms crossed. “You ready for the grand reveal?”.
Lilah nodded furiously, hands still slapped over her face.
Dean nudged the door open with his boot, carried her inside, and finally whispered, “Okay, Buzz. Look”.
Her hands dropped and her gasp nearly broke you.
The room was new. Not patched up, not just painted over, but hers. The old walls were gone, replaced with soft honey-yellow paint and white trim. A little desk sat under the window, already stocked with jars of crayons and glue sticks. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with her picture books and in the corner was the brand-new bed frame Dean and Sam had built. Above it, painted carefully, a mural of flowers and bees dancing across the wall.
Lilah wriggled out of Dean’s arms and bolted across the room. “It’s mine! It’s my room!”. She scrambled onto the mattress with a bounce. “There are bees, Daddy! You painted bees!”.
Dean rubbed the back of his neck, a little sheepish. “Well, Sammy helped”.
Sam raised both brows. “You mean I held the stencil while you got glitter in the paint”.
“It’s sparkly bees!”, Lilah crowed, already hugging the wall like it was alive.
Dean leaned against the doorframe beside you, his grin stretching ear to ear, pride practically glowing off him. “Told you she’d love it”.
You pressed a hand over your belly, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt. “She does".
After dinner, Dean scooped Lilah up, sticky with sauce, and announced bath time.
From the kitchen, you and Sam could hear all the splashes and giggles and Dean’s exaggerated monster voices.
Sam, drying the last plate, cleared his throat. “Uh… hey”.
You glanced at him. “What’s up?”.
He hesitated, eyes flicking to the hallway like he was making sure Dean couldn’t hear. “Your friend. Sally. The one from the party”. Your brows lifted, but you stayed quiet. Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “She, uh… is she… single?”.
You blinked, then smiled. “She is. She’s a single mom”.
His shoulders eased just a little, but his cheeks went faintly pink. “She seemed… nice”.
“She is nice”, you said warmly, nudging his arm with your elbow. “Smart, too. And she doesn’t take crap from anyone. You’d like her”.
Sam gave a little half-smile, trying to play it cool, but you saw the flicker of something hopeful in his eyes. Before you could tease him, a loud splash echoed from the bathroom followed by Dean’s exasperated, “Lilah, did you just dump water on the ceiling?” and Lilah’s unapologetic giggle.
When the bathroom door finally creaked open, Dean cam out with his shirt clinging, jeans splattered and his hair a mess. In his arms was Lilah, swaddled tight in a towel and grinning ear to ear.
“She won”, Dean muttered, trudging past you with mock defeat. “Every damn time”.
“Daddy got wet!”, Lilah announced proudly, her curls plastered to her forehead.
You covered your laugh with your hand as Dean shot you a look that said don’t even start. Then he carried her down the hall, still dripping, muttering about pajamas and clean sheets.
Sam was still leaning against the counter, shaking his head with a smile. “He’s… good at that”, he said softly, almost like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“He is”, you agreed, watching Dean disappear into Lilah’s room. “Better at braiding than me now, too. She won’t even let me touch her hair anymore”.
Sam chuckled, then grew a little quiet. His gaze shifted back to you.
You tilted your head, catching it. “So… do you want her number?”.
His brows rose. “Sally’s?”.
“Mhm”. You smirked, folding your arms. “Because she’s been talking about you for days. I think she’s just waiting for me to play matchmaker”.
Sam’s ears went pink again, his mouth twitching like he couldn’t hide the smile even if he wanted to. “…You’re serious?”.
You nodded. “Dead serious. She asked if you were ‘as good in real life as you are with glitter and pizza duty’”.
Sam groaned softly, running a hand over his face, but he was still smiling. “God”. He shook his head. “Yeah. Okay. Maybe… give it to me”.
After Sam left, you let out a long breath and dropped onto the couch. Every bone, every muscle, every inch of you felt heavy. The baby was pressing low and your feet were aching.
Dean walked into the room a minute later. He stopped dead when he saw you sprawled there, one hand over your bump, your head tipped back. “You okay?”.
You cracked one eye open, half a smile tugging at your lips. “In three days”, you whispered, “I’m gonna be married. To the most unusual man alive”.
Dean huffed out a laugh, lowering himself onto the couch beside you. “Unusual, huh?”.
You turned your head, studying him. “Yeah”, you said, a lump rising in your throat. “But mine”.
Dean leaned back against the couch, tugged your legs gently across his lap, and caught one of your ankles in his big hand. “So…”, he drawled, his thumb already circling against the sore arch of your foot, “no cold feet?”.
You let out something between a laugh and a groan, tipping your head back against the cushion. “You’re literally making sure my feet aren’t cold”.
He smirked, kneading deeper, finding the spot that had been aching all day. “Yeah, well. Just covering all the bases”.
The pressure made your whole body sigh, your swollen ankles grateful for the attention. Your hand drifted over your belly out of habit, Henry shifting under your palm.
Dean’s grin softened as he watched. “You’re really not nervous?”.
You cracked an eye open to look at him. “About marrying you?”. You paused dramatically. Then: “Never”.
-
The day before the wedding, Dean had been up early, kissing your temple before you were even fully awake, whispering, “Me and Buzz got errands. You rest”.
Errands, it turned out, meant a mission.
He’d bundled Lilah into Baby and driven straight into town. She sat shotgun, swinging her legs, chattering the whole way.
“Daddy, does my dress have to be white like Mommy’s?”.
“Not unless you want it to be, Buzz”.
“Can it be yellow? With sparkles? Like a real bee princess?”.
Dean chuckled, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming the beat of her enthusiasm on the steering wheel. “Yeah, we’ll see what they got. But sparkles? Sparkles are non-negotiable, huh?”.
She gasped. “Daddy, of course”.
At the boutique, every head turned the second they walked in. A man like Dean Winchester carrying a five-year-old who was already announcing, “I need the sparkliest dress for my mommy’s wedding!”, was a sight to stop traffic.
The saleslady blinked at him, then beamed. “For the flower girl?”.
“Yes!”.
Dean crouched beside her, eye level, his hand braced on her little shoulder. “Buzz, what do you think? Wanna try some on?”.
She looked at him very seriously. “Will Mommy smile when she sees me?”.
Dean’s chest tightened. He smoothed a curl out of her face. “Guaranteed”.
Dress after dress followed—pink, blue, ruffles too big, bows too itchy. Lilah twirled in each, her laughter ringing off the mirrors, Dean clapping like she’d just won a medal. But when she stepped out in a soft yellow dress with tiny embroidered daisies scattered across the skirt and a sash that glittered faintly gold, her whole face lit up.
“Daddy”. Her voice was a whisper, awed. “Can i have this?".
Dean swallowed hard, his throat thick. “Yeah, Buzz. That’s the one. You look perfect, baby girl. Just like Mommy”.
“Perfect like Mommy”, she repeated softly, like she was tucking the compliment into her pocket to keep forever. Then she launched forward, skinny arms wrapping tight around his neck, her little chin digging into his shoulder.
Dean caught her easily, pressing a kiss to her curls, breathing her in like he needed the anchor.
Her voice came muffled against his collar. “I’m glad you’re done saving the world, Daddy”.
His arms locked around her automatically, his throat going tight. He shut his eyes for a beat, the memory of all those empty years pressing down on him. Then he leaned back just enough to look at her face, serious despite the sequins on her sash.
“Yeah, Buzz”, he rasped, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “I’m done. World can save itself for a while”.
She beamed, satisfied, and patted his stubbled jaw like she was sealing a deal. “Good. ‘Cause Mommy and me need you more”.
-
The little chapel by the lake smelled faintly of lilacs and wood polish, the stained glass catching sunlight that spilled warm across the pews. It was small—just how Dean wanted it. Just how you needed it.
The guests filtered in with quiet excitement, not a crowd but a family. Jodie with Alex and Claire. Donna, bright as the morning itself, hugging everyone twice; Cas. And Sam—Sam with Sally at his side, her daughter Mia clutching a little basket of petals she kept peeking into like treasure.
Dean stood up front in a black suit that Sam had all but strong-armed him into wearing. The jacket fit snug across his shoulders, the tie sat crooked until Cas leaned in and straightened it without a word. Dean fidgeted anyway, rubbing his palms down the thighs of his pants, heart jackhammering like he was walking into a hunt he couldn’t back out of.
And then the doors opened.
Lilah marched first, scattering petals down the aisle from her little daisy-yellow dress. She kept glancing back at you, making sure you were following. Every time she did, Dean’s hand twitched like he wanted to clap but remembered he wasn’t supposed to.
And then he saw you.
The dress clung where it needed to, floated where it should, hugging your swollen belly like it had been made for you and Henry both. Your veil trailed just enough to brush the aisle floor, your bouquet trembling faintly in your hands.
Dean’s breath left him in one ragged exhale. His throat worked, his jaw flexed, and his eyes went glassy. He grinned, but it cracked halfway, breaking into something rawer, truer. He swore under his breath, so low only Sam caught it, and Sam just grinned like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
Every step you took, Dean’s chest rose higher, like he was holding back a thousand words and could barely manage to stand under the weight of them.
When you finally reached him, Dean reached out. His fingers threaded through yours instantly, squeezing like a lifeline.
And the moment your vows slipped into the air, his hands were already cradling your face and his lips found yours like they’d been waiting all day.
The kiss wasn’t rushed or showy. It was home. It was slow and deep, a little shaky and full of reverence. Like your lips were a promise he’d waited half his life to keep.
You smiled against him, tears slipping down your cheeks, and he brushed them away with his thumbs without breaking the kiss, just breathed into it, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your swollen belly and his trembling chest.
From the pews, someone sniffled. A second later, Lilah squealed, “Ugh, you’re kissing forever!”, and that broke the spell just enough for laughter to bubble around the room.
Dean laughed into your mouth, resting his forehead to yours, eyes still closed. “Damn right we are”, he whispered and then kissed you again.
-
The backyard glowed under strings of warm lights Dean and Sam had strung up that morning. The grill hissed and smoked as Sam worked it like while Donna kept stealing hot dogs straight off the platter and Jodie tried to swat her hand. The girls played tag with Lilah. And you? You were barely holding onto your plate.
Dean was behind you, his arms wrapped snug around your middle, hands splayed over your bump like he couldn’t stand to let go. He swayed you gently from side to side in the rhythm of a song only he could hear, his lips brushing over the slope of your neck.
“Careful, Winchester”, you teased, trying to spear a piece of potato salad without dropping your fork. “You’re making me look like I can’t stand on my own two feet”.
“You don’t have to”, he murmured into your skin. He kissed just below your ear. “Not anymore”.
You shivered, your plate tilting dangerously until Dean steadied it with one hand. He chuckled, kissed the corner of your jaw, and drawled, “Goddamn. Miss Winchester lookin’ too good tonight. Think I married outta my league”.
You rolled your eyes, but your lips curved anyway. “You’re insufferable”.
“Yeah?”. He pressed another kiss, then another, like he couldn’t stop. “Can’t help it. My wife’s gorgeous”.
From across the yard, Donna whistled. “Get a room, newlyweds!”.
Lilah popped up from behind the picnic table, hands on her hips, and yelled, “Ewww! Daddy’s kissing Mommy again!”.
“Better get used to it, Buzz”, he called back, still swaying you softly. “I’m never stoppin’”.
A while later, you’d started to fan yourself with a paper plate, your dress clinging in ways it hadn’t hours ago. The heat, the belly, the weight of the day—your body was calling time. And Dean caught it instantly.
“C’mon, Mrs. Winchester”, he murmured in your ear, already sliding a steady hand around your back. “Let’s get you outta this before you melt”.
You swatted him lightly with the plate. “Smooth, Dean”.
“Not complainin’ about the view”, he shot back, that boyish grin tugging at his mouth. “But you’re sweatin’ through silk, sweetheart”.
He guided you inside. Upstairs, in the dim of your room, it was just the two of you again. He shut the door with his boot, the laughter outside muffled into nothing.
“Arms up”, he said gently. His hands were steady as he found the zipper at your back. Slow, deliberate, dragging it down inch by inch. His knuckles brushed bare skin, raising goosebumps despite the warmth.
The dress loosened, slid over your shoulders. Dean caught it before it could fall, easing the fabric down like it was precious. His lips found your shoulder.
"Dean".
“Relax”, he murmured, his mouth brushing your collarbone now. “Just gettin’ my wife comfortable”. Then he knelt to slide soft cotton shorts up your legs, his hands a little slower than necessary, his lips pressing a kiss just above your knee.
Dean’s hands paused at your hips, thumbs hooking the soft cotton at the waist. He gave you one long look, then slid the shorts down again.
When his mouth came back up, it was higher: soft kisses along the line of your hip, along the side of your belly. His finger traced just under the edge of your panties, but instead of tugging further, he eased you back with a firm, steady hand at your hip. “Sit, sweetheart”, he murmured, guiding you down until you perched on the edge of the bed.
The mattress dipped beneath you. Dean dropped to his knees between your legs like he’d been born there, broad shoulders parting your thighs as he leaned in.
The second your weight settled, his mouth was on you. No hesitation. He hooked your underwear aside and sealed his lips to your center, sucking deep and hard like he already knew exactly what would rip the air out of your lungs.
You gasped, hands clutching instinctively at the sheets, then at his hair. “Dean—”.
He groaned low at the sound, the vibration of it sparking through you.
Your thighs trembled instantly, knees trying to close around his head, but his big hands pinned you wide and steady against the mattress. “Stay right there, sweetheart”, he mumbled into you. Then he sealed his mouth over you again and sucked hard.
“Dean—oh my —”. Your voice cracked, fingers yanking at his hair because it was too much, too good, too fast. He groaned again when you pulled his hair, the sound feral, hungry. His tongue worked in deep, slow strokes while his lips tugged and sucked like he was determined to wring every ounce of you out.
The pressure coiled hot and sharp in your belly within seconds. He slid one hand up, splayed it over your bump with a tenderness that contradicted the filth of what his mouth was doing.
That grounding touch broke you. You cried out, thighs clamping helplessly around his head as your orgasm ripped through you. Dean held you steady, never letting up, swallowing every twitch and pulse, dragging it out until you were shaking against him.
When you finally slumped back on your elbows, gasping for air, he pulled away only long enough to lick his lips and grin up at you, chin slick and shining. “Still got it”, he rasped, before diving back in like he wasn’t finished.
“Dean?”, Sam called muffled through the door but tight with concern. “Lilah burned her hand on the grill”.
Your heart stopped. Dean jerked back immediately. You scrambled upright, tugging your shorts back up with shaky fingers just as Sam added, “She’s okay, just… some tears. Can you—?”.
Dean was already wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, guilt and adrenaline snapping him into motion.
When he opened the door, Lilah was on Sam’s hip, her little face blotchy with tears, her other hand cradled carefully in Sam’s palm. She sniffled the second she saw Dean. “Daddy—”.
Dean’s entire chest softened. He scooped her into his arms like she weighed nothing. "Buzz, what happened?”. His voice was low, soothing, a complete 180 from the man who’d been between your thighs seconds ago.
Sam gave you an apologetic look over Dean’s shoulder as he explained, “She touched the edge of the grill. It wasn’t bad—red, but no blister. I ran it under cool water, just figured she’d want her dad”.
“C’mere, lemme see that hand, baby girl”, Dean murmured, already stroking Lilah’s damp cheeks.
Lilah sniffled again, holding it up for inspection. Dean pressed her palm gently to his chest. “It’s okay. Daddy’s got you”.
-
Later, is was just you and Dean. In the bathroom, the tub full and steaming, the faint flicker of candlelight bouncing off the tiles. You leaned back against him, your head tucked under his jaw, his chest broad and warm behind you. His legs bracketed yours and his big hands rested over your belly. Every few minutes, Henry gave a thump against his hand, and Dean would huff a soft laugh like he still couldn’t believe it.
“Kid’s already got my right hook”, he murmured, pressing a kiss into your damp hair. “Bet he comes out swingin’”.
You smiled faintly, your hand sliding over his, squeezing. “He’s just stubborn. Like his dad”.
Dean chuckled, his stubble scraping your temple as he nuzzled close. “Yeah, but you love that about me”.
Your laugh came out tired but true. “Most days”.
Another kick jolted against his palm, stronger this time. Dean’s hand tightened instinctively.
“If it weren’t for him in there, I’d have you bent over this tub already”.
You laughed, breathless, tilting your head back on his shoulder so your lips brushed his jaw. “That a promise or a threat?”.
Dean groaned, squeezing your hips gently but firmly. “Don’t tease me. I meant it. Four weeks, I’ve been good”.
You shifted a little on his lap, enough to feel him stir beneath you. “Who said I don’t want it?”.
He swore under his breath, his forehead pressing to the side of your head. “You’re eight months, I’m not—”. His hand spread protectively over your bump. “I’m not takin’ chances”.
“Dean”, you whispered, turning just enough to catch his mouth in a kiss. “I’m horny. And you’re hard. So maybe stop worrying so much and just—”. You nipped his lower lip. “—touch me”.
“Sweetheart…”. His voice was ragged. “Don’t make me—don’t do this to me. It’s not—”.
You twisted in his lap enough to face him, your knees bracketing his thighs, the swell of your belly pressing against him. You cupped his jaw with wet hands, kissed him deep, slow, messy, until his breath stuttered.
“It’s our wedding night”, you whispered against his mouth, your voice breaking into a whine that wasn’t entirely put on. “I want you. Please, Dean”.
He groaned, low and guttural, like you’d just torn his last thread of restraint. His forehead pressed to yours, his eyes squeezed shut. His hands slid up your thighs, trembling with the effort it took to hold back. “Eight months pregnant, and you’re still the sexiest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen”.
You rocked your hips against him, deliberately brushing the hard length trapped beneath the water, making him hiss through his teeth. “Then stop talking and fuck me”.
Dean’s jaw clenched so hard you thought it might crack. His hands fisted at your sides, fighting himself—and losing.
Finally, he snapped. “Fuck it”.
His mouth crashed against yours, his hands hauling you closer, angling you over him in the tub. “You win, Mrs. Winchester”, he mumbled against your lips, already lining himself up beneath the water. “But don’t blame me when you can’t walk tomorrow”.
The water sloshed up over the porcelain lip as Dean shifted beneath you, the heat of him pulsing against you before he slid home, slow but so deep it stole your breath.
You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “Oh, fu—”.
Dean’s head tipped back, jaw locked, a broken groan spilling out of him. “Shit, sweetheart… been weeks”.
You braced against his chest, moving as best as you could, but eight months in, your body didn’t have the speed it used to. You rolled your hips instead, grinding down, and his answering growl vibrated right into your bones.
“That’s it”, he whispered, kissing the damp skin of your throat. “Just like that“.
Your body betrayed you almost instantly. You were too sensitive now, too raw from the weeks without. Every slow grind had you clenching down hard around him, and every time you did, Dean’s whole body jolted like you’d shocked him.
“Damn—”, he hissed. His hands clutched your hips, holding you steady when you trembled. “You’re squeezin’ me so tight, sweetheart… how the hell am I supposed to last?”.
Your laugh broke into a gasp as another wave of sensation hit you. “Then don’t—”.
“Don’t tempt me”, he growled, thrusting up suddenly, hard enough to splash water over the tub’s edge.
You whimpered. “Dean—”.
A few minutes later, you let Dean haul you up out of the tub. He wrapped a towel around your shoulders and knotted another low around his hips, then kissed your wet temple like he couldn’t help it. “Sit tight—clothes coming right up”, he said, already stalking toward the dresser.
You reached for your bra on the counter… and felt three warm trickles slide down your thighs. You froze. Then a heavy pressure, your body deciding for you. Oh oh. You eased onto the toilet just as another swish hit the bowl.
Well. Hello, Henry.
“Dean?”, you called, weirdly calm. Second baby calm. “Babe… my water just broke“.
He reappeared in the doorway with an armful of clothes and went stock-still.
“Son of a bitch”, he muttered. “I knew it—I knew we shouldn’t’ve—fuck, I knew it”.
You blinked at him, caught between a laugh and disbelief. “Dean—”.
“No, don’t—don’t tell me this ain’t my fault”. He was already scrubbing a hand through his damp hair, water flicking everywhere. “We—Jesus, sweetheart, we just… in the tub, and now your water breaks? That’s not a coincidence. I did this”.
You had to cover your mouth to keep from laughing, partly because he was so dead serious, partly because the truth, that Henry was just ready, wasn’t going to stop him from spiraling.
“Dean Winchester”, you said firmly. “You did not break my water by having sex with me”.
His eyes snapped to you, panicked and stubborn all at once. “How do you know?!”. He gestured helplessly toward you, toward the trickle down your legs. “Look at you! We finally—y’know, after weeks, and now—bam! Kid’s knockin’ at the door!”.
You shook your head, laughing now. “Henry’s been sitting on my bladder for weeks. It was gonna happen anyway, Dean. Tonight just… happens to be the night”.
He stopped pacing, staring at you like maybe he wanted to believe but couldn’t let go of the guilt yet. His chest heaved.
“Not my fault?”, he asked finally, quieter, almost boyish.
You reached out, catching his wrist. “Not your fault. Promise”.
Dean sagged, shoulders slumping with relief, but he still muttered under his breath as he crouched down in front of you, one big palm spreading protective over your belly. “Still feel like I should apologize to the kid”.
Dean crouched there for another beat, his forehead pressed against your belly. Then he pushed back, stood and started moving. “I’ll, uh—”. He bent to scoop up the pile of clothes he’d dropped, only to set them right back down again. “The bag. Right. Where’s the bag?”.
“In the closet, by the door”, you said softly, watching him.
“Right. Okay. Bag”. He nodded to himself, pacing to the doorway. His leg bounced once, twice, like he couldn’t stop the nervous energy from spilling out. He gripped the doorframe, tried to make his voice calm. “We’re good. We got time, right?”.
“Plenty”, you assured him, leaning back against the toilet tank with a steadying breath. “Contractions aren’t even regular yet. First babies can take forever. Second ones still take a while”.
“Right”. He nodded again, over and over, like he was trying to tattoo the word calm onto his own brain. But his leg bounced harder.
You reached out, catching his wrist as he passed. His pulse was hammering under your fingers. “Dean”. He froze. “You’re here”, you whispered, searching his eyes until he met yours. “That’s all I need”.
For a second his expression cracked. That raw grief he carried for missing Lilah’s first moments, for the years he wasn’t there. His voice was rough when he spoke. “I wasn’t there last time”.
Your throat tightened. You shook your head firmly. “You’re here now. For me. For him. That’s what matters”.
Dean swallowed hard, then nodded once like he was trying to force the guilt down where it couldn’t touch you. He bent again, kissing your damp forehead.
“Okay”, he murmured, steadying himself with your steadiness. “We got this. I got you”.
Dean practically sprinted around the house, bag in hand, keys already in his fist. By the time he got you settled in the passenger seat, towel exchanged for your favorite pants and a shirt, his leg was bouncing again, and his knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
“Seatbelt on?”, he asked for the third time, glancing over at you.
“Yes, Dean”, you sighed, hiding a little smile.
Baby’s bag was wedged at your feet, your phone in your lap. You scrolled quickly, thumb hitting Sam’s contact, and pressed speaker as Dean pulled out of the driveway.
On the other end of the line, Sam finally answered, voice groggy. “Hello?”.
Dean didn’t even let you speak first. “Her water broke”, he blurted, voice rough.
Sam was instantly awake. “What? Now?”.
You gave Dean’s hand a squeeze and cut in steady. “Yeah, now. We’re heading to the hospital. Is Lilah asleep?”.
“Yeah”, Sam said. “I’ll keep her as long as you need me to. You focus on Henry”.
Dean muttered a gruff, “Thanks, Sammy” and hung up before his brother could say more.
-
You were propped against the raised bed with a hospital gown loose around you and the IV already taped to your hand. The nurse had finished the first round of checks and slipped out with a smile, promising to check dilation again in a while.
Translation: this was going to be a long night.
Dean sat in the chair beside you, knees spread wide, elbows braced on them like he was ready to jump into a fight at any second. His leg bounced restlessly and his eyes hadn’t left you in twenty minutes.
“You okay?”, he asked again, for what had to be the tenth time.
You gave him a tired little smile. “Dean, I’m fine. Contractions aren’t even bad yet”.
“Not bad?”. His brow furrowed. “You just winced like someone stuck a knife in you”.
“That was a cramp”, you corrected gently. “We’re not even close”.
He scrubbed a hand down his face, muttering under his breath. “God, this waiting’s worse than a hunt”.
You chuckled weakly, reaching for his hand. He gave it to you instantly, his palm hot and solid against yours. “Dean”. You squeezed, forcing him to look at you. “You don’t have to do anything right now. Just be here. That’s it”.
His eyes softened, but his shoulders stayed tight. “Yeah, well, not sure I’m cut out for the whole ‘just sit there’ job”.
“Funny”, you teased lightly, “’cause you’re actually killing it”.
That pulled the smallest, crooked grin from him. He leaned forward, kissing the back of your hand, then held it against his chest like he needed the contact more than you did.
You watched his eyes keep flicking between your face and the green line of Henry’s heartbeat. When the next mild squeeze passed, you squeezed his hand back.
“Hey”, you said softly. “Come sit up here. You’re hovering a hole in the floor”.
He huffed, dragged the chair closer so his knee bumped the mattress, then laid your joined hands over your belly. Up close, the tough-guy edges slipped; he looked a little younger and a lot more scared.
“This part… it just keeps reminding me”, he murmured, eyes on your fingers instead of your face. “I wasn’t there when Lilah came. Four years she had to do it without a dad, and she still turned into the kindest, loudest little miracle. I missed everything”.
You turned his chin gently until he met your eyes. “You didn’t make her kind by being gone, Dean. She’s kind because that’s in her, because it’s in you. The cars and the glue and the buzzing? That’s you all over her. I just kept her safe till you found your way back”.
He swallowed. “Sometimes I look at her wall and… it feels like a ledger. All the pictures I’m not in”.
“It isn’t a ledger”, you said firm. “It’s a map. It led you home”.
He let out a shaky laugh that wasn’t really a laugh, then nodded. “Home”, he echoed, like he was trying the word on again.
You slid your thumb over his ring. “You’re here for this one. For the midnight feedings, the diaper blowouts, the boring Tuesdays. For her, too… school plays, swing pushes, braids with glitter if she demands it”.
“I’m already the braid guy”, he muttered, a ghost of a smile tugging. Then, quieter: “I’m gonna spend the rest of my life showing up. Even when it’s not exciting. Especially then”.
“Good”, you whispered. “That’s all either of them need”.
He leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours. “I’m sorry I missed her first breath”, he said, voice rough. “I won’t miss his”.
“I know", you whispered.
Dean’s throat worked, and for a beat he just stared at you, raw and open in a way that made your chest ache. Then, like clockwork, that need to cover vulnerability with something else crept in. His mouth tipped crooked.
“Y’know”, he drawled, thumb brushing slow over your skin, “last time I had you spread out like this, there were a lot less wires involved”.
You groaned, smacking his shoulder weakly. “Dean”.
“I’m just sayin’, if you need a distraction, I got about a hundred ideas. Hell, I could—”.
“Dean Winchester, shut up”, you hissed, half laughing, half horrified.
And of course, right then the door opened. The doctor walked in. “Let’s check your progress, shall we?”.
Dean sat up straighter instantly, clearing his throat like a guilty teenager. “Uh—yeah. Great. Progress is good. We love progress”.
You buried your hot face in your pillow as the doc pulled on gloves.
The doctor glanced between you two with the faintest lift of her brow before focusing on the exam. “Not quite there yet”, she reported after a moment. “About three centimeters. Still some time to go”.
Dean exhaled hard, like he’d been holding his breath through the whole thing, then muttered under it, “Three centimeters. Huh. Usually I can get you to—”.
“Dean!”, you cut him off, mortified, smacking him again.
The doctor pretended not to hear, tugging her gloves off with a snap, though you swore you saw the corner of her mouth twitch.
As soon as the door clicked shut, you groaned into your hands. “You are insufferable”.
Dean just grinned, kissing your temple. “And you love me for it”.
Hours unspooled in soft beeps and low light. The lake-black outside the window turned slate, then pearl. You dozed in ten-minute scraps between the milder waves; Dean didn’t blink. He timed every squeeze on his phone, then looked up with a brand-new question each time.
“So when he comes out—does he, like… breathe right away? Or—”.
You smiled, sleepy. “He’s been practicing in fluid. Once he’s out, he’ll clear it and cry. The cry helps open everything up”.
Dean nodded, storing it like intel. “Okay. Crying is good. For once”. He glanced at the monitor. “And he can’t… y’know… drown before that? I know it’s a dumb question, but—”.
“It’s not dumb”, you said. “Cord’s still doing the job till he starts on his own”.
“Right. Backup line”, he murmured, oddly comforted. “Can I cut it?”.
“If you don’t faint”.
He snorted. “I delivered a ghoul’s head once. I can handle a cord”.
-
Three hours later the room had shifted. The contractions had teeth now. Every time one hit, it tore a groan right out of you, your nails biting into Dean’s hand. He never pulled away, even when your grip went white-knuckle.
“Breathe with me, sweetheart”, he tried once. “In through the nose, out through the—”.
“Shut up, Dean!”, you snapped, heat and pain slamming through you.
He winced like you’d shot him, but nodded fast. “Yep. Shutting. Quiet as a church mouse. A very helpful—”.
“DEAN”.
“Right. Silent”. He pressed his lips together.
Another wave hit. You curled forward, sweat slicking your brow, a low, guttural sound breaking out of you. Dean made a noise with you half instinct, half helplessness, like his body thought it could share the pain if it just tried hard enough.
The doctor’s voice cut through: “Okay, we’re close. Next one, I want you to push”.
Dean’s hand was shaking in yours. He swiped his thumb across your knuckles. “Almost there, baby”.
The doctor leaned forward, her voice steady but firm. “We’ve got crowning. Keep breathing, almost there”.
Dean risked just a glance. He shifted at your side, craning his neck despite himself. One look between your legs and his face went slack, eyes wide.
“Holy shit”, he breathed. “Sweetheart—I can see him. I can see him. He’s—he’s got hair, oh my god, he’s right there—”.
You let out a furious hiss, teeth bared, sweat dripping into your eyes. “DEAN. Not helping!”.
He snapped back upright instantly, squeezing your hand like a lifeline. “Right. Sorry. Just—you’re—he’s—”. He made a helpless noise, a wrecked mix between laughter and a sob. “God, he’s… he’s right there. Push, baby, push—bring him out—”.
Another contraction slammed through you, and you bore down hard, everything inside you clenching, burning. Dean groaned right along with you.
Then the room filled with the sharp, wet cry of a new life.
Dean blinked hard, jaw tight, his throat bobbing as he forced down the swell rising like a tide.
“Strong set of pipes”, the nurse quipped, but Dean barely heard her. He was staring like he’d never seen anything holy before.
When they laid Henry on your chest, the crying stuttered, softened, the tiny body rooting instinctively against your skin. You gasped, tears spilling, both hands trembling as you gathered him close.
Dean leaned in but froze half an inch away, his breath caught, his eyes rimmed red. He clenched his jaw so hard a vein stood out, fighting it—don’t cry, not here, not in front of them. He dragged a hand down his face, muttered a curse under his breath.
But then Henry’s tiny fist flexed, caught nothing but air. Dean couldn’t stop himself. He caught that hand with one finger, let it curl impossibly tight around him.
His head ducked instantly, as if he could hide it in the curve of your shoulder, but his voice betrayed him, wrecked and breaking. “Hi, buddy. Hey…”. He sniffed hard, shaking his head. “God, you’re perfect”.
The doctor and nurses busied themselves, polite enough to let the moment stay yours. Dean’s shoulders shuddered once, sharp, before he forced his breathing back under control. He kissed your damp hair, his voice low, shaky against your temple.
“You did it, sweetheart”, he whispered.
You stroked Henry’s damp hair with trembling fingers, your lips brushing his crown. Dean hovered, his forehead pressed briefly to yours before he straightened at the nurse’s quiet prompt. “Want to cut the cord?”.
“Yeah”, he rasped. “Yeah, I got it”.
He lined up the blades, heart hammering in his ears while he cut the cord. He let out a long breath, half a laugh, half disbelief, handing the scissors back.
The nurse moved Henry gently to weigh and clean, his cry filling the room again. Dean followed every step like a shadow, his hand unconsciously braced at your shoulder as if tethering you both.
Then she guided the baby into Dean´s arms, careful.
For a heartbeat, he froze, his chest barely moving with breath. Fear, awe, disbelief—all of it tangled in his face. His thumb brushed instinctively over the blanket edge near Henry’s chin, and the baby squirmed, a little squeak tumbling out.
Dean’s whole body jolted. “Shit—sorry, bud, I didn’t—”. His voice broke, quiet and panicked.
But Henry just settled, tucking into the crook of his arm like it was the only place he belonged.
Dean’s lips parted, eyes burning as he whispered, almost to himself, “That’s my boy”.
You watched him, your chest aching in a way you hadn’t expected. You’d seen Dean bleed out on motel bathroom floors, seen him laugh in bars with a beer bottle dangling from his fingers, seen him broken and stitched back together. But this? This was different. This was raw.
The nurses moved quietly around you with warm cloths, gentle instructions and the kind of care you half-heard and half-obeyed. But Dean? Dean was somewhere else entirely.
He sat hunched forward in the chair, Henry swaddled tight in his arms, the newborn’s face still flushed, eyes little more than slits. Dean kept his head bent close, his lips moving in a steady stream of words you couldn’t quite catch.
Every so often, Henry made a tiny sound and Dean would pause, grin like the world had just cracked open, then go right back to murmuring.
“Got a sister waitin’ for you, buddy”, he whispered, his thumb brushing Henry’s cheek. “She’s the loud one. You’re gonna love her”.
Henry squirmed, his mouth working around some invisible dream. Dean chuckled under his breath, softer than you’d ever heard. “That’s it… already got opinions, huh? Just like your mom”.
The awe in his voice was unmistakable. He was cataloging everything. From the way Henry’s tiny fingers curled against the blanket, the almost-blue shade of his eyes behind heavy lids to the squashed little nose. It was like he couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t believe this wasn’t something fragile he’d only ever dreamed about.
He leaned closer, pressing his lips to the crown of Henry’s head. “Uncle Sammy’s across the street. That’s your guy. He’ll teach you the boring stuff… and I’ll teach you how to drive before you’re supposed to. Don’t tell your mom”.
You watched, half-dazed from exhaustion, half undone by the sight of him.
Dean hadn’t moved for twenty minutes, maybe more. He hadn’t noticed the nurse coming in and checking your IV. Hadn’t even heard the clack of the monitor adjusting. He was in his own little world—just him and Henry. You’d never seen him so still.
You smiled softly. “Hey”.
He blinked, like waking up from a dream, and looked over at you. “You okay?”.
You nodded, slow and tired. “Think I could hold our kid now, or are you planning on raising him from that chair?”.
Dean huffed out a breath. Carefully, reverently, he walked over and lowered Henry into your arms. The second your hands took him, Dean leaned over the bedrail, his arms caging you both in. He kissed your forehead, then your temple, then the shell of your ear, his lips lingering like he wasn’t quite done grounding himself.
“Jesus, you’re incredible”, he whispered. “I don’t know how the hell you just did that, but… you did”.
Your lips curved into a soft, tired grin as you brushed a fingertip over Henry’s tiny nose. “Well… I had a really cute baby to look forward to”. Dean’s chest rumbled with a laugh against your hair, but you tilted your head up just enough to catch his eye. “Though”, you added, smirking faintly, “I gotta say… this is getting a little unfair”.
Dean frowned playfully. “What is?”.
You angled Henry slightly so Dean could see the little furrow between his brows, the shape of his jaw already set, stubborn even at just hours old. “He looks exactly like you. Even worse than Lilah”.
Dean blinked, then laughed outright, dropping his forehead to your temple. “Oh, c’mon—worse?”.
“Way worse”, you teased, though your voice was warm. “It’s like my genes just threw in the towel. Weak. Completely overpowered”.
Dean chuckled again, but there was pride in it. Pride and something a little watery in the way his eyes softened. He looked down at Henry, then back at you, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Guess that means I gotta stick around, huh?”, he murmured. “Can’t have two mini-mes runnin’ around without supervision”.
You let out a tired laugh, pressing your face into his chest. “God help me”.
Dean grinned, kissing the top of your head. “Nah. God helped me. Gave me you, Buzz, and now this guy. Can’t ask for more than that”.
Summary: Family and friends join together for a final goodbye.
Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Reader
Word Count: 1.1K+
Warnings: Angst, character death, descriptions of grief
Author’s Note: Welcome to this new world! I hope you all enjoy! I can’t wait to hear all of your thoughts. As always, shoutout to my other half and always hype queen @waywardbeanie
Catch up with the series masterlist and check out Alexandra’s Library for more works by yours truly!
Summary: The Ackles kids celebrate their father's return home for the holidays. Meanwhile, Y/n celebrates a win of her own.
Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Reader (eventual)
Word Count: 1.3K+
Warnings: None
Author’s Note: Hey all, September was a crazy month for me, but things are settling down now, so I'm ready to try posting more consistently. This story will jump around the timeline a bit, so just fyi that 2020 will be considered "present time". Hope you enjoy!
Catch up with the series masterlist and check out the Library of Alexandra for more works by yours truly!
2020
A bouquet of spices and cooking sausage permeated every corner of the lake house as Y/n prepared dinner. Across the kitchen, the three children she cared for were occupied with various crafts. Their laughter and occasional arguments had become the background noise that grounded her on days like today. They were going about their typical Sunday without a care, unaware of the impending surprise return of their father.
The holiday season was well underway, and the actor was due back to spend a few weeks with his family. Which also meant time off for the nanny. She was equally excited for the kids and a break for herself.
Which is why she was busy preparing her family’s gumbo recipe. It was a special, warm tradition for the holiday season that they had been preparing since she moved into this home before the twins were even born. Y/n hoped it would be a nice welcome home for her boss.
As she stirred the concoction in the pot on the stove, the melody of her ringtone filled the already busy chatter of the home. She set the ladle down and ran for the device, anticipation bubbling up in her chest. The last few days, she had been quick to answer every ring, waiting with a knot in her belly to hear word from her agent.
For four years, she has been working on her manuscript while nannying full-time for her best friend's three children. So naturally, things had been slow going. But earlier in the year, she had put the finishing touches on it and sent it out to a few agents that she had come across in her prior career. And to her luck, one took a chance on her and offered to represent her. Then it was off to the races with the publishers.
It’s been a grueling few months and lots of rejections, but after an editor finally showed interest last month, they have been in negotiations. Naturally, she was growing more anxious waiting to sign a contract, which meant stalking her phone waiting for that final phone call.
As she grabbed the cell from the counter behind her, her stomach did a flip upon seeing her agent's name on the caller ID.
“Shelli, hi!” Her voice was higher than she meant it to be.
“Y/n, my dear, I have news.”
“Give it to me straight.” There was no use beating around the bush. It was something she appreciated about her agent and why the two women seemed to mesh so well. Shelli never sugar-coated anything, and there was no guessing her intention behind her words.
“We did it!” Y/n let out a soft squeal. “We’ve reached a final agreement. This is going to be great for you, and I’m so excited. Check your email soon, I’ll have the contract over for final perusal and hopefully a signature.”
“Bless your soul. I can’t thank you enough for everything.” Y/n gushed, tears welling up in the corner of her eyes.
”Let’s get you through that final hump, and then you can thank me. Talk soon.” Y/n said her goodbyes and hung up the phone. The author allowed herself a small victory dance there in the kitchen before returning to the job at hand.
After placing the lid on the pot, she turned the heat down to allow the meal to simmer while she prepped the garlic bread.
“Now, what kind of welcome home is this?” The household turned their heads in unison to the entrance of the patriarch. JJ was on her feet in an instant, throwing herself into her father’s arms, where he stood at the edge of the kitchen island. Zep and Arrow followed suit, the family morphing into a dogpile as Jensen fell to his knees and accepted the reception of his children.
A wide grin spread across Y/n’s face as each of the kids’ voices morphed together as they tried to garner the attention of their father. While she was aware he was on his way home, it was a surprise to the kids. The pure joy on their faces filled her with an overwhelming warmth that quickly crumpled at its edges as the noticeable absence in the home crept back into her consciousness.
Y/n turned back to the bread, pushing down the hole in her gut and allowing those around her a general moment of privacy. She began drizzling the olive oil over the garlic when Jensen shuffled over to her.
“Would you like any help?”
The nanny looked him up and down, noting JJ on his back and the twins koaled against either leg. She let out a bewildered laugh before replying, “I think you have your hands full.”
“I feel awful making you cook when I’m home.” He tried again.
“It’s nearly done. Go be with your kids, J.” She waved him off, earning a soft smile from the actor before he disappeared with his children.
It was thirty more minutes of roasting the garlic in the oven to make homemade garlic butter for the bread, while the gumbo simmered before they were ready to eat. Meanwhile, the family was off having fun all about the house.
It was a beautiful day outside, prompting Y/n to choose the enclosed back porch as their dining room for the evening. The large windows allowed a view of the lake behind the house and a gentle breeze. She set up Jensen at the head of the table with the littles surrounding him. It was a lively meal as the kids caught their father up on everything that was happening in their lives.
“And what about you, Y/n?” The sound of her name had the smile on her face faltering. The nanny had been so engrossed in watching them all reconnect that she didn’t think she would be a consideration. She blinked at her friend for a moment when the memory flooded back.
“Well, actually, I officially have a publisher for my manuscript.” She couldn’t help the grin that etched itself into her features. If she was being honest with herself, she wasn’t sure she hadn’t dreamt the conversation with her agent, but now, saying the words aloud, the concept had become a concrete reality.
“You’re serious?” Jensen’s face lit up, a single eyebrow raised in question. He had been there since the beginning, watching her work late nights even before the twins were born, and therefore knew how hard and long she had been working towards this goal. The shared excitement was obvious.
“I just have to sign the contract,” she affirmed.
“Oh my god, Y/n, this is huge and calls for celebration!” The actor lept from his seat and disappeared into the house. The kids called after him, Zeppelin even attempting to chase after his father, which Y/n just managed to keep him seated.
Jensen returned after a minute, a bottle of wine in hand and two glasses. He set it down in front of her and pulled the bottle opener from his pocket. Y/n inspected the label, noting the vintage as one of the bottles from his wedding. It was a custom wine he and Danneel had designed for the occasion, and she knew that it was the last remaining bottle from that day.
“Wait, are you sure?” The shock in her words gave him pause, the two looking to each other.
“She would be so happy for you.” The author could see the glimmer of pain that hid behind his eyes as he spoke, and she recognized that this was his way of allowing her to be a part of this moment. Warmth spread through her system at this realization, and so she nodded her understanding.
When both glasses were filled with the red liquid, Jensen lifted his before cheering, “To you and one amazing accomplishment. We never doubted you.”
Y/n felt her insides knot up as he offered her a small wink as their glasses clinked against one another. Tonight, she missed her best friend more than ever.
Summary: When it felt like everything in her life was falling apart, getting offered the job as the Ackles’ nanny seemed like the perfect fresh start. It was only meant to be temporary, that is, until one fateful New Year’s Eve. With a promise to keep, she makes it her mission to keep the shattered family from crumbling into dust, but where does that leave her?
Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Fem!Reader
Series Warnings: Language, angst, character death, discussion of automobile accident, discussions and depictions of grief, smut (tbd), (individual chapters will be tagged accordingly)
Author’s Note: This story is purely a work of fiction and intends no harm to Danneel or the Ackles family. This is a Danneel-positive blog, and hate will not be tolerated.
Summary: When her life implodes overnight, Y/n's best friend offers her a way to finally make her dreams come true. Years later, her best friend's husband manages to save her plans once again.
Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Fem!Reader (eventual)
Word Count: 2.5K+
Warnings: Language, mentions of infedelity, a wee bit of family angst
Author’s Note: Hey y'all, sorry it's been a minute, but the mental fatigue from work is real. Hope you all enjoy this little part! (also I don't really have a beta anymore and I'm only human, so all mistakes are mine)
Catch up with the series masterlist and check out the Library of Alexandra for more works by yours truly!
2016
The heat from the Texas autumn sun was suffocating as she hurried down the sidewalk. Her sunglasses slipped down her nose as sweat began to escape her pores. She pushed the accessory back into its place as her legs continued to push through.
She was late. Y/n knew her friend would forgive her, considering she was never late. In fact, Y/n was annoyingly early to things, a trait forced into her by her father and one she had yet to shake. That was until today.
One's schedule tends to get a little messy when finding your partner in bed with another woman… again. Her stomach lurched at the memory, both angry at him and at herself for having given him a second chance.
Most of her morning had been spent crying and packing her things to take… well, she didn’t know where she would go at this point. It was unlikely she would find a place she could afford on such short notice and she was not staying one more night with that man.
Y/n had thought her tears were behind her when she set off to meet her best friend for a lunch that had been scheduled a week ago. But the hurt and anger had boiled back to the surface as she put her car in park a block from the restaurant. The tears had been insistent, and before she knew it, she was late to a date she had arrived early to. She had made quick work of fixing her makeup, but there was nothing to be done about the puffiness or her red-rimmed eyes. Danneel would know something was wrong immediately.
Her best friend didn’t disappoint, a frown etching itself into her features the moment she took in her friend.
“Oh, Y/n/n, what happened?” The redhead embraced her with a crushing hug the moment she got to the table. Y/n shook her head, her words caught in her throat, threatening to bring the tears back.
“It’s Ryan, isn’t it? I swear to God, I’m going to rip that bastard in half.” She growled, her threat a bit lost as she gingerly sat back in her seat, her heavily pregnant stomach making the action awkward.
“Please don’t waste your time,” Y/n sat across from her friend, taking in the fiercely loyal woman.
It was this and her courage to love to deeply that had made them quick friends so long ago. While sometimes it felt like yesterday, the two women became so intertwined in each other's lives that Y/n couldn’t remember what it was like to live without her. The two women were closer than Y/n was to her own family; their understanding and commitment to their friendship has stood through Danneel starting her acting career and Y/n trying and failing to finish her manuscript. They have been through countless relationship ups and downs and Y/n even stood next to her as she married the love of her life.
They were sisters in every sense besides shared DNA.
“Seriously, Y/n. Are you okay?” Danneel reached out and took her friend by the hand, squeezing her fingers.
“No,” Y/n confessed. Admitting her feelings was not something the woman felt comfortable with often, and usually it was only with her friend that she allowed that wall to come down. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, Dee. I’ve been so stupid.”
“Don’t say that, you are not stupid.” Danneel furrowed her brow. Y/n knew how much she hated it when she was self-deprecating, but she was stupid.
“I let myself be fooled by him, twice. Twice, Dee.” Y/n emphasized. “I got involved with a coworker and let him implode my life.”
Danneel was silent for a moment, her look of pity barely concealed as she watched her friend.
“He can only take from you what you allow him.”
“I can’t live with him, and I have nowhere to go. Not to mention, I don’t think I can show my face at work anytime soon. How can I go back to work for him and see the girl he screwed in our bed?” God, it sounded even worse when she said it aloud.
Danneel sat back in her seat, her hand absentmindedly rubbing her swollen abdomen.
“Say something, please,” Y/n couldn’t handle to quiet much longer. Danneel bit her lip, contemplating what she was going to say next.
“What if you didn’t go back to work?” Y/n scoffed at her question. Danneel was an actress who, while she mostly stayed home with her eldest daughter these days, had a famous actor husband to pay the bills. Y/n most assuredly had neither the savings from doing movies nor a man to help her anymore.
“Well then who is going to pay my bills?”
“Y/n, you have been trying to write your book for years now, but haven’t had the time to truly work on it because you have been bending over backwards for that asshole. I think it’s time you did something for yourself.” Danneel explained.
“I don’t have the savings to take a year off to finish my book in the hopes that it just might get published.”
“I’m not saying that,” Danneel countered. “Listen, I’ve got twins coming and a three-year-old to chase around. Jay and I have been thinking about getting help, and well, do you want the job?”
The question nearly knocked Y/n from her chair. It was, quite possibly, that last thing she expected to hear come from her friend's mouth. Be her nanny? Was the baby brain finally getting to her?
“You’ve officially lost it.”
“Oh come on, you love JJ and are so good with her. We only need part-time help, and you can live with us. It will give you plenty of time to work on your manuscript.” Danneel continued.
It certainly sounded tempting, and she was right, Y/n did love that little girl with her whole heart. But could it actually work? It wasn’t as if they hadn’t lived together before, four years of college in fact. She could make part-time pay work if she were living with them as well. Maybe it was too good to be true.
“What about Jay?”
“Like I said, we have been talking about hiring someone, and he loves you too. He will be ecstatic we don’t have to do interviews.”
“Even living with you? It won’t be weird?” She supposed she was actually considering this now. This was not how she saw this lunch going.
“Not weird at all. It’ll be like the good old days, a sleepover with my best friend every night.” Danneel gushed, her smile growing.
“Fine, but only if Jay is a thousand percent on board. And we cannot let it affect our friendship. If anything starts going south, I am out of there.” Y/n relented, her tone masking the giddiness that had taken over her chest.
Danneel squealed, the sound catching the attention of the surrounding tables. Y/n couldn’t help but chuckle at her friend, because she felt the same way.
2020
A soft trail had begun to emerge in the carpet where she tread back and forth, her cell phone glued to her ear. The nanny paused briefly, rubbing her hand down her face as her father continued on the other end of the line.
“Why are you just now telling me this?” The frustration was evident in her voice.
“Sweetheart, it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I haven’t been able to take your mother on a nice vacation in a long time. She deserves it.” Her father explained, his words only inciting her rage.
“You knew I was coming home for Christmas, and you didn’t even think to invite me? When was the last time I took a vacation?” She half yelled, attempting not to alert the whole house to her dismay. The author hadn’t left the state of Texas in over two years; between her manuscript and her nanny position, she’d barely had time to catch up on her favorite shows. A trip to Jamaica would have been the best present anyone could have given her.
“Dad?” He hadn’t answered her question.
“Well, I’m sorry, I misunderstood our last conversation. Why don’t you come home for your birthday? We can have a nice party for your fortieth.” His attempts to console her were not going to work today; she felt abandoned. Y/n was going to spend the holidays alone, and that was depressing.
“I can’t, Dad. Jay is in the middle of filming then, and it is literally my job to watch his kids when he can’t be there.” The exasperated woman rolled her eyes in the empty room. Her father wasn’t going to understand where she was coming from; that much was obvious.
“Those kids have grandparents who could watch them for a weekend, don’t they?”
“Sure, they do, but that’s not even the point. The point is that now I get to spend the holidays alone because you guys only thought of yourselves. A birthday party doesn’t make up for that.” It was unfortunate that she could now feel her nose stinging. That last thing she wanted was to cry about this, but damnit this snub from her parents sure hurt. At this point, she didn’t even care if she sounded selfish. The woman had dropped everything in her life to help raise her best friend’s kids, and not once has she taken time for herself. No dates, no vacations, not even her birthday gave her respite from the three small children. And she didn’t regret it, because she loves the little ones as if they were her own, but it was so much more than that now. More than anything, she was looking forward to going home to Louisiana, to some semblance of normalcy that only being in your childhood home could bring.
“Your mother and I love you, I hope you know that,” her father promised, his words lost on his daughter.
“Yeah, I guess. Merry Christmas.” The author hung up the phone without waiting for a reply from her father.
The tears were brimming in her eyes, so she took a deep breath to steady herself. The sound of her door creaking open had her whipping around to find JJ peeking through the cracked passage. Y/n was quick to wipe the wetness from her cheeks and plaster on a smile for the small girl.
“Hey, Bird.”
“You haven’t come down for breakfast-” The worry of not having seen her caregiver was evident on the small girl's face. Jensen always made breakfast when he was home, which gave her a little extra time to sleep in the morning, even if it was only fifteen minutes. But she was usually there for the meal, which her phone call with her father had made her miss today. She had evidently picked up on the deviation from their normal schedule.
“JJ?” Jensen’s voice filtered down the hallway, cutting off her words. He appeared in the doorway, a frown on his face as he found where his eldest had run off to. “Honey, what did I tell you?”
“Not to wake up Y/n. But daddy, she was already awake,” JJ protested, her technicality earning a playful roll of the actor’s eyes. Jensen cast his gaze towards Y/n, the upturn of his lips dropping ever so slightly as he took in the redness of her eyes and her tear-stained cheeks. “She needs to eat so she can have lots of energy for the day. Plus, your waffles are her favorite.”
“But that doesn’t mean we forget our manners. Please apologize and then go clean up your plate, capiche?” Jay instructed her.
“Capiche,” the little girl parroted her father before turning to the nanny, a solemn look on her face as she continued. “I’m sorry I came into your room without permission.”
“Thank you, I appreciate it, honey.” The little girl ran away without another word, leaving Y/n alone with Jensen.
After shaking his head at his daughter, Jensen stepped past the threshold, pulling the door mostly closed behind him as he turned his attention to his friend.
“You okay?”
“That obvious?” Y/n chuckled dryly before tossing her phone onto her bed.
“Nah, I just know you. Wanna talk about it?”
The woman shrugged noncommittally, unsure if she should burden him with her problems. Deciding it didn’t make a difference, either way, she went ahead with telling him.
“My parents booked a vacation to Jamaica over Christmas. And I was not invited.”
“What, seriously?” The actor steadied his stance and crossed his arms.
“Yup,” Y/n popped the ‘p’, her annoyance not hidden at all. Honestly, she just wanted to scream into a pillow. Surely that would make her feel better, right?
“Well, then you will come with me and the kids to my parents. I promise, no work, just as a guest. Kids are not your responsibility.” He offered as if it were the obvious choice. It sounded good, but after being their nanny for the twins’ whole life and half of JJ’s, the fact was they were all far too attached to her. There is no such thing as time off in their presence. Y/n, as their caregiver, was their normal; they depended on her for everything. Sure, Jensen being present takes some of the weight off, but he can’t make her that promise.
“That’s very nice, Jay, but I can’t impose on your family time.” The woman dropped onto the edge of her bed, her hands hitting the comforter in defeat.
“Are you kidding? You have to know at this point that you are family too. My parents would love to have you; in fact, they already assumed you were coming.” He chuckled to himself before continuing. “My mother even seemed sad when I told her you wouldn’t be there.”
“That’s cause Donna is like the nicest person in the world,” Y/n countered. “I don’t think she has a mean bone in her body.”
“You say that, but you were never the one arrested at one in the morning and had to hear that fallout.” Jensen adjusted his stance, his hands slipping into his front pockets.
“I forgot about that one.” The corner of her lips quirked up at the memory of that teenage Jensen story.
“It wasn’t pretty, but I deserved it. So what do you say, come with us?” The nanny couldn’t deny that, even if it wasn’t what she had been expecting out of her holidays, it was far better than being all alone in this huge house.
“I would be honored,” she finally relented, and Jensen clapped his hands together.
“Great! I’ll call my parents. There are some waffles in the oven keeping warm for you too.” Jensen disappeared, leaving a bright smile on her face in his wake. It was the kind of smile that reminded her how embedded in this family she truly had become. Her presence at the Ackles family Christmas wouldn’t be a burden, and that meant more to her than she would ever care to admit.
Summary: He picked up the phone. He ignored the shake in his hand as his thumb pressed a series of digits he’d long ago memorized, just in case he ever had to call you from a phone that wasn’t his, on a line that couldn’t be traced. This was one of those times.
AN: This can be a stand-alone one-shot, but it fits well in the Every Second Counts-verse — between Bubbly and Breaking Point. (Inspired by 3x22 but not set in that episode.)
Posted on Patreon: May 29, 2026
Word Count: 2.7K
Tags & Warning: Angst, blood, “last words,” Colter sighting, hurt/comfort, tinge of spice and implied smut
You were really gonna kill him this time.
A grunt passed between his lips as he moved his hand back an inch, catching a gnarly glimpse of oozing blood and raw flesh under the soaked bandage square.
Yep. Smothered in his sleep, that was his bet. Or maybe a little Raid sprayed on his food—that would be creative. Because you knew he couldn’t resist your cooking.
Russell groaned and tried to push himself off the wall, but his body wouldn’t budge.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
He was a sitting fucking duck here. Literally.
A labored breath escaped him, along with another rivulet seeping through his shirt. His free hand itched for the cell phone lying beside him on the cement. Backup was on the way, taking a bit long though.
Time was always the question and the challenge. The decisions in between were what he was usually good at, even in moments like these.
He picked up the phone. He ignored the shake in his hand as his thumb pressed a series of digits he’d long ago memorized, just in case he ever had to call you from a phone that wasn’t his, on a line that couldn’t be traced. This was one of those times.
The line rang so long, he was losing hope that you’d answer.
Until your voice finally greeted him, with a raspy clearing of your throat and sleep-laden confusion.
“Hello?”
His lips raised toward a smile. “Hey, sweetheart. Sorry I woke you.”
“Russ? Hey…what’s this number you’re calling me from? You okay?” you asked. He heard the shifting of fabric.
He could imagine you sitting up in bed, leaning on your elbow as the sheets slid down your body a little. He closed his eyes. He could pretend he was there with you, sliding in from behind and burying his face in the familiar hollow of your neck and shoulder. Your hair would tickle his forehead, but he’d get the flowery mix of your soap and body lotion stuck in his nose, rather than the copper tang of blood.
“Yeah, everything’s cool,” Russell said. He bit the inside of his lip as the gray ceiling momentarily turned charcoal in his vision. There was numbness in his fingertips. “Just had a minute, wanted to check up on you.”
“I’m good,” you said. “Miss you though.”
He was trying to keep his breathing shallow, but he needed a deeper one then.
“Miss you too, baby.”
“When will you be home?”
“Soon as I can,” he said, stifling another pained grunt as he shifted against the wall. “Keep the lights on for me.”
“Yeah? Last time you said that, you were held up for three weeks," you said wryly. "Think I need to collab with Dory and invent a virtual lie detector."
“You know what, maybe you should just tell me what you’re wearing. Give me some ideas on how to make it up to you when I get home,” he teased, though it ended on a shallow cough.
His gaze wandered the warehouse. It looked like it hadn’t been in use for a while, but he could smell the remnants of sawdust and mildew in the air. The only light came from the slivers filtering in through the closed exit doors, and a small window for ventilation near the ceiling.
He didn’t think he’d go out in a fucking backwoods middle of nowhere place like this, but it was as decent as any he could expect in this line of work. Good enough, if he got to talk to you first.
But you didn’t laugh like he expected.
“Baby,” you said. Concern crept back in. “For real, are you okay? You don’t sound right.”
“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Just a little tired. Waiting on someone to get here, so we can get this show on the damn road.”
Just then, he heard the sound of wide tires pulling to a stop outside the warehouse. Russell didn’t relax just yet. That could've either been his backup, or his target's delayed reinforcements. He tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder on his right side, wincing at the pain the movement caused as he reached for his gun.
“Actually, they just got here. Gotta let you go,” he said.
“Russ, wait.”
“I love the sound of your voice, you know that?” he said, flickering at a smile. “And I love you.”
“…I love you too,” you said, on a slightly unsteady breath.
He knew he hadn’t convinced you that everything was fine. You were too smart, knew him too well by now.
Regardless, he had to hang up. Then he raised his gun at an angle that still kept his elbow steady, resting against his side.
The door scraped against the ground as it opened. The man’s tall gait came in swiftly, then picked up speed. Russell’s vision might've been blurring on the edges, but he recognized that blonde head. He was able to relax, lowering his gun.
“Russ,” Colter said, grabbing his brother’s shoulder that didn’t have a hole shot through it, just inches below. “Hey, you with me?”
“Mhmm,” Russell said, as his eyes closed on him for a second. He forced himself to stay awake through sheer willpower. “Not goin’ anywhere, little brother.”
“That’s right,” Colter said more firmly. The worry was clear in his brown eyes, but he smiled anyway, digging into the small duffel he brought with him. He went for the antiseptic and the bandages first, then the pliers. “You’re lucky I wasn’t too far.”
He moved back Russell’s jacket, then tore at the collar of his grimy, blood-stained shirt.
“Who me? I’m fine,” Russell said. “I’ve had way worse than this.”
“You don’t look fine,” Colter said, trying to gently pry Russell’s hand away from the wound. “Here, let me see.”
“I’m good.”
“No, you’re not. Move your hand so I can see?”
Russell smirked. “So bossy.”
Despite himself, Colter shook his head in amusement.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle. You should see the other guy.”
“Right. That’s why you called me, because you have this all handled.”
Russell’s body seized up with a flinch at Colter’s pliers seeking the fat piece of bullet still lodged inside his chest.
“Hey, have a heart, huh?" Russell complained. "Some anesthetic, please.”
It was another 18 hours before Russell’s Chevelle Malibu crossed the threshold of Wyoming’s state line, and another two before he stopped in the driveway outside the modest house he now called home.
He was slow moving as he hefted his duffel bag. Every step was a calculated trudge up the wide, white stones of the pathway. The neighborhood was quiet after dark, but the porch light was on. It was his target, and his beacon.
He unlocked the front door with his keys and found mostly darkness, except for the warm glow of the hallway light. He didn’t have time to make it there though—not when you were already hurrying out from the master bedroom to meet him.
He smiled at the sight of you in a tank-top and your most well-worn sweatpants, but you looked more relieved than happy. The kind of relief that wasn’t calm, even when your hands were on him, gripping his leather jacket like you were making sure he was actually there. He let his duffel fall those few inches to the hardwood floor.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, though he stiffened and grunted in pain when your hands landed on his shoulders. Specifically, his left.
You pulled back on reflex, gasping softly. You stared up at him in worry. He looked so pale...
“It’s okay,” he said, holding you by your waist. “It’s just—”
You didn’t wait for his inevitable lie. You were verging on angry as you carefully pulled down the zipper of his jacket.
“Uh, wait a minute,” Russell said, but you couldn’t be placated. You wouldn’t let him stop you from finding whatever he didn’t want you to see.
Soon, you almost wish you had.
“Oh my God,” you breathed, though it was choked by tears as you took in the blood covering the entire left side of his gray plaid.
He had a red-tinged bandage covering the area just above his heart. It was held in place by medical tape and stretchy gauze that wrapped around his shoulder and under his arm. His chest and stomach were stained with crimson blotches leading from the wound. He smelled like rust and antiseptic, grime and sweat.
He watched every shade of your reaction, from shock to dismay. In hindsight, he should've at least tossed the shirt.
“Russell, what the fuck?” you said shakily.
His hand raised to cradle your cheek, earning your attention back up to his face rather than his body. His thumb caressed your skin, brushed away some tears.
“It looks worse than it is,” he said.
You shook your head. “You need to go to a hospital."
“I already got patched up. It’s okay, just need to sleep it off,” he replied. Colter had stabilized him enough to take him to the closest ER for the stitches. Colt even stuck with him until the doctor was done, probably to make sure Russell actually sat through the whole process.
“It’s not okay,” you snapped. “It’s not fucking okay.”
You stepped away from him and retreated back into the bedroom, holding a trembling hand to your mouth as you went.
He didn’t exactly know if he was welcome, but he really needed a shower and a solid night’s sleep, and he never slept better than when he was beside you.
But you avoided looking at him as you got ready for bed, haphazardly ripping off throw pillows and pulling back the comforter. Russell noticed your laptop on the nightstand, no less than three half-drunk mugs of coffee pushed back by the lamp, as well as a small hoard of candy wrappers and a bowl of popcorn on the floor. It was near four in the morning, and you hadn’t even tried to go to sleep. Or more likely, you couldn’t.
Russell carried the weight of that guilt into the adjoining bathroom, where he started by slowly trying to take off his jacket. He got halfway through peeling the sleeve off his left shoulder before the sharp pull of his wound forced a hiss from between his teeth.
“Fuck,” he said under his breath. There were more grunts and struggles, though he tried to keep it quiet. Once the jacket was a useless pile on the floor, he got a better look at his tattered shirt and released a steadying breath, almost shrugging at himself. All right, here goes.
He pulled back the collar of his shirt, but dried blood had adhered the fabric to the sensitive skin around his wound.
“Goddamn it,” he said lowly.
The bathroom door slid open. You paused in the entryway and crossed your arms, taking in every ridiculous part of this.
For once, Russell didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to upset you (anymore), and he had a feeling you’d appreciate a you should see the other guy joke even less than Colter had.
“Sit,” you said, pointing at the closed toilet lid.
“I got this,” Russell said. But you pinned him with a sharp look.
“Russell, sit down.”
He quirked his head. “Okay. Yes, ma’am.”
Your lips almost curved upward, but you remained firm. Your hands were gentle though; they grasped his arm and helped him sit. You started with the easiest part, kneeling down on the tile floor to unlace his boots.
Russell wanted to tell you that you didn’t have to do it, but he also didn’t want to rile you up again. Instead, he steadied himself by grabbing the edge of the counter. Guilt twinged more heavily in his heart as he watched you slide off his left boot. He tried to help you with the right one, hooking his foot behind the heel, but you laid a hand on his knee.
“I’ll do it,” you said, your gaze flicking up to his. “Just stay still.”
Russell paused, but he conceded. Soon you’d worked off his boots and socks, then slowly, his shirt. He held you to him afterward, by your hips. You saw that even his hands were stained pink. Either he’d scrubbed them raw or hadn’t scrubbed them hard enough.
“What happened?” you asked.
“Just…you know, got clipped,” he said. “It’s no big deal. As you can see, I’m fine.”
You shot him a flat look. “How did it happen?”
He sighed. “You know I can’t tell you that.”
That you did, but you hated it anyway. Your gaze once again drew to the web of bandages wrapped around his right shoulder. Your fingertips landed just beside the thickest padding above his heart. Russell’s hand covered yours.
“Thank you...and I’m sorry,” he said at last. “Didn’t mean to worry you.”
Your lips pursed. You took his face in your hands, a touch softer as you stroked his bearded cheeks. He was still too pale, but nonetheless, unfairly handsome.
“Please don’t do this to yourself anymore,” you said. “Don’t do this to me. You promised you’d be done with Horizon by now.”
Russell nodded. “I know.”
“You know?” Your brows rose. “Do you know what the past 24 hours were like for me since you called me in the middle of the night like that? I could hear it in your voice. You weren’t sure you were going to make it home.”
Your voice wavered as tears welled up in your eyes again, despite your attempts to blink them away with a sniff.
Russell didn’t have a clever retort this time. No way to downplay or tease. He had come back with a few scrapes and sprains before, but this was different. That look on your face when you opened his jacket, saw the blood and bandages, probably picturing a horror show underneath...
He wasn't ever going to forget that look. And it was better he didn't. He had to remind himself that you were a civilian. You weren't used to all this shit, the hazards of the job.
“You’re right. It’s not fair to you,” he said. “Just uh…give me a month or so to wrap things up. I already signed on for a couple more contracts.”
“You better mean it, Russ,” you said. You tilted his face upward, making sure he met your eyes. “You gave me your word.”
“I know, and I’m gonna keep it,” he said, squeezing your hips. He smiled. “To prove it, how about we reseal the deal, huh?”
You stared down at him, heaving a more exasperated sigh.
“Come on,” he said, biting his lip on a smirk. “We both know you wanna kiss the hell out of me.”
You wanted to slap him, more like.
You shook your head and pressed his face between your hands, grunting in sheer annoyance. But you still bowed your head and kissed him.
He smiled against your lips. His arms slid around your waist and trapped you against his body. He hummed at the feeling of you, of every soft curve that fit just right against him.
Your fingers slipped through his hair, gently at first. But you reminded him of your resolve with a tighter grip.
“I'm serious,” you warned, between kisses. Each one meant something different—relief, fear, yearning, passion, love, and long-suffering all at once.
He nodded, though he groaned, palming your ass as your tongue slipped against his.
“I got it, sweetheart,” he said. "Not happening again."
His hands then wandered down your back, dipping under the waistband of your sweatpants. He found you bare underneath, no panties. He was pleased at the thought as he pressed a line of open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down your neck, earning your soft moan. His fingers trailed under your tank top next, pushing the fabric up higher and raising goosebumps in his wake.
“Take a shower with me?” he asked, with lips pressed to your skin.
“Hmph. You definitely need a shower,” you said through slightly panting breaths. You helped him stand so you both could work on getting off his jeans.
He grinned. “So that’s a yes?”
Your lips threatened a smile in return.
“That’s a, get your ass in there,” you said, but you grabbed his elbows to steady him when his broad frame teetered on his feet. “Be careful.”
His hand fell to your shoulder gratefully.
“Yes, ma’am.”
AN: lol what are we gonna do with him? 😅 I think this helps make even more sense why reader's so mad at him in Part 1 of Breaking Point.
And I seriously hope Russell comes back more regularly for season 4. That twist at the end of 3x22 is more interesting than any other episode/arc in S3 imo. Until then, hope you enjoy some angsty hurt/comfort!
Let me know what you think in the reblogs/comments! 💙🩵💛
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Chapter Summary: You think you've tricked the two hunters on your heels, but Dean's already on your tail and catches you in the worst possible moment – with a gun, bad assumptions, and zero goddamn patience.
Warnings: 18+ language, language, canon-divergence, set after 2x02, enemies to friends to lovers, slow burn, mentions of death and DV, angst
Word Count: 13.9k
A/N: Still dealing with sickness around here, but I'll be fully back soon 💜 Meanwhile, are you ready to finally find out what happens next? Intense bickering ahead. Thank God for Sam being the mediator we all need 🙏
That stupid hunter bought your cover hook, line, and sinker. And you? You danced on the edge of a blade and stepped back without a single goddamn scratch.
You’re still riding the high, sharp and sweet, as you stroll out of the bar and into the cool night air, meeting up with Paige in the alley by your car.
“Holy shit,” she says as she catches up with you. “You demolished that guy.”
“Please,” you snort, fishing your keys out of your bag. There’s a satisfaction in your eyes you don’t even bother hiding. “He practically did it to himself. He was laying it on a little thick in there.”
“A little?” Paige laughs, arching an eyebrow. “He was two seconds away from offering to carry you home.”
You unlock your Bimini-blue Aveo and climb into the driver’s seat, Paige dropping into the passenger side at the same time, still buzzing with adrenaline. She always gets a little too excited whenever you involve her in your magical extracurricular activities ever since the day you told her you were a witch.
You were twelve, and back then, you didn’t do it with the intention of involving her in anything, especially in anything dangerous. You did it like a middle-schooler sharing secrets with her best friend – in a treehouse while playing pretend, completely innocent. You definitely never imagined the two of you would trick a hunter one day and build an entire underground network that helps victims of abuse.
“He was cute, though,” she adds as an afterthought, slumping back in the seat.
You start the engine and hum. “Mm.”
“Don’t ‘mm’ me. He was.”
You shrug your shoulders, pulling away from the curb. “If you say so.”
Paige narrows her eyes at you. “That is not an answer.”
“It is an answer.”
“It’s a dodge.” Paige raises a brow. “It’s the least committal answer I’ve ever heard in my life. I saw you flirting back.”
“I wasn’t flirting,” you say, although the corner of your mouth betrays you. “I was gathering information.”
Paige lets out a short laugh. “Oh, right. Very professional. Very subtle, too. I especially liked the part where you leaned in to–, what was it… ‘hear him better’?”
“He was mumbling,” you shoot back, shifting gears smoothly as you merge onto the road, Clancy’s disappearing in your rearview. “Not my fault.”
“Mhm.” She watches you with that look she gets whenever she thinks she’s caught you with your hand in the cookie jar. “And the giggling and pushing your boobs out? Also part of the investigation?”
You shrug again, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift as you hide a smirk. “It worked, didn’t it?”
It did.
You replay the whole encounter without really meaning to – the ease and rhythm of it. The way he held eye contact just a smidge longer than necessary, measuring, weighing, and deciding where to push next. The way he wielded the deepness and rough edges of his voice as if he knew exactly what it did to people. And the way he’d leaned in, confident in that effortless and charming way of his, like he’d done this a hundred times before and never once been wrong about the outcome.
Till now, till you, that is.
And you? You let him.
Let him think he was in control when he really wasn’t. Let him steer the conversation just enough that it felt natural when you nudged it somewhere else. A question here, a detail there. Soft enough to pass as curiosity, but harmless enough to ignore. You carefully crafted the version of yourself he wanted to see and neatly stepped into it.
Your high school drama teacher surely would’ve been proud of you for bringing so much authenticity to the role.
Paige then nudges your arm lightly, hauling you from your thoughts. “Okay, but seriously. He was cute.”
You roll your eyes and exhale through your nose. “I have a boyfriend. Remember Cam? You like him.”
Paige, however, doesn’t even miss a beat. “You can have a boyfriend and still have eyes, dude.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
You shake your head, laughing a little. “Oh, Cam would love this conversation right now.”
“Oh please. It’s just me you’re talking to,” Paige counters, waving it off. “Our sweet Cameron’s halfway across the world right now, not sitting in your passenger seat.”
For a second, your grip tightens just slightly on the wheel, your thoughts wandering to somewhere far beyond Salem – to dry heat and desert dust, to your boyfriend stuck somewhere in the middle of it.
You miss him. God, you do. But the two of you knew what you signed up for with each other when you met three years ago in college.
“I’m just saying. You didn’t exactly look like someone suffering through that conversation tonight,” Paige teases you.
You huff another laugh. “Because I wasn’t. I was handling it.”
“Handling it,” she parrots, lips twitching in amusement. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Tall, green eyes, voice like he drinks whiskey for breakfast and smokes a pack a day, but not flirting. Handling.”
You toss her a grin. “Now you’re catching on.”
Paige grins as well, clearly unconvinced, but lets it go. For now, at least. You know her well enough to anticipate her throwing it back like a boomerang at some point in the near future and hitting you in the face with it at probably the most inappropriate moment possible.
You focus on the road then and on the glow of streetlights stretching ahead. “He tried too hard for my taste.”
Paige shoots you a raised look at that. “Or,” she counters, “you’re just allergic to fun.”
“I’m not allergic to fun,” you defend, chuckling. “I just don’t like being read.”
Paige snorts. “Ironic coming from you.”
“Fine,” you scoff, rolling your eyes back. “Maybe I just don’t like being hunted, then.”
Your mind drifts back to the bar, the slight sting in your gut seeping through the triumph in your veins. You played it perfectly tonight – calm, sweet, a little vulnerable. You gave him just enough truths to make the lies stick. No tells. No slips. Nothing he could latch onto. You watched him carefully the entire time. Every shift, every glance, every subtle change in posture. You waited for the moment something didn’t line up, but the other shoe never dropped.
Still.
“You think he bought it?”
Paige doesn’t hesitate with her answer. “Oh, 100%,” she assures you. “The sad backstory? The whole ‘I’m just a normal girl with a stressful job’ thing? He was eating out of your hand. Complete goner. You could’ve probably told him the moon was made of cheese, and he would’ve believed you.”
Your mouth curves, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I don’t know,” you muse, biting the inside of your cheek. “At the end there, something felt… off.”
Paige furrows her brow. “Off how?”
You hesitate a beat, trying to pin it down, but it stays on the tip of your tongue. “I don’t know. His aura just–” You frown slightly. “It didn’t match. Not completely.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he was all smooth and relaxed on the surface, sure,” you say slowly, replaying it in your head, “but underneath there was this… sharpness. A little anger, maybe.”
Paige considers your hunch for a second before brushing it off. “Yeah, well, he was probably just annoyed you didn’t go home with him. Poor guy put a lot of effort in. I mean, dude spends all night flirting his ass off, thinks he’s closing the sweetest deal of his lifetime, and then you just leave? I’d be a little off, too.”
A soft laugh escapes you at her unhinged theory. “What a devastating loss.”
“Yeah, I’d say,” Paige snorts and shoots you a grin. “Tragic, really. My thoughts and prayers go out to him. Rest in peace, G-Man.”
You shake your head at her, but the smile lingers as you turn into the small parking lot beside your apartment building, headlights sweeping over the second car parked next to your spot. It’s exactly what you expected. Old, beige, and forgettable. Mia never does anything halfway.
You pull in beside it and cut the engine, the lightness and banter from the drive slowly fading and being replaced by focus and professionalism.
Paige leans forward, peering through the windshield. “Wow. Where the hell does Mia always find these cars?”
“No clue. I think she gets them from the junkyard across town,” you reply, reaching for the door. “What matters is that nobody’s gonna miss it.”
The cracked asphalt scuffs softly under your sneakers as you spot Amy already waiting underneath one of the streetlights at the edge of the courtyard, her young son tucked against her side like he might vanish if she lets go of him. She looks like she’s holding their whole world together with sheer willpower. But even in the dim glow of the lamp, the fading purple and blue bruise along her cheekbone is impossible to ignore. It’s the ugly reminder of why she’s here in the first place.
“Hey,” you greet them with a warm smile as you approach. “You made it.”
She nods quickly, relief flickering across her face the moment she sees you. “Yeah, uh, I’m sorry for calling you tonight. I just–… We didn’t wanna wait any longer. I couldn’t stay another night. Not after today.”
“It’s okay. I told you to call me whenever you’re ready,” you reassure her gently and gesture toward the beige car. “Everything’s already in there. Papers, IDs, and enough money to get you started somewhere else. Don’t worry. Mia made sure it all checks out.”
“I even packed you guys some snacks for the road,” Paige adds with a smile.
Amy just stares at you like you’ve handed her something impossible. “I don’t understand how you–”
“You don’t have to,” you cut in, smiling. “That’s kind of the whole point.”
Her son Ethan, seven, then peeks out at you behind his mother’s legs, clutching the same worn stuffed fox you saw him with at the hospital earlier. You soften instinctively and drop to one knee in front of him.
“Hey, champ,” you say warmly. “Your fox looks ready for an adventure. Got a name?”
“Rusty,” the boy mumbles shyly, the limbs of his stuffy flopping over his fists like he’s trying to hide behind it.
“Rusty,” you repeat, smiling. “Solid name, buddy. Rusty’s gonna keep you company the whole drive, okay? And when you get to the new place, he gets first pick of the bed.”
A tiny smile flickers across Ethan’s face at that before you rise to your feet again.
“Thank you,” Amy says, looking at you and Paige. “Both of you.”
“You don’t have to thank us. We’re happy to help. Just take care of yourself, okay?” you tell her. “The next part’s easy. Trust me.”
Amy’s grip tightens slightly on her son. “How does it work exactly?”
“It’s like a glamour. It means the wrong people will look right at you but not really see you,” you explain, tilting your head as you search for the right words. “Like their brain just… skips over you. You won’t stand out. You won’t stick. Anyone trying to find you will just… slide right past. You understand?”
“I call it ‘weaponized invisibility,’” Paige chimes in with a grin.
“Basically,” you agree, a small smile tugging at your mouth before you glance back at Amy. “You’re still there. You’re just not interesting enough to anyone that’s actively looking for you to ever remember.”
Amy exhales a small breath of relief, some of the tension falling from her shoulders, though it doesn’t disappear completely. “And is it… safe?”
You nod without hesitation. “Yeah, it’s completely safe. I promise. It’ll hold as long as you need it to. The only one who can lift it is me. If, at some point, you decide you don’t need it any longer, you can give me a call, and I can break the spell again. Until then, it keeps you both off the radar.”
There’s a pause as she takes in all the information you’ve given her today, weighing and measuring it against everything she’s trying to leave behind – a home, a husband, a life.
And then, Amy gives you one decisive nod. “Do it.”
“Dude, we gotta talk,” Dean says as soon as he barrels into the motel room, shoving the door open so hard it slams into the wall and chips the paint.
Sam, however, doesn’t look up at first or even seem mildly rattled by the entrance. He’s comfortably spread out on the cheap bed, one knee propped up, a bunch of research papers scattered across the mattress beside him.
“You strike out already?” he asks, distracted, but there’s a hint of amusement in his voice. “What happened to not coming back tonight?”
“Yeah,” Dean scoffs humorlessly and doesn’t slow down as he crosses the room. There’s a restless type of energy surging through his blood that he’s been holding onto the entire drive back from the bar. “That was before I found out she’s a freaking witch.”
Sam’s attention finally piques, straightening on the bed, brow already knitted when his head snaps up. “What?”
Dean lets out a breath, caught somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, still pacing the stained motel carpet.
“Yeah, you were right, man,” he admits. “Hot CSI? Definitely not Little Miss Innocent. I can tell you that much.” He runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “Her bag fell open at the bar, and I got a nice, clear look at the full witch starter pack inside. Tarot cards, herbs, spell book… Even had the rune thing on the cover.”
Sam’s expression morphs from confusion to something more focused and analytical as he rises from the bed. “You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure, man,” Dean confirms. “The whole thing smelled like a New Age gift shop exploded in there.”
“Huh. Witch,” Sam mumbles to himself, moving over to the small table where more of his research litters the surface. “That actually makes sense.”
“What makes sense?” Dean slows on the carpet, frowning. Why can that kid never finish a damn thought?
Sam drops into the rickety chair, shuffling scattered notes around and flipping pages till he finds what he’s looking for. “I dug more into her background while you were, uh… busy,” he says, clearing his throat subtly of judgment as Dean shoots him a little glare. “She was born on spring equinox 1984, which just so happened to coincide with a full lunar eclipse, also called a blood moon.”
Dean crosses his arms, shooting his little brother a flat look. “…So?”
Sam huffs a chuckle, clearly expecting that reaction. “It’s not just any date, Dean. See, to witches, pagans, and a bunch of old traditions from Europe, the spring equinox is a big deal,” he explains. “It’s basically their New Year. A balance point. Day and night are equal, light and dark are even… That day’s practically all about transitions – winter to spring, death to life, dark to light. It’s a threshold.”
The creases on Dean’s brow deepen slightly. “A threshold for what?”
“It means nothing’s fully one thing or the other,” Sam replies rather unhelpfully, because it certainly doesn’t make things clearer for Dean. “Point is, it’s tied to change. Renewal. Cycles resetting. In a lot of folklore, it’s when the wheel turns – old things end, new things start.”
“Okay,” Dean says, lips pursed, nodding along. “Still not seeing why I should care.”
“Well,” Sam continues, leaning forward slightly, “add a lunar eclipse on top of that, according to the lore, a blood moon causes boundaries between things to get even thinner. Normal rules don’t apply the same way anymore. Things get unstable. Stuff that’s supposed to stay separate doesn’t – at least not completely.”
Dean’s brow twitches slightly, but he stays silent, listening. He can already guess where Sam is leading with this and doesn’t like it one bit.
“And get this,” Sam adds, even more eager now. “There’s this idea out there that eclipses don’t just mark change, but they force it. They break patterns. Interrupt cycles that are supposed to keep repeating.”
Dean huffs a breath, unimpressed. “Yeah? And?”
Sam glances back up at him. “Well, if you stack those two things together, you get a rare alignment. I mean, it’s practically impossible. Only occurs maybe every couple millennia. And some folks believe that a child born under these circumstances isn’t tied to the same rules as everyone else.”
Dean’s expression hardens a smidge. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning they don’t fit cleanly on one side,” Sam explains. “Not fully light, not fully dark. More like… in between. Boundary-walkers. People who can move across lines that most of us can’t.”
Dean exhales through his nose, still rather skeptical. “So you’re telling me this chick hit the supernatural jackpot.”
“I’m telling you that in a lot of these same stories, these people are tied to breaking things. Not as in destroying everything, but more like ending something that’s been going on too long. Breaking a cycle that shouldn’t keep going.”
Dean doesn’t say anything, but his mind automatically fills in the blanks – the things Sam doesn’t state outright. Yellow Eyes. Psychic kids. Their father’s notes.
Anomaly. Asset. Key.
“So what?” Dean prompts, leaning against the dresser, arms still crossed. “She’s some kind of cosmic loophole? Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
Sam shakes his head. “No, it’s supposed to explain why it amplifies things. Power, potential… whatever you wanna call it.”
“So you’re saying she’s a powerful witch?” Dean checks, then smirks and shrugs it off before Sam can answer. “I mean, guess that’s helpful when we gank her. Better pack the whole arsenal.”
He pushes off the dresser and moves to the duffel on his bed, beginning to sort through weapons – iron cuffs, guns, knives, maybe even a machete if everything else fails. But Sam grows suspiciously silent behind his back, which can only mean one thing: he doesn’t agree with Dean’s assessment.
“Dean, I don’t think we should kill her.”
Dean snorts a chuckle, although he doesn’t feel like laughing. “Knew this was coming…”
“Just listen, alright?” Sam pleads.
Dean spins around to face him and sighs loud enough for his little brother to hear the annoyance in it. Sam exhales a frustrated breath, too.
“Look, if she’s really a witch, I don’t think she got her magic from some demon or even a grimoire,” Sam muses. “And Dad didn’t think so either. In his notes, he talked about tracing her family’s lineage and mentioned a historical cooperation. I think her mother and grandmother were witches too, which would mean she’s a natural. She might not even know how to use her powers fully yet.”
“Oh, and you want her to?” Dean cocks a brow. “‘Cause from what I’ve seen so far, she knows how to use ‘em enough, Sam. Pretty sure she’s involved in all those missing women cases. She was the CSI on scene for most of them. Pretty easy access.”
“Yeah, but from what you’ve been telling me, she never actually killed someone, right? I mean, it even looks like she’s helping these women,” Sam points out.
“We don’t know that yet,” Dean huffs.
“We also don’t know yet if it’s not true, which is why we should talk to her first before you pull out the gun,” Sam states all too cleverly. “You know witches are human, right? And some of them are good and only use white magic, Dean. Not to mention, she’s also the only person we’ve come across in weeks who might have any kind of connection to what we’re actually looking for. You really wanna take her out before finding out why Dad kept her around in the first place?”
Dean rolls his eyes back, letting out another sigh. He absolutely hates when his little brother is being reasonable.
One thing both Sam and their father have in common is judging people by their usefulness. It’s not like Sam actually sees you as some innocent girl or even human. He sees a potential weapon. And Dean’s sure their dad once saw the same damn thing.
But Dean? He sees a weapon, too – one neither of them knows how to handle.
“Look, if she’s really hurting innocent people out there, we take care of it. We always do. No questions asked,” Sam adds. “I’m just saying. Maybe hold off till we have some answers.”
“Fine, alright,” Dean caves at last, practically forcing the words out. The bile already rises in his mouth. “We talk to her first. But if this thing goes sideways, I’m putting a bullet in her.”
“Sure. Understood.” Sam nods a little too keenly. “You know where she went after the bar?”
Dean snorts a chuckle. “Told me there was a lab emergency. But unless someone mislabeled evidence or spilled a vial of blood, I doubt there’s a reason for a CSI to run to work after midnight.”
The corners of Sam’s mouth quirk in amusement. “So you’re saying you did strike out.”
Dean fixes his little brother with a glare, then scoffs, somewhat defensive. “I wasn’t seriously pursuing her, alright? Was just doing my due diligence, man. Working the case. Making sure she’s really clean before we head out, you know? And turns out she wasn’t.”
“Sure, yeah,” Sam says, but his wry tone of voice already suggests he doesn’t mean it one bit. There’s also the annoying smile that gives it away.
“Shut up,” Dean huffs and shakes it off, but his mind doesn’t stay on Sam for long and drifts back to the bar.
Back to you.
You carried yourself like you weren’t hiding anything, although you clearly were. Your smile came so easy, but your eyes never quite followed as if there was always a second layer running underneath the surface. You watched him just as much as he watched you, even when you were pretending not to. The way you held his gaze made it seem like you weren’t afraid of anything.
You didn’t look like a weapon. Didn’t feel like one either. But maybe that just makes you all the more dangerous.
“You got her home address?” he prompts then, looking at Sam.
“Yup, right here.”
Dean nods, grabs his keys and jacket, and slings the duffel full of weapons over his shoulder. “Alright, let’s roll.”
Dean knows something’s off the second the Impala rolls to a stop and the engine dies a block away from your home. His hunter instincts are already tingling as Sam and him sneak through backyards and side alleys till they land at your apartment building.
It’s one of those old New England brick jobs – a deep red façade that reaches over four stories, adorned with black-framed windows and a white stone trim, cracked and patched in certain places and slightly weathered over the centuries. The entrance is modest, slightly recessed, with a simple arch and a set of worn steps leading up from the cobblestone sidewalk lined with trees, their branches stretching out and partially obscuring the upper floors, leaves eerily brushing the windows as the wind picks up.
Tucked just behind the building is a small parking lot then, the asphalt cracked from weeds breaking through. It only holds a handful of cars, a narrow and quiet courtyard adjoining it that offers a little pocket of green among bricks. The low iron fence along one side of it is almost hidden by overgrown shrubs.
The whole scene looks ordinary, but as Dean’s learned a long time ago, ordinary is usually where the worst things hide best. It’s perfect for conversations no one’s supposed to overhear.
That’s probably what you thought as well because, as the brothers round the corner, Dean spots you under a streetlamp in the courtyard chatting with a woman and small boy, probably no older than ten. To his surprise, your friend Paige is with you too, which wasn’t exactly the plan.
There were only two options when the brothers left the motel: either you’re home and they would’ve forced themselves inside, or if you weren’t home, they would’ve broken in and ambushed you once you arrived. Finding you outside and in the wide open wasn’t exactly on Dean’s bingo card, but he’s luckily excellent at improvising.
Your posture is steady and focused, one hand lifted slightly between you and the woman and kid, fingers poised in a way that doesn’t belong to anything normal.
And Dean? He doesn’t wait for it to make a lick of sense.
He charges forth in quick, decisive strides, gun already in his hand before he even registers reaching for it. It’s muscle memory, the same senses kicking in that have kept him alive for at least this long.
“Don’t move.” His deep voice carries across the courtyard like a blade, the barrel of his gun smoothly trained on your back.
The familiar click that follows is loud in the quiet night, clean and unmistakable. You spin around so fast it almost makes him flinch, eyes going wide the second you see the weapon in his hands.
“It’s not what it looks like!”
Dean huffs out something that might’ve been a laugh in a different situation and steps closer. “Yeah? ‘Cause to me, it looks like you found your next victim.”
“Dean–” Sam already hisses behind him, but Dean skillfully ignores the protest.
“I got it,” he mutters under his breath and doesn’t lower the gun even for a second, dark green eyes fixed on you. “Step away from them. Now.”
But instead of following his order, you do the opposite and step right in front of them, shielding both mother and son behind your back. The woman lets out a startled sound, pulling her son with her as they tuck tighter behind you. The boy whimpers once, muffled against his mother’s thigh as he clutches a stuffed fox to his body. His eyes are wide and fixed on Dean, but he’s not curious or confused. He’s scared.
Scared of him.
For a moment, that throws Dean off his game because that’s not usually how it goes. Usually, fear is pointed in the right direction. Usually, it tells him exactly who the monster is.
Not in this case, though.
That same fear also gleams in your eyes, but it doesn’t make you fall apart. Instead, you lift your chin bravely despite of what’s flickering underneath the surface, and Dean can tell you’re already trying to think your way out of this situation.
“They’re not in danger, alright? I’m not hurting them,” you offer quickly, hands slightly raised in defense. “I’m helping them leave. That’s all.”
His eyes briefly drift back to the woman and child behind you, and Dean recognizes her face from a photo in a police report he read earlier. Amy Reznik, the latest victim from the crime scene the brothers just visited this morning. He’s here to save her, to stop whatever dark crap you’re doing to her and the kid, but the fear in her eyes still isn’t aimed at you.
It’s aimed at him.
His grip tightens on the gun, knuckles whitening, but the barrel instinctively dips half an inch at the realization.
“Helping,” he repeats, cocking a brow. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m calling it, dickhead,” you snap back and then catch yourself, shoulders pulling in just slightly.
Dickhead?
Granted, he hasn’t exactly expected that pushback. You seemed so sweet and innocent back at the bar he wasn’t even sure you knew a single curse word. He knows because he kept thinking about how he’d draw them out of you later in the night. But whatever fire is roaring inside of you now, you definitely kept those fierce flames burning low at Clancy’s.
You really have been playing him the entire time, haven’t you?
“Then explain it to me,” Dean prompts, closing the distance, the gun in his hand not wavering. “‘Cause from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like the same crap you’ve been pulling all over this town for a year now.”
“I promise I’m not hurting them,” you insist once more, eyes locked on him, pleading.
“Dean, just look at them,” Sam chimes in then. “I think she’s telling the truth. She’s not hurting anyone. They’re scared of us… of you.”
“See? Listen to your partner. He seems to have his head screwed on right,” you say and raise a brow. “Can you lower the gun now? Please? This is a family-friendly neighborhood.”
But Dean only shakes his head, gaze stern. “Not gonna happen, sweetheart. Sorry.”
Your mouth presses into a thin line at that, irritation threading through the fear. “I told you I don’t hurt people. I swear I would never–”
“Oh yeah?” Dean cuts in, brows lifting. “Then what about the husbands, huh? If you’re so harmless, how come they all end up in the ER?”
You freeze for a heartbeat, enough for Dean to notice, and shift on your weight. Then you guiltily purse your lips, and Dean knows he’s got you.
“‘Cause it’s… funny?”
As soon as those words leave your lips, silence drops like an anvil. Dean’s gaze slowly drifts to Sam, head tilting with a silent You hearing this? I told you so when he meets his little brother’s eyes. Sam, on the other hand, is trying very hard not to react and presses his lips together, which somehow makes it all the more worse. To his credit, though, at least he doesn’t outwardly smile.
Dean then looks back at you, arching a brow. “You think this is funny?”
You wince slightly and bite your lips, but against all better judgment, you give him a small shrug of your shoulders. “…Kinda?”
Upon Dean’s intensifying glare, however, you immediately backtrack, hands lifting in surrender again.
“Okay, look, it’s not like they didn’t deserve it, alright? You ever heard of karma?”
“You broke their dicks,” Dean grits bluntly, jaw flexing.
“Oh my God,” you groan and roll your eyes, exasperation finally snapping fully through your fear. “Get off that high horse, alright? They’re not dead. I didn’t kill anyone. They just had an itchy cast for a few weeks. They’re fine.”
“Fine?” Dean echoes incredulously. “One guy thinks he’s got permanent damage.”
“Only because he didn’t go to the ER,” you shoot back, throwing your hands up. “Not my fault men notoriously avoid doctors, apparently even when their dicks turn purple,” you mutter before meeting his stare. “C’mon, man, it’s not like it turned black and fell off now, did it?”
Sam makes a quiet choking sound behind him, stifling a snort. Dean frowns but otherwise ignores it.
“Besides,” you add, chin lifting defiantly despite the gun still pointed at you, “you really wanna pick the side of some drunk, abusive loser in a wife-beater? Think about it.”
Son of a bitch.
Something inside of Dean drops at that, his guard crumbling the slightest bit. He rolls his shoulders when he feels them slumping, trying not to let it show that you got to him there.
And no, obviously, he doesn’t want to defend some asshole who takes his anger out on his family. He’s seen enough of that to know exactly what kind of men you’re talking about. Hell, when he spoke to some of them this morning, even he wanted to dent a few teeth in after the bullshit they were spewing. Admittedly, he thought they deserved what happened to them a little.
A little.
Still, he can’t just let some witch run around town doing vigilante shit. It’s not about right or wrong, fair or unfair, karma or justice. It’s about fucking principle.
“That’s not the point,” Dean snaps.
“Then what is the point? Enlighten me,” you challenge. Dean’s at a loss for words, not really able to come up with a good enough argument, and when he doesn’t respond, you continue, “Look, I don’t force anyone. I just give the wives the option. They make the decision, not me. It’s hardly my fault their husbands were such big dicks, every single woman I’ve helped so far has made that choice.”
“I did,” Amy suddenly pipes up behind you and positions herself slightly beside you, braver now than before.
Dean’s bewildered momentarily but reins it in quickly. He doesn’t move, doesn’t lower the gun, and doesn’t give you the satisfaction of shifting his focus. Even Sam shuffles behind him, his presence a reminder of the conversation they had back at the motel. Talk first. But Dean’s not ready to budge quite yet. To be fair, though, he is talking to you and hasn’t pulled the trigger so far.
“Look, I don’t care about your twisted little moral code,” Dean huffs, raising his gun an inch higher again, aiming straight for your heart. “All this crap stops now, or I’m putting a bullet in your head. Understand?”
Honestly, it’s the best he can offer. He’s giving you a clear out, a fair warning shot, and that’s way more than he usually grants people.
“No, please, you can’t do this,” Amy throws in, her voice breaking as she steps forward, pulling her son with her.
Up close, the bruising on her cheek looks worse than from a distance. It’s too fresh, too angry, and a little too real for Dean’s taste. Her eyes are pleading as she looks at him.
“You have to let her do the spell,” she continues, desperation bleeding into every syllable. “You don’t know what my husband’s like, okay? We can’t go back there. If we stay, he’s going to–… he’s going to kill me. Or him.” She swallows harshly, her hand tightening around her son’s shoulder. “This is our only chance.”
The kid glances at Dean again, and the fear’s still palpable in his eyes. Not of you but still of him, though. Nothing lines up the way it’s supposed to. You don’t look like a monster. They don’t look like victims. And he’s standing here with a gun pointed at the only person they trust, which makes this entire situation a little more complicated than he likes.
Dean finds himself in a moral deadlock, unable to give the woman a satisfying answer, and that’s when Sam steps forward and provides one, hazel eyes locking on you.
“How exactly does it work?”
You seem to be grateful for the attempt to understand, exhaling a small breath of relief. “It’s like a glamour,” you reply. “It doesn’t make them invisible or change their appearance. It just makes them harder to notice. Harder to find.”
Dean glances back at Amy and her son, thinks back to the seemingly innocent home he visited this morning and the bad feeling he got when he walked through it that manifested in a prickle down his spine. She looks at him now like he’s the guy that stands between her freedom and her prison. And she looks at you like you’re her savior.
Whatever happened to things being fucking black and white, huh? Amy and her son certainly aren’t siding with him. Your friend obviously doesn’t either. And even Sam seems to crumble and fall for your little act. Is Dean the only one who still sees things clearly here?
He knows when things are good. Knows when they’re evil. There’s no in-between. But you seem to be one giant ass gray zone.
Then he remembers what Sam told him back at the motel – boundary-walker.
Dean thinks that surely fits you. If nothing’s really one thing or the other, then you certainly don’t fall cleanly on either side. Most importantly, you break cycles that shouldn’t keep going.
So far, the lore seems to check out. But Dean’s getting the feeling you wouldn’t even know what that means yet.
He tilts his head at you, studies you a little closer. His brow is creased so hard he feels the migraine coming on. The entire time that he’s been pointing a gun at you, you haven’t even tried to defend yourself once with something other than words. No spells. No hex bags thrown his way. No lift of a finger that would fling him into the next car.
Dean takes that into account.
“Alright, fine,” he relents and lets out small sigh. “Go ahead. Do it.”
“For real?” Your brow pinches – surprised, confused, maybe even shocked. “You… sure? This isn’t some trick where I turn around and you shoot me in the back, is it?”
Dean stares at you without blinking, sighs once more internally, and then removes the magazine from his gun. He holds it up for proof (or as a sign of good faith or whatever) and then pockets it in his leather jacket.
“Happy now?”
You hesitate a moment, then toss him a glare of all things before turning to your friend, clearly unconvinced.
Well, he tried.
“Paige, watch him.”
She nods, crosses her arms, and then stares daggers at him, too. Even Amy still looks at him disapprovingly.
What the hell do these women want from him? He’s given them everything they wanted, and they still ask for fucking more.
You turn to Amy and her son, shooting him one last little glare over your shoulder before crouching down to the kid’s level. The boy actually smiles at you, which irks Dean slightly. Where was his smile when he came to save everyone?
“You and Rusty ready?” you ask the boy.
He nods, then bites his lip, looking at you with big eyes. “Does it hurt?”
You shake your head softly. “Not even a little. Pinky swear,” you assure him and offer him your little finger. He takes you up on the offer with a shy smile.
“Is it like the Cloak of Invisibility?”
You smile at that. “Already reading Harry Potter, huh?”
The boy nods eagerly.
You laugh softly. “Well, it’s kinda like that. But you’re always gonna be visible to your mom, so no playing pranks on her like Fred and George, okay? But bad people won’t be able to see you.”
The boy looks up from his stuffy at that. “Like my dad?”
You exhale a small breath. “Yeah, like your dad.”
“Good.” The boy gives another decisive nod. “He hurts my mommy.”
“I know,” you say quietly as Amy’s grip tightens the tiniest bit on her son’s shoulder. Dean can see it. “But he won’t be able to anymore from now on, okay?” You then hold out both your palms. “Just gotta take my hand. Your mom, too,” you explain and glance up at Amy.
Both of them then place a hand in yours. Dean watches carefully, ready to reach for any weapon at his disposal if things turn sour. But you only close your eyes, take a deep inhale, and then mumble something incoherent under your breath.
A few seconds later, you let go of them again and rise to your feet. “Alright, you guys are good to go.”
“That’s it?” Dean cocks an eyebrow.
You glance back over your shoulder at him, amused. “Did you expect fireworks?”
Honestly, he doesn’t know what he expected. Maybe showmanship. Maybe theatrics. Maybe even a blinding light like an alien abduction. But this felt calmer than any of that. Not like a spell but like a blessing. Protection. Maternal, even.
That’s what the rune said too, isn’t it?
“You’re like Hermione,” the little boy tells you with a big smile.
You match his expression. “I guess I am,” you say with enough pride to make your chest swell and then toss Dean a smug grin. “You heard that?”
“I have no idea what the hell that even means,” he retorts, which earns him not only a frown from you but from Sam as well. Dean can see the bitchface in his periphery.
And just for the record, he knows exactly what that meant. Still doesn’t care all that much, however.
“No more breaking things of husbands, though. We clear on that?” he adds sternly and feels like a father scolding a child. He sounds a million years old. What the fuck is happening to him?
You roll your eyes back like a teenager and sigh loudly. “Fine.”
Paige then timidly raises her hand.
Dean snaps his attention to her. “Yeah?”
“Can I still slash his tires?”
He scowls, exhaling a deep sigh. “Is there magic involved?”
She shakes her head vividly.
“Then fine.”
“What?!” you gasp in disbelief. “Oh, so that’s allowed? What if I break a guy’s dick manually? Still gonna shoot me then?”
He scratches the back of his neck, then gives a shrug. “Don’t see a problem with that.”
“Unbelievable,” you scoff. “So this is just about you not liking magic.”
He smirks slightly. “Guilty as charged.”
That earns him another glare from you.
“Go for the car,” Amy tells you then with a newfound casualness. “God knows he always loved that stupid thing more than us.”
“Ugh,” Paige groans and rolls her eyes. “Guys who are obsessed with their cars are always a red flag.”
You and Amy hum in agreement.
“What? That’s not–” Dean starts to argue, but as the first words tumble out of his mouth, the three women are already staring at him with judgmental looks.
Sam snorts audibly behind him while Paige and Amy only look slightly amused. You, on the other hand, are enjoying this a little too much, judging by your knowing grin, and Dean tries to think hard how you could even possibly know that about him before he remembers that he told you about Baby back at the bar.
Dammit.
You then bid your goodbyes to Amy and her son, watching them drive off into the literal sunset, and Dean’s chest oddly fills with warmth as he watches them take off into a hopefully better life. A mother and her son are finally safe. This is a good thing, right?
But it’s not over yet.
While you’re still busy, Dean busies himself as well, mostly with putting the magazine back where it belongs. And as soon as Amy is out of sight and you turn back around, the familiar click of his gun echoes through the nightly silence once more.
“Seriously?” You gape incredulously as you stare down the barrel again.
“Sorry, but we ain’t done yet,” he tells you without meaning the apology in it. “Let’s take this inside. Have a chat.” He slightly waves the gun in the direction of your apartment building and then looks at Paige still standing there. “You too, sweetheart.”
But as soon as his weapon only remotely aims at your friend, you bristle and charge forward.
“Do not point that gun at her,” you growl warningly. “If you so much as hurt a single hair on her head, I swear to God I will break your dick next. Permanently.”
Dean snorts a chuckle, his gun coming up a fraction higher, aim sharpening at you. “Oh, you’re dead before you can even pull out the hex bag, bitch.”
You grimace, face twisting with immediate disgust. “Ew, I don’t do hex bags,” you scoff. “It’s a spell, idiot. And I don’t even have to say it out loud. I can do it in my head.”
Dean huffs a laugh. “You’re bluffing.”
But you don’t budge, crossing your arms. “Try me.”
His eyes narrow at you, weighing the threat. Admittedly, even if you are bluffing, you’ve got a damn good pokerface.
“Just let her go, please,” you add, more sincere and pleading to the goodness in him this time. “It’s not a coven thing or whatever you’re thinking. She’s not a witch. Your beef’s with me, alright?”
Dean scratches his temple with the handle of his gun, hoping the stupid headache will pass soon, and then shares a look with Sam, who only shrugs his broad shoulders in response.
Awesome.
He licks his lips, contemplates for another second, and then gives a nod. “Alright, go. Don’t make me regret it,” he caves, jerking his head toward Paige.
She doesn’t wait for a second invitation. “Okay, yep, great, love that for me–” she babbles, already backing toward your car.
You toss her the keys and give her a nod that signals you’re okay. She returns it, swallows hard, and then starts the car, peeling out of the parking lot.
Dean then steps forward slowly, closing the distance between you, the gun never wavering. Whatever this is, whatever you are, he’s far from done yet.
“Alright, fun’s over, sweetheart,” he announces and doesn’t leave room for argument. “Inside. Now. We’re gonna have a nice, long talk.”
The key in your hand jitters as you try to fumble it into the small hole of your front door, the click of the lock ringing too loudly in the silent death of night.
That’s the first thing you’ve learned ever since you’ve been confronted with the wrong end of a gun about an hour ago – everything just feels awfully louder when there’s a bullet carved with your name in it involved.
You can feel him behind you without turning. He’s close enough that the heat of his presence bleeds through your shirt, close enough that if you moved back even an inch, you’d probably bump right into him. The awareness of it sits under your skin. It’s a constant, buzzing feeling that’s impossible to ignore.
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about the gun. Don’t think about how fast this could go wrong.
Don’t think about how you almost died ten minutes ago on your own doorstep like some kind of cosmic joke.
The weight of the gun feels almost physical even when you’re not looking at it. Your body just knows where it is, where it’s pointed, and what it can do. It presses between your shoulder blades as you push the door open. It’s a phantom touch that makes your breath come just a little too shallow and your pulse just a little too loud in your ears.
Your apartment then greets you in familiar chaos, and for one stupid, disorienting second, it feels like stepping into a different life entirely. All of it – the gun at your back, the two strange men in your home – fades away for a second, and it grounds you enough to catch your breath momentarily.
For a heartbeat, it’s just warm light and hanging plants swaying gently from the ceiling. The smell of rosemary, sage, and lavender drifts in from the kitchen windowsill where your little herb garden thrives in mismatched pots. The crystals and trinkets scattered across your shelves are decorative clutter and not anything meaningful or even dangerous.
It’s all carefully curated in a way that makes Paige roll her eyes every time and label it witchcore as if it’s solely an aesthetic and not your entire personality.
It looks like a twenty-two-year-old girl lives here. It looks like you.
Not a witch. Not a threat. Not a weapon. Not whatever the hell he thinks you are.
“Inside. Move,” Metallica orders behind you, the sharpness of his baritone voice cutting cleanly through the air.
You tentatively step forward because survival instinct overrides pride. After all, you’re pretty sure the alternative would be a bullet.
You barely make it three steps in before you feel him push past you. He’s all sharp edges and efficiency as he sweeps your place with a precision that makes your stomach twist. His boots are heavy against your wooden floorboards as he checks corners, sightlines, and shadows as if he expects something to jump out at him. It’s clear he’s done this exact same thing probably a million times before in his life.
Bon Jovi, on the other hand, stays near the door. He’s quieter, watching everything and everyone at once, his presence softer but no less aware. His aura flickers in your periphery when you dare to steal a sideways glimpse at him – blue and yellow and that unmistakable thread of violet woven through it like a secret he doesn’t fully understand himself.
You hover near the entryway for half a second before–
“Sit,” Metallica orders, gesturing his chin toward your old couch without ever taking his eyes off the metaphorical dragon in the room.
God, you wish there was a spell for turning yourself into an actual dragon. That’d be kind of neat right now.
His aura is spewing fire as well and feels almost overwhelming, swallowing everything in the room in a ball of flames. It’s coiled tightly like a spring ready to snap, which doesn’t really soothe your worries in the slightest.
Yeah, he’s definitely the knight with a sword.
You slowly and carefully lower yourself into the soft cushions, the plush underground only bringing you little comfort for once. Every step and every breath you take feels like you’re walking a tightrope strung between cooperating and getting shot. Every sudden movement might get you killed.
Which, truthfully, doesn’t feel that far off from reality. It’s a pretty solid assumption at this point.
You keep your hands instinctively visible, gripping the edge of the couch just enough to ground you, but you want to stay as non-threatening and harmless as possible.
Very harmless. So harmless. The most harmless.
Metallica, however, still doesn’t lower the gun. Doesn’t even seem to consider it. Of course he doesn’t.
Stupid knight.
Your bag barely leaves your shoulder before Metallica snatches it from you, fingers brushing yours for half a heartbeat. The touch is so brief and accidental it barely registers or even counts as contact, but it still sends a strange little jolt up your arm, something electric and unwelcome that you shove down immediately.
Focus.
He tosses the bag to Bon Jovi. “Check it. She’s had it at the bar. Got her little spell book in there.”
So that was your downfall, the reason he caught your scent and hunted you down – he peeked inside your bag back at Clancy’s.
Shit.
You knew he was off at the end there before you left. You should’ve caught onto it. You should’ve trusted your gut and made a run for it as soon as you were in the clear. You could already be at the damn border to Canada if you’d done that instead of being held at gunpoint in your own home now.
His partner catches your bag, but there’s more hesitation and less aggression gleaming in his hazel eyes. He drops it on the coffee table instead of dumping it out, fingers lingering on the zipper for a second like he’s aware this is still… you.
Your stuff. Your home. Your life.
You can tell he’s trying to preserve some illusion of normalcy for your sake, even though that’s already long gone. But you admittedly like him. He feels like someone who thinks before he acts.
Metallica, on the other hand, feels like someone who acts and deals with the thinking later.
If at all.
Which, granted, is super unfortunate for you, considering he’s the one holding the gun.
As Bon Jovi then reaches into your bag and pulls out your notebook, your stomach dips the slightest bit. Not because it’s dangerous or cursed or whatever other nonsense they might think. God, no. But because it’s soft-edged and worn and cute. There’s a literal pressed daisy peeking out from the back pages like you’re about to write poetry in it instead of spells that occasionally ruin men’s lives.
Speaking of, you’re also pretty sure there’s still the I <3 Jared & Heath inscription on the back cover you scribbled in tenth grade. Leto and Ledger, that is.
But as Metallica steps closer and takes a look at it, it’s the symbol on the cover that catches both their attention.
ᛒ
You catch the look that passes between them – recognition. It’s your family rune, really only meaningful to you, so you wonder what it is to them. How the hell do they know about it? And most importantly, why are they interested in it?
Your heart hammers a little faster when Bon Jovi flips the notebook open. Then he pauses before a full frown forms.
“Uh… Dean?”
Metallica doesn’t even look up at first, eyes sternly locked on you the entire time, except for when they still occasionally scan the room like he expects to find a damn demon hiding behind your Swiss cheese plant.
“What?” he snaps, agitation rolling off him in feet-high tidal waves.
Bon Jovi tilts the notebook slightly, like maybe the angle will change what he’s seeing. He glances down at the pages again, brows knitting together. “This is written in, uh… glitter gel pens.”
There’s a beat of silence. Metallica’s head lifts.
And then, he turns and marches over, yanking the notebook out of his partner’s hands like he doesn’t quite believe Bon Jovi. He begins to flip through it himself with all the subtlety of a goddamn hurricane. Fast. Rough. The deeper he gets, the more his expression shifts from certainty to… confusion. His brows crease more and more with every page – color-coded sections, little stars and stickers in the margins, and the occasional doodle you did while bored.
Your heart pounds harder with every second that passes, your mind racing through possibilities, escape routes, spells you could cast if you had to, but you don’t move a single muscle. Because for now, you’re still alive – and you’d like to keep it that way.
“What the hell is this?” Metallica demands to know at last, holding up your spell book like it’s a personal betrayal in his rigid belief system.
“I like to color-code my spells.” You shrug, because honestly, what else are you supposed to say?
It doesn’t feel like he’s still judging you based on witchcraft anymore. Now you suddenly have to justify your choices in stationary. Of all the ways you thought this night could go, that certainly wasn’t high on the list.
And who is he to judge your pen choices anyway? You started that book when you were seven. What were you supposed to do? Change to normal pens midway through? Who does that? You’re not a psycho.
Bon Jovi blinks at you, curiosity bleeding through the tension for a second. “You wrote these yourself?”
“My grandma gave me that book. I write all of my spells myself,” you confirm. There’s a flicker of pride there despite the gun pointed at your face. You fucking worked for those. Trial and error – with emphasis on lots of error.
Metallica narrows his eyes at you – unamused, unimpressed, and completely unfazed. “Oh, so if I have a look around here, I won’t find any ancient spell books, grimoires, maybe a cat skull or two…?” he asks, the rasp in his voice dripping skepticism.
You gesture loosely around the apartment. “Go on and look, but you won’t find anything here,” you tell him. He might find a lot of embarrassing stuff, especially under your bed, but if that means you get to live, you don’t really care. “Look, yes, occasionally I use my magic to teach someone a lesson. I once made my high school bully puke for twenty-four hours straight,” you admit, because honesty seems like the safer route when there’s a gun involved. “But I mostly just try to help people, okay? I never seriously harmed someone. I wouldn’t do that.”
“No, we don’t!” Metallica snaps immediately, the betrayal in his green eyes landing on his partner now.
“Yes, we do,” Bon Jovi counters, firmer this time, and then turns back to you with a newfound softness in his eyes. “We just need some answers, alright?”
But Metallica cuts in again with the bluntness of a hammer before you can respond. “You get your powers from demons?”
“What? No!” Your brow furrows wildly, affronted. “I don’t use dark magic or hoodoo or voodoo or any other crap you come across. Hell, I’m not even Wiccan. My grandma always said these bitches stole from us.”
Bon Jovi huffs a chuckle under his breath. He’s clearly trying to redirect before his hothead partner escalates again. “You’re a natural witch, right?”
“Yeah, I’ve had my powers since I was seven. That’s usually when they unlock in my family.”
Metallica’s gaze only sharpens. “So your mom and grandma were witches, too?”
“Every woman in my family was as far as I know. Probably going back centuries,” you reply. “But my grandma always taught me to help people. Hunters specifically.”
That causes Metallica to pause his nervous pacing for a moment.
His head tilts slightly. “What d’you mean?”
You huff softly, running a hand through your hair. “Honestly? I don’t really know myself.” Your shoulders lift in a small shrug. “Look, I can tell you what you want to know, but I didn’t lie back at the lab. I was eleven when they died. I really don’t remember all that much. I remember the house and the fire, and I remember some of the stuff they taught me, bedtime stories… But that’s it. I’ve never gone back there since then.”
Metallica studies you intensely. “So you do remember the fire? Wasn’t really faulty wiring, was it?”
“No,” you say quietly. “It was a demon.”
“A demon?” he repeats, putting emphasis on the singularity.
“What color were his eyes?” his partner asks immediately.
“Black?” Metallica throws in.
“No.” You shake your head and look at them. “Yellow.”
The word drops like you just threw a grenade into the room and then ran away.
You don’t need to read auras to feel the shift in them. Bon Jovi’s yellow is flaring, the blue tightening, and the mulberry purple pulses harder. In contrast, Metallica’s red spikes, the hunter green goes razor-sharp, and the gray thickens like storm clouds rolling in.
Yeah, that most definitely meant something to them.
“And you said you had your powers since you were seven?” Bon Jovi continues carefully. “It didn’t start in the last year or so?”
“No, I’m pretty sure,” you huff a small laugh, not following his line of questioning. “Magic’s always been a part of me.”
There’s another look between them.
“Means she’s not one of them,” Bon Jovi murmurs under his breath, leaning closer to his partner.
“Doesn’t fit the pattern,” the other mutters back.
You frown, leaning forward, eyes flicking between them. “What pattern?”
The tall one hesitates. You can even see it in his aura as it pulls in two directions – logic versus instinct.
“Look, uhm–”
“Sam, don’t tell her anything,” Metallica warns.
“Dean, she might be able to help.”
“You heard her. She doesn’t know anything.”
“She might know enough.”
“Help with what?” you press. At this point, you are deeply fucking invested in not being the only confused person in this room. You’re either getting answers, or you’ll die trying.
Bon Jovi exhales a long breath and then seems to come to a decision. He drops into the armchair opposite you. “I–, uh, I have–”
“Sam!”
“–I have abilities, too,” he finishes, undeterred by his partner’s protests.
“What kinda abilities?” you ask, genuinely curious now.
“I get these, uh… premonitions,” he explains. “I can see how people die. At least most times.”
You grimace slightly. “That sucks.”
“Yeah,” he huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, it does.”
You tilt your head, studying him. “Explains the purple.”
“Purple?” Metallica’s head snaps up, unfortunately giving you his undivided attention again.
“His aura,” you explain. “Yellow, blue, and purple. Violet shades usually point to psychic abilities – or at least strong intuition. Mine’s purple, too. Lupine, actually.”
But your little grin is only met with more of Metallica’s stoicism.
“What?”
“You know, like the flower?” you clarify, but he just keeps staring at you till you sigh in defeat. “Never mind.”
“You can read auras?” Bon Jovi asks then.
You nod softly.
Metallica crosses his arms at that, observing you like you’re a puzzle he can’t solve and it’s starting to annoy him. “What else can you do?”
You decide not to answer with words. Seeing is believing after all, right?
So, you don’t move. You don’t speak. You just let them see.
The candles on your shelves then ignite one by one, filling the room with soft flames and a warm glow. The fireplace then follows and catches next, a low and soothing crackle filling the space. And then, every one of your plants begin to bloom and blossom all around them.
“My abilities are mostly tied to the natural elements – fire, water, earth…” you say. “I read tarot and auras. My grandma taught me when I was a kid. Otherwise, I guess I’m just… winging it.” You shrug lightly. “After they died, I never had anyone to teach me any of this stuff. And Mia didn’t want me to use my abilities for a long time.”
Bon Jovi turns to his partner. “Dean, we should just tell her. Maybe she knows what Dad did there that night.”
“No, we’re not gonna share all our secrets with some witch, Sam,” Metallica shoots back. “We can’t trust her, man. You know that.”
Bon Jovi lets out a frustrated sigh, his gaze flicking between you and his partner. He stares at you for a second longer and then decides to take a chance and go for it, ignoring Metallica’s warnings. “Look, our names are Sam and Dean Winchester, alright?”
“Dude.” Metallica throws his arms up and starts to pace again.
But you can’t really focus on him. Your attention stays with Bon Jovi – Sam.
Brothers. Sons.
“Winchester?” you repeat slowly. “As in… John Winchester?”
Dean spins around at that, brow raised. “Oh, so you do know him. Guess that was another lie, huh?”
“He’s our dad… was our dad,” Sam adds.
“He was your dad?” You swallow lightly. “And he died?”
“Demon killed him,” Dean says without an ounce of emotion in his voice. He presents it as a simple fact, but his aura is on the fritz, so you know he’s got tons of ugly stuff buried deep down there.
“The same one?” you ask quietly.
“Yeah, couple weeks ago. That’s why we’re here,” Sam explains. “He had some notes on your family. On you, specifically. We’re just trying to find answers so we can finally kill this thing.”
You swallow, gaze drifting back and forth between them. “What kinda answers?”
Dean takes a step closer, shoulders squared. The weapon is lowered in his hand, but it’s by far forgotten. “What was he doing there that night?”
“He was there for a visit,” you reply. “I think the demon surprised them.”
“Visit?” The word seems to rub him the wrong way.
“This wasn’t the first time he was there?” Sam asks then.
“No.” You shake your head. “He’s been to Sugar Hill a few times. Earliest I remember was before I even had my powers.”
They share another look.
“What was he doing there?” Dean asks.
“Seeing my mom and grandma.”
“For what?”
“He wanted their help with the demon.”
“Do you know what they maybe talked about?” Sam asks this time.
“I really don’t know.” You shrug helplessly. “I was just a kid. They would send me to my room or outside to play. I only ever overheard bits and pieces.”
“Anything specific you can remember?”
“No, sorry. All I remember is that he said he needed help with a demon, and then they would whisper a lot and go up to the attic.”
“The attic?” Dean echoes, cocking a brow.
“That’s where my grandma kept all her spell books and would perform rituals,” you share. You can still remember that place, how the sunlight slanted through the stained-glass windows across the creaking floorboards.
Dean glances at his brother. “Maybe we’ll find something there?” Then his pine green eyes swerve back to you. “What else is up there?”
“Like I said, I don’t know,” you reiterate, gritting your teeth slightly. “I’ve never been back there since, and I don’t plan on going back ever again,” you state firmly. “Look, I like my life and I’ve been trying to stay away from all this crap for as long as possible. No demons, no ghosts, no monsters. All it’s ever done is kill everyone in my family. I’m not gonna be next on that list.”
“Don’t you wanna find out what happened to them?” Sam asks softly.
“Not really, no,” you reply bluntly. “I’ve made peace with what I know. I don’t need the nitty-gritty details.”
“Hate to break it to you, but this thing might still be after you,” Dean throws in.
“There’s a reason our dad hid you and faked your death. That was him, right?” Sam adds.
You give them a nod. “He told Mia to get me out and make sure I stay hidden. Never saw him again after that. But I remember he was nice.”
“Nice?” Dean scoffs. “We talking about the same guy?”
“I remember once sitting in the backseat of that car you drive,” you state and smile weakly, which seems to catch him by surprise. You finally realized where you’d seen it before. You should’ve recognized it sooner, but you’d shoved all those memories down deep a long time ago. “It was on the night of the fire, actually. But that’s it. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
“Did you know you were born during a blood moon?” Sam asks then, stumping you this time for a second.
“Uhm… no?” You blink a few times, tilting your head. “Didn’t exactly check the sky when I was born. But I do find it creepy you know that.”
Dean snorts. “She’s got you there, man.”
Sam looks up at his brother. “She still might be a target if they find out she’s alive.”
“So? How’s that our problem?” Dean shoots back.
You quirk a brow at that. “You wanna share that with the class maybe?”
Somehow, you’re getting the feeling your life might be in danger, and it’s not just because of the maniac with a loaded gun in your living room.
“Look,” Dean snaps, weapon aiming for you again, “maybe my brother here buys your little act of innocence, but I don’t, alright? There’s no way our dad would’ve worked with freaking witches. You’re clearly lying to save your ass, and I’ve had enough of it.”
The click of the gun is deafening.
But his aura? The brick-red is becoming unstable and exploding, ready to burn down everything in its way. You’ve never witnessed someone going nuclear before, but your body reacts instantly. You push off the couch, backing up step by step until your spine hits the cold wall behind you. There’s nowhere else to go. Nowhere to run.
“I’m not lying,” you say, forcing the words out past the fear clawing up your throat.
“Dean–”
“No, I’m done, alright?” he cuts Sam off, but his eyes stay fixed on you. “She doesn’t know anything, and even if she does, we can’t trust her, man. Safer to kill her now than wait for her to strike a deal with a demon and sell us out down the road.”
“You wanna kill me so badly? Fine. Go ahead, big guy,” you grit and straighten your shoulders. Your voice feels unsteady, but it doesn’t waver, which surprises even you, considering how hard your heart is pounding, feeling each beat in your ears. “But it won’t change anything. And it for sure as hell won’t make you feel better about yourself.”
You push off the wall and take a step forward. Then another. He doesn’t back up, but he doesn’t lower the weapon either.
“You really think I’m the monster here?” you scoff and lock eyes with him. “Because I’m not the one pointing a gun at someone. You are.”
The barrel presses to your forehead, cold, unforgiving, and final. But you don’t even see the gun anymore. All you see is him, and all he sees is you.
That’s the breaking point.
His fingers tighten imperceptibly around the weapon. His breath hitches. There’s a tick in his tense jaw that feels like a countdown. Every emotion he keeps chained up inside of him collides right then and there.
You can see the cracks clearly now in his armor. All you have to do right now is get in there and rip them wide open till the wounds are bleeding.
“The sad part is you’re so broken you can’t even see it,” you say. “But I can. You barge in here all righteous and wave a gun around, but you never look in the mirror, do you? So, go on. Do it. Kill me if you think it makes you feel any better. Prove you’re just like the things you claim to hunt. But I promise you it won’t work. You’re just gonna feel like a bigger monster after.”
For a moment, everything stills. But his aura is flickering, the red dimming just enough for something human to break through the cracks.
He exhales sharply, breaths ragged and uneven. The hand with the gun drops to his side, shaking slightly. And then, he just storms off.
The door slams behind him with a force that causes the walls to thunder.
In his wake, there’s only silence. You don’t move. You don’t even breathe. Every nerve in your body is trembling.
“I’m sorry,” Sam’s voice rips you out of your daze.
You flinch, having forgotten for a second that he was still there. As you dare to glance at him, he looks at you with apology written all over his face.
“He’s–, uhm… he’s going through some stuff,” he offers as an excuse – or maybe it’s just an explanation.
Either way, you don’t really give a shit.
“Get out,” you snap, the terror in your veins finally spilling over into anger.
“I just–…” His mouth opens and closes a few times, hesitating. “Look, if you ever remember anything, or change your mind–” He scribbles something down on a note and places it carefully on the coffee table in front of you, mindful of keeping his distance. “Call me, alright?”
“Out.”
“Yeah, okay, alright.” He nods quickly, palms raised in surrender as he backs away. “I’m really sorry. Again.”
And then he’s finally gone, too.
The door clicks shut softly this time, but the silence that follows is anything but.
Then, your legs give out.
You slide down the wall, hands shaking, breath coming in sharp, labored bursts as the adrenaline finally crashes fully and rushes out of your blood.
You’re alive. Somehow. Barely.
And as you sit there on your floor, staring at nothing, all the things they said and unloaded on you tonight still swirling through your mind, you only hold onto one thing:
If you never have to see those two again in your life, you surely know it will be a good one.
Dean doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t want to. Because if he does, he might see your face again. Might hear your voice again. Might start thinking.
And that’s the last thing he fucking needs right now.
The cold night air burns his lungs on the way in and does nothing to cool the heat simmering under his skin. His boots carry him forward on instinct alone, gravel crunching too loudly beneath each step, and it feels like the world’s turned the volume up solely to piss him off.
By the time he reaches Baby, his pulse is still hammering, breath coming fast and uneven as if he just ran a mile instead of a couple dozen yards. His hands feel unsteady as he yanks the door open, the metal groaning in protest. He drops into the driver’s seat and slams the door shut behind him with more force than necessary, the sound reverberating down the quiet street.
For a long moment, he just sits there. Hands on the wheel. Jaw clenched. Chest rising and falling too damn fast.
The familiar smell of leather and gun oil wraps around him and grounds him a little in a way nothing else ever can.
This – this he understands. This makes sense. The car, the hunt, the rules. Monsters are bad. He kills them. End of story.
Simple.
Except nothing’s fucking simple anymore, is it?
Dean exhales sharply through his nose, rubbing a hand down his face as he leans back against the seat, eyes squeezing shut for half a second.
Prove you’re just like the things you claim to hunt.
His jaw tightens. He shakes his head as if he can physically dislodge the echo of your voice.
But this ain’t how it works – not how any of it fucking works. You don’t get to flip it on him just like that. You don’t get to stand there with your soft voice and your shaking hands and look like you belong anywhere but in the middle of this goddamn mess, acting like he’s the fucking problem all of a sudden.
You’re a witch. That should be enough. It’s always been enough.
Except–
Dean’s grip tightens on the wheel, knuckles whitening as he tries to push the thought down. But the memory replays whether he wants it to or not.
You, standing in front of that woman and her kid like a damn shield. The boy looking at him like he’s the thing to be afraid of.
But it doesn’t mean anything, right? Doesn’t prove jack. Because he’s seen monsters play nice before. Seen them smile, talk, pretend. That’s how they fucking get you.
That’s how they win.
And you? You’re just better at it than most. He gives you that. But that’s all there is to it.
Dean exhales again, slower this time, forcing the oxygen out of his lungs like he’s trying to push every doubt out with it. His head’s pounding at this point. It started back at the apartment. It’s a dull but persistent ache, sitting right behind his eyes and building with every thought he doesn’t want to think.
Witches.
His dad worked with freaking witches. The idea alone sits wrong in his gut and tastes sour on his tongue. John Winchester surely didn’t work with things like that. Didn’t make deals, didn’t play nice, didn’t fucking trust anything that wasn’t human. And even then, that was pushing it most times.
Except, apparently, that’s not the whole damn story now, is it? It never seems to be these days. Because, apparently, there’s a whole list of things John Winchester did that Dean never fucking knew about.
His grip tightens again.
First, it was the hospital, the last conversation they shared seared into his goddamn brain like his father personally carved it there with his hunting knife.
Then came Ellen – a whole damn network of hunters. Family once, according to her. And somehow, the brothers still never heard a damn word about any of them growing up.
And now this – you. Another secret.
New Hampshire. Witches. Visits Dean doesn’t remember. Conversations he was never part of.
Secrets on top of secrets on top of more fucking secrets, stacking higher the longer he goddamn sits here. They’re threatening to bury him under the weight of all the things his father never said.
When the hell does it ever goddamn end?
He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, staring down at the floorboard like it might have answers written into the worn metal.
He tries to think back, really think, and dig deep.
Motels. Highways. Cheap diners and long drives and nights spent waiting for his dad to come back from a hunt.
New Hampshire – it still doesn’t ring a single bell.
But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. There were a ton of places and a lot of nights where their dad would drop them somewhere “safe” and disappear for days at a time, coming back with blood on his knuckles and a stupid story that never quite added up.
Dean always figured that was just the job. But now? He’s not so damn sure anymore.
A sharp sting then suddenly cuts through the dull ache in his head, quick and sudden enough to make him hiss under his breath. His hand comes up instinctively, pressing against his temple as the pain spikes before it subsides again.
Dean blinks, frowning slightly as he straightens in his seat. He leans back, brow creased, and that’s when he remembers it.
The symbol. Your family rune.
He suddenly knows where he’s seen it before. He shifts in his seat and pulls out his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. There’s a faint indentation in the worn leather. His thumb brushes over it till he feels the shape beneath it – small, round, and familiar in a way he can’t quite place.
Dean frowns deeper and flips it open, fingers sliding into the slot and pulling out a small bronze charm about the size of a coin. It catches the dim glow of the streetlight filtering through the windshield, the dulled metal still glinting as he turns it between his fingers. And then, he sees the symbol etched into it.
ᛒ
For a second, everything just… clicks. He’s seen this before. Not just tonight, not just on that torn page from his dad’s journal, and not just on the cover of your little glitter-pen notebook.
Before that – way before that.
A vague memory resurfaces, hazy and blurry around the edges. He can barely hang onto it and shape it into focus. He might have been nine, maybe ten, and he was sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala. His dad then handed him something small and cold, telling him to keep it close.
“For protection,” his father had said.
And Dean? He never questioned it. He just shoved it into his wallet and moved on – like he always did. And then, he just… forgot about it. For more than a decade, that thing sat in his back pocket like it didn’t mean a damn thing.
But now it does, doesn’t it?
Dean turns the charm over in his fingers again, staring at the rune like it might explain itself if he looks hard enough.
What if you were telling the truth? What if his dad really did work with your family? What if this, this little piece of harmless metal sitting in his palm, came from them?
Dean lets out a frustrated breath, shaking his head as if that alone can knock the stupid idea loose.
God, he fucking hates that it makes sense.
The sound of the passenger door creaking open then snaps him out of his convoluted thoughts.
Dean’s head jerks up, and in one smooth motion, the charm disappears into his jacket pocket, fingers curling around it for half a second before he lets it go again.
Sam slides into the seat beside him, the door shutting with a quieter, more controlled thud than Dean’s earlier, but the peace doesn’t last for too long.
“Dean, what the hell was that?”
Dean doesn’t look at his little brother. He just stares straight ahead out the windshield, expression hardening back into solid walls of steel.
“What did it look like, Sam? I handled it,” he scoffs flatly.
Sam lets out a disbelieving huff at that. “Handled it? You call that handling it?” He runs a hand through his hair, frustration lacing his voice. “Dean, you almost shot her.”
“Yeah, well, she gave me a reason.”
“No, she didn’t!” Sam shoots back, turning toward him fully now. “She was helping those people. You saw that.”
Dean’s jaw locks. “I saw a witch messing with people’s lives, Sammy.”
“She was saving them.”
“She was lying to us the whole time, man. Open your eyes,” Dean insists, sharper this time. If he says it enough, it’ll stick, right?
Sam stares at him for another second, trying to figure out if Dean actually believes that or if he’s just being stubborn for the hell of it.
“She could’ve helped us,” Sam says finally, quieter but no less firm. “You heard her. She knew Dad. Her family knew Dad. That’s not nothing.”
Dean’s grip on the wheel tightens again. “We don’t need her help.”
“Dean–”
“I said we don’t need it,” he snaps, cutting him off. His voice is low and controlled, but there’s an edge to it that makes it clear this conversation’s already halfway to being over.
Sam exhales an irritated breath, leaning back in his seat, shaking his head. “You’re being an idiot.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I’m serious,” Sam says, glancing out the windshield before looking back at him. “She’s not what you think she is.”
Dean scoffs a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah? So what? You got that from the whole five minutes you spent playing nice upstairs?”
“I got that from actually paying attention,” Sam fires back. “From watching her. From listening. She’s not hurting anyone, Dean. She might be the key Dad talked about.”
“She can light candles and let flowers bloom,” Dean counters. “Wouldn’t exactly classify those as demon-slaying powers, Sam.”
“Yeah, but you heard her. She might not even know what she’s capable of. No one ever taught her,” Sam argues.
“I don’t care,” Dean barks, fixing Sam with a deadly look. “We’re done with her.”
“Dean–”
“I mean it, Sam,” he warns. “We don’t call her. We don’t come back here. Am I making myself clear?”
Before Sam can argue again – because Dean can already see that his little brother wants to – he reaches over and cranks up the music, the sound blasting through the car, filling every inch of space until there’s no room left for words. He turns the key, and the engine roars to life, familiar and steady and thankfully loud enough to fucking drown out everything else.
Sam slumps back in his seat with a frustrated sigh, but he doesn’t try again. He knows better than that, just as Dean knows he bought himself a few hours of silence now.
He keeps his eyes on the road as he pulls away from the curb, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near his jacket pocket where the small metal charm sits hidden.
He doesn’t take it out again. Doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t even think about what it might mean. Nevertheless, he feels its presence there with a heaviness he can’t quite shake.
Sam believes Dean wants nothing to do with you because you singlehandedly stand for everything he’s ever hated in his life. Because he can’t understand you. Because he can’t trust you.
But that’s not entirely true.
Sure, there’s all of that crap, but Dean’s also heard you loud and crystal fucking clear upstairs:
You don’t want to be a part of this.
And Dean? He actually gets that. Hell, he’s not sure he’d give up a sweet life like that either.
It’s not that you’re too witchy. You’re too goddamn normal. That’s the real problem.
You don’t belong in this world full of monsters, demons, and blood. You’re not like the rest of it. Your place smelled like warmth and home instead of death and rot.
You looked at him like he was the bad guy. And hell, for a second there, he didn’t even have a good argument against it.
You have a life here. A stupidly normal one – as normal as it damn well gets for a witch, anyways. And this thing with demons and death and his dad’s secrets?
It always ruins everything it fucking touches.
▶️ Chapter 3: All of Those Best Laid Plans – June 12
Phew, looks like we survived our first not-so-friendly meeting with the Winchesters, especially Dean 😮💨😅 Something tells me she won't get over Dean pulling a gun on her anytime soon lol. Where will all three of them go from here, and will reader dig deeper into her own family before Sam does? 👀
I'm so curious to read all your guesses, especially concerning Dean's little memory blurbs and strange feelings. There might be a little more to it than meets the eye 😉
🔮 Series Masterlist
Coming Up:
You need answers.
Your hands are shaking as you reach for your purse and pull out your phone. You hesitate as your thumb hovers over the contact – a name you never thought you’d call. But then, you dial the number.
Sam picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”
You press your lips together for a second before speaking. “Is this Sam Winchester?” you check. “It’s–, uhm, it’s me. Salem witch you tried to kill?”
There’s a brief pause before he speaks again, his voice more alert than before. “Hey, uh, I’m surprised you called. Honestly didn’t expect it after the way we left.”
“Makes two of us,” you sigh. You still can’t believe you actually called him. It feels like you’re only following the white rabbit even deeper into the hole.
“Yeah, uhm, I can’t blame you,” he chuckles lightly. “But I’m glad you called. Sorry again how things went down. That wasn’t our intention.”
“Yeah? Does your brother share that sentiment?” you retort.
Sam’s silent for a moment, which is an answer in itself.
“Dean’s, uh–… It’s complicated,” is all Sam says. “You–, uh, you okay?”
“Define okay,” you huff under your breath, staring down at the letter in your lap again.
lowdown ☆ after homelander names you the seventh member of the seven, soldier boy learns exactly what your pretty little party trick can do.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x supe!reader ( f )
miles ☆ 9335 ride style ☆ smut !!!
danger on the trail ☆ explicit sexual content, rough sex, dirty talk, soldier boy being soldier boy, power dynamics, canon-typical toxicity, vought/the seven toxicity, homelander being unsettling, emotional manipulation/power use, public humiliation, manhandling, thigh grabbing, light choking, mirror sex, semi-public risk/vought surveillance implications, praise/degradation, possessive behavior, no actual romance.
liv's log ☆ a little self indulgent because i couldn't get this scenario out of my head after doing my compound v manifestation report .ᐟ 𐚁
the elevator climbs so smoothly, you almost don’t feel it move.
it’s intentional. vought doesn’t let important people feel machinery. it hides all the ugly effort behind glass, gold trim, soft lighting, clean mirrors, polished metals that do not dare show a fingerprint unless someone very rich has approved it. even the elevator is expensive—sterile and floral, some corporate interpretation fo calm sprayed into the vents so no one has a panic attack on the way to meet america’s most unstable collection of national assets.
sage stands behind you with her hands folded in front of her, perfectly still, perfectly bored.
she hasn’t looked at you once since the doors shut. you watch her reflection instead.
“homelander likes symbols,” she says. her voice is flat enough that it could mean nothing. but she is the smartest woman on the planet, so it doesn’t.
you tilt your head slightly, watching the numbers climb. “does he?”
“he likes completion. loyalty. visible gratitude. people who understand their place before he has to explain it to them.”
you smile a little, because the cameras in the elevator don’t even pretend to be hidden. “good thing i’m very grateful.”
sage’s reflection looks at you then. her posture doesn’t move entirely, just her eyes. “are you?”
“i’m here, aren’t i?”
that’s not the same thing. you know it. she knows it. somewhere above you, homelander probably knows that too. he chose you. that matters. not in the sweet way vought will sell it tomorrow morning, with your face lit gold on every screen in the lobby and some expensive headline about a new dawn for the seven. it matters because homelander is not making choices as a leader right now—he’s making them as a man trying to build a room where no one can leave him.
that makes you useful. that makes you dangerous. that makes you careful.
“he wants the seven to have seven members,” sage continues. “the joke got old.”
“must’ve been a very painful time for branding.”
“branding survives pain better than people do.”
you almost laugh, but you don’t. the elevator keeps climbing, and for a second, in the reflection of the doors, you catch yourself the way the world is going to catch you: clean hair, warm skin, mouth soft enough to trust, eyes bright enough to make people nervous if they look too long.
the suit helps. vought has never met a woman it didn’t want to turn into a product first and a person never. yours is golden and cream and fitted close to the body without tipping into firecracker’s cheap little flag-bikini theater. elegant, they called it. aspirational. high-necked but not modest, with a sculpted bodice that catches the light when you breathe and a deep, curved line across the chest that makes a point without begging for one. the fabric hugs the waist, your hips, the tops of your thighs, tailored and expensive and just armored enough to pretend it’s practical.
sage notices you looking at yourself. “don’t overplay it.”
you drag your gaze back to the doors. “my face?”
“your devotion.”
that one lands. the bitch is smart. her words aren’t a warning, but they don’t land cruel, either. they’re just enough to remind you she didn’t get her place here by missing things.
you turn your smile into something smaller, sweeter, easier to swallow. “i would never.”
“everyoen says that before they do.”
the elevator dings and sage steps forward first. you follow.
the hallway outside is colder, brighter—the kind of white that makes everyone look a little guilty. the seven’s meeting room waits at the end of it behind massive doors.
homelander stands when you enter. that’s the first thing everyone notices. not you. not the suit. not sage’s hand gesturing lazily in your direction as if she’s presenting a weather update instead of the newest member of the most powerful team on earth.
homelander stands, and the room changes around him. firecracker’s smile sharpens in a way that shows she’s trying to decide whether she hates you or wants to be photographed next to you. black noir says nothing, which makes ridiculous contrast with whatever the deep is thinking while his eyes briefly dip below your face. you let him look. then you meet his eyes. he looks away immediately, straightening up in his seat.
soldier boy, seated with one boot braced against the base of the table, doesn’t move at all. he just looks you over with the bored entitlement of a man who has survived too many decades of being told he’s the prize.
he’s bigger in person. uglier too—but not in the face. the face is unfortunately good. it’s the rest of him that’s ugly: the easy arrogance, the bored set of his mouth, the old-world confidence sitting on his shoulders like a coat he has never had to take off.
homelander smiles warmly at you.
“there she is,” he says, and the room listens because he says it like a benediction. “halo fever.”
you dip your chin just enough. not a bow. not submission. appreciation wrapped humbly. “sir.”
his smile deepens. “no, no, none of that.” he gestures you closer, palm open, inviting. “we’re family here.”
you walk further into the room, heels quiet against the floor, and stop near the empty chair at the end of the table. the seventh seat. the one vought has probably been polishing for a press release before they knew what name would be attached to it.
“everyone knows who you are,” homelander continues, still watching with that bright, hungry pride. “but i wanted to do this properly. after all the betrayal… after all the instability… after people treating this team like some kind of revolving door…” his jaw tightens for half a second—there and gone. “we are moving forward. together.”
firecracker nods vigorously. “amen.”
the deep nods a beat too late.
sage continues watching the entire room.
and soldier boy snorts. not loud, exactly. it doesn’t need to be; in a room trained around homelander’s breathing, even disrespect has a spotlight.
everyone looks. homelander’s smile doesn’t drop, but something behind it tightens. so many daddy issues.
soldier boy is either too stupid or too committed to being himself to care. his eyes remain on you, amused, unimpressed, dragging over the gold of your suit before landing on your face with a little curl of his mouth.
“sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “just thought the seven was supposed to be superheroes, not a beauty pageant.”
the room goes quiet. it honestly wasn’t the worst thing he could’ve said. and no one in the room is innocent enough for shock. but there is that pause people take around a loaded gun when someone taps the barrel for fun.
you feel homelander’s attention shift to soldier boy first. then to you. waiting. measuring. the situation just turned into a fucking test.
you could be offended. maybe you are, somewhere under the polished surface. maybe some part of you recoils at how casually he spits in your face—how easily men from his century and yours dress contempt up as charm and expect you to laugh because they smiled while cutting. but offense is not useful unless you know where to put it.
so you smile. soft. lovely. almost forgiving. “that’s okay. i know it’s hard when new things happen.”
the deep makes a noise that dies instantly when soldier boy’s eyes flick toward him.
the cheaper version of captain america’s grin widens, meaner now. “new? sweetheart, i’ve seen plenty of girls with pretty lights.”
“oh, i’m sure.”
“most of ‘em didn’t need a cape to get attention.”
firecracker’s mouth twitches. sage’s face doesn’t move.
homelander is simply enjoying the spectacle. “halo fever,” he calls you.
it’s not a warning, yet you turn immediately. you don’t ignore him. you don’t make him repeat himself. you look at him the second he calls; almost like his voice has weight in your body. here, it does. it has to.
“yes, sir?”
his eyes search your face, pleased by your attention, curious about your restraint. “you alright?”
“of course.” you let the warmth enter your expression before the room can mistake your calm for weakness. “i just think soldier boy might benefit from a demonstration. if you think that’s appropriate.”
you ask. not because you need permission from a man to defend yourself, but because this room doesn’t belong to you. not yet. and because homelander chose you, and that means every public move you make in front of him has to confirm his choice—not compete with it.
homelander’s gaze flicks between you and soldier boy. for one thin second, he looks almost boyish. a little kid, pocking with a wooden stick at the weird gooey thing he found on the floor.
“a demonstration,” he repeats, tasting the idea.
soldier boy scoffs and leans back in his chair. “oh, please.”
homelander turns his smile on him now. “scared?”
the word barely changes soldier boy’s face. it would be easy to miss if you weren’t already looking for the seam. you are always looking for the seam.
“of her pretty party trick?” soldier boy laughs once.
homelander looks back at you, lifting a hand in invitation. “go ahead.”
your pulse answers before you do. the power awakes under your skin, golden and warm, sliding up through your chest, your throat, the backs of your hands. you keep it low.
the room brightens by half a shade, as if the sun has shifted closer to the windows, and the deep blinks too many times. noir tilts his head. firecracker’s fingers curl around the armrest of her chair. and soldier boy doesn’t move.
his mistake.
you take one step toward him.
“that’s close enough,” he says.
“is it?”
his mouth opens, probably to say something filthy and outdated and deeply impressed with itself. you touch the air between you instead. not him. not his body. not even the edge of his chair. just the feeling sitting behind his ribs.
it’s almost embarrassingly easy to find.
soldier boy has been exposed in public too many times now. america knows his face, his legacy, his son, his failures. vought can polish the story all they want, but the wounds are not buried—they are barely even covered. a father returned to a world that no longer bends for him. a legend introduced as someone else’s bloodline. a weapon thawed out and placed beside the thing that replaced him. he has so much pride packed over the damage that all you have to do is press where it shines.
the gold under your skin flares.
soldier boy’s breath catches. it’s small… but oh, it’s everything. his boot drops from the table with a dull thud, one hand clamps around the armrest; the other curls into a fist so tight the leather of his glove creaks. for half a second, his face stays locked in that arrogant mask, jaw set, eyes hard, mouth ready to sneer.
then his chest starts to glow. not the violent red everyone has seen on shaky footage and classified clips. not the nuclear burn. this is different. gold, faint at first, spreading beneath the dark green of his suit from the center of his sternum, warm and pulsing, like something inside him has been caught answering you before he could stop it. this is the party trick—the glow. the real show is about to present itself.
his pupils widen. you feel it spill up in him: anger first; humiliation right after it, sour and hot; then the thing underneath, the old bruised need to matter so badly it almost feels young. it hits the air between you in a rush he cannot hide from anyone in the room—not with your power wrapped gently around the truth and pulling.
his chair scrapes back an inch. “cut it out!” his voice is lower now, strained.
you tilt your head, still smiling, still sweet enough for every camera in the room. “i thought it was a party trick.”
his lips part. nothing comes out. that is it. not the glow. not the heat. not the way the deep stares with his mouth slightly open or the way firecracker’s expression flattens into something sharper, threatened despite herself. it’s soldier boy, america’s first great brute, suddenly silent because his body has betrayed him before his mouth can save him.
you could push harder. that’s the ugly truth. you could make him choke on the rest of it. make him feel every scrap of envy, want, loneliness, resentment, make him burn gold from the inside out until the whole room understands exactly how much of his swagger is just exposed scar tissue. you could make him look at homelander and feel it—the son, the mirror, the replacement.
your fingers twitch once. then you stop. the warmth snaps back into you so cleanly it almost hurts.
soldier boy inhales hard through his nose. the glow in his chest fades under the suit, leaving nothing but the brutal rise and fall of his breathing and the furious look he pins to your face.
You give him your prettiest smile. “cute party trick, huh?”
no one laughs except for homelander. just a pleased little breath, this private sound of satisfaction, and somehow it’s worse than the whole room mocking soldier boy.
homelander looks around the table as if waiting for everyone else to understand what he already has: you’re not starlight. you’re not a trembling moral lesson in a white cape. you’re not here to cry under fluorescent lights and beg the machine to become kind. you are the machine’s newest favorite blade.
“see?” homelander says, spreading his arms slightly. “that. that is what i’m talking about.”
soldier boy says nothing. his stare promises several forms of retaliation. you look away first because you can afford it.
homelander moves to the head of the table, energized now, shining with the glow of a man who has mistaken control for love and found a room willing to play along. “this is the team,” he says. “this is what we were missing. strength. loyalty. purpose.”
sages watches him with the faintest turn of her mouth. firecracker nods again, but this time her eyes cut toward you with something new in them. wariness.
soldier boy leans back slowly, recovering inch by inch, but you can still see it in the tightness around his mouth. he felt it. he knows you felt him feeling it. that is worse than pain for a man like him.
homelander places a hand on the back of your chair. “sit.” he commands, gently enough for the word to sound like a gift.
and you do. the seventh seat is cold beneath you.
homelander keeps his hand there a second longer than necessary before pulling away, and you keep your face open, grateful and bright. you play the part because the part keeps you alive. because this whole building runs on performance and fear and the kind of devotion people offer when they’re smart enough to know worship is safer than honesty.
“now,” homelander continues, smiling wide enough to make the room obey. “no more empty seats. no more betrayal. no more jokes.”
his eyes land on you again. chosen. that is what he wants ypu to feel. so you let the gold warm under your skin, just enough to make the room soften around him, just enough to make his smile stay beautiful and terrible.
“the seven,” homelander murmurs. “is complete.”
the room empties in pieces.
firecracker is the first to stand, heels clicking against the floor as she collects herself with that too-bright smile still stuck to her face, all gloss and teeth and badly disguised insecurity. she gives you one last look before she leaves—not hatred, not yet. this is thinner. something that says she understands attention as a limited resource, and you have just made a show of stealing some of hers.
“welcome to the family,” she says, syrupy sweet.
you smile back. “thank you.”
her eyes flick toward homelander, then away again. “you’ll fit right in.” that one is not sweet.
noir passes behind her without a word. the deep almost trips over his own chair because he’s still trying not to look at you and somehow making the effort more obvious than just looking would have been. homelander notices—he notices everything here. his mouth twitches with something between amusement and disdain before his attention returns to you.
that’s the thing about homelander—when he looks at you, it feels less like being seen andn more like being selected from a shelf. “big day,” he says.
you stand beside the seventh seat because staying seated after he rises feels stupid. “yes, sir.”
his expression warms again at the title. he pretends to dislike it. you’re beginning to understand he likes pretending almost as much as he likes obedience.
“you did well.” not good. not great. well. a measured thing. a reward, not a compliment.
you lower your eyes just enough to make the gratitude visible without making it pathetic. “i’m glad you think so.”
“i do.” he steps closer, and the whole room seems to tighten around the movement. “what you did with him—” his eyes cut toward soldier boy, who hasn’t moved from his chair. “that was impressive.”
soldier boy gives a humorless little breath through his nose.
homelander hearts it and lets it live. “controlled,” homelander looks back at you. “tasteful. strong.”
“i didn’t want to overstep.”
“no.” his smile brightens. “you didn’t.”
and he shows it again—the pleasure. not because you were kind or harmless. because you understood the order of the room and acted inside it. because the show happened under his hand, with his blessing. because you asked.
homelander likes loyalty, sage had said. you disagree. homelander likes proof.
“your suite is already prepared,” he says. “sage will show you. anything you need, you can ask. we take care of our own here.”
our own. you know better than to buy into the fantasy.
“thank you. that means a lot.”
“it should.”
and then he smiles like he has given you something sacred—a place in the seven, a family, a new beginning. like you are supposed to feel reborn because he decided you are useful enough to keep close.
you let yourself glow. only a touch beneath the skin, a warmth that softens the air around him, gentle enough that it can pass for admiration if anyone in the room is foolish enough to believe in clean things. homelander’s shoulders ease by a fraction and his smile steadies. some deep, hungry part of him accepts the warmth and calls it devotion because that is what he needs it to be.
sage watches from the doorway as homelander leaves, cape sweeping behind him in a ridiculous bright flash that would look stupid on anyone less terrifying. the room keeps his shape for a moment after he’s gone. then, sage speaks:
“this way.”
you turn from soldier boy without looking like you’re turning from soldier boy. he has been watching you since the glow faded from his chest. not speaking during the rest of the meeting. not moving. just sitting there with his jaw tight and his eyes ugly, furious in a way that feels almost clean compared to everyone else’s careful performance. anger is easy to read. anger tells you what door to open.
you follow sage into the hallway. she doesn’t ask if you enjoyed yourself and you almost respect her for it.
the walk to your suite takes longer than it needs to. vought tower has always been designed to make distance feel ceremonial. halls that shine too much, walls lined with screens, employees who glance up, recognize the suit, recognize sage, and immediately learn the floor again.
your face is already on one of the monitors near the elevator bank, a still from an interview you gave, gold light washing across your cheekbones under the headline: halo fever joins the seven: a new dawn for america’s heroes.
you nearly laugh. they work fast.
sage notices without looking at the screen. “they had drafts prepared.”
“for me?”
“for everyone.” she presses her thumb against a private access panel beside a set of double doors. “you were just the first one homelander wanted this week.” honest. cruel. useful.
the lock clicks open.
your suite is beautiful. so much so that it becomes a problem—so beautiful that, for one second, your body wants to trust it completely. cream walls, gold accent, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city in glittering indifferent pieces. a pale sofa curved around a glass coffee table. fresh flowers on the sideboard. a vanity lit soft and warm, covered with unopened products in your colors, your shades, your approved scent profile. a garment rack waits near the bedroom door with press outfits steamed and arranged by occasion—daytime interviews, evening events, crisis appearances, charity softness, televised grief.
they have made you a home out of costumes.
your boxes sit near the far wall, ordinary and brown and almost embarrassing against all that glass.
sage stops beside you. “security is internal. external press access is controlled. household staff comes through twice a day unless you request otherwise. anything private should not be assumed private.”
your lips press together as you absorb the information. “sweet.”
“nothing about this is sweet.”
“i didn’t mean it literally.”
“i know.”
you look at her then. sage’s eyes move over the suite with the same bored precision she gives everything else, but there is something almost human in the corner of her mouth. not kindness. that would be pushing it. maybe recognition. maybe the dull amusement of watching another woman learn the shape of her cage.
“he’ll test you,” she says.
“homelander?”
sage’s gaze shifts toward the hall behind you. “both of them.”
you don’t answer, because nothing is private and she doesn’t look like someone you can trust fully.
she turns to leave, then pauses at the threshold. “soldier boy doesn’t like being made small.”
you glance toward her. “does anyone?”
“no. but most people don’t have decades of national mythology rotting under the skin.” her eyes settle on your face. “don’t confuse humiliation with victory. it’s noisy. victory is quieter.”
“is that advice?”
“it’s information.” then she leaves.
the doors shut behind her with a soft, expensive click.
for the first time since the elevator, you’re alone.
you exhale and let your shoulders drop. not all the way. never all the way. but enough to feel the ache under the suit, the pinch fo the bodice, the place where the fabric presses too perfectly at your ribs. your reflection catches in the dark window, all gold and cream and vought-approved radiance, and for a second you stare at yourself the way you stared in the elevator.
the world is going to love this version of you.
you start with the boxes. the first one has books, framed pictures wrapped in sweaters, a small ceramic dish you bought because it was pretty and useless and nobody at vought would have picked it for you. the second has clothes. actual clothes—soft ones; the kind no stylist has touched; folded shirts, worn jeans, a cardigan you have no business owning now that you are supposed to be a golden national asset; and three little perfume bottles stuffed inside socks so they wouldn’t break. you set one on the vanity and watch it look immediately out of place.
the door opens behind you. you don’t even need to turn around.
“didn’t hear a knock.”
soldier boy steps inside anyway. his reflection appears in the window first: broad shoulders, dark suit, mouth set in that tired cruel line, eyes moving across the room with open judgment. he doesn’t look ashamed to be there—men like him rarely do—shame would require manners.
“door was open.”
“no, it wasn’t.”
“it wasn’t locked.”
you glance back over your shoulder. “that’s not the same thing.”
he closes the door behind him. slowly. the soft click sounds louder with him in the room.
you go back to unpacking because reacting too fast would make him happy, and soldier boy looks like he has already had a difficult enough day without you handing him a present.
“nice place.”
he walks farther in, boots heavy against the polished floor. vought’s pretty little suite looks different with him inside it. he picks up the ceramic dish from the vanity, turns it over once in his hand, then puts it down in the wrong place. you correct it immediately.
his mouth twitches. “you always this particular?”
“you always this invasive?”
“usually worse.”
he moves to the garment rack next, flicking through the outfits with two fingers. cream dress. gold blazer. while silk blouse. fitted trousers. a gown with a slit cut high enough for vought to call it empowering in a press memo.
he gives that one a second look. “they dress you up nice.”
“that supposed to be a compliment?”
“depends on how sensitive you are.”
you fold a shirt and place it into a drawer. “you came all the way here to find out?”
he looks at you then. not the way deep had done—not at the suit, or boobs, or your mouth. at you. it’s the first quiet thing he’s done. for half a second, the air changes, and you understand sage’s warning differently.
he’s not here because he thinks you’re pretty—though, he does. he’s here because, in that meeting room, you reached into him and found something he didn’t give you permission to touch. for soldier boy that wasn’t intimacy—it was trespassing.
“what the hell did you do to me back there?” he asks.
you keep folding. “a demonstration.”
“don’t give me that shit,” he spits out.
“then don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”
he steps closer. “you think because homelander let you play with your little light show that means you can do it again?”
you smile down at the drawer. “let me?” you repeat.
“you heard me.”
“i asked because he enjoys being asked. not because i need him to hold my hand.”
his jaw shifts.
you slide the drawer shut and turn to face him fully. “and i didn’t play with anything. if i had, you would’ve known.”
soldier boy’s eyes narrow. he’s too close now. not touching yet—but close enough that you can smell him beneath the tower’s clean air: leather, smoke, whiskey buried under mint, something warm and metallic that might be his suit or his skin or the violence he carries without thinking. his anger has settled since the meeting, but not disappeared. it sits in him low and restless, circling the same bruised place you pressed.
you could touch it again. but you don’t.
that restraint seems to irritate him more than the threat would. “you like doing that? digging around in people’s heads?”
“it’s not mind control.” you scoff. “i’m not in anyone’s heads.”
“whatever.”
“and no.” you pause. “not always.”
“bullshit.”
you lean back against the dresser, crossing your arms. “you’re very committed to having a bad time in my room.”
“your room.” he looks around, unimpressed. “you been here five minutes.”
“still mine.”
he lets out a low laugh. “everything in this building belongs to vought.”
you smile. “careful. that includes you.”
his expression goes flat and it’s beautiful and dangerous. then, he looks away. he’s choosing not to reach, which is different and somehow more telling.
he walks past you, deeper into the bedroom area, where the boxes are messier, where the suite begins to lose its showroom shine. he looks at the framed pictures waiting on the bed, the small pile of personal jewelry, the open suitcase with soft cotton and lace peeking through.
“don’t touch my thing,” you warn. still, he picks up a framed photo. you sigh. “selective hearing. great.”
he studies the picture longer than you expect. not because he cares who’s in it, maybe. more because he’s looking for something he can use. something normal. something soft. proof that the woman who made his chest glow in a room full of monsters still has people in frames and old sweaters in boxes.
“this your boyfriend?” he asks.
you cross the room and take the frame from his hand. “no.”
he picks another one. “girlfriend?”
“no.”
“fan?”
“are you always this desperate for personal information?”
“are you always this defensive?” he argues back.
“only when strange men walk into my bedroom and start touching my things.”
his eyes drop briefly to your hand on the frame. then to your face. “strange?”
“would you prefer elderly?”
his mouth curls. there he is again. meaner when amused. easier to deal with when he’s trying to insult you than when he’s trying to understand you.
“you’ve got a mouth on you.”
“and yet you keep inviting it.”
the words land before you can decide whether you meant to say them exactly that way. soldier boy’s eyes darken a fraction. not much. but definitely enough.
you turn away first this time. heat is useful until it starts making decisions for you. then it’s just stupid. “i have things to unpack. you can go brood somewhere else.”
“brood?”
“sulk, then.”
“i don’t sulk.”
“you followed me across the tower because i embarrassed you in front of your son.”
the silence after that is immediate and ugly. you definitely reached too far. maybe not far enough. you feel the room tighten around his body with a violence that doesn’t require performance because everyone’s seen what he’s capable of.
when he speaks again, his voice is lower. “watch it.”
you look back slowly. this is the line—where a joke stopes being a joke and becomes a hand near a trigger.
you don’t apologize. you also don’t press. smart is knowing the difference between fear and timing.
“then stop acting like i chased you here,” you say, and there’s a drop in your tone—softer now, almost bored. “you came into my room, soldier boy. not the other way around.”
his stare holds yours. then, because he’s either incapable of leaving well enough alone or allergic to losing the last word, he turns and opens the nearest drawer.
you move instantly. “hey!” too late.
his hand disappears into lace. soldier boy looks down and then he smiles—slowly. “well.”
“put it back.”
he lifts a pair of panties from the drawer like he has discovered classified intelligence. they are pretty—pale gold with delicate lace at the edges, soft enough to look innocent if he wasn’t holding them in his big, careless hand. the sight of it does something irritating to your stomach—not embarrassment, exactly.
you refuse to name it.
“these vought-issued too?” he asks. fucker.
“put. them. back.”
he rubs the lace between his thumb and forefinger, inspecting it with the kind of obscene focus that makes your jaw tighten. “nah. i’m gonna keep ‘em.”
you step toward him. “i’m not joking.”
“neither am i.”
“soldier boy—”
he looks up at your voice. “ben.” the correction is sudden enough to catch.
you stop half a step away.
he watches you register it, and his smile changes. smug again, but not only that—there’s something underneath it, too, now. a hook thrown into the water just to see what bites.
“if you’re gonna threaten me in your underwear drawer,” he taunts, “you might as well use my name.”
you hate that your pulse reacts. you hate it more that it’s so visible he sees it.
“ben,” you say, clipped and sweet. “put them back.”
his gaze drops to your mouth for one heavy second. then, he lifts the panties higher. you reach for them, which only causes him to raise his arm above his head—easy, lazy, infuriating—using every inch of height and strength. you step closer without thinking, hand catching at his wrist, and suddenly there’s no polite distance left between you. just him—solid and warm and too close.
his chest is right there. no longer glowing now, but you remember how it looked. gold blooming under the green. his breath catching. his silence. the place beneath his ribs where pride turned soft and furious when you touched it.
he remembers, too. you can tell by the way his smile thins when your eyes flick down. “don’t you think about it.”
“what?”
“using that little power of yours.”
you look back up at him. “i’m not using it.”
“sure about that?” the question is quieter than the rest.
for all his arrogance, all his filthy little games, there is a piece of him that genuinely doesn’t know. not fully. he doesn’t know where your powers ends and his reaction begins. he doesn’t know whether the pull in the room belongs to you, to him, or to the ugly private thing you made visible in front of everyone.
good. let him wonder.
“i don’t need it for this.”
his eyes hold yours and you see something shift across his face, almost imperceptible, like he likes the answer and resents you for giving it to him.
your fingers tighten around his wrist. “last chance.”
“or what?”
you lift your chin. the move brings you closer—close enough that the front of his suit brushes the sculpted gold of yours; close enough that you feel his breath warm against your cheek when he laughs under his breath. not much of a laugh. more of a dare learning how to stand on its own two feet.
you keep your voice calm. “don’t make me ask again.”
soldier boy looks at your hand on his wrist; then at the lace dangling above your head. his smile comes slow as his eyes finally meet yours—mean, curious, hungry in a way he probably thinks he’s hiding.
“or what?” he asks again. “you gonna make glow, doll?”
you look at him for a second too long. his arm is still raised above your head, your panties caught in his fist, his body too close for this to be funny anymore. it stops being a game between his breath touching your cheek and your hand closing tighter around his wrist. the room is quiet around you, all cream walls and gold light and vought-approved luxury, but he has made the space feel less decorated.
“no,” you breathe out, gaze flickering down to his mouth then back up. “i want you to know this is you.”
his smile fades by a fraction.
you reach higher, fingers tightening on his wrist, not really trying to win anymore. you both know you can’t overpower him that way. that’s not the point—it’s the way his pulse kicks under your fingers. it’s the way his eyes don’t leave your face. it’s that his body has already started answering, and there is no glow in the room expect the faint warmth under your skin.
“put them down,” you tell him.
for once, he does. the lace drops to the floor between your feet, soft and forgotten immediately, because his freed hand comes to your jaw before you can breathe. his palm is rough against your cheek, thumb pressing under your chin to tilt your face up, and the touch is not gentle. it’s too sure of itself. too familiar for someone who has no right.
“tell me to leave,” his voice is lower now. still arrogant; still him—but stripped of the perfomance sitting around it before. no audience. no homelander smiling from the head of the table. no firecracker watching for weakness. no sage quietly filing away every reaction. just him. just you. just the bad idea already breathing between you.
you hold his stare. “if i wanted you gone, you’d be.”
his jaw flexes once. then he kisses you. his mouth hits yours hard enough to make your back brush the dresser, his hand still on your jaw while the other catches your waist and pulls you into him.
you make a sound against his mouth, sharp and surprised, and he swallows it before it can become anything useful and sane.
soldier boy kisses like he fights—direct, hungry, impatient with anything that isn’t surrender.
you don’t surrender. not in the way he’d want. you kiss him back with your fingers fisted in the front of his suit, dragging him closer even as every smart part of you starts listing reasons to why this is a terrible thing to let happen. he’s soldier boy. he’s homelander’s father. he’s angry because you exposed him, and you’re turned on because he came back anyway. there’s no soft moral angle to polish this with. no clean explanation. just his tongue in your mouth and your body going hot under his hands.
his hand slides from your waist to your hip, gripping hard, testing the give of you through the fitted gold fabric. the suit is too tight. it looks made for cameras, not for the way his thigh presses between yours, breaking your breath when he forces your stance open. the edge of the dresser bites lightly into the backs of your legs.
“all that control,” he murmurs against your mouth. “and this is all it takes?”
you bite his lower lip and he groans. you feel it in his chest where it presses against yours, and the sound goes straight through you, low and ugly and satisfying.
“don’t talk.”
his mouth drags to your jaw. “make me stop.”
you tug at his hair hard enough to pull his head back. his eyes flash—dark and bright—furious that he likes it. you can feel the heat coming off him now, the hard press of him against your stomach. no power needed. no trick. no excuse left for him to hide behind.
“you came to my room,” you remind him. “touched my things.”
“mhm.”
“you wanted this before i did.”
his grip tightens on your hip and the gold under your skin flickers. his eyes drop to it. “there she is…”
“i’m not using it.”
“you’re glowing.”
“because you’re pissing me off.”
he leans close enough that his mouth brushes your ear. “then you’re gonna light up the whole damn tower.”
your breath catches before you can stop it, and that gives him the opening he wants. his mouth finds your throat, teeth scraping over the sensitive place under your jaw, then lower—rough kisses pressed down the side of your neck while his hands start working at the back of your suit.
he finds the zipper too fast. his knuckles graze your spine as he pulls it down, and the sound is obscene in the quiet room, the slow parting of fabric, the private little surrender of something designed to make you untouchable.
cool air touches your back. then his mouth. you close your eyes.
“look at that,” he murmurs, voice rougher now.
you open them because there is a mirror above the dresser and he has turned you toward it, one hand spread against your stomach, the other peeling the suit down your shoulders. you see yourself flushed and bright-eyed, the gold fabric loosing over your body, your mouth swollen from him. you see him behind you—bigger, his face close to your neck, his eyes lifted to the reflection—watching you watch.
the suit slips lower, catching at your waist, and your breasts spill free into his hands.
his breath changes. that tiny break in him is better than a compliment.
his palms cover you, heavy and warm, thumbs brushing over your nipples until your body arches despite every ounce of pride you still have left.
“sensitive.”
“you like it.”
his hand closes more firmly around your breast—enough to make your head tip back against his shoulder. “i like this.”
his other hand slides down your stomach in a slow treacherous pace. you grip the edge of the dresser as his fingers move under the loosened suit, beneath the lace at your hips, and when he touches you, when the rough pad of his finger drags through the wet heat of you, both of you go still.
his forehead lowers briefly to your temple. “fuck.”
you part your thighs without meaning to, and his fingers follow the invitation immediately, stroking you with a confidence that makes your knees loosen. your glow pulses brighter in the mirror, gold threading over your collarbones, down your arms, blooming where his hands touch you.
“all this from a kiss?” he asks, but the arrogance is fraying at the edges.
“don’t flatter yourself.”
he pushes on finger into you. your answer breaks into a moan.
his hand tightens on your breast. “say that again.”
you can’t. not cleany.
his finger works into you slow, then curls, and the pleasure lands low and sharp enough that your hips press back into him on instinct. he makes a rough sound against your neck, then adds a second finger, stretching you open while his thumb circles your clit with dirty, unhurried pressure.
his name comes out before you can stop it, “ben—”
his mouth opens against your shoulder, teeth pressing there as if he needs somewhere to put the reaction. “again.”
you shake your head once, stubborn even with his fingers buried inside you. he trusts them deeper.
your fingers slip against the dresser. “ben.”
“there you go,” his voice drops, thick and pleased. “knew you could ask nice.”
“i’m not asking.”
“you will.”
you should hate him. you should shove him back, pull the suit over your chest, kick him out, and let him spend the rest of the night wondering if he imagined how close he came to losing himself in your room.
instead, you reach behind you an grab the back of his neck, pulling his mouth to yours. the kiss turns filthy, all tongue and teeth and broken breath. his fingers are still moving between your legs, your hips rocking into his hand now. he groans into your mouth when you grind back against him, when your ass presses against the hard length of him throuhg his suit.
he pulls his fingers out suddenly and you actually whine.
“pretty,” his eyes sharpen.
then he turns you around. your back hits the dresser again, and he’s on you before you can catch your balance, one hand gripping your thigh and hauling it up around his waist. his mouth drags down your chest—hot and rough—and when he takes one nipple into his mouth, you nearly unfold. his tongue works over you, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, while his hands keep your thigh high against his hip.
the suit hangs around your waist now, half-off, ruined. your vought-approved armor turned into a mess of gold fabric bunched between your body and his.
“this thing cost them a fortune,” you manage.
he lifts his head, mouth wet, eyes dark. “then they can buy you another.”
his hand moves between you, fingers finding you again, slickinmg through the wetness he already pulled from you. you bite your lip hard, but not fast enough. the sound slips out anyway, and soldier boy looks at you with a satisfaction that makes heat twist through your stomach.
“don’t hold back now,” he says. “room’s probably soundproof.”
“probably?”
his smile is brief and wicked. “guess we’ll find out.”
you pull at the front of his suit. “off.”
that’s all you say. it works better than any long, clever line would have.
something in him snaps into focus. he strips down only as much as he needs to—impatient and rough with the fastenings—his mouth finding yours between movements because apparently even underessing is too much distance. when his cock is finally in his hand, thick and hard and flushed at the head, your mouth goes dry.
he tears open a condom with his teeth, rolls it on, and steps back between your thighs. one hand settles at your waist; the other grips your thigh higher, opening you for him.
he pushes in slow enough that you feel every inch. the stretch is immediat and deep and almost too much—your body forced to open around him while your fingers dig into his shoulders. he curses under his breath, head dropping forward, mouth near yours but not kissing. not yet. he watches your face instead—watches the way your lips part, the way your brows pull together, the way your glow flares hot under your skin.
“fuck,” he groans. “you’re tight.”
you let out a shaky breath that turns into his name halfway through.
he stills when he’s fully inside you.
your leg tightens around his waist, pulling him closer even though there’s nowhere closer to go. the dresser presses into your back. his hand presses into your hip. the room narrows to the heavy fullness of him inside you and the sound of both of you breathing.
“look at me,” he says.
you do. which is a mistake. his face is wrecked in the most brutal way—jaw clenched, eyes blown dark, sweat starting at his temple, control held together by spite and not much else. you can feel him trying not to move; the restraint in the tremor of his hand on you.
“ben,” you whisper.
his hips snap forward and your head falls back with a cry.
there's no gentle build after that. he fucks you hard agaisnt the dresser, one hand under your thigh, the other braced beside you, each thrust driving the air out of your lungs. bottles rattle behind you. the mirror shakes. your suit slides lower on your hips and he watches every inch of you come apart under him with a hunger that makes your skin burn.
“take it,” he manages.
you mean and his rhythm falters for half a second. enough for your power to answer. gold light spreads across your chest, down your stomach, over the hand he has on your thigh. his own chest flickers against yours, faint at first, hidden under the loosened suit, but you feel the heat of it.
so does he.
his mouth crashes back to yours before you can say anything.
you kiss him through it, messy and desperate—fingers in his hair, nails scraping the back of his neck. he groans into your mouth when you clench around him, and the sound does something vicious to you. makes you tighten again just to hear it.
“shit,” he breathes. “you feel that? squeezing me every time i make a noise.”
“i’m the one making you—”
he thrust deeper. you cry out. “me too, sweetheart.”
his mouth moves over your throat, your collarbone, the top of your breast, leaving heat wherever he touches. one of his hands slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and the pleasure spikes so sharply your nails bite into his shoulder.
“oh, god.”
he lifts his head, eyes on your face. “wrong guy.”
you almost laugh, but his thumb presses harder and the laugh breaks into a moan. he watches it solemnly; watches you lose the shape of the response; watches your mouth open and your eyes go unfocused, and something about that seems to hit him harder than the glow ever did.
“that’s it,” he murmurs. “that’s what you need.”
“don’t get smug.”
“too late.”
“ben—”
“i know,” his voice drops. “i can feel you.”
he can. there’s no hiding it now, your body is tightening around him, pleasure building fast and hot, your glow bright enough to wash the room in soft gold. his chest answers more strongly this time, pulsing against yours with every deep thrust, and you feel a vicious little thrill at the evidence of it. he’s not untouched. he’s not above this. he’s not standing outside the fire making jokes about it. he’s burning too.
“you’re glowing again,” you whisper.
his hand moves to your throat, applying just the right amount of pressure to hold your attention in place. “so are you.”
your lashes flutter. he feels that too.
“you like that?” he asks, voice darkening. “like my hand there?”
you don’t answer, holding onto the faintest shred of pride you’ve got left.
his thumb strokes once along the side of your throat, almost tender if not for the way his hips keep driving into yours. “tell me.”
“yes.”
his exhale is rough. “good girl.”
the words land low in your stomach.
he kisses you again, and this time there’s less fight in it. his mouth stays on yours while his thumb works you faster, while his cock drags deep and thick inside you, while your leg starts to tremble around his waist. you’re close. too close. embarrassingly fast, maybe, but there’s nothing neat about this. he has a hand at your throat, his body between your thighs, his chest glowing because of you, and the entire rooms feels fever-warm from the power spilling off your skin.
“come on,” he mutters against your mouth. “let me feel it.”
you shake your head, breathless. it’s not because you don’t want to—but because the edge comes too fast and too bright.
“yes,” he squeezes once. “don’t pull away from me now.”
your body obeys before your mouth agrees. pleasure snaps through you, sudden and blinding, your glow flaring so hard the mirror catches nothing but gold for one broken second. you come around him with a cry you can’t swallow, hips jerking, fingers locked in his hair, body clenching down until he curses and buries his face against your neck.
“fuck,” he groans. “that’s it. that’s it.”
he keeps moving through it, slower but deep, dragging the orgasm out until your legs shake and your breath turns thin.
his control is worse now. you can feel it slipping in the roughness of his thrusts, the way his hand tightens on your hip, the way his mouth presses hot and open to your shoulder because he has stopped pretending he doesn’t need somewhere to put the sound.
when your body softens, he pulls out just enough to turn you. you’re still half catching your breath when he spins you around with that same blunt strength that makes your pulse kick. your hands hit the dresser. the mirror steadies in front of you, reflecting your flushed face, your half-undone suit, the gold light still shimmering under your skin.
one hand spreads between your shoulder blades, easing you down until your elbows press to the dresser. the other grips your hip. you see him in the mirror, big and tense and behind you, jaw tight, chest glowing faintly beneath the open front of his suit.
“watch,” he commands before he pushes back inside.
the angle steals whatever breath you had left.
you moan, louder this time, fingers curling agains tthe polished surface as he fills you again from behind. he pauses when he bottoms out, just long enough for you to feel the full weight of him, the heat of his body curved over yours, his breath at your ear.
“look at you,” he growls. “taking me so good.”
your eyes close from please.
his hand catches your jaw immediately, turning your face toward the mirror. “no. watch.”
you do. you watch him start to move. you watch his hips snap into yours, your own body jolt forward with every thrust, breasts brushing the cool dresser, mouth falling open as the pleasure builds again too soon. it’s filthy seeing it this way—him behidn you, his hands on you, your gold suit shoved around your waist, his cock disappearing int you over and over while the room glows warmer with every broken sound you make.
“ben,” you gasp.
his eyes lift to yours in the mirror. that does something to him.
his rhythm roughens. “louder, doll.”
“ben.”
“again.”
you say it again, and he fucks you harder, one hand gripping your hip while the other slides around your waist and down between your thighs. your body jerks when his finger find your clit again, still sensitive.
“i can’t—”
“yes, you can.”
“fuck, no—”
“you can.” his voice is low at your ear. “give me another one.”
you push back against him, helplessly chasing and resisting at once—your body split between too much and not enough. he feels it. he feels everything. every clench. every tremble. every time your breath catches instead of becoming a moan. his hand works you through it, his thrusts deep and relentless, his mouth pressing against the side of your neck.
“that’s it. c’mon, baby. one more.”
the words hit before you can brace for them. your body clamps down around him. his hips stutter and you see it in the mirror—the way his mouth opens, the way his brows draw tight, the way the gold in his chest flares bright enough to paint the edges of your reflection.
he sees you seeing it and he doesn’t have the breath to deny it. “fuck.”
“there you are,” you taunt.
he grips your jaw tighter while he drives into you hard enough to make the dresser knock against the wall. “don’t start.”
he’s falling apart now. you feel it in the shape of his body over yours. in the rough drag of his breath. in the way his dirty mouth is actually loosing it’s stamina.
“so damn tight,” he mutters. “fuck. you feel so good. knew you would. knew you’d take it.”
your second orgasm builds meaner than the first—dragged out of an already-sensitive body. the gold under your skin pulses wildly. your reflection blurs with it. you’re glowing everywhere—chest, cheeks, throat, the backs of your hands braced on the dresser. he looks ruined behind you.
“come for me.”
it takes a couple more seconds before your body locks around him. the orgasm tears through you hot and hard, your cry spilling into the room with no attempt to soften it. soldier boy groans behind you, hips driving deep as you clench around him.
he comes with your name half-buried in a curse.
his body shudders over yours, one hand braced beside yours on the dresser. the other still grips your waist hard enough to leave memory if not bruises. you feel every pulse through the condom as he stays buried deep, breathing hot against your shoulder.
his forehead lowers to your shoulder for one heavy second after the worst of it passes. neither of you moves. the suite hums quietly around you.
your skin is damp. your thighs tremble. your suit is ruined around your hips, your hair mussed, your mouth swollen, your body still clenching faintly around him as the last waves roll through.
his glow fades before yours does.
he pulls out carefully. you straighten slowly, palms still on the dresser, trying to gather yourself into something that looks less thoroughly taken apart.
behind you, he deals with the condom, tucks himself away, closes his suit enough to look almost respectable if someone ignores the mouth and the hair.
you turn around.
your panties are still on the floor and you watch as he bends and picks them up.
for one stupid second, you think he’s going to hand them to you. then, he puts them in his pocket instead.
you stare at him, an incredulous laugh escaping you. “seriously?”
his eyes move over you, slower now, less performative. “yeah.”
“give them back.”
“no.”
your body is too tired for the argument, but your mouth is not. “you’re unbelievable.”
“you were saying my name a minute ago.”
you step closer, still half-dressed, still glowing softly where his hands had been. “next time you walk into my room without knocking, i’ll make you cry.”
his gaze drops to your mouth. then back to your eyes. “next time?”
you hate that your pulse reacts. so you smile, pretty and warm and mean enough to be useful. “get out, ben.”
he watches you for one more second, hand still in his pocket around stolen lace. then he turns toward the door.
at the threshold, he pauses. “i’m keeping these.”
you’re glad he didn’t turn around to face you. the smile is on your face, stupid and a little naive. as he keeps walking, the door shutting behind him with a heavy click. only then do you let the last of the gold fade from your skin.
You'll just have to taste me when he's kissin' you
Ben could spot an unsatisfied woman a mile away
Nina's Remarks : Mind you I used to be a diehard Homelander stan. [4.2k]
tw : homelander, language, pr relationship, mentioned lactation, cheating, smut written by a virgin + first time writing smut (MDNI), fingering, PinV
Life was all about appearances. Or at least it was for you. The most famous woman in America. You hadn't gotten your spot because you were particularly interesting or some kind of one-in-a-million genius, you were where you were because you fit a list of criteria.
You were between the ages of 20 and 25, you were not a previously known supe, you had no criminal record, you were healthy and you were fertile. Homelander had chosen you out of the hundreds if not thousands of headshots he examined for days.
The day you signed your name on that marriage license, you made your choice. Be the trophy wife of the most dangerous man in the nation, in exchange of fame and luxuries you never could've dreamed of before.
Your life seemed picturesque, a page taken straight out of a magazine. Maybe it was that way, just not for you. You were on Vogue, you were invited everywhere, people would kill simply to get an interview with you.
All that, because of a rock on your finger. A symbol of the man responsible of you. Homelander, or John as he insisted you called him.
When you first met him, it was obvious to you that John was not like other men, not only on account of his powers. He was possessive, treating you like a very well-behaved pet rather than an actual person. But it seemed you had it better than most when it came to him. Along with Sister Sage, you were the only person he was somehow at ease with, happy even.
You made sure to always keep him pleased, you'd seen the way he'd rip people in half with his bare hands or burn their skulls with his lasers. You learned to control your heart rate around him, to make sure he never doubted your loyalties.
With no warning from John, he announced a new person would be joining your dysfunctional family unit, so two would become three. Or at least that's what John wanted and he rarely didn't get his way.
You were sitting at your seat in the Seven's conference room on the left of Homelander's at the head of the oddly-shaped table. Your legs were crossed and you were leaning your head on your knuckles as you scrolled through your social media, looking at what people were saying about you today. It had become a daily ritual of yours.
It was mostly positive, except for the occasional 'she's reinforcing traditional gender roles !' here and the 'why is a woman taking so much space at Vought ?' there. The idea of society unanimously agreeing on anything at all was impossible.
You looked up as you heard two sets of footsteps approaching you. One you recognized all too well and one was foreign to your ear. You looked up and saw John, as expected, and... Soldier Boy ?
"Father, I'd like to introduce you to my wife, Victory." Homelander said gesturing towards you. You almost cringed at the sound of your supe name, but you managed to hide it.
You immediately stood up and extended your hand for Soldier Boy to take. "Please, call me Y/N." You said with a warm smile.
"Alright, you can call me Ben." He said with a smirk. He shook your hand at a slow pace and held it for a second too long, which Homelander obviously noticed.
You pulled your hand away. "It's an honour to meet a true patriot like yourself, sir. Especially John's father."
"John's father." He repeated and looked back at his son. He'd just learned Homelander's legal name. "How'd you manage to land this one ?"
John mumbled something about that not being relevant. You wondered, if asked again, should you give your relationship's PR story or the truth to your father-in-law ?
There was a short moment of silence. Ben made no effort to hide the way he was staring at you. It wasn't entirely his fault, seeing as your costume's primary objective was to have as many eyes on you at all times by showcasing as much skin as possible.
You just kept a welcoming smile on your face. Unlike your teammates on the Seven, or any supes for that matter, the act never ended for you. Most supes have two personalities, the one for when the cameras were rolling and the one for when they weren't. But for you, the cameras never turned off. Your whole life since you met John had been a big performance to ensure you would live to see the next day.
Homelander never wanted to see you angry or unhappy, you needed to be there for him with an almost cheerleader-like attitude constantly. You needed to stand at his side in front of the public, never disagreeing with him, no matter what unhinged thing he said. You needed to be there when he needed to release his frustrations, ready for fucking and taking it like a champ with an Oscar worthy performance every time.
"Soldier Boy will be on the Seven starting today." John said as he sat down on his chair. "As my right hand."
For the duration of the meeting, Soldier Boy sat in front of you, sneaking glances whenever he thought you wouldn't notice. But you did notice, you were trained to. But under watchful eyes, you made sure your attention was only ever focused on one man, your husband.
Today was a media day, interviews, photoshoots and announcements. It started with Soldier Boy being given a medal by the vice-president, ex-Vought CEO, Ashley Barrett. The cameras flashed without stop as you stood behind the two, Homelander by your side, as always.
After Ashley's speech came to an end, the most important part of any political ceremony began, pictures. It started with Ashley shaking Soldier Boy's hand, then Homelander and Soldier Boy standing next to each other. "Y/N." John called your name as he gestured for you to come over, you didn't waste a second before joining the duo.
You stood beside your husband, but before any shutters could click, one of the photographers spoke out. "Victory, move to the middle !"
You complied, not thinking much of it. John moved over to give you some space. He stood tall, as always, his hands placed behind his back. You smiled for the cameras, your usual media trained-smile. The one that had become like a second resting face to you.
You felt a hand creep up on the small of your back. It should've been the most ordinary thing, only this hand wasn't wearing a glove, or at least not one covering the fingertips like you were used to.
You glanced to your left quickly. Ben.
He kept his gaze aimed at the people in front of him, not acknowledging his own action. The random grabbing was only the start of it.
Later on during the day you were booked with Homelander and Soldier Boy for an issue of a Vought-controlled magazine to really sell the image of this great American dynasty that you now were.
John was sitting down on a chair, Ben stood behind him, a hand on his shoulder as if he were a proud father, and you were on the ground, your head leaned on John's leg.
You stayed still for as long as they asked, not moving by an inch. Every bend in your body, every part of you being shown and every angle had been carefully arranged by a choreographer. No mistakes allowed.
Although you couldn't turn around to confirm it, you felt the weight of Soldier Boy's gaze on you whenever the camera was off.
"Okay, let's move on to the next one !" The photography director yelled, but before anyone on set could move from their positions, John stopped them.
"Hold it. Let me see and I'll decide when we're done."
The crew all looked at each other, fear starting to settle in their hearts. Unsurprisingly, they all complied, too afraid to stand up to your husband.
You lifted your head from John's lap to allow him to get up. Before going to see the photos, he softly placed a hand on the top of your head and said, "You're doing good."
You heard a low chuckle behind you. "What are you, his fuckin' dog ?" You finally allowed yourself to look at him. He looked down at you, considering you were still on your knees. "Don't worry, I'm the last person to kink shame."
"I'm not a dog, John's just letting me know he... appreciates the way I'm acting." Your own logic was starting to confuse you.
"That's okay sweetheart, I think that just makes me like you more." He whispered as Homelander came back.
You took a few more pictures in this setting and then came the duo pictures. When you were finally paired with Soldier Boy, you wondered why John was even allowing this.
Ben stood straight, his back facing the camera, and you were leaning your elbow on his shoulder. Halfway through, the director announced he wanted to try something different, something bold, or at least for you.
They placed a stool in front of you. As you were being given instructions, you began climbing. Instinctively, you used Soldier Boy's shoulder to help lift yourself up. It was difficult to do so in your heels, and once you almost reached the top, you missed the last step, causing you to fall back.
A quick whimper escaped you, but before you could even start falling, a hand had placed itself on your hip, steadying you. "Careful doll, I ain't always here to catch you."
"I don't need you catching me all the time." You awkwardly laughed, trying to brush off the interaction. You both got in position as the director instructed, Ben still looking away from the camera and you looking down at the top of his head from your stool.
The set went silent, the only noise filling the room being the camera clicking. Suddenly, you heard the sound of fabric stretching, you knew exactly what that was. It was low, low enough that anyone without powers wouldn't have known. Your gaze shifted to meet his eyes. A huge smirk painted his face as he looked down then towards you.
You prayed silently that John was too distracted in that moment to notice what had transpired. To say this was the strangest interaction you'd had with Soldier Boy was an understatement, worse was yet to come.
Interviewers then came to get material for their articles. Ben was obviously the one with no PR training in the group as when asked about you he said you were a 'real class act, if she wasn't married I'd've snatched her for myself. Not that that's ever stopped me before.'
The odd interactions between you two just started from there on out. Any time a picture was being taken, Ben was always next to you. When talking about Homelander, the only thing he would praise his son about was his choice of wife. And of course, many, many stares.
After another draining day, you were sitting on the white marble floor of your shower, holding your knees close to your chest and letting the burning hot water fall on your skin without a care in the world. Moments like these were one of the rare times you were truly by yourself. Homelander thankfully didn't care to be present for your bi-weekly everything shower.
You'd actually finished your routine ten minutes prior, the smell of your sugary vanilla products still lingering in the air. The sound of the water hitting the tiles created this calming atmosphere, silencing all your worries and problems.
Unbeknownst to you, Soldier Boy had just let himself into yours and Homelander's apartment. Call it father's intuition or just being a creep, even he wasn't sure what he was looking for. He quickly took in the Americana themed living room, which he thought was the tackiest thing he'd seen in a long time, before making a beeline straight to the bedroom.
He looked at the images that adorned the walls around him, dozens of Vought-approved photoshoots of yourself and your husband in all sorts of settings to make it seem like your relationship was healthy and normal. There wasn't a single frame where you weren't smiling, but Ben knew it was disingenuous. You could fool everyone but not him, no one could fool him when it came to women.
He noticed a fresh pile of clothes neatly folded on the red, white and blue duvet. At the top of it was a little pair of pink underwear. Ben looked to his left, then his right, as if to check if anyone was looking at him, and shoved the fabric in his pocket.
He moved towards the first of two nightstands on either sides of the bed. He opened it to find a pile of magazines, mostly of Homelander and a few of you.
At the bottom of the drawer was a magazine with the words 'Cancelled project' stamped in red ink over the cover. Ben decided to have a peek inside, and boy was he glad he did. You, the girl he'd been eyeing for a little over two weeks, with close to nothing on in poses that would make a pornstar blush.
Soldier Boy chuckled as he quickly turned the pages but his amusement ended once he noticed that some of them were wrinkly and stuck together. He instinctively let go of the magazine, letting it fall to the floor, a disgusted look on his face clear as day.
He moved on to the second nightstand. This one was more typical, a bottle of pills, a pair of glasses and various skincare products. It wasn't hard to deduct whose nightstand was whose. He lifted the small orange bottle to read what was written on its label, 'Lactoxene - Gillman, Y/N'.
At that moment, you walked out of the adjacent bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around your wet body. The second your eyes landed on the man, you froze and gripped the fabric shielding you from him tighter. Your usual smile appeared back on your face almost automatically. "Soldier Boy ! What are you doing here ?" Although you tried to hide it, the surprise in your voice was impossible to mask.
"What's Lactoxene ?" He said with a smirk as he showed you what was in his hand.
For once in your life, you couldn't think of an immediate response. Your eyes went wide, what were you supposed to say to that ? "It's Vought prototype medication." You answered, staying vague enough, or so you thought.
"Depraved little bastard. What kind of fucking sicko is into that ?" Soldier Boy huffed, almost holding back a laugh. "So you're... Right now ?" You didn't even have to answer, he already knew by your avoidant demeanour. "Well he definitely didn't get that from me."
"You shouldn't be here." You simply stated.
"Why not ?"
Your gaze kept shifting between Soldier Boy and the bedroom door, scared someone would walk in. "John could come back at any moment."
"Ah, scared your husband's gonna catch you with his daddy ?" Soldier Boy slowly walked towards you. "Trust me sugar, he ain't gonna find out."
For every step forward he took, you took a step back, until you reached the bedroom wall. "'Ts really a shame a pretty thing like you is stuck with a pussy like him. What you need, is a real man."
"John is a real man." You said, not hesitating to come to your husband's defence, but was it out of love or habit ?
Ben finally reached you, he placed his arms on the wall, blocking you in front of him. You could've pushed him, you were a supe after all, but you didn't, you let him stay.
"Really ? How often does he get you to finish ?"
Your eyes widen at his question. As much as you wanted to prove him wrong, you couldn't. He examined your face closely as he waited for his answer. He could almost see the cogs turning in your head.
"... He never has."
"Well, that tells me everything I need to know." He brushed away some hair that was in front of your face. "Let me give you what you need." He said in the gentlest tone you'd ever heard from him. And with that simple phrase, something in you changed.
You looked at the wedding band you'd taken off for your shower that was sitting on your nightstand. The diamond on it could probably rival a small city's GDP. The sun clashed with it and made it sparkle in all the right ways. But that wasn't important, not now.
Before Ben could make the first move, you grabbed the sides of his face roughly and crashed your lips on his. Even he was taken aback by your initiative, but he sure wasn't complaining.
Years of repressed sexual dissatisfaction all coming out onto one man. One man you shouldn't be with.
His hands moved away from the wall and instead placed themselves around your back, bringing you closer to him. Your noses hit each other due to the sheer intensity of the act.
He lifted you up from the floor and threw you on the bed. You whined almost instinctively due to the sudden loss of contact. "Take it off, let me see what I'm workin' with." He instructed as he began removing his own armour.
You tugged at the tucked-in pieces of the towel that were keeping it in place, and once his uniform's chest plate hit the ground, so did the fabric separating you from his gaze.
He let out a small whistle. "Honey, with a body like that it's mind-blowing that Homelander ain't pouncing on you every chance he gets. What a waste."
You were sitting on your knees as you watched Ben undress. You caught yourself comparing him to John. You knew Vought padded his Homelander suit, but you remember the first time you saw what was underneath and you couldn't believe how truly scrawny he really was.
In comparison, Soldier Boy was pure muscle. Even without the V1 he would've been stronger than most. And he was big where it mattered, much bigger than his successor. In that moment it felt like the roles were reversed, now you were the one ogling him with no shame.
Once he was finally done, he quickly approached you, and out of instinct you leaned forward, as if it would bring him to you faster.
"Eager aren't we ?" He said as he grabbed your chin with his index and thumb, moving it along your cheek slightly.
"Can you really blame me ?" You opened your mouth and took his finger in. What were you doing ? You had never done anything like this before. It was like you'd been replaced by a wild animal in heat.
Ben began pushing you into lying down, following along with you. It wasn't long until your mouths were connected again. He began tracing his fingers on your skin, progressively bringing them lower and lower until they reached their wanted destination.
He started rubbing slow circles on your clit and you let out a sigh you didn't even know you had in you. Considering his slow pace, you began bucking your hips in hopes of creating more friction. You felt two of his fingers carefully entering you. "Oh !" You said as you slightly pulled away from his mouth.
"What ?" He simply answered as he began increasing the speed of his touching and moving his digits in and out of you.
"Joh... Homelander's never..." Your speech was hindered by all your laboured breathing due to the new sensation. "... Done this to me... Before."
"What does he do to you ?" Ben began slowing down.
"I-it never lasts long... Usually missionary... He sucks on m-my tits. He makes... He makes me s-suck him off under his d-desk sometimes... And that's it.."
"And he's never made you come. That's pathetic. Truly." He said as he removed his fingers from you, leaving you on edge. "Good thing I'm here. What you need..."
He sat himself up and moved away from you, towards the top of the comically-large bed leaving you alone at the end of it. "...Is a real fuck." He leaned his back on the headboard as he extended out his arms. "C'mere."
You got on all fours and crawled towards him, making it a painfully agonizing display for you and him, pushing back the time of your release. Once you reached him you stalled, unsure what to do next. You lowered your head towards his manhood, as you assumed it was your turn to give back. But before you could get far, he brought you back up.
"This ain't about me." You looked at him almost in amazement. John had never cared about anything other than his own dick. But now, it was all for you. Out of everyone you knew, you were quite surprised at how caring Ben actually was.
He brought you closer to him and began leaving kisses all over your skin. On your neck, your chest, your arms. In between ministrations, he began talking. "Look at you, poor girl. Never satisfied and stuck with an ungrateful man. But you don't need to worry anymore, 'cause Ben's gonna take care of you."
You felt him lifting you up by your hips delicately and placing you where he wanted. He lined you up and let you take the lead, a first for you. You slowly sunk down on him. It stung, as if it were your first time.
It took you a moment to really settle, but once he was all in, you felt full. Your breathing became heavy as you slowly started to move up, then down. You began gaining speed in your movement, and the more you did, the more you realized there was a whole world you were missing out on because of John.
Ben laughed loudly as he caressed your breast. "Goddamn this might just be one of the best I've had."
The room was filled with the sound of moans, grunts and skin slapping, without a care in the world for who could potentially find you both in this compromising position.
You wrapped your arms around his neck to stabilize your body and you wondered how you were still standing. Ben thrusted his hips beneath you to really accentuate his own pleasure. You pushed yourself harder on him, you were sure if you had the ability to bruise, you'd be all blue by now.
The level of ecstasy you were feeling was unmatched to anything you'd ever lived before. There were tears in the corners of your eyes, threatening to fall from the sheer bliss of it all.
You could feel the crashing wave of satisfaction slowly creeping in. You leaned your head in the crook of his neck and he whispered, "You're takin' all of me so well. You're so greedy after bein' deprived from this for so long, ain't you ?"
"Mm-hm." Was all you could mutter back in response.
You were both close, you could sense it. So he kept talking. "Next time you're with him, next time he fucks you, all you'll be able to think about is my cock."
Your moans got higher and louder as you felt your orgasm fall upon you. You almost went limp in his arms, but he kept pushing, chasing his own high. You felt his release in you, the come even leaking out of you. He then fell back in exhaustion.
You might've been super-abided, but you both needed a minute to rest from all that. You laid down on his chest as you felt him wrap his arms around you.
"For a first time on top, I'd say you did pretty well." He said.
"I don't know how I can ever go back to just John after this." You chuckled.
You pulled yourself off his body and sat down next to him, feeling quite empty. You could feel the slow trickling of bodily fluids down your thighs. It was never like this with Homelander. Never.
Your bodies almost shimmered from the sweat you'd worked up. You looked around at the mess your usually tidy bedroom had become. You noticed the clothes Soldier Boy had left on the floor, more particularly a pocket in his pants, which a light pink fabric was protruding from.
"Are those my panties ? You're such a weirdo." You joked.
"Hey, you're drugging yourself so your man child of a husband can sucks milk from your tits because he didn't have a mama growing up."
"Touché. But you should be grateful, those pills made my girls grow three cups."
"Oh I'm grateful." He nodded in agreement. "Can you imagine if he walked in right now ? Seein' his sexy wife, full of come, in his own bed with his dad. And the press around it ? 'Homelander's wife stolen by father, Soldier Boy'."
"Woah, slow down, cowboy. Let's at least do this a few more times before we get there."
"'Right, wanna get started on round two then ?"
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Partners in Crime (Taglist) : @3ricaa @bofadeezs @livisthebestinthemfworld @omnya61
i did say i’d do a part 2. i’ve held it off for over a week , but yes it is long as an apology 🫂 i’ve never given birth/been pregnant , so forgive me.
could also be read as a stand alone !!
The day you two found out you were pregnant, your lives changed completely, and not in a bad way either. It was an amazing feeling, probably the best you’d ever get in your life, and looking back on the memory, you didn’t understand why you were so determined for the tests to be negative.
Now, several months after that moment, you would never catch yourself thinking this whole thing was a mistake, that you should’ve been like the other girls Ben had been with and just gotten rid of it.
Speaking of Ben, he had been there just like he vowed to himself: if you craved pickles and ice cream, he’d have it whipped up in the next five minutes. If you were tired and didn’t wanna do anything that day, he’d crawl in bed and lay beside you.
He’d already set up the nursery, build the crib himself (with struggle as he had absolutely no idea how this type of shit worked), and read books about how to make the rest of the 9 months easier on both ends.
One thing he wish he prepared for was just how each month would change you, physically, sure, but mentally?.. Oh boy did he feel like he was being punished.
Third month.
Thankfully, the morning sickness had started to subside early on in the third month, but it didn’t disappear completely just overnight. It started slow: waking up later than usual instead of early morning to puke your guts up, actually being able to eat something first and then throw it up an hour later. But, as the nights went by and days passed, it became several hours later until full days could pass and you’d be fine, and then it finally disappeared by the end of the month.
However, there was always the devil that came with the angel, and that devil coming with the loss of morning sickness was the inner changes. More often than not you’d feel a sudden ache in your chest, finding out moments later that it was heartburn, and you’d make Ben run to the store nearby to get some tablets if there was none in the cabinets.
And, fuck, don’t get you started on the acne. You could bathe 5 days a week and take extra care of yourself, more than usual, and you’d still wake to a new redness or pimple on your face. Poor Ben had to face your wrath each time your frustrations rises.
You felt tired alot more, not even just sleep-wise, but your whole body felt like it had ran a marathon then didn’t stop. Then came the physical changes, which Ben, obviously, loved more than anything. When your breasts began growing and became more sensitive, Ben was all over them: cupping and squeezing them, lazily licking or kissing at the swell of them. Yes, you were glad your body was adjusting and preparing for the baby, but God, did you crave a rest.
What you could get behind, though, was the bump. Since the second month, your stomach had grown quite a bit, protruding and becoming more round, and even though it wasn’t huge (yet) and just looked like you were bloated 24/7, you still loved how adored how it looked. It was a beautiful sign of the life growing inside of you, and you couldn’t help the smile that graced your lips everytime you rubbed your stomach.
Fourth month.
With the sickness officially over, the fatigue had taken over the role of draining your energy and making you grumpy. If you’d wake up before 10 in the morning, you’d atleast lay in bed for another two hours and then slug around the house the rest of the day. Ben would try to lift your mood, getting you your favorite snacks, giving you all the cuddles and attention you craved but didn’t ask for. Yet, no matter what, you would still look like the world was on your shoulders.
Luckily, throughout the weeks, the fatigue also began to fade until diminishing completely, leaving you to regain your energy and usual routine without feeling like you were about to collapse if there was a slight breeze.
You had to keep a box of tissues next to the bed on a night as you bled, alot, whether it was just a nose bleed or even your gums bleeding. You knew it was because your blood volume was increasing, and you loved your baby, dearly, but you missed going to sleep without worrying about anything happening.
What really surprised you was the glow. You’d heard so much of the iconic pregnancy glow, how upcoming mothers would visibly change almost entirely and they would look radiant, but you didn’t really believe in it. How could a fetus make a woman look better than ever?
Well, that’s what you thought until it actually happened to you, which you could not be so grateful for. With the changes to your body, your self esteem had been rapidly decreasing, the figure you once had being no where in sight. God, even your fucking feet of all things were different.
You didn’t even notice it at first, because you’d stopped looking in mirrors after the third month, too afraid to see the difference between your former and present self. You only realised when you walked into the kitchen after waking up, and, usually, you’d look a (sorry) mess after a good nights rest, but as you were raking through the cupboards for cereal, you heard Ben let out a curse under his breath.
Thinking something was wrong, you turned your head and opened your mouth to ask what was wrong, only to see his gaze fixated on you, hands completely stilling what they were doing. When you noticed the love and lust fighting in his eyes, you let a confused chuckle leave your lips. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"
He scoffed and raised his brows, gaze roaming up and down your figure in his loose shirt and a pair of sweatpants. "Are you seriously askin’ me that? Doll.. have you seen yourself?" His tone sounded almost impressed, and he didn’t care for the side eye you gave him. "Usually you wake up like you got railed in the ass all night."
Now it was your turn for your eyebrows to raise, your head immediately snapping to look over at him. He didn’t give you time to speak though, knowing you would just snap at him, and continued with a smirk. "Now, don’t gimme that look. It ain’t a bad thing, you know I love some anal time to time. I’m just sayin’ you look good this morning, a little too good.."
You just rolled your eyes and shook your head in response, going back to looking for cereal, muttering a ‘yeah, whatever’ under your breath, still not confident in your new body. But, when you dwelled on his words later in the day, you finally decided to look in the mirror for the first time in over a month, and thank god you did. You were glowing! Not literally, but, you get what I mean.
You looked sexy, and Ben proved that to you when he had you bent over the bathroom counter. He was taking advantage of the fact your stomach was still small, as he knew he would have to stick to missionary later along.
Fifth month.
By mid-July, during your second trimester, the baby obviously grew and was shifting around in your stomach, leading to your uterus reaching your belly button. So, naturally, your belly was much bigger than the third month, and some of your tighter shirts didn’t fit you anymore. You didn’t throw them out, just kept them in your closet for when you got your pre-pregnancy body back.. if you got it back.
Of course, with your bump being bigger and growing by the day, the pains were bound to happen, and you were glad it was sooner than later, although you knew they would only get worse as it got closer to your due date. First came the lower back pains whenever you were doing anything, sometimes even just relaxing.
They mainly came during the night, so everything that happened prior with having a good nights sleep went right out of the window. Sometimes it came when you were already asleep, waking you immediately, much to your delight, and keeping you awake for periods of time. Could be minutes, could be hours.
Then there were the leg cramps that came along with the back pain during the night, keeping you up even longer. Thankfully you had a doting boyfriend by your side all hours of the day. Whenever your back was hurting, he’d bring you into his arms and apply light pressure to where it was hurting before rubbing it gently.
Whenever your leg cramped, he was already wide awake and lifting your leg into his lap, thumbs working out the muscles and massaging your calf, making sure to lightly move your leg time to time to keep it active. All the while he would whisper praises in your ear, a soft kiss being planted on your head from time to time. He’d make sure to wait until he felt you relax to stop, but even then his hand would remain on your leg, idly stroking your skin.
Despite the aching you felt in the nights, you didn’t let it affect your mood. You remained calm and focused your time and attention on other important things, especially if those pains were starting up during the day. You knew if you focused on them, you’d make yourself upset and make them even worse.
Not to mention, you were still having that pregnancy glow, the acne during the first trimester simmering until it barely ever appeared, your skin constantly looking dewy even without skincare. And when your hair grew thicker, you were always running a hand through it, twisting the locks around your fingers subconsciously.
You were loving it, and your confidence was at its all time high.
Sixth month.
Your favorite by far.
The month started off better than you could’ve ever imagined, although it was to the trip to the doctors with Ben holding your hand anxiously the entire drive. But, the next time he was holding your hand, he was swinging it back and forth with a big grin on his face as you both left the building.
You were having a happy, healthy baby. Ben could already imagine the mischief they’d get up to, then use those eyes they inherited from you to get what they want. The whole ride home, his mind was fixated on the future, what his child would look like, the fact that he of all people got to live a picture perfect life: a beautiful woman he had the privilege to call his girlfriend by his side, who would be giving birth in four months.
The weeks leading up to your seventh month were fine, not as bad as the previous trimester, other than the consistent backaches and rib pains, aswell as your stomach having a sharp pain every few hours. Your feet and ankles began swelling midway through the month, and there was a slight puffiness in your wrists. They didn’t hurt necessarily, just mildly uncomfortable.
Then, your linea nigra appeared, a dark line now running down your stomach as it grew. In the first trimester, you would’ve found it ugly and unflattering, claiming it was weird or didn’t look right. But now? You gained your confidence back and you couldn’t look at the line with negativity, you just couldn’t. That and the stretch marks faintly forming on your hips made you feel an insane amount of pride.
You were carrying a child, a real life human that you’d bring into the world and have the blessing to call your own.
(skipping month 7 & 8 because i feel like they’d both be too similar and i’d repeat myself , even tho 90% of this whole thing is repetitive 🥀)
Ninth month.
Or, as you liked to call it, Lucifer’s month, because it seemed the man himself was doing everything in his power to make you regret allowing Ben to fuck you raw and not pull out that one night.
The month started off with your stomach being the size of a honeydew melon, and, while you were ecstatic your baby was getting ready to come out in the upcoming weeks, you despised having to waddle around everywhere you went. You also constantly had the need to pee, as your baby was pressing down on your bladder 24/7, which was also extremely frustrating.
With how big your belly was, your back was begging for mercy everytime you were on your aching feet, although Ben’s hand holding you up each time somewhat took the pressure off as he handled most of your weight. He absolutely complained whenever he had the chance to, claiming ‘even my supe strength can’t support you, doll’ right before he’d sweep you off your feet and carry you without issue.
The nights grew worse, somehow. Every night was full with tossing and turning, whining and huffing, squirming and reaching. You’d smacked Ben in the face a few times when you were trying to fall asleep, and when he’d grumble something in a sleepy daze, it wasn’t an apology that would come from your lips, it’d be a snicker that escalated into a giggle when a grumpy look would be shot your way.
Then, there’d be the nights you didn’t sleep at all. You would be laying on your side with a familiar body curled into your back, snores muffled by your hair, and a hand resting idly on your stomach. Sure, Ben would be deep in fantasy land, probably dreaming about when his name was screamed from every angle back in the 70s, doing lines in bathrooms, but you were always wide awake, eyes staring blankly at the wall opposite you.
When it got closer to your due date, you found yourself having random urges to clean and organize everything in the penthouse: the beds were all made, the nursery didn’t have a speck of dust, every surface was sprayed and wiped clean.
You always made sure to do it when Ben was out buying groceries or doing man stuff somewhere, because if you did it around him, anything in your hands were gone in a second and you’d be hushed and pushed to sit down moments later.
Then, your due date was approaching before you could blink.
The dam broke.
A whole week before your due date, you were laying in a hospital bed with your hand holding a mask delivering entonox to your face, allowing your contractions to flow with the pain being somewhat tolerable. It still hurt like a bitch, but it eased your anxieties and helped you relax better.
Your other hand was gripping Ben’s tightly, and you’d be afraid of breaking it if he wasn’t a supe, as he stood to the right of your bed, panic and worry written all over his face. You were 90% sure he was more worried than you, despite not being the one whose insides felt like they were being ripped apart, which only made your anxiety spike.
You’d never seen him so afraid. He was always the much calmer one during situations, his feelings erased from his features, even if he was bubbling with emotions on the inside. So, when you felt his hand trembling in yours, you squeezed it and shot him a look as you couldn’t voice your thoughts clearly with the mask covering your mouth, and you didn’t want to risk taking it off incase of a bad contraction.
It took hours of screaming, praising, crying, and you snapping at Ben and the nurses more times than you could count before the crying came from something that wasn’t you, and you could finally relax. It was well past midnight when your baby was born.
"Congratulations, you’re both parents to a gorgeous girl!"
A girl.
It was a healthy, beautiful baby girl. 7.1lbs with eyes like yours, her tiny body seeming even smaller in the hands of a man like Ben.
She came out unusually quiet, not a beep coming from her, even when the nurses did their usual protocol when this type of stuff happened. Your heart dropped, and your breathing grew way too heavy for a woman who just gave birth. You didn’t even take into the count that you were elevating your blood levels, which was not good.
But, you didn’t care. All you could focus on was if you’d be returning home with a newborn, or a heavy heart full of “what if”s.
Ben, although his face showed barely any emotion, had his hand still clutching yours yet his eyes remained locked onto the baby in one of the nurses arms. He wasn’t one to be vulnerable and allow himself to show weakness, especially not in the comfort of his home, but anyone who looked at him for a mere second would be able to tell he was afraid, mentally panicking.
You practically threw your head back, resting it against the pillow, and shut your eyes tight, trying to focus on your breathing. When you were finally slightly calmer, your hand tightened around Ben’s as the only words you could say were ‘please, please, please’ under your breath.
Apparently God threw in the towel and was on your side today, deciding to listen to you after the nine months you endured, as during your tenth please, it was interrupted by a whimper followed by wailing. Your eyes shot open and landed on the squirming bundle in the nurse’s arms, and almost instantly your body relaxed into the sheets beneath you.
It wasn’t just you whose mood and tension lifted, as the nurses sighed in relief, cooing at the newborn to make sure she was responsive, the one holding her gently rocking her side to side. When you glanced over at Ben, his shoulders fell and entire frame hunched in reprieve. He leaned forward and laid his forehead on your shoulder, his soft yet heavy pants warming your skin.
You still had the energy to let out a breathless laugh at his figure slumped over yours, your arms wrapping around his neck and your lips leaving a light kiss on his temple. You understood how he felt, though. God, your own happiness and joy was probably enough to help anyone of depression and still have some to spare.
"You did it, sweetheart. You gave us our own little life." You heard him mutter after a moment or so of comfortable silence between you two, your baby’s crying remaining a reassuring presence in the background as her parents embraced.
When Ben pulled back, looking down at you lovingly with a smile on his face, you both turned your attention to the nurse holding your newborn, who gave the pair her own smile. "I’ll let you have your moment with her, then we’ll run a few tests, make sure nothing’s wrong."
You just half-assedly nodded in response, your focus solely on your daughter as she was carefully placed into your awaiting arms. It was like she was the missing puzzle piece with how perfect she fit in your arms, and the sight of her snuggled into your chest, her wails seizing to the occasional whimper and her limbs resting from her previous squirming.
She was adorable. You couldn’t help but lift a hand to her face, tip of your index finger just grazing her soft skin as it traced the slope of her nose. "She’s so tiny.." The words flowed out of your mouth before you could even think about them, not that you would take them back anyway. Your hand returned to holding her to your chest, a smile involuntarily curling at the ends of your lips as she made a little noise in response to your touch.
While the nurses began leaving the room to tend to others in need, Ben mirrored your smile with a grin that said everything his mouth didn’t; "You did amazing", "I’m so proud of you", "I love you so much". For once, all of his emotions were flooding his face, and he was actually allowing himself to be emotional. You could only bet it was because you two were alone with only your daughter between you.
The entirety of your world was in this one hospital room, and it only made your smile grow wider. You were tired, in dire need of rest, and you could bet a grand that you looked a fucking mess, but with the love of your life right by your side and a daughter you created together in your arms, you’d happily look a mess for 8,760 hours if it meant keeping this life for every minute.
Summary: Four years after Dean disappeared, he comes back to find the life he left behind… waiting for him in the shape of a little girl with his eyes. Now it’s ghosts in the walls, love that never died and a second chance that might heal everything—or break it for good.
-requested-
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, Language
Word Count: 8790
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
It was hot for June. You shifted your weight on the little stool, tugging at the hem of the stretchy dress you’d worn in, your belly impossible to disguise now at eight months.
Sally fanned herself with a catalog, perched in the plush chair by the mirrors. “Only Dean Winchester”, she muttered with a grin, “decides on a Wednesday he’s getting married by Saturday. God help us”.
Lilah was twirling between the racks, her bee backpack bouncing, her curls springing loose from her braids. Every time you came out of the dressing room, she gasped like it was Christmas morning. “Mommy, you’re a princess! Daddy’s gonna say ‘wow! so pretty’”.
You smiled, but it was a shaky thing. Because, yeah. This was Dean. Impulsive, stubborn, impossible. He’d kissed you across the kitchen table last night and just said, “Marry me. Now”. Like it was the simplest thing in the world.
And the thing was… you’d said yes.
Now here you were, trying to wedge yourself into gowns clearly not designed for women who could barely see their feet. One zipped halfway, another refused to go past your hips, and the third made you look like you’d been swallowed by a cloud.
Sally caught your expression and snorted. “Relax. You’ll find something. Or we’ll hack one of these into shape. I don’t care if Dean’s a certified panty-melter, he doesn’t get to demand a wedding without giving you a dress to match.”
Lilah bounced over, hugging your thigh as you stepped down carefully in another gown, this one softer, flowier, hugging the bump instead of fighting it. Her eyes went wide. “That one! Mommy, that one!”.
You met your own reflection, hand smoothing over the curve of your belly where Henry shifted under the fabric. For the first time that morning, your throat tightened.
Sally was already on her feet, grinning like she’d won the lottery. “Oh honey. That’s the one. No contest”.
You blinked hard against the sting in your eyes. “It’s just… the first one that actually fits”, you mumbled, brushing a trembling hand over your bump. Henry kicked right on cue, like he agreed.
Then Sally peeked at the discreet little tag dangling behind the zipper. Her eyebrows shot up. “Oof”.
“What?”, you asked, instantly suspicious. You craned your neck, saw the number—and nearly burst into tears. “Oh, no. Nope. Forget it. That’s… that’s insane”.
“Sweetheart”, Sally said carefully, “it’s a wedding dress. They’re all insane”.
But your chest was already tight, your pulse too fast. Between the heat, your low blood pressure, the hormones—God, the hormones—you actually felt your eyes blur. “I can’t. I can’t spend that much. Not on one day. Not when—”. You broke off, pressing your palms to your cheeks.
“Mommy?”, Lilah’s little voice piped up, muffled against your skirt. “You don’t like it?”.
You crouched as much as the dress and belly would allow, gathering her face between your hands. “Baby, I love it”, you whispered, kissing her curls. “I just… it’s a lot”.
Behind you, Sally fished your phone from your purse with zero shame.
“Sally—don’t you dare—”.
But she already had it against her ear, pacing toward the window. “Hey, Winchester? Yeah, it’s me. Don’t panic, everyone’s fine”. She smirked back at you, ignoring the daggers you were shooting her. “I just need to know how much money your fiancée is allowed to spend on looking amazing for you”.
Your mouth fell open. “SALLY”.
On the other end, you could hear Dean’s voice, tinny but sharp: “What? What the hell are you talking about? Put her on the phone”.
“Nope”, Sally said cheerfully, twirling the dress tag around her finger. “She’s currently hyperventilating because she thinks she can’t buy the only dress that actually fits her eight-months-pregnant self. So. What’s the number, Dean?”.
There was a long pause. Then Dean’s voice, incredulous and rough: “The number? It’s whatever the hell it costs. She likes it?”.
“She loves it”, Sally said firmly.
“Then buy it”, Dean snapped, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Sally grinned triumphantly and mouthed, you’re welcome. Then, into the phone: “Good answer, Winchester. I’ll make sure she doesn’t faint before the cashier”.
Dean’s voice softened, muffled but unmistakable. “Put me on with her”.
Sally handed you the phone like she’d just won a prize.
You pressed it to your ear, your voice already trembling. “Dean—”.
“Sweetheart”. His voice was a low rumble, steadying you through the line. “You look beautiful, don’t you?”.
You let out a shaky laugh. “I don’t even know what I look like right now, Dean”.
“I do”, he said simply. “I can see it in my head. And I don’t give a damn about price tags. You hear me? You’re my wife, and you’re gonna walk toward me in the dress that makes you feel like you. That’s it. That’s all that matters”.
A few minutes later, you stood at the counter, carefully draped over the attendant’s arms. Sally had one hand on your elbow like she didn’t trust you not to faint, and Lilah was twirling in the middle of the boutique, humming to herself about how bee-utiful you looked.
The attendant cleared her throat gently. “Will this be on your card?”.
You fumbled for your purse, already wincing at the thought of the number. But before you could pull out your wallet, your phone buzzed in your other hand, Dean’s name lighting up the screen. A new text.
Dean: Use the black one with the gold stripe. Trust me.
You frowned, thumb tapping back.
You: Dean. Please tell me this isn’t one of your fake ones.
His reply came instantly.
Dean: Doesn’t matter. It’ll go through. Just swipe it. I’ll handle the rest.
You shook your head, laughing despite yourself. Only Dean Winchester could make dropping thousands on a wedding dress sound like hustling a pool table.
The attendant gave you a polite smile as you handed over the card. It beeped green on the first swipe. Approval.
Sally whistled low. “Guess your man knows what he’s doing”.
“Oh, he knows”, you muttered, half to yourself, pocketing the card again. Your phone buzzed once more.
Dean: Told you. Now stop worrying. Can’t wait to see you in it. I’ll probably forget how to breathe.
Heat crept up your cheeks. You clutched the phone to your chest like a teenager, even as Sally caught you blushing and smirked knowingly.
The second you stepped through the door, Lilah exploded like a firecracker.
“Daddy! Daddy! Mommy was a princess! Like a shiny, sparkly, twirly princess!”. She bounced in front of Dean, tugging at his hand with little fingers. “She got such a pretty dress! You won’t believe it!”.
Dean crouched automatically, catching her mid-bounce and settling her on his hip. “A princess, huh?”. His eyes flicked to you, soft and amused. “Guess I’ll have to see this for myself”.
You felt your cheeks heat instantly. “I—uh…”. You smoothed your hair back, suddenly nervous. “Do you… want me to try it on? For you?”.
For a moment, Dean looked tempted, his lips parting just slightly like the thought of you in that dress alone with him was too much to resist. But then his grin curved softer.
“Nah”, he murmured, shaking his head. “Not yet. I wanna see it for the first time at the chapel. When you’re walking down to me”. His throat bobbed. “That’s the picture I want burned into my brain for the rest of my life”.
Your heart thudded so hard you almost swayed where you stood.
Lilah frowned dramatically, her little nose scrunching. “But Daddy, it was so pretty. I can draw you a picture!”.
Dean chuckled, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’ll take you up on that, Buzz”. Then, his gaze shifted back to you. “But the real thing? That’s mine to see on the day”.
After you and Lilah got out of your shoes and jackets, Dean guided te two of you up the stairs. “Close your eyes, Buzz”, he teased as he scooped her into his arms halfway up the hall. “No peeking”.
Lilah squealed, throwing her hands dramatically over her eyes. “I’m not peeking!”, she promised, then immediately cracked one finger open.
Dean snorted. “That’s cheating”.
At the top of the stairs, Sam leaned in the doorway with his arms crossed. “You ready for the grand reveal?”.
Lilah nodded furiously, hands still slapped over her face.
Dean nudged the door open with his boot, carried her inside, and finally whispered, “Okay, Buzz. Look”.
Her hands dropped and her gasp nearly broke you.
The room was new. Not patched up, not just painted over, but hers. The old walls were gone, replaced with soft honey-yellow paint and white trim. A little desk sat under the window, already stocked with jars of crayons and glue sticks. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with her picture books and in the corner was the brand-new bed frame Dean and Sam had built. Above it, painted carefully, a mural of flowers and bees dancing across the wall.
Lilah wriggled out of Dean’s arms and bolted across the room. “It’s mine! It’s my room!”. She scrambled onto the mattress with a bounce. “There are bees, Daddy! You painted bees!”.
Dean rubbed the back of his neck, a little sheepish. “Well, Sammy helped”.
Sam raised both brows. “You mean I held the stencil while you got glitter in the paint”.
“It’s sparkly bees!”, Lilah crowed, already hugging the wall like it was alive.
Dean leaned against the doorframe beside you, his grin stretching ear to ear, pride practically glowing off him. “Told you she’d love it”.
You pressed a hand over your belly, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt. “She does".
After dinner, Dean scooped Lilah up, sticky with sauce, and announced bath time.
From the kitchen, you and Sam could hear all the splashes and giggles and Dean’s exaggerated monster voices.
Sam, drying the last plate, cleared his throat. “Uh… hey”.
You glanced at him. “What’s up?”.
He hesitated, eyes flicking to the hallway like he was making sure Dean couldn’t hear. “Your friend. Sally. The one from the party”. Your brows lifted, but you stayed quiet. Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “She, uh… is she… single?”.
You blinked, then smiled. “She is. She’s a single mom”.
His shoulders eased just a little, but his cheeks went faintly pink. “She seemed… nice”.
“She is nice”, you said warmly, nudging his arm with your elbow. “Smart, too. And she doesn’t take crap from anyone. You’d like her”.
Sam gave a little half-smile, trying to play it cool, but you saw the flicker of something hopeful in his eyes. Before you could tease him, a loud splash echoed from the bathroom followed by Dean’s exasperated, “Lilah, did you just dump water on the ceiling?” and Lilah’s unapologetic giggle.
When the bathroom door finally creaked open, Dean cam out with his shirt clinging, jeans splattered and his hair a mess. In his arms was Lilah, swaddled tight in a towel and grinning ear to ear.
“She won”, Dean muttered, trudging past you with mock defeat. “Every damn time”.
“Daddy got wet!”, Lilah announced proudly, her curls plastered to her forehead.
You covered your laugh with your hand as Dean shot you a look that said don’t even start. Then he carried her down the hall, still dripping, muttering about pajamas and clean sheets.
Sam was still leaning against the counter, shaking his head with a smile. “He’s… good at that”, he said softly, almost like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“He is”, you agreed, watching Dean disappear into Lilah’s room. “Better at braiding than me now, too. She won’t even let me touch her hair anymore”.
Sam chuckled, then grew a little quiet. His gaze shifted back to you.
You tilted your head, catching it. “So… do you want her number?”.
His brows rose. “Sally’s?”.
“Mhm”. You smirked, folding your arms. “Because she’s been talking about you for days. I think she’s just waiting for me to play matchmaker”.
Sam’s ears went pink again, his mouth twitching like he couldn’t hide the smile even if he wanted to. “…You’re serious?”.
You nodded. “Dead serious. She asked if you were ‘as good in real life as you are with glitter and pizza duty’”.
Sam groaned softly, running a hand over his face, but he was still smiling. “God”. He shook his head. “Yeah. Okay. Maybe… give it to me”.
After Sam left, you let out a long breath and dropped onto the couch. Every bone, every muscle, every inch of you felt heavy. The baby was pressing low and your feet were aching.
Dean walked into the room a minute later. He stopped dead when he saw you sprawled there, one hand over your bump, your head tipped back. “You okay?”.
You cracked one eye open, half a smile tugging at your lips. “In three days”, you whispered, “I’m gonna be married. To the most unusual man alive”.
Dean huffed out a laugh, lowering himself onto the couch beside you. “Unusual, huh?”.
You turned your head, studying him. “Yeah”, you said, a lump rising in your throat. “But mine”.
Dean leaned back against the couch, tugged your legs gently across his lap, and caught one of your ankles in his big hand. “So…”, he drawled, his thumb already circling against the sore arch of your foot, “no cold feet?”.
You let out something between a laugh and a groan, tipping your head back against the cushion. “You’re literally making sure my feet aren’t cold”.
He smirked, kneading deeper, finding the spot that had been aching all day. “Yeah, well. Just covering all the bases”.
The pressure made your whole body sigh, your swollen ankles grateful for the attention. Your hand drifted over your belly out of habit, Henry shifting under your palm.
Dean’s grin softened as he watched. “You’re really not nervous?”.
You cracked an eye open to look at him. “About marrying you?”. You paused dramatically. Then: “Never”.
-
The day before the wedding, Dean had been up early, kissing your temple before you were even fully awake, whispering, “Me and Buzz got errands. You rest”.
Errands, it turned out, meant a mission.
He’d bundled Lilah into Baby and driven straight into town. She sat shotgun, swinging her legs, chattering the whole way.
“Daddy, does my dress have to be white like Mommy’s?”.
“Not unless you want it to be, Buzz”.
“Can it be yellow? With sparkles? Like a real bee princess?”.
Dean chuckled, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming the beat of her enthusiasm on the steering wheel. “Yeah, we’ll see what they got. But sparkles? Sparkles are non-negotiable, huh?”.
She gasped. “Daddy, of course”.
At the boutique, every head turned the second they walked in. A man like Dean Winchester carrying a five-year-old who was already announcing, “I need the sparkliest dress for my mommy’s wedding!”, was a sight to stop traffic.
The saleslady blinked at him, then beamed. “For the flower girl?”.
“Yes!”.
Dean crouched beside her, eye level, his hand braced on her little shoulder. “Buzz, what do you think? Wanna try some on?”.
She looked at him very seriously. “Will Mommy smile when she sees me?”.
Dean’s chest tightened. He smoothed a curl out of her face. “Guaranteed”.
Dress after dress followed—pink, blue, ruffles too big, bows too itchy. Lilah twirled in each, her laughter ringing off the mirrors, Dean clapping like she’d just won a medal. But when she stepped out in a soft yellow dress with tiny embroidered daisies scattered across the skirt and a sash that glittered faintly gold, her whole face lit up.
“Daddy”. Her voice was a whisper, awed. “Can i have this?".
Dean swallowed hard, his throat thick. “Yeah, Buzz. That’s the one. You look perfect, baby girl. Just like Mommy”.
“Perfect like Mommy”, she repeated softly, like she was tucking the compliment into her pocket to keep forever. Then she launched forward, skinny arms wrapping tight around his neck, her little chin digging into his shoulder.
Dean caught her easily, pressing a kiss to her curls, breathing her in like he needed the anchor.
Her voice came muffled against his collar. “I’m glad you’re done saving the world, Daddy”.
His arms locked around her automatically, his throat going tight. He shut his eyes for a beat, the memory of all those empty years pressing down on him. Then he leaned back just enough to look at her face, serious despite the sequins on her sash.
“Yeah, Buzz”, he rasped, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “I’m done. World can save itself for a while”.
She beamed, satisfied, and patted his stubbled jaw like she was sealing a deal. “Good. ‘Cause Mommy and me need you more”.
-
The little chapel by the lake smelled faintly of lilacs and wood polish, the stained glass catching sunlight that spilled warm across the pews. It was small—just how Dean wanted it. Just how you needed it.
The guests filtered in with quiet excitement, not a crowd but a family. Jodie with Alex and Claire. Donna, bright as the morning itself, hugging everyone twice; Cas. And Sam—Sam with Sally at his side, her daughter Mia clutching a little basket of petals she kept peeking into like treasure.
Dean stood up front in a black suit that Sam had all but strong-armed him into wearing. The jacket fit snug across his shoulders, the tie sat crooked until Cas leaned in and straightened it without a word. Dean fidgeted anyway, rubbing his palms down the thighs of his pants, heart jackhammering like he was walking into a hunt he couldn’t back out of.
And then the doors opened.
Lilah marched first, scattering petals down the aisle from her little daisy-yellow dress. She kept glancing back at you, making sure you were following. Every time she did, Dean’s hand twitched like he wanted to clap but remembered he wasn’t supposed to.
And then he saw you.
The dress clung where it needed to, floated where it should, hugging your swollen belly like it had been made for you and Henry both. Your veil trailed just enough to brush the aisle floor, your bouquet trembling faintly in your hands.
Dean’s breath left him in one ragged exhale. His throat worked, his jaw flexed, and his eyes went glassy. He grinned, but it cracked halfway, breaking into something rawer, truer. He swore under his breath, so low only Sam caught it, and Sam just grinned like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
Every step you took, Dean’s chest rose higher, like he was holding back a thousand words and could barely manage to stand under the weight of them.
When you finally reached him, Dean reached out. His fingers threaded through yours instantly, squeezing like a lifeline.
And the moment your vows slipped into the air, his hands were already cradling your face and his lips found yours like they’d been waiting all day.
The kiss wasn’t rushed or showy. It was home. It was slow and deep, a little shaky and full of reverence. Like your lips were a promise he’d waited half his life to keep.
You smiled against him, tears slipping down your cheeks, and he brushed them away with his thumbs without breaking the kiss, just breathed into it, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your swollen belly and his trembling chest.
From the pews, someone sniffled. A second later, Lilah squealed, “Ugh, you’re kissing forever!”, and that broke the spell just enough for laughter to bubble around the room.
Dean laughed into your mouth, resting his forehead to yours, eyes still closed. “Damn right we are”, he whispered and then kissed you again.
-
The backyard glowed under strings of warm lights Dean and Sam had strung up that morning. The grill hissed and smoked as Sam worked it like while Donna kept stealing hot dogs straight off the platter and Jodie tried to swat her hand. The girls played tag with Lilah. And you? You were barely holding onto your plate.
Dean was behind you, his arms wrapped snug around your middle, hands splayed over your bump like he couldn’t stand to let go. He swayed you gently from side to side in the rhythm of a song only he could hear, his lips brushing over the slope of your neck.
“Careful, Winchester”, you teased, trying to spear a piece of potato salad without dropping your fork. “You’re making me look like I can’t stand on my own two feet”.
“You don’t have to”, he murmured into your skin. He kissed just below your ear. “Not anymore”.
You shivered, your plate tilting dangerously until Dean steadied it with one hand. He chuckled, kissed the corner of your jaw, and drawled, “Goddamn. Miss Winchester lookin’ too good tonight. Think I married outta my league”.
You rolled your eyes, but your lips curved anyway. “You’re insufferable”.
“Yeah?”. He pressed another kiss, then another, like he couldn’t stop. “Can’t help it. My wife’s gorgeous”.
From across the yard, Donna whistled. “Get a room, newlyweds!”.
Lilah popped up from behind the picnic table, hands on her hips, and yelled, “Ewww! Daddy’s kissing Mommy again!”.
“Better get used to it, Buzz”, he called back, still swaying you softly. “I’m never stoppin’”.
A while later, you’d started to fan yourself with a paper plate, your dress clinging in ways it hadn’t hours ago. The heat, the belly, the weight of the day—your body was calling time. And Dean caught it instantly.
“C’mon, Mrs. Winchester”, he murmured in your ear, already sliding a steady hand around your back. “Let’s get you outta this before you melt”.
You swatted him lightly with the plate. “Smooth, Dean”.
“Not complainin’ about the view”, he shot back, that boyish grin tugging at his mouth. “But you’re sweatin’ through silk, sweetheart”.
He guided you inside. Upstairs, in the dim of your room, it was just the two of you again. He shut the door with his boot, the laughter outside muffled into nothing.
“Arms up”, he said gently. His hands were steady as he found the zipper at your back. Slow, deliberate, dragging it down inch by inch. His knuckles brushed bare skin, raising goosebumps despite the warmth.
The dress loosened, slid over your shoulders. Dean caught it before it could fall, easing the fabric down like it was precious. His lips found your shoulder.
"Dean".
“Relax”, he murmured, his mouth brushing your collarbone now. “Just gettin’ my wife comfortable”. Then he knelt to slide soft cotton shorts up your legs, his hands a little slower than necessary, his lips pressing a kiss just above your knee.
Dean’s hands paused at your hips, thumbs hooking the soft cotton at the waist. He gave you one long look, then slid the shorts down again.
When his mouth came back up, it was higher: soft kisses along the line of your hip, along the side of your belly. His finger traced just under the edge of your panties, but instead of tugging further, he eased you back with a firm, steady hand at your hip. “Sit, sweetheart”, he murmured, guiding you down until you perched on the edge of the bed.
The mattress dipped beneath you. Dean dropped to his knees between your legs like he’d been born there, broad shoulders parting your thighs as he leaned in.
The second your weight settled, his mouth was on you. No hesitation. He hooked your underwear aside and sealed his lips to your center, sucking deep and hard like he already knew exactly what would rip the air out of your lungs.
You gasped, hands clutching instinctively at the sheets, then at his hair. “Dean—”.
He groaned low at the sound, the vibration of it sparking through you.
Your thighs trembled instantly, knees trying to close around his head, but his big hands pinned you wide and steady against the mattress. “Stay right there, sweetheart”, he mumbled into you. Then he sealed his mouth over you again and sucked hard.
“Dean—oh my —”. Your voice cracked, fingers yanking at his hair because it was too much, too good, too fast. He groaned again when you pulled his hair, the sound feral, hungry. His tongue worked in deep, slow strokes while his lips tugged and sucked like he was determined to wring every ounce of you out.
The pressure coiled hot and sharp in your belly within seconds. He slid one hand up, splayed it over your bump with a tenderness that contradicted the filth of what his mouth was doing.
That grounding touch broke you. You cried out, thighs clamping helplessly around his head as your orgasm ripped through you. Dean held you steady, never letting up, swallowing every twitch and pulse, dragging it out until you were shaking against him.
When you finally slumped back on your elbows, gasping for air, he pulled away only long enough to lick his lips and grin up at you, chin slick and shining. “Still got it”, he rasped, before diving back in like he wasn’t finished.
“Dean?”, Sam called muffled through the door but tight with concern. “Lilah burned her hand on the grill”.
Your heart stopped. Dean jerked back immediately. You scrambled upright, tugging your shorts back up with shaky fingers just as Sam added, “She’s okay, just… some tears. Can you—?”.
Dean was already wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, guilt and adrenaline snapping him into motion.
When he opened the door, Lilah was on Sam’s hip, her little face blotchy with tears, her other hand cradled carefully in Sam’s palm. She sniffled the second she saw Dean. “Daddy—”.
Dean’s entire chest softened. He scooped her into his arms like she weighed nothing. "Buzz, what happened?”. His voice was low, soothing, a complete 180 from the man who’d been between your thighs seconds ago.
Sam gave you an apologetic look over Dean’s shoulder as he explained, “She touched the edge of the grill. It wasn’t bad—red, but no blister. I ran it under cool water, just figured she’d want her dad”.
“C’mere, lemme see that hand, baby girl”, Dean murmured, already stroking Lilah’s damp cheeks.
Lilah sniffled again, holding it up for inspection. Dean pressed her palm gently to his chest. “It’s okay. Daddy’s got you”.
-
Later, is was just you and Dean. In the bathroom, the tub full and steaming, the faint flicker of candlelight bouncing off the tiles. You leaned back against him, your head tucked under his jaw, his chest broad and warm behind you. His legs bracketed yours and his big hands rested over your belly. Every few minutes, Henry gave a thump against his hand, and Dean would huff a soft laugh like he still couldn’t believe it.
“Kid’s already got my right hook”, he murmured, pressing a kiss into your damp hair. “Bet he comes out swingin’”.
You smiled faintly, your hand sliding over his, squeezing. “He’s just stubborn. Like his dad”.
Dean chuckled, his stubble scraping your temple as he nuzzled close. “Yeah, but you love that about me”.
Your laugh came out tired but true. “Most days”.
Another kick jolted against his palm, stronger this time. Dean’s hand tightened instinctively.
“If it weren’t for him in there, I’d have you bent over this tub already”.
You laughed, breathless, tilting your head back on his shoulder so your lips brushed his jaw. “That a promise or a threat?”.
Dean groaned, squeezing your hips gently but firmly. “Don’t tease me. I meant it. Four weeks, I’ve been good”.
You shifted a little on his lap, enough to feel him stir beneath you. “Who said I don’t want it?”.
He swore under his breath, his forehead pressing to the side of your head. “You’re eight months, I’m not—”. His hand spread protectively over your bump. “I’m not takin’ chances”.
“Dean”, you whispered, turning just enough to catch his mouth in a kiss. “I’m horny. And you’re hard. So maybe stop worrying so much and just—”. You nipped his lower lip. “—touch me”.
“Sweetheart…”. His voice was ragged. “Don’t make me—don’t do this to me. It’s not—”.
You twisted in his lap enough to face him, your knees bracketing his thighs, the swell of your belly pressing against him. You cupped his jaw with wet hands, kissed him deep, slow, messy, until his breath stuttered.
“It’s our wedding night”, you whispered against his mouth, your voice breaking into a whine that wasn’t entirely put on. “I want you. Please, Dean”.
He groaned, low and guttural, like you’d just torn his last thread of restraint. His forehead pressed to yours, his eyes squeezed shut. His hands slid up your thighs, trembling with the effort it took to hold back. “Eight months pregnant, and you’re still the sexiest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen”.
You rocked your hips against him, deliberately brushing the hard length trapped beneath the water, making him hiss through his teeth. “Then stop talking and fuck me”.
Dean’s jaw clenched so hard you thought it might crack. His hands fisted at your sides, fighting himself—and losing.
Finally, he snapped. “Fuck it”.
His mouth crashed against yours, his hands hauling you closer, angling you over him in the tub. “You win, Mrs. Winchester”, he mumbled against your lips, already lining himself up beneath the water. “But don’t blame me when you can’t walk tomorrow”.
The water sloshed up over the porcelain lip as Dean shifted beneath you, the heat of him pulsing against you before he slid home, slow but so deep it stole your breath.
You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “Oh, fu—”.
Dean’s head tipped back, jaw locked, a broken groan spilling out of him. “Shit, sweetheart… been weeks”.
You braced against his chest, moving as best as you could, but eight months in, your body didn’t have the speed it used to. You rolled your hips instead, grinding down, and his answering growl vibrated right into your bones.
“That’s it”, he whispered, kissing the damp skin of your throat. “Just like that“.
Your body betrayed you almost instantly. You were too sensitive now, too raw from the weeks without. Every slow grind had you clenching down hard around him, and every time you did, Dean’s whole body jolted like you’d shocked him.
“Damn—”, he hissed. His hands clutched your hips, holding you steady when you trembled. “You’re squeezin’ me so tight, sweetheart… how the hell am I supposed to last?”.
Your laugh broke into a gasp as another wave of sensation hit you. “Then don’t—”.
“Don’t tempt me”, he growled, thrusting up suddenly, hard enough to splash water over the tub’s edge.
You whimpered. “Dean—”.
A few minutes later, you let Dean haul you up out of the tub. He wrapped a towel around your shoulders and knotted another low around his hips, then kissed your wet temple like he couldn’t help it. “Sit tight—clothes coming right up”, he said, already stalking toward the dresser.
You reached for your bra on the counter… and felt three warm trickles slide down your thighs. You froze. Then a heavy pressure, your body deciding for you. Oh oh. You eased onto the toilet just as another swish hit the bowl.
Well. Hello, Henry.
“Dean?”, you called, weirdly calm. Second baby calm. “Babe… my water just broke“.
He reappeared in the doorway with an armful of clothes and went stock-still.
“Son of a bitch”, he muttered. “I knew it—I knew we shouldn’t’ve—fuck, I knew it”.
You blinked at him, caught between a laugh and disbelief. “Dean—”.
“No, don’t—don’t tell me this ain’t my fault”. He was already scrubbing a hand through his damp hair, water flicking everywhere. “We—Jesus, sweetheart, we just… in the tub, and now your water breaks? That’s not a coincidence. I did this”.
You had to cover your mouth to keep from laughing, partly because he was so dead serious, partly because the truth, that Henry was just ready, wasn’t going to stop him from spiraling.
“Dean Winchester”, you said firmly. “You did not break my water by having sex with me”.
His eyes snapped to you, panicked and stubborn all at once. “How do you know?!”. He gestured helplessly toward you, toward the trickle down your legs. “Look at you! We finally—y’know, after weeks, and now—bam! Kid’s knockin’ at the door!”.
You shook your head, laughing now. “Henry’s been sitting on my bladder for weeks. It was gonna happen anyway, Dean. Tonight just… happens to be the night”.
He stopped pacing, staring at you like maybe he wanted to believe but couldn’t let go of the guilt yet. His chest heaved.
“Not my fault?”, he asked finally, quieter, almost boyish.
You reached out, catching his wrist. “Not your fault. Promise”.
Dean sagged, shoulders slumping with relief, but he still muttered under his breath as he crouched down in front of you, one big palm spreading protective over your belly. “Still feel like I should apologize to the kid”.
Dean crouched there for another beat, his forehead pressed against your belly. Then he pushed back, stood and started moving. “I’ll, uh—”. He bent to scoop up the pile of clothes he’d dropped, only to set them right back down again. “The bag. Right. Where’s the bag?”.
“In the closet, by the door”, you said softly, watching him.
“Right. Okay. Bag”. He nodded to himself, pacing to the doorway. His leg bounced once, twice, like he couldn’t stop the nervous energy from spilling out. He gripped the doorframe, tried to make his voice calm. “We’re good. We got time, right?”.
“Plenty”, you assured him, leaning back against the toilet tank with a steadying breath. “Contractions aren’t even regular yet. First babies can take forever. Second ones still take a while”.
“Right”. He nodded again, over and over, like he was trying to tattoo the word calm onto his own brain. But his leg bounced harder.
You reached out, catching his wrist as he passed. His pulse was hammering under your fingers. “Dean”. He froze. “You’re here”, you whispered, searching his eyes until he met yours. “That’s all I need”.
For a second his expression cracked. That raw grief he carried for missing Lilah’s first moments, for the years he wasn’t there. His voice was rough when he spoke. “I wasn’t there last time”.
Your throat tightened. You shook your head firmly. “You’re here now. For me. For him. That’s what matters”.
Dean swallowed hard, then nodded once like he was trying to force the guilt down where it couldn’t touch you. He bent again, kissing your damp forehead.
“Okay”, he murmured, steadying himself with your steadiness. “We got this. I got you”.
Dean practically sprinted around the house, bag in hand, keys already in his fist. By the time he got you settled in the passenger seat, towel exchanged for your favorite pants and a shirt, his leg was bouncing again, and his knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
“Seatbelt on?”, he asked for the third time, glancing over at you.
“Yes, Dean”, you sighed, hiding a little smile.
Baby’s bag was wedged at your feet, your phone in your lap. You scrolled quickly, thumb hitting Sam’s contact, and pressed speaker as Dean pulled out of the driveway.
On the other end of the line, Sam finally answered, voice groggy. “Hello?”.
Dean didn’t even let you speak first. “Her water broke”, he blurted, voice rough.
Sam was instantly awake. “What? Now?”.
You gave Dean’s hand a squeeze and cut in steady. “Yeah, now. We’re heading to the hospital. Is Lilah asleep?”.
“Yeah”, Sam said. “I’ll keep her as long as you need me to. You focus on Henry”.
Dean muttered a gruff, “Thanks, Sammy” and hung up before his brother could say more.
-
You were propped against the raised bed with a hospital gown loose around you and the IV already taped to your hand. The nurse had finished the first round of checks and slipped out with a smile, promising to check dilation again in a while.
Translation: this was going to be a long night.
Dean sat in the chair beside you, knees spread wide, elbows braced on them like he was ready to jump into a fight at any second. His leg bounced restlessly and his eyes hadn’t left you in twenty minutes.
“You okay?”, he asked again, for what had to be the tenth time.
You gave him a tired little smile. “Dean, I’m fine. Contractions aren’t even bad yet”.
“Not bad?”. His brow furrowed. “You just winced like someone stuck a knife in you”.
“That was a cramp”, you corrected gently. “We’re not even close”.
He scrubbed a hand down his face, muttering under his breath. “God, this waiting’s worse than a hunt”.
You chuckled weakly, reaching for his hand. He gave it to you instantly, his palm hot and solid against yours. “Dean”. You squeezed, forcing him to look at you. “You don’t have to do anything right now. Just be here. That’s it”.
His eyes softened, but his shoulders stayed tight. “Yeah, well, not sure I’m cut out for the whole ‘just sit there’ job”.
“Funny”, you teased lightly, “’cause you’re actually killing it”.
That pulled the smallest, crooked grin from him. He leaned forward, kissing the back of your hand, then held it against his chest like he needed the contact more than you did.
You watched his eyes keep flicking between your face and the green line of Henry’s heartbeat. When the next mild squeeze passed, you squeezed his hand back.
“Hey”, you said softly. “Come sit up here. You’re hovering a hole in the floor”.
He huffed, dragged the chair closer so his knee bumped the mattress, then laid your joined hands over your belly. Up close, the tough-guy edges slipped; he looked a little younger and a lot more scared.
“This part… it just keeps reminding me”, he murmured, eyes on your fingers instead of your face. “I wasn’t there when Lilah came. Four years she had to do it without a dad, and she still turned into the kindest, loudest little miracle. I missed everything”.
You turned his chin gently until he met your eyes. “You didn’t make her kind by being gone, Dean. She’s kind because that’s in her, because it’s in you. The cars and the glue and the buzzing? That’s you all over her. I just kept her safe till you found your way back”.
He swallowed. “Sometimes I look at her wall and… it feels like a ledger. All the pictures I’m not in”.
“It isn’t a ledger”, you said firm. “It’s a map. It led you home”.
He let out a shaky laugh that wasn’t really a laugh, then nodded. “Home”, he echoed, like he was trying the word on again.
You slid your thumb over his ring. “You’re here for this one. For the midnight feedings, the diaper blowouts, the boring Tuesdays. For her, too… school plays, swing pushes, braids with glitter if she demands it”.
“I’m already the braid guy”, he muttered, a ghost of a smile tugging. Then, quieter: “I’m gonna spend the rest of my life showing up. Even when it’s not exciting. Especially then”.
“Good”, you whispered. “That’s all either of them need”.
He leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours. “I’m sorry I missed her first breath”, he said, voice rough. “I won’t miss his”.
“I know", you whispered.
Dean’s throat worked, and for a beat he just stared at you, raw and open in a way that made your chest ache. Then, like clockwork, that need to cover vulnerability with something else crept in. His mouth tipped crooked.
“Y’know”, he drawled, thumb brushing slow over your skin, “last time I had you spread out like this, there were a lot less wires involved”.
You groaned, smacking his shoulder weakly. “Dean”.
“I’m just sayin’, if you need a distraction, I got about a hundred ideas. Hell, I could—”.
“Dean Winchester, shut up”, you hissed, half laughing, half horrified.
And of course, right then the door opened. The doctor walked in. “Let’s check your progress, shall we?”.
Dean sat up straighter instantly, clearing his throat like a guilty teenager. “Uh—yeah. Great. Progress is good. We love progress”.
You buried your hot face in your pillow as the doc pulled on gloves.
The doctor glanced between you two with the faintest lift of her brow before focusing on the exam. “Not quite there yet”, she reported after a moment. “About three centimeters. Still some time to go”.
Dean exhaled hard, like he’d been holding his breath through the whole thing, then muttered under it, “Three centimeters. Huh. Usually I can get you to—”.
“Dean!”, you cut him off, mortified, smacking him again.
The doctor pretended not to hear, tugging her gloves off with a snap, though you swore you saw the corner of her mouth twitch.
As soon as the door clicked shut, you groaned into your hands. “You are insufferable”.
Dean just grinned, kissing your temple. “And you love me for it”.
Hours unspooled in soft beeps and low light. The lake-black outside the window turned slate, then pearl. You dozed in ten-minute scraps between the milder waves; Dean didn’t blink. He timed every squeeze on his phone, then looked up with a brand-new question each time.
“So when he comes out—does he, like… breathe right away? Or—”.
You smiled, sleepy. “He’s been practicing in fluid. Once he’s out, he’ll clear it and cry. The cry helps open everything up”.
Dean nodded, storing it like intel. “Okay. Crying is good. For once”. He glanced at the monitor. “And he can’t… y’know… drown before that? I know it’s a dumb question, but—”.
“It’s not dumb”, you said. “Cord’s still doing the job till he starts on his own”.
“Right. Backup line”, he murmured, oddly comforted. “Can I cut it?”.
“If you don’t faint”.
He snorted. “I delivered a ghoul’s head once. I can handle a cord”.
-
Three hours later the room had shifted. The contractions had teeth now. Every time one hit, it tore a groan right out of you, your nails biting into Dean’s hand. He never pulled away, even when your grip went white-knuckle.
“Breathe with me, sweetheart”, he tried once. “In through the nose, out through the—”.
“Shut up, Dean!”, you snapped, heat and pain slamming through you.
He winced like you’d shot him, but nodded fast. “Yep. Shutting. Quiet as a church mouse. A very helpful—”.
“DEAN”.
“Right. Silent”. He pressed his lips together.
Another wave hit. You curled forward, sweat slicking your brow, a low, guttural sound breaking out of you. Dean made a noise with you half instinct, half helplessness, like his body thought it could share the pain if it just tried hard enough.
The doctor’s voice cut through: “Okay, we’re close. Next one, I want you to push”.
Dean’s hand was shaking in yours. He swiped his thumb across your knuckles. “Almost there, baby”.
The doctor leaned forward, her voice steady but firm. “We’ve got crowning. Keep breathing, almost there”.
Dean risked just a glance. He shifted at your side, craning his neck despite himself. One look between your legs and his face went slack, eyes wide.
“Holy shit”, he breathed. “Sweetheart—I can see him. I can see him. He’s—he’s got hair, oh my god, he’s right there—”.
You let out a furious hiss, teeth bared, sweat dripping into your eyes. “DEAN. Not helping!”.
He snapped back upright instantly, squeezing your hand like a lifeline. “Right. Sorry. Just—you’re—he’s—”. He made a helpless noise, a wrecked mix between laughter and a sob. “God, he’s… he’s right there. Push, baby, push—bring him out—”.
Another contraction slammed through you, and you bore down hard, everything inside you clenching, burning. Dean groaned right along with you.
Then the room filled with the sharp, wet cry of a new life.
Dean blinked hard, jaw tight, his throat bobbing as he forced down the swell rising like a tide.
“Strong set of pipes”, the nurse quipped, but Dean barely heard her. He was staring like he’d never seen anything holy before.
When they laid Henry on your chest, the crying stuttered, softened, the tiny body rooting instinctively against your skin. You gasped, tears spilling, both hands trembling as you gathered him close.
Dean leaned in but froze half an inch away, his breath caught, his eyes rimmed red. He clenched his jaw so hard a vein stood out, fighting it—don’t cry, not here, not in front of them. He dragged a hand down his face, muttered a curse under his breath.
But then Henry’s tiny fist flexed, caught nothing but air. Dean couldn’t stop himself. He caught that hand with one finger, let it curl impossibly tight around him.
His head ducked instantly, as if he could hide it in the curve of your shoulder, but his voice betrayed him, wrecked and breaking. “Hi, buddy. Hey…”. He sniffed hard, shaking his head. “God, you’re perfect”.
The doctor and nurses busied themselves, polite enough to let the moment stay yours. Dean’s shoulders shuddered once, sharp, before he forced his breathing back under control. He kissed your damp hair, his voice low, shaky against your temple.
“You did it, sweetheart”, he whispered.
You stroked Henry’s damp hair with trembling fingers, your lips brushing his crown. Dean hovered, his forehead pressed briefly to yours before he straightened at the nurse’s quiet prompt. “Want to cut the cord?”.
“Yeah”, he rasped. “Yeah, I got it”.
He lined up the blades, heart hammering in his ears while he cut the cord. He let out a long breath, half a laugh, half disbelief, handing the scissors back.
The nurse moved Henry gently to weigh and clean, his cry filling the room again. Dean followed every step like a shadow, his hand unconsciously braced at your shoulder as if tethering you both.
Then she guided the baby into Dean´s arms, careful.
For a heartbeat, he froze, his chest barely moving with breath. Fear, awe, disbelief—all of it tangled in his face. His thumb brushed instinctively over the blanket edge near Henry’s chin, and the baby squirmed, a little squeak tumbling out.
Dean’s whole body jolted. “Shit—sorry, bud, I didn’t—”. His voice broke, quiet and panicked.
But Henry just settled, tucking into the crook of his arm like it was the only place he belonged.
Dean’s lips parted, eyes burning as he whispered, almost to himself, “That’s my boy”.
You watched him, your chest aching in a way you hadn’t expected. You’d seen Dean bleed out on motel bathroom floors, seen him laugh in bars with a beer bottle dangling from his fingers, seen him broken and stitched back together. But this? This was different. This was raw.
The nurses moved quietly around you with warm cloths, gentle instructions and the kind of care you half-heard and half-obeyed. But Dean? Dean was somewhere else entirely.
He sat hunched forward in the chair, Henry swaddled tight in his arms, the newborn’s face still flushed, eyes little more than slits. Dean kept his head bent close, his lips moving in a steady stream of words you couldn’t quite catch.
Every so often, Henry made a tiny sound and Dean would pause, grin like the world had just cracked open, then go right back to murmuring.
“Got a sister waitin’ for you, buddy”, he whispered, his thumb brushing Henry’s cheek. “She’s the loud one. You’re gonna love her”.
Henry squirmed, his mouth working around some invisible dream. Dean chuckled under his breath, softer than you’d ever heard. “That’s it… already got opinions, huh? Just like your mom”.
The awe in his voice was unmistakable. He was cataloging everything. From the way Henry’s tiny fingers curled against the blanket, the almost-blue shade of his eyes behind heavy lids to the squashed little nose. It was like he couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t believe this wasn’t something fragile he’d only ever dreamed about.
He leaned closer, pressing his lips to the crown of Henry’s head. “Uncle Sammy’s across the street. That’s your guy. He’ll teach you the boring stuff… and I’ll teach you how to drive before you’re supposed to. Don’t tell your mom”.
You watched, half-dazed from exhaustion, half undone by the sight of him.
Dean hadn’t moved for twenty minutes, maybe more. He hadn’t noticed the nurse coming in and checking your IV. Hadn’t even heard the clack of the monitor adjusting. He was in his own little world—just him and Henry. You’d never seen him so still.
You smiled softly. “Hey”.
He blinked, like waking up from a dream, and looked over at you. “You okay?”.
You nodded, slow and tired. “Think I could hold our kid now, or are you planning on raising him from that chair?”.
Dean huffed out a breath. Carefully, reverently, he walked over and lowered Henry into your arms. The second your hands took him, Dean leaned over the bedrail, his arms caging you both in. He kissed your forehead, then your temple, then the shell of your ear, his lips lingering like he wasn’t quite done grounding himself.
“Jesus, you’re incredible”, he whispered. “I don’t know how the hell you just did that, but… you did”.
Your lips curved into a soft, tired grin as you brushed a fingertip over Henry’s tiny nose. “Well… I had a really cute baby to look forward to”. Dean’s chest rumbled with a laugh against your hair, but you tilted your head up just enough to catch his eye. “Though”, you added, smirking faintly, “I gotta say… this is getting a little unfair”.
Dean frowned playfully. “What is?”.
You angled Henry slightly so Dean could see the little furrow between his brows, the shape of his jaw already set, stubborn even at just hours old. “He looks exactly like you. Even worse than Lilah”.
Dean blinked, then laughed outright, dropping his forehead to your temple. “Oh, c’mon—worse?”.
“Way worse”, you teased, though your voice was warm. “It’s like my genes just threw in the towel. Weak. Completely overpowered”.
Dean chuckled again, but there was pride in it. Pride and something a little watery in the way his eyes softened. He looked down at Henry, then back at you, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Guess that means I gotta stick around, huh?”, he murmured. “Can’t have two mini-mes runnin’ around without supervision”.
You let out a tired laugh, pressing your face into his chest. “God help me”.
Dean grinned, kissing the top of your head. “Nah. God helped me. Gave me you, Buzz, and now this guy. Can’t ask for more than that”.
