🍒🩷 Hi! I'm new-ish to writing (except for a class back in college) so please let me know what you think. Please do not repost my work but reblogs are always welcome and appreciated. Xoxo 🩷🍒
When Dean, Soldier Boy and Beau fight over the same woman, what could possibly go wrong?
You wake up in a bed that isn't yours and three identical, insistent men, that you have no memory of, each claim that you are theirs. This must be a dream, right?
Summary: Soldier Boy has you on his lap and he isn't giving in easily.
Rating: 18+
Word Count: 1288
Warnings: SMUT, Edging, Language
A/N: This is just straight smut. That's the fic.
Please let me know what you think.
Soldier Boy’s got you on his lap on the couch. You’re facing the television but it’s on mute, washing the room in flashes of silent color. He’s had you like this for forty minutes and you’re a whining mess of need and frustration.
“Words,” he says in his low, smooth voice against the side of your neck, where his tongue is licking his way up. “What’s wrong, doll?”
“Bennn,” you whine for the hundredth time.
He chuckles against your soft, delicate skin. He says your name back in a mocking whine.
You shift over his hard cock, trying to find a little friction but his hands on your hips tighten again and still you. You let out a huff of frustration as his hand moves up your ribs to cup your breast again. Ben begins to circle your nipple with an excruciatingly light touch, causing you to arch your back. His other hand, still on your hip, pulls you back against him, roughly.
“Ben, I-I can’t take anymore,” you whine, high and needy.
“Yes, you can,” he says, voice steady as he trails his tongue lazily under your ear to that special spot that drives you wild and he damn well knows it. “And you will.”
“No, Ben. Please. My body is going to physically burst,” you say, as you try to rock your hips again. Ben isn’t having it, his grip tightens again and you're forced back into being still.
“Aw, I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he says as he nips at the tip of your earlobe, his finger now rolling your hardened nipple between his finger and his thumb a little rougher than necessary. “Is it that bad, doll?” he mocks, not sounding sincere for a second.
“Benn,” you whine again, a tear falling down your cheek.
“Words, baby. We talked about this.”
Ben takes his legs and hooks them around yours to pin your calves to the couch. He then takes the hand from your hip and slowly runs it down to tease your clit again. You gasp out, eyes flying open.
Your head falls back against his shoulder as he deepens the pressure on your already overstimulated clit. It doesn’t take long before your legs are shaking and he pulls his hand away, denying you for the tenth time.
Another couple of tears stream down your face. You try to turn to face him but your legs are still pinned and he loops his other arm around your waist and hips to keep your back pressed to his chest.
“Ah ah. Be a good girl and sit still for me,” he scolds but you can hear the smirk in his voice. He’s enjoying this far too much.
Ben lifts his hips and grinds his cock up into your ass. His mouth is kissing the top of your bare shoulder and his hand is back to teasing near your clit but not on it. Finally, he lowers it and sinks two thick fingers into your drenched entrance.
You let out a moan and the tension in your body evaporates as you melt back into him. You can feel him smile against the crook of your neck.
“You like that, doll? Being so good for me now,” he murmurs against your neck.
You just nod. You can’t think enough to even respond with actual words.
“Good girl but use your words.”
“Ye-yes, Ben,” you stammer out, voice wrecked “Feels so–ohhh god—good.”
He chuckles darkly in your ear. “That’s right. So damn needy.”
He’s thrusting his fingers in and out of you in long, deep strokes before he begins to crook them and you start to tremble again. Then he pulls them out of you without warning. You whine again. He raises his middle finger to your lips. “Open,” he commands.
You do. Ben sticks his finger into your mouth and you lick and suck your own juices off of it without hesitating, tasting yourself. Ben lets out a small groan in your ear, that makes you clench around nothing. He takes his pointer finger and puts it to his own mouth, sucking your delicious arousal off of his own finger with another groan.
“You taste so good. So sweet,” he says bucking his hips up into you again, his dick pushing up between your thighs but not enough to rub where you need him.
“Ben, please!” you beg.
“Please what, sweetheart?”
“I need you. Inside of me. Now,” you plead.
Ben gives a low, rumbling laugh against your back, the sound vibrating straight through your chest.
“See? Wasn’t so hard to ask nicely, was it?”
He unhooks his legs from around yours, releasing the hold, but before you can even think about moving, his large hands grip your waist tightly. He shifts you up effortlessly, aligning the heavy, thick head of his cock right against your dripping entrance. The heat radiating off him is suffocating in the best possible way.
He doesn’t ease in. With one smooth, deliberate roll of his hips, he buries himself completely inside you.
A high, breathless gasp tears from your throat, your back arching violently into his chest as your body stretches around him. The sudden, overwhelming fullness after what felt like hours of torment makes your vision blur.
“Jesus,” Ben growls into your ear, his breath hot and harsh. His hands lock onto your hips, holding you pinned down onto his lap so you can’t wriggle away from the intensity. “Look at you. Squeezing me so damn tight.”
He pauses for an excruciating second, letting you adjust, letting you feel every solid inch of him buried deep inside you. Then he lifts you almost all the way—eliciting a desperate, needy whimper from you—before driving back in with a sharp, heavy thud.
“Fuck! Ben—oh god—”
“Keep looking at the TV, doll,” he commands, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction as he establishes a slow, punishing rhythm. Each deep, rolling thrust hits that exact spot inside you, sending electric shocks straight down your spine. “Just sit pretty on my dick and take it.”
Your hands grip his knees for leverage as he sets a relentless pace, lifting you slightly only to bring you back down hard against him. The silent flashes of light from the muted television wash over the room, casting long shadows as the soft, wet sound of his hips slapping against your ass fills the quiet space.
He leans forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck, biting down softly on the sensitive skin there while his thumb reaches around to press firmly against your swollen clit.
That’s the final straw.
The overstimulation, the overwhelming fullness, and the sudden friction shatter the sliver of control you had left. Your inner walls clamp down hard around him, pulsing in a violent, sudden orgasm that sends a long, broken cry echoing through the room. Your thighs tremble uncontrollably, your whole body melting into his heat as the waves crash over you.
Ben lets out a harsh, guttural groan at the tight, rhythmic squeezing of your walls. He loses his cool composure, speeding up his thrusts into hard, fast bucks, driving into you three, four, five more times until he cums with a heavy shudder, burying himself as deep as he can go and holding you tight against his chest as he rides out his own release.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the heavy, ragged breathing from the both of you.
Ben nuzzles his face into your hair, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss to your temple while his hands gently trace up and down your trembling ribs.
“Good girl,” he murmurs softly, his thumb lazily stroking your hip. “Told you that you could take it.”
Summary: Dean met the love of his life. Everything was perfect, until you disappeared. Two years later he runs into you in a small town diner at 2 in the morning, with another man, and you have no idea who Dean is.
Rating: 18+
Word Count: 3320
Warnings: Language, Violence, Smut
A/N: Please let me know what you think.
Gone Masterlist
Dean whipped Baby out of the driveway and floored it towards the motel.
“Dean, don’t kill us just to get her alone three minutes sooner,” Sam grumbled, though his smirk gave him away.
Dean’s hand was firmly on your thigh, his thumb making heavy, possessive passes against your leg as he squeezed. “Shut it, Sammy,” he grunted, keeping his eyes glued to the asphalt ahead.
The rest of the short drive passed in a thick, charged silence. Every time Dean shifted gears, you felt your stomach jolt in anticipation, the heavy hum of the engine matching the frantic thrumming in your chest. The moment the tires crunched onto the gravel lot, Sam barely had his door open before Dean was tossing him a keycard and grabbing your hand.
Sam didn’t even make it to his room before Dean was pulling you into his. The door hadn’t even fully clicked shut behind you before Dean’s hands were on you again, desperate and unyielding. He backed you straight up against the wood of the motel door, his body pressing flush against yours as his mouth found yours in a hard, breathless collision.
There was no hesitation this time, no walls, and no lingering fog. The familiar, comforting scent of leather, gunpowder, and cheap motel soap filled your senses, grounding you completely in the present. You wrapped your arms tightly around him, burying your fingers in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer until there wasn’t a single breath of space left between you.
Dean let out a low, ragged growl against your lips, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, lifting you slightly so you were completely trapped beneath his weight. The sheer, overwhelming relief of having you back—real, whole, and remembering every single piece of your history—was vibrating through his entire body.
“Tell me I’m not dreaming,” Dean rasped, pulling back just a fraction of an inch, his green eyes dark and intensely focused as they searched your face. His breath hit your lips, warm and hurried. “Tell me you’re really here.”
“I’m here, Dean,” you whispered against his lips, your heart hammering against your ribs. You reached up, cupping his jaw, feeling the rough stubble beneath your palms. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
A devastatingly handsome, emotional smile broke across his face before he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. His arms wrapped around your waist, squeezing so tightly it almost hurt, but it was exactly what you needed.
“Two years,” he murmured, his voice thick and rough against your skin. “Two goddamn years of looking for you. I thought... I didn’t know if I’d ever get to do this again.”
“You found me,” you said softly, tilting your head to give him better access as his lips began to trace a slow, burning path down your jawline. “You always find me.”
Dean lifted his head, his hands sliding back up to cup your cheeks, his thumbs gently wiping away the stray tears of relief that had started to pool in the corners of your eyes. The fierce, lethal hunter who had just stood down an angel was completely gone, replaced entirely by the man who loved you with everything he had.
“Damn right I do,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, affectionate tone that always made your knees go weak, as he ran his thumb along your lower lip. “Now, let’s get you out of these clothes and remind you exactly who you belong to.”
Clothing was quickly shed and strewn about the room in a frantic path to the bed. You crawled up onto the bed and laid down on your back, spreading your legs for him, staring up at him like he was the best fucking thing you’d ever seen. Because he was. His hard muscles shifted in the dim light of the room as he climbed onto the bed.
“Fuck, sweetheart. That’s quite the view,” he said in awe as he stared down at your bare body spread out before him, lingering on the curves of your breasts, your hips and finally your pussy which was already so wet for him that your thighs shined with your slick. “God, you’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”
You turned your head into your arm, blushing. “Deaaan,” you whined.
“I know, baby. I know.”
Dean didn’t hesitate, he dropped between your thighs and began to lick your clit with tiny little movements, a moan flowing from your lips. He looped his arms under your thighs wrapping them around to grip the tops with his hands, spreading you wider and holding you still as he began to eat you like a man starved. Even with him holding you firmly, your back arched off the bed, as he tore another moan from your throat.
He kissed his way down to your drenched entrance and slid his tongue inside you. He heard his name even though your thighs were hugging his head like earmuffs, squeezing as his tongue licked its way back up to your sensitive bundle of nerves. He sucked your clit into his mouth, getting it nice and wet with his tongue as you writhed on the bed under his attention. He pulled back just enough to blow a cool breeze against it, smirking at the small sound you made, his eyes never leaving your face. He dove back in and his tongue began to swirl around it like a tornado. You lost control and an orgasm slammed into you. Dean didn’t stop; he worked you through it.
He pulled back slowly, releasing his hold on your legs, as he wiped your juices from his mouth and stubble with his hand. Dean’s eyes were locked on yours as he licked your juices from his fingers with a groan of pleasure. Your mouth fell slightly open, watching him, breaths coming in in short bursts as you came back down.
Dean settled between your thighs as his hand came up to grasp your breast gently, his thumb and forefinger rolling your nipple back and forth as he leaned down and captured your lips. The kiss was passionate and messy, all teeth and tongues clashing and fighting for dominance.
You pulled back and placed both hands on his chest, using your strength and pushing him off of you. The surprised and slightly confused look on his face didn’t last once you shoved him down against the pillows and lowered down to take him into your mouth. You didn’t start slow and teasing like normal. You took him straight in and sank as far as you could go, his thick head hitting the back of your throat. Dean let out a surprised, choked sound that turned into a low groan.
He let his head fall back further against the pillows as he closed his eyes. “Fuuuck,” he rumbled, followed by your name, barely a whisper.
You increased your pace, cupping the underside of his dick with your tongue and using your hand to stroke, in perfect rhythm with your mouth, what you couldn’t fit inside your mouth. You pulled back up to the top and swirled your tongue around his leaking head, flicking it against the tip.
Dean let out a sound that was more animal than human and his eyes snapped open. He grabbed you by your upper arms and pulled you off of him with a pop. He flipped you underneath him and didn’t give you time to take a full breath before he was pushing into you, bottoming out with one rough push, as you gasped.
He didn’t give you time to adjust; he hadn’t opened you up with his fingers like he normally did and it had been a long time since you had had him. Dean was fucking huge. You cried out and dug your nails into his biceps.
That seemed to urge him on. Dean had lost all semblance of control and was thrusting into you with feral movements and animalistic growls tearing out of his chest as he drove into you over and over again.
“Dean!” you gasped out as his mouth found the crook of your neck and bit down. He didn’t break the skin but the shock of it sent an electric current through your whole body.
“Shit,” he grunted out, picking up the pace even further as if that were possible. “God, I fuckin’ missed you, baby,” he said, voice wrecked.
His punishing pace and feralness sent you flying over the edge into another orgasm, stronger than the first. Your muscles clamped down around his thick cock in rapid, pulsing spasms. Your nails were digging into his shoulders but he didn’t seem to notice or mind. He didn’t even flinch as he kept up the pace.
His hand dropped to your oversensitized clit, fingers working it just right, extending your orgasm. Your thighs were trembling so hard that the bed was shaking from both your movements and his. You screamed his name as the waves tore through your body, vision going white. You thought you might have started a third climax before the second was even over. You couldn’t be sure. You were dizzy and your mind was a blur of pleasure and Dean.
Dean let out a growl and buried himself as deep as he could and spilled his hot, creamy cum deep inside you. The growl turned into a roar as his dick released the last wave of cum into your warm, wet, tight pussy.
Without warning he turned you over, staying connected. You were now laying on top of him, both of you fighting for air, chests heaving, glistening with a thin layer of sweat. Neither of you spoke for a moment. You couldn’t.
Dean leaned up and pressed a quick peck to your lips in between heavy breaths.
He didn’t let go of you. His arms remained locked around your waist, his hands resting on the small of your back as the frantic, chest-heaving breaths slowly began to even out. The silence in the motel room felt heavy, but for the first time in two nightmare-filled years, it was a good kind of heavy.
Dean shifted beneath you, his thighs moving so he could wrap his legs loosely around yours, anchoring you to him. Slowly, his hand slid up your spine, his thumb tracing the dip of your lower back before his fingers tangled gently into your hair, pressing your face back down into the hollow of his neck.
“Don’t move,” he rasped, his voice shot to hell, rough and gravelly against your ear. “Don’t you dare move an inch, sweetheart.”
A soft, breathless laugh bubbled up from your throat, vibrating against his skin. “I can’t move even if I wanted to, Dean. My legs feel like jelly.”
“Good,” he grunted, a genuine, cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes remained closed as he took in another deep, shuddering breath of your scent. “That’s the goal.”
For a long while, neither of you said a word. The only sounds in the room were the hum of the old motel air conditioner and the steady, rhythmic thrum of Dean’s heart beating beneath your cheek. It was a familiar beat—one you’d listened to countless times in the Impala, in motel beds across the country, and in your shared bedroom of the bunker.
Eventually, Dean’s hand began to make slow, gentle strokes up and down your back, his touch absurdly soft compared to the wild, feral intensity of just minutes before.
“We’re going home tomorrow,” Dean whispered into the quiet room, his voice dropping into a tender, steady vow. “First thing in the morning. We’re packing up Baby, grabbing Sam, and heading straight back to Kansas. No angels, no fake lives, no bullshit. Just us.”
You tilted your head up, resting your chin on his chest so you could look into those bright green eyes. “The bunker?”
“The bunker,” he confirmed, a warm, soft look washing over his features as his thumb gently smoothed across your cheekbone. “We’ll drag the mattress into the library. We’ll get cheap beer and those stupid classy strawberries. Whatever you want, baby. It’s all waiting for you.”
You smiled, the last lingering shadows of the past two years finally dissolving in the warmth of his embrace. You leaned up, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his jaw before resting your head back down over his heart.
“Sounds perfect, Dean,” you murmured, closing your eyes as his arms tightened around you once more, holding you safe in the dark.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
One week later.
The last week had been perfect. It didn’t even feel like you’d ever been apart. There was no adjustment period, you both fell right back into your relationship like the last two years had never happened. Although, Dean was a little more clingy and extra-attentive given that he had lived without you for those two years. You didn’t know what you were missing. He did.
Your sex life was always strong but now neither of you could keep your hands off each other. More than once, Sam had shaken his head and left the bunker for a few hours, just to get away from you two “fucking like teenagers”. There was no real irritation behind it though. He was happy to have you back too and he was even happier that his brother was finally smiling and living his life again.
You had just gotten out of the shower and you saw that Dean had indeed pulled your mattress into the library, as promised back in the motel in Mississippi. You stood there, wrapped in a towel and smiled at him from the doorway.
“Go get dressed, sweetheart. We have a movie to start,” he said as he set a bowl of popcorn on the floor next to the mattress. You smiled and turned to hurry down the hallway.
As you stepped back into the library, you saw that he had pulled about five blankets and a thousand pillows in there, creating a soft sanctuary. Then your eyes landed on the bowl of chocolate covered strawberries at the foot of the mattress. “Dean!” you squealed, a bright smile spreading across your face. “You really got them!”
“Yeah, told ya I would,” he grinned back at you.
You hurried over and plopped down on the bed next to him. You immediately grabbed one and held it up to his mouth. He took a bite and then you popped the rest into your mouth. “Mmm. So good.”
“And classy,” he teased. You nudged him with your shoulder.
“They are!”
Around the half hour mark of the movie, you were laying back against his chest, your legs tangled together under the blanket and he leaned down to kiss your shoulder. You turned your head and gave him a long slow kiss. You turned back to the movie as his hand came up from beside you. He was holding a ring in front of you.
Your breath caught, followed by a gasp. “Dean,” you whispered, voice shaky.
You stared at the ring for a moment before you turned to look at him.
His green eyes were soft, devoid of any cockiness or tease, filled only with that quiet, overwhelming devotion that made your pulse race.
“I bought this two years ago,” Dean said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rasp that trembled just a fraction. “A couple weeks before everything went sideways. I was gonna ask you the weekend after that last case. I carried it in my pocket for six months after you vanished until Sam made me put it in my duffel so I wouldn’t wear the velvet off the box.”
He took your hand, his broad, warm fingers gently sliding over yours, and brought the back of your hand to his lips for a quick, lingering kiss.
“I know we just got you back,” he murmured, his gaze holding yours in the warm glow of the television screen. “And I know you’ve spent two years trapped in a fake relationship and then engaged to some other guy. But this? Us? This ain’t fake, baby. It never was. I don’t want another day in this bunker, or in the Impala, or anywhere else on this planet where you’re not mine for real.”
He held the ring up between your faces, a simple, stunning diamond set in a classic white gold band that caught the light.
“So, what do you say, sweetheart?” Dean asked, a small, hopeful smile breaking through the emotion on his face. “You wanna make it official and marry me?”
You didn’t answer with words at first. Instead, you launched yourself upward, cupping his jaw with both hands and pulling his mouth down to yours in a fierce, breathless kiss. Dean let out a soft, surprised grunt before his free arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you completely flush against him. The ring box clutched in his other hand pressed gently against your hip as his lips moved against yours with a tender but desperate hunger.
When you finally pulled back just an inch, resting your forehead against his, your breathing was shallow and uneven.
“Yes,” you whispered against his lips, a soft laugh bubbling up from your chest. “Yes, Dean. A thousand times, yes.”
The tension that Dean had been holding in his shoulders—a leftover weight he’d been carrying for two full years—seemed to vanish entirely. A breathtaking, genuine smile lit up his face, turning his green eyes brilliant in the dim light of the library.
“Damn right,” he growled affectionately, his voice thick with emotion.
He didn’t waste a single second. With surprisingly steady hands for a man who looked like he might burst with relief, Dean pulled the ring from the velvet lining. He took your left hand, his thumb stroking your knuckles once before sliding the brilliant stone onto your ring finger. It fit perfectly, as if it had been made for your hand all along.
You raised your hand, watching the diamond catch the flickers of light from the television screen. It looked right. It felt right. There were no weird lingering doubts, no artificial confusion—just the solid, grounding reality of Dean Winchester holding you tight. You had a love that nothing could tear apart, not even the heavens.
Dean leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss directly over the ring on your finger, his stubble brushing your skin, before looking back up into your eyes.
“Look at that,” he murmured, his thumb rubbing the back of your hand. “Looks way better on you than it ever did sitting in my duffel bag.”
“You carried it in your duffel?” you asked softly, feeling another wave of warmth bloom in your chest.
“Every damn day,” Dean admitted, a tiny, self-deprecating smirk tugging at his lips. “Sam kept telling me to lock it in the bunker safe, but I couldn't do it. I needed to know I had it on me for when I found you.” He shifted, wrapping both arms around you to pull you flush against his chest once more, tucking your head right under his chin. “And now I'm never letting you out of my sight again.”
You settled against his broad chest, listening to the steady, comforting beat of his heart. You reached down, grabbing a chocolate-covered strawberry from the bowl and held it up to his mouth.
Dean chuckled, taking a big bite, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he chewed.
“So,” you teased, tracing circles on his chest with your left hand, letting the new ring catch the light. “Are we actually going to finish the movie this time?”
Dean let out a low rumble of laughter, his hands sliding down your waist, his fingers making a slow, deliberate path under the hem of your shirt. “Sweetheart, you know us. We never make it past the half-hour mark.”
Summary: Dean met the love of his life. Everything was perfect, until you disappeared. Two years later he runs into you in a small town diner at 2 in the morning, with another man, and you have no idea who Dean is.
Rating: 18+
Word Count: 3320
Warnings: Language, Violence, Smut
A/N: Please let me know what you think.
Gone Masterlist
Dean whipped Baby out of the driveway and floored it towards the motel.
“Dean, don’t kill us just to get her alone three minutes sooner,” Sam grumbled, though his smirk gave him away.
Dean’s hand was firmly on your thigh, his thumb making heavy, possessive passes against your leg as he squeezed. “Shut it, Sammy,” he grunted, keeping his eyes glued to the asphalt ahead.
The rest of the short drive passed in a thick, charged silence. Every time Dean shifted gears, you felt your stomach jolt in anticipation, the heavy hum of the engine matching the frantic thrumming in your chest. The moment the tires crunched onto the gravel lot, Sam barely had his door open before Dean was tossing him a keycard and grabbing your hand.
Sam didn’t even make it to his room before Dean was pulling you into his. The door hadn’t even fully clicked shut behind you before Dean’s hands were on you again, desperate and unyielding. He backed you straight up against the wood of the motel door, his body pressing flush against yours as his mouth found yours in a hard, breathless collision.
There was no hesitation this time, no walls, and no lingering fog. The familiar, comforting scent of leather, gunpowder, and cheap motel soap filled your senses, grounding you completely in the present. You wrapped your arms tightly around him, burying your fingers in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer until there wasn’t a single breath of space left between you.
Dean let out a low, ragged growl against your lips, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, lifting you slightly so you were completely trapped beneath his weight. The sheer, overwhelming relief of having you back—real, whole, and remembering every single piece of your history—was vibrating through his entire body.
“Tell me I’m not dreaming,” Dean rasped, pulling back just a fraction of an inch, his green eyes dark and intensely focused as they searched your face. His breath hit your lips, warm and hurried. “Tell me you’re really here.”
“I’m here, Dean,” you whispered against his lips, your heart hammering against your ribs. You reached up, cupping his jaw, feeling the rough stubble beneath your palms. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
A devastatingly handsome, emotional smile broke across his face before he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. His arms wrapped around your waist, squeezing so tightly it almost hurt, but it was exactly what you needed.
“Two years,” he murmured, his voice thick and rough against your skin. “Two goddamn years of looking for you. I thought... I didn’t know if I’d ever get to do this again.”
“You found me,” you said softly, tilting your head to give him better access as his lips began to trace a slow, burning path down your jawline. “You always find me.”
Dean lifted his head, his hands sliding back up to cup your cheeks, his thumbs gently wiping away the stray tears of relief that had started to pool in the corners of your eyes. The fierce, lethal hunter who had just stood down an angel was completely gone, replaced entirely by the man who loved you with everything he had.
“Damn right I do,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, affectionate tone that always made your knees go weak, as he ran his thumb along your lower lip. “Now, let’s get you out of these clothes and remind you exactly who you belong to.”
Clothing was quickly shed and strewn about the room in a frantic path to the bed. You crawled up onto the bed and laid down on your back, spreading your legs for him, staring up at him like he was the best fucking thing you’d ever seen. Because he was. His hard muscles shifted in the dim light of the room as he climbed onto the bed.
“Fuck, sweetheart. That’s quite the view,” he said in awe as he stared down at your bare body spread out before him, lingering on the curves of your breasts, your hips and finally your pussy which was already so wet for him that your thighs shined with your slick. “God, you’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”
You turned your head into your arm, blushing. “Deaaan,” you whined.
“I know, baby. I know.”
Dean didn’t hesitate, he dropped between your thighs and began to lick your clit with tiny little movements, a moan flowing from your lips. He looped his arms under your thighs wrapping them around to grip the tops with his hands, spreading you wider and holding you still as he began to eat you like a man starved. Even with him holding you firmly, your back arched off the bed, as he tore another moan from your throat.
He kissed his way down to your drenched entrance and slid his tongue inside you. He heard his name even though your thighs were hugging his head like earmuffs, squeezing as his tongue licked its way back up to your sensitive bundle of nerves. He sucked your clit into his mouth, getting it nice and wet with his tongue as you writhed on the bed under his attention. He pulled back just enough to blow a cool breeze against it, smirking at the small sound you made, his eyes never leaving your face. He dove back in and his tongue began to swirl around it like a tornado. You lost control and an orgasm slammed into you. Dean didn’t stop; he worked you through it.
He pulled back slowly, releasing his hold on your legs, as he wiped your juices from his mouth and stubble with his hand. Dean’s eyes were locked on yours as he licked your juices from his fingers with a groan of pleasure. Your mouth fell slightly open, watching him, breaths coming in in short bursts as you came back down.
Dean settled between your thighs as his hand came up to grasp your breast gently, his thumb and forefinger rolling your nipple back and forth as he leaned down and captured your lips. The kiss was passionate and messy, all teeth and tongues clashing and fighting for dominance.
You pulled back and placed both hands on his chest, using your strength and pushing him off of you. The surprised and slightly confused look on his face didn’t last once you shoved him down against the pillows and lowered down to take him into your mouth. You didn’t start slow and teasing like normal. You took him straight in and sank as far as you could go, his thick head hitting the back of your throat. Dean let out a surprised, choked sound that turned into a low groan.
He let his head fall back further against the pillows as he closed his eyes. “Fuuuck,” he rumbled, followed by your name, barely a whisper.
You increased your pace, cupping the underside of his dick with your tongue and using your hand to stroke, in perfect rhythm with your mouth, what you couldn’t fit inside your mouth. You pulled back up to the top and swirled your tongue around his leaking head, flicking it against the tip.
Dean let out a sound that was more animal than human and his eyes snapped open. He grabbed you by your upper arms and pulled you off of him with a pop. He flipped you underneath him and didn’t give you time to take a full breath before he was pushing into you, bottoming out with one rough push, as you gasped.
He didn’t give you time to adjust; he hadn’t opened you up with his fingers like he normally did and it had been a long time since you had had him. Dean was fucking huge. You cried out and dug your nails into his biceps.
That seemed to urge him on. Dean had lost all semblance of control and was thrusting into you with feral movements and animalistic growls tearing out of his chest as he drove into you over and over again.
“Dean!” you gasped out as his mouth found the crook of your neck and bit down. He didn’t break the skin but the shock of it sent an electric current through your whole body.
“Shit,” he grunted out, picking up the pace even further as if that were possible. “God, I fuckin’ missed you, baby,” he said, voice wrecked.
His punishing pace and feralness sent you flying over the edge into another orgasm, stronger than the first. Your muscles clamped down around his thick cock in rapid, pulsing spasms. Your nails were digging into his shoulders but he didn’t seem to notice or mind. He didn’t even flinch as he kept up the pace.
His hand dropped to your oversensitized clit, fingers working it just right, extending your orgasm. Your thighs were trembling so hard that the bed was shaking from both your movements and his. You screamed his name as the waves tore through your body, vision going white. You thought you might have started a third climax before the second was even over. You couldn’t be sure. You were dizzy and your mind was a blur of pleasure and Dean.
Dean let out a growl and buried himself as deep as he could and spilled his hot, creamy cum deep inside you. The growl turned into a roar as his dick released the last wave of cum into your warm, wet, tight pussy.
Without warning he turned you over, staying connected. You were now laying on top of him, both of you fighting for air, chests heaving, glistening with a thin layer of sweat. Neither of you spoke for a moment. You couldn’t.
Dean leaned up and pressed a quick peck to your lips in between heavy breaths.
He didn’t let go of you. His arms remained locked around your waist, his hands resting on the small of your back as the frantic, chest-heaving breaths slowly began to even out. The silence in the motel room felt heavy, but for the first time in two nightmare-filled years, it was a good kind of heavy.
Dean shifted beneath you, his thighs moving so he could wrap his legs loosely around yours, anchoring you to him. Slowly, his hand slid up your spine, his thumb tracing the dip of your lower back before his fingers tangled gently into your hair, pressing your face back down into the hollow of his neck.
“Don’t move,” he rasped, his voice shot to hell, rough and gravelly against your ear. “Don’t you dare move an inch, sweetheart.”
A soft, breathless laugh bubbled up from your throat, vibrating against his skin. “I can’t move even if I wanted to, Dean. My legs feel like jelly.”
“Good,” he grunted, a genuine, cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes remained closed as he took in another deep, shuddering breath of your scent. “That’s the goal.”
For a long while, neither of you said a word. The only sounds in the room were the hum of the old motel air conditioner and the steady, rhythmic thrum of Dean’s heart beating beneath your cheek. It was a familiar beat—one you’d listened to countless times in the Impala, in motel beds across the country, and in your shared bedroom of the bunker.
Eventually, Dean’s hand began to make slow, gentle strokes up and down your back, his touch absurdly soft compared to the wild, feral intensity of just minutes before.
“We’re going home tomorrow,” Dean whispered into the quiet room, his voice dropping into a tender, steady vow. “First thing in the morning. We’re packing up Baby, grabbing Sam, and heading straight back to Kansas. No angels, no fake lives, no bullshit. Just us.”
You tilted your head up, resting your chin on his chest so you could look into those bright green eyes. “The bunker?”
“The bunker,” he confirmed, a warm, soft look washing over his features as his thumb gently smoothed across your cheekbone. “We’ll drag the mattress into the library. We’ll get cheap beer and those stupid classy strawberries. Whatever you want, baby. It’s all waiting for you.”
You smiled, the last lingering shadows of the past two years finally dissolving in the warmth of his embrace. You leaned up, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his jaw before resting your head back down over his heart.
“Sounds perfect, Dean,” you murmured, closing your eyes as his arms tightened around you once more, holding you safe in the dark.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
One week later.
The last week had been perfect. It didn’t even feel like you’d ever been apart. There was no adjustment period, you both fell right back into your relationship like the last two years had never happened. Although, Dean was a little more clingy and extra-attentive given that he had lived without you for those two years. You didn’t know what you were missing. He did.
Your sex life was always strong but now neither of you could keep your hands off each other. More than once, Sam had shaken his head and left the bunker for a few hours, just to get away from you two “fucking like teenagers”. There was no real irritation behind it though. He was happy to have you back too and he was even happier that his brother was finally smiling and living his life again.
You had just gotten out of the shower and you saw that Dean had indeed pulled your mattress into the library, as promised back in the motel in Mississippi. You stood there, wrapped in a towel and smiled at him from the doorway.
“Go get dressed, sweetheart. We have a movie to start,” he said as he set a bowl of popcorn on the floor next to the mattress. You smiled and turned to hurry down the hallway.
As you stepped back into the library, you saw that he had pulled about five blankets and a thousand pillows in there, creating a soft sanctuary. Then your eyes landed on the bowl of chocolate covered strawberries at the foot of the mattress. “Dean!” you squealed, a bright smile spreading across your face. “You really got them!”
“Yeah, told ya I would,” he grinned back at you.
You hurried over and plopped down on the bed next to him. You immediately grabbed one and held it up to his mouth. He took a bite and then you popped the rest into your mouth. “Mmm. So good.”
“And classy,” he teased. You nudged him with your shoulder.
“They are!”
Around the half hour mark of the movie, you were laying back against his chest, your legs tangled together under the blanket and he leaned down to kiss your shoulder. You turned your head and gave him a long slow kiss. You turned back to the movie as his hand came up from beside you. He was holding a ring in front of you.
Your breath caught, followed by a gasp. “Dean,” you whispered, voice shaky.
You stared at the ring for a moment before you turned to look at him.
His green eyes were soft, devoid of any cockiness or tease, filled only with that quiet, overwhelming devotion that made your pulse race.
“I bought this two years ago,” Dean said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rasp that trembled just a fraction. “A couple weeks before everything went sideways. I was gonna ask you the weekend after that last case. I carried it in my pocket for six months after you vanished until Sam made me put it in my duffel so I wouldn’t wear the velvet off the box.”
He took your hand, his broad, warm fingers gently sliding over yours, and brought the back of your hand to his lips for a quick, lingering kiss.
“I know we just got you back,” he murmured, his gaze holding yours in the warm glow of the television screen. “And I know you’ve spent two years trapped in a fake relationship and then engaged to some other guy. But this? Us? This ain’t fake, baby. It never was. I don’t want another day in this bunker, or in the Impala, or anywhere else on this planet where you’re not mine for real.”
He held the ring up between your faces, a simple, stunning diamond set in a classic white gold band that caught the light.
“So, what do you say, sweetheart?” Dean asked, a small, hopeful smile breaking through the emotion on his face. “You wanna make it official and marry me?”
You didn’t answer with words at first. Instead, you launched yourself upward, cupping his jaw with both hands and pulling his mouth down to yours in a fierce, breathless kiss. Dean let out a soft, surprised grunt before his free arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you completely flush against him. The ring box clutched in his other hand pressed gently against your hip as his lips moved against yours with a tender but desperate hunger.
When you finally pulled back just an inch, resting your forehead against his, your breathing was shallow and uneven.
“Yes,” you whispered against his lips, a soft laugh bubbling up from your chest. “Yes, Dean. A thousand times, yes.”
The tension that Dean had been holding in his shoulders—a leftover weight he’d been carrying for two full years—seemed to vanish entirely. A breathtaking, genuine smile lit up his face, turning his green eyes brilliant in the dim light of the library.
“Damn right,” he growled affectionately, his voice thick with emotion.
He didn’t waste a single second. With surprisingly steady hands for a man who looked like he might burst with relief, Dean pulled the ring from the velvet lining. He took your left hand, his thumb stroking your knuckles once before sliding the brilliant stone onto your ring finger. It fit perfectly, as if it had been made for your hand all along.
You raised your hand, watching the diamond catch the flickers of light from the television screen. It looked right. It felt right. There were no weird lingering doubts, no artificial confusion—just the solid, grounding reality of Dean Winchester holding you tight. You had a love that nothing could tear apart, not even the heavens.
Dean leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss directly over the ring on your finger, his stubble brushing your skin, before looking back up into your eyes.
“Look at that,” he murmured, his thumb rubbing the back of your hand. “Looks way better on you than it ever did sitting in my duffel bag.”
“You carried it in your duffel?” you asked softly, feeling another wave of warmth bloom in your chest.
“Every damn day,” Dean admitted, a tiny, self-deprecating smirk tugging at his lips. “Sam kept telling me to lock it in the bunker safe, but I couldn't do it. I needed to know I had it on me for when I found you.” He shifted, wrapping both arms around you to pull you flush against his chest once more, tucking your head right under his chin. “And now I'm never letting you out of my sight again.”
You settled against his broad chest, listening to the steady, comforting beat of his heart. You reached down, grabbing a chocolate-covered strawberry from the bowl and held it up to his mouth.
Dean chuckled, taking a big bite, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he chewed.
“So,” you teased, tracing circles on his chest with your left hand, letting the new ring catch the light. “Are we actually going to finish the movie this time?”
Dean let out a low rumble of laughter, his hands sliding down your waist, his fingers making a slow, deliberate path under the hem of your shirt. “Sweetheart, you know us. We never make it past the half-hour mark.”
CHey, I have a question that might be silly, but why do you always reblog your posts? It doesn't bother me, but every time I get a false sense of joy thinking it's a new post 😁😘❤️
Hey girl! I try and do it within a day of posting (since I post so often) but at a different time of day to try and get it out to people who might not have seen it the first time. I'm not sure if it really makes a difference or not though. lol Definitely not a silly question! Sorry to get your hopes up! Planning on posting Gone Pt 7 early though. Should be up tonight. xoxo😁❤️
Summary: Dean met the love of his life. Everything was perfect, until you disappeared. Two years later he runs into you in a small town diner at 2 in the morning, with another man, and you have no idea who Dean is.
Rating: 18+
Word Count: 3308
Warnings: Language, Violence, Smut (for half a second)
A/N: Please let me know what you think.
Gone Masterlist
What looked like a normal man stood in the middle of the room, next to Sam. Sam flinched and then stepped back to stand beside Dean, reflexively. He let out a small snort through his nose as he stared at the man.
He was a little taller than Dean, with short sandy brown hair and those glowing electric blue eyes. He was dressed in a white button down shirt and gray dress pants. He looked like a menacing businessman but without a tie.
He let his eyes fade back to a somewhat normal shade of blue but they somehow still looked like they were glowing. They were a striking, bright blue. His posture was perfect and his eyes were sharp as they took in the four of them, calculating.
“Hello, Dean,” he said, with a voice that sounded like an aftertaste. The sound shook you and you immediately crawled across the bed to move closer to Dean, grasping at the back of his flannel.
“Dean!” you cried out, terror in your voice. He instantly turned and wrapped one arm around you, still keeping his frame between you and the angel.
Dean’s eyes never left the angel. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“His voice,” you stammered, your fingers gripping the soft fabric of Dean’s shirt so tightly your knuckles ached. “It’s… it’s the voice from the car. The day I woke up in the hospital. I remember the sound of it echoing inside my head before everything went black.”
Dean’s arm tightened around you, pulling you flush against his side. The protective warmth of his body was a sharp contrast to the ice-cold dread flooding the room. His green eyes were locked onto the angel, a terrifying, lethal promise burning behind them.
“You son of a bitch,” Dean growled, his voice dropping into a deep, dangerous tone that made the air feel heavy. “You’re the one who did this to her.”
The angel didn’t flinch. He simply tilted his head, his sharp, bright blue eyes watching the way you clung to Dean with a look of cold, analytical detachment.
“I am Sariel,” the angel said, and that strange, echoing aftertaste in his voice made a sharp spike of pain throb behind your eyes again. “And I did not harm her, Dean. I saved her. Left to your devices, she would have ended up dead in a ditch, or worse, corrupted by the life you force upon everyone around you.”
“You brainwashed her!” Brian yelled from the other side of the bed, his voice cracking with a mixture of fear and absolute fury. He was shaking, his eyes wide as he stared at the celestial being standing in his bedroom. “You messed with my head too! You made me believe a whole lie of a life!”
Sariel slowly turned his gaze to Brian. The sheer weight of the angel’s attention made Brian choke on his next breath and slide back against the headboard. “You were a suitable anchor, Brian. Good looking, stable, easy enough for us to control without rocking the boat too hard. We gave you a miracle; a beautiful life. A quiet life. We chose you to keep her safe from the misery the Winchesters bring.”
“We didn’t ask for your damn miracle!” Dean snapped, stepping forward just a couple inches to completely shield you from Sariel’s view with his body. He didn’t have an angel blade on him, but his posture was pure, tightly coiled violence. “You took her memories. You took her life. Our life. His life.”
“And I gave her a sanctuary,” Sariel replied calmly, his posture immaculate, completely unbothered by the hostility in the room. He took a single, slow step toward the bed. “But the edges are broken and cracked. The human mind is remarkably stubborn when infected by the Winchester curse. It is time to put the walls back up.”
Sam, who had been quietly tracking Sariel’s movements from the edge of the room that he had slipped to unnoticed, subtly shifted his weight. His hand was still on Dean’s gun, but he knew conventional bullets wouldn’t do a damn thing to an angel. He caught Dean’s eye for a split second, a silent, frantic question passing between the brothers: How do we play this without an angel blade?
Sariel raised his hand, his fingers starting to glow with a faint, rhythmic pulse of white celestial light as his eyes locked onto you. “Come here,” he commanded softly.
“You’re not fucking touching her, you son of a bitch!” Dean roared, his arm pulling you tighter against his back. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he muttered to you.
You clung to him for dear life, starting to tremble slightly. “Dean,” you pleaded in a whisper. “Don’t let him do this to me again.”
“I won’t,” Dean vowed, his voice a low, fierce promise right against your ear. “I swear to God, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”
Sariel’s glowing fingers twitched, his expression hardening into something cold and entirely unyielding. “You cannot fight the will of Heaven, Dean. Your attachments are your weakness. They always have been.”
Before the angel could take another step toward the bed, a sharp, metallic scraping sound sliced through the room.
Sam had lunged forward from the shadows, using the distraction to dive toward the master bedroom’s vanity mirror. With a brutal swing of his heavy boot, he shattered the glass, sending shards raining onto the floor. In one fluid, practiced motion, Sam grabbed a long, jagged wedge of the silvered glass, cut deep into his own thumb, and slammed his bloody hand against the closet door, rapidly drawing an angel banishing sigil.
Sariel’s bright blue eyes snapped toward Sam. “Samuel, do not try to outsmart me.” With a flick of his wrist he slammed Sam back against the wall, the shard of glass falling from his hand on impact. Both of his hands were pinned against the wall so that he couldn’t move them and his feet were about six inches off the ground.
Another swoosh of air and flutter of wings interrupted the altercation. “Sariel, stop!” Castiel commanded, voice serious and dark blue eyes trained on the other angel.
“Cas, finally, man,” Dean grunted, relief flooding his voice.
“Brother, what have you done?” Castiel said, ignoring Dean completely.
“What I had to do. This is the will of Heaven, Castiel,” said Sariel with a solemn expression.
“The humans may believe that but I know better. This is not Heaven’s will. This is your own vendetta,” Cas said, brow pulled tight as he stepped closer to Sariel. “Put Sam down, right now,” he demanded.
“Maybe in a minute,” Sariel replied.
Sariel gave a microscopic tilt of his chin, and Sam let out a choked gasp as the invisible force pinning him against the wall tightened, his boots dangling uselessly above the hardwood.
“Sam!” Dean called out, anger flaring higher.
“You have always had a weakness for them, Castiel,” Sariel said, his tone dripping with a quiet, dangerous disappointment. “You fell for them. I am merely trying to correct the anomaly before the damage spreads further.”
“She is not an anomaly,” Castiel countered, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register that seemed to vibrate the floorboards. “She is a human being who has earned her place beside them. What you have done to her—and to this innocent man—is a violation of the highest order. You know we are not to interfere with free will.”
Dean’s grip on your waist turned to steel. He couldn’t get to Sam, and he couldn’t fight Sariel, but having Cas in the room meant they finally had a weapon. “Cas, slice this son of a bitch open!” Dean barked, his eyes flashing with a lethal impatience.
But Sariel was faster. With a sudden, blinding burst of motion, he lunged toward Castiel, his hand slicing through the air. A blade of pure, shimmering celestial light materialized in his palm.
Cas anticipated the move, drawing his own silver angel blade from his sleeve with a sharp, metallic ring just in time to block the strike. The collision of their weapons sent a shower of blinding, white-hot celestial sparks flying across the bedroom, illuminating the dark corners in violent flashes.
“Brian, get down!” you screamed, your old survival instincts roaring to life through the fog in your brain. You threw yourself across the mattress, grabbing Brian by the arm and dragging him down toward the floor on the far side of the bed, using the heavy wooden frame as a shield. Brian didn't even fight you; he scrambled down, his hands over his head, completely paralyzed by the supernatural war breaking out in his own bedroom.
Dean screamed your name but held his position, still between you and the angel.
The sound of blades clashing echoed like thunder in the enclosed space. Cas was holding his ground, his face set in grim determination, but Sariel was fueled by a fanatical, righteous fury.
“You cannot save her from her fate, brother!” Sariel roared, sustaining a vicious swipe from Cas that forced him back toward the doorway.
With Sariel’s focus entirely locked onto Castiel, the invisible grip holding Sam vanished. Sam dropped heavily to the floor, gasping for air as his boots slammed into the rug. He didn't waste a single second. He scrambled across the floor, his eyes scanning the debris until his fingers wrapped around the jagged shard of vanity glass he’d dropped earlier.
“Dean!” Sam choked out, coughing as he pushed himself up. “The sigil! I need a surface!”
Dean’s eyes snapped from the fighting angels to his brother, then to the blank expanse of the wooden headboard right above your pillows. “Right here! Do it now!”
“No, wait!” Castiel yelled. “Not yet.”
He moved swiftly and as their blades clashed again, Cas disarmed Sariel, his blade skittering across the floor toward the bathroom. Castiel’s blade was now under his chin pushing Sariel’s head up. “Now, brother, you will fix what you broke,” he demanded, voice firm and steady.
Sariel huffed out a hysterical sounding laugh. “I will not.”
Cas pushed the blade up just slightly puncturing a small hole in the angel’s chin, a bright blue and white light leaked out. “Yes, you will.”
Sariel raised his hands to his sides, surrendering. “Very well. I’ll fix them but know I will never stop. I will reverse this in due time and this time I will kill Dean. Your pet will be no more and then things will be as they should,” Sariel vowed as he stared down at Castiel.
Sariel closed his eyes, and a low, melodic hum began to vibrate through the walls of the room.
Suddenly, your head felt like it was splitting entirely in two. The white-hot pain returned with a vengeance, so intense that you collapsed against the side of the bed, your fingers clawing at the carpet as a muffled scream tore from your throat. Beside you, Brian let out a loud, agonized cry, his hands flying back to his head as he curled into a tight ball on the floor.
It felt like a dam breaking inside your mind. The last two years of your life—the quiet mornings, the cozy library, the wedding planning, the gentle, domestic love you had shared with Brian—didn't vanish, but they suddenly shifted, pushed aside by a massive, roaring tidal wave of years of your real identity.
Memories flooded back in a dizzying, chaotic rush. Hunting monsters. The smell of cheap motels and old diner coffee. Late-night drives in the Impala. The heavy weight of a shotgun in your hands. Fighting alongside Sam. And Dean. Dean. A year and a half of fighting beside him, laughing with him, loving him, and the agonizing memory of the exact moment Sariel had ambushed your car in Kansas and dropped you in Georgia, ripping you away from the only family you had left.
As the hum abruptly snapped off, the pain vanished as quickly as it had come.
You gasped, your chest heaving as you opened your eyes. The fog was completely gone. The room was sharp, clear, and terrifyingly real. You looked up, your gaze instantly cutting past the broken glass and the chaos straight to the man standing by the bed.
“Dean,” you breathed, your voice no longer carrying the timid, pained confusion of the last few days. It was steady, grounded, and entirely yours.
Dean’s green eyes locked onto yours, and the sheer, agonizing weight of the last two years seemed to drop from his shoulders in an instant. “Sweetheart?” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly, searching your face for the confirmation he was desperate for.
Before he could step toward you, Sariel’s eyes snapped open, his striking blue gaze flashing with a bitter malice. “It is done, Castiel. I have restored their pathetic little minds. Now, remove the blade.”
Cas didn't lower the weapon an inch. His expression remained grim, his deep blue eyes locked onto his brother. “You promised you would never stop, Sariel. You threatened Dean’s life. Heaven may not care about your personal vendetta, but I do. I cannot allow you to remain a threat to them.”
Sariel’s eyes widened slightly as he realized what Cas was implying. “Castiel, you wouldn't—”
“You left me no choice,” Cas said, thrusting the blade up through his jaw. A blinding white light burst through the angel, coming out of his eyes and mouth that was open in a silent scream. Black charred wings spread across the doorway and along the walls.
Cas slowly lowered his angel blade, sliding it effortlessly back into his sleeve as he let out a heavy, solemn breath. “I’m sorry, brother,” he whispered, mostly to himself.
The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. On the floor beside you, Brian was slowly uncurling, his breathing shallow and ragged as he stared at his hands. The look in his eyes was entirely different now—the glassy, brainwashed devotion was gone, replaced by the staggering, heavy realization of his own real past. He remembered Charlotte. He remembered Chrissy. He remembered his actual life.
Dean didn't care about the angel’s death. The second the light faded, he dropped to his knees right in front of you on the floor. His hands came up to cup your face, his fingers trembling slightly against your skin, his jade eyes burning into yours with a raw, fierce intensity.
“Hey,” Dean murmured, his voice rough and thick with emotion, his thumbs gently brushing across your cheekbones. “Hey. Talk to me. Tell me it’s you.”
“Dean,” you murmured as you threw your arms around him, raising up onto your own knees. You slammed your mouth into his, kissing him with every piece of your soul that had been locked away for two years. Dean’s fingers slid into your hair and pushed your head harder against his lips, his tongue exploring your mouth as if it were the first time. He kissed you deeply and a small sound escaped your throat and he swallowed it. As your lips moved against his you pressed your body tighter against him.
After a moment you pulled back, both of you breathless, staring into each other’s eyes like neither of you could trust that this was truly real. “God, I fuckin’ missed you,” he rasped, leaning his forehead against yours as his hands cupped the sides of your face.
“I missed you too. I love you, Dean,” you said, eyes watery.
“I love you too, sweetheart.”
Neither Sam nor Brian interrupted the reunion. Both fully understood the levity of it. Now that Brian was sorting through his own memories and emotions, he stood up and sat on the edge of the bed. He pulled out his phone and dialed Chrissy’s number, silently praying it was still the same.
“Hello,” her voice answered.
“Chrissy…” Brian said.
There was a long pause. “Brian?” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
“Yeah, it’s me, honey,” he said, a tear falling down his cheek.
“But… No, it can’t be. Brian disappeared two years ago. This isn’t funny. Who is this?” she said, emotions threatening to overwhelm her and he could hear it in her voice.
“It’s really me, honey. I was… well I was taken. I can explain everything. Are you still in Charlotte? Are you… are you still single?”
“Yes. And as of a month ago, yeah I am single again,” she said slowly. “Brian, is it really you?”
“Yes, babe. It’s really me. Finally,” he blurted out.
“Finally?” she asked, confused.
“Don’t worry. I’m in Mississippi but I’m going to pack my car and drive straight through to Charlotte. To you.”
“I can’t believe it’s really you. I’ve been so worried. I still think about you every day. I was so afraid that you–” she trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
“I’m coming home. I’ll explain it all when I get there,” he promised again. “Let me pack some things and I’ll call you from the car.”
“Okay,” she said, tears in her voice. “I love you.”
“I love you too, honey,” he said and then hung up. He turned to find the three of you looking at him but Sam and Dean quickly looked away.
You pulled out of Dean’s arms after giving him a quick peck to the lips. Slowly, you walked over to Brian and held out your arms. He gave you a hug and you both sank into each other. It was a long hug filled with all your past memories and the relief that you finally had your real identities back. When he pulled back you slipped off your engagement ring and tucked it into his hand, closing his fingers over it. You both gave each other a small smile of understanding.
“Thank you for being so good to me, Brian,” you said before you let go of his hands.
“You were good to me too,” he replied. “I’m glad you have your real boyfriend and I hope that Chrissy and I can get past this too. She won’t understand like your boyfriend does. Hell, I don’t even understand it fully. It’s a good thing I have a long drive to try and figure out how I’m going to explain it to her,” he said nervously.
“You will. If you need help, maybe Cas can come and explain it to her. Show her,” you said, looking back over your shoulder at Cas who gave you a simple nod of agreement.
Brian nodded too and looked at you one more time. “Take care of yourself,” he said, almost calling you honey but catching himself.
“You too,” you said and you watched him turn towards the closet to grab a suitcase.
You walked up to Sam and gave him a big hug. “I missed you too, you know,” you said with a smirk.
“Me too,” he said with a smile as he rubbed his hand over your back.
You turned and Dean was right behind you. Ready to pull you back into his arms again. “Babe, can you give me like ten minutes to pack some things and change and then we can get out of here?”
He pouted but nodded. “Yeah,” he said, letting his hands fall back to his sides. As you pulled some personal things out and set them on the bed, Dean began packing them into a bag from the walk-in. He wanted to get you back to the motel as fast as humanly possible. Sam was already downstairs in the car.
A few minutes later, you were ready to go. You gave Brian one more hug and hugged and thanked Cas for giving you your life back and told him you’d see him soon. Then you followed Dean out into the dark night. The crisp air hit your skin as you pulled the Impala door open and slid in beside Dean.
Summary: Dean met the love of his life. Everything was perfect, until you disappeared. Two years later he runs into you in a small town diner at 2 in the morning, with another man, and you have no idea who Dean is.
Rating: 18+
Word Count: 3308
Warnings: Language, Violence, Smut (for half a second)
A/N: Please let me know what you think.
Gone Masterlist
What looked like a normal man stood in the middle of the room, next to Sam. Sam flinched and then stepped back to stand beside Dean, reflexively. He let out a small snort through his nose as he stared at the man.
He was a little taller than Dean, with short sandy brown hair and those glowing electric blue eyes. He was dressed in a white button down shirt and gray dress pants. He looked like a menacing businessman but without a tie.
He let his eyes fade back to a somewhat normal shade of blue but they somehow still looked like they were glowing. They were a striking, bright blue. His posture was perfect and his eyes were sharp as they took in the four of them, calculating.
“Hello, Dean,” he said, with a voice that sounded like an aftertaste. The sound shook you and you immediately crawled across the bed to move closer to Dean, grasping at the back of his flannel.
“Dean!” you cried out, terror in your voice. He instantly turned and wrapped one arm around you, still keeping his frame between you and the angel.
Dean’s eyes never left the angel. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“His voice,” you stammered, your fingers gripping the soft fabric of Dean’s shirt so tightly your knuckles ached. “It’s… it’s the voice from the car. The day I woke up in the hospital. I remember the sound of it echoing inside my head before everything went black.”
Dean’s arm tightened around you, pulling you flush against his side. The protective warmth of his body was a sharp contrast to the ice-cold dread flooding the room. His green eyes were locked onto the angel, a terrifying, lethal promise burning behind them.
“You son of a bitch,” Dean growled, his voice dropping into a deep, dangerous tone that made the air feel heavy. “You’re the one who did this to her.”
The angel didn’t flinch. He simply tilted his head, his sharp, bright blue eyes watching the way you clung to Dean with a look of cold, analytical detachment.
“I am Sariel,” the angel said, and that strange, echoing aftertaste in his voice made a sharp spike of pain throb behind your eyes again. “And I did not harm her, Dean. I saved her. Left to your devices, she would have ended up dead in a ditch, or worse, corrupted by the life you force upon everyone around you.”
“You brainwashed her!” Brian yelled from the other side of the bed, his voice cracking with a mixture of fear and absolute fury. He was shaking, his eyes wide as he stared at the celestial being standing in his bedroom. “You messed with my head too! You made me believe a whole lie of a life!”
Sariel slowly turned his gaze to Brian. The sheer weight of the angel’s attention made Brian choke on his next breath and slide back against the headboard. “You were a suitable anchor, Brian. Good looking, stable, easy enough for us to control without rocking the boat too hard. We gave you a miracle; a beautiful life. A quiet life. We chose you to keep her safe from the misery the Winchesters bring.”
“We didn’t ask for your damn miracle!” Dean snapped, stepping forward just a couple inches to completely shield you from Sariel’s view with his body. He didn’t have an angel blade on him, but his posture was pure, tightly coiled violence. “You took her memories. You took her life. Our life. His life.”
“And I gave her a sanctuary,” Sariel replied calmly, his posture immaculate, completely unbothered by the hostility in the room. He took a single, slow step toward the bed. “But the edges are broken and cracked. The human mind is remarkably stubborn when infected by the Winchester curse. It is time to put the walls back up.”
Sam, who had been quietly tracking Sariel’s movements from the edge of the room that he had slipped to unnoticed, subtly shifted his weight. His hand was still on Dean’s gun, but he knew conventional bullets wouldn’t do a damn thing to an angel. He caught Dean’s eye for a split second, a silent, frantic question passing between the brothers: How do we play this without an angel blade?
Sariel raised his hand, his fingers starting to glow with a faint, rhythmic pulse of white celestial light as his eyes locked onto you. “Come here,” he commanded softly.
“You’re not fucking touching her, you son of a bitch!” Dean roared, his arm pulling you tighter against his back. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he muttered to you.
You clung to him for dear life, starting to tremble slightly. “Dean,” you pleaded in a whisper. “Don’t let him do this to me again.”
“I won’t,” Dean vowed, his voice a low, fierce promise right against your ear. “I swear to God, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”
Sariel’s glowing fingers twitched, his expression hardening into something cold and entirely unyielding. “You cannot fight the will of Heaven, Dean. Your attachments are your weakness. They always have been.”
Before the angel could take another step toward the bed, a sharp, metallic scraping sound sliced through the room.
Sam had lunged forward from the shadows, using the distraction to dive toward the master bedroom’s vanity mirror. With a brutal swing of his heavy boot, he shattered the glass, sending shards raining onto the floor. In one fluid, practiced motion, Sam grabbed a long, jagged wedge of the silvered glass, cut deep into his own thumb, and slammed his bloody hand against the closet door, rapidly drawing an angel banishing sigil.
Sariel’s bright blue eyes snapped toward Sam. “Samuel, do not try to outsmart me.” With a flick of his wrist he slammed Sam back against the wall, the shard of glass falling from his hand on impact. Both of his hands were pinned against the wall so that he couldn’t move them and his feet were about six inches off the ground.
Another swoosh of air and flutter of wings interrupted the altercation. “Sariel, stop!” Castiel commanded, voice serious and dark blue eyes trained on the other angel.
“Cas, finally, man,” Dean grunted, relief flooding his voice.
“Brother, what have you done?” Castiel said, ignoring Dean completely.
“What I had to do. This is the will of Heaven, Castiel,” said Sariel with a solemn expression.
“The humans may believe that but I know better. This is not Heaven’s will. This is your own vendetta,” Cas said, brow pulled tight as he stepped closer to Sariel. “Put Sam down, right now,” he demanded.
“Maybe in a minute,” Sariel replied.
Sariel gave a microscopic tilt of his chin, and Sam let out a choked gasp as the invisible force pinning him against the wall tightened, his boots dangling uselessly above the hardwood.
“Sam!” Dean called out, anger flaring higher.
“You have always had a weakness for them, Castiel,” Sariel said, his tone dripping with a quiet, dangerous disappointment. “You fell for them. I am merely trying to correct the anomaly before the damage spreads further.”
“She is not an anomaly,” Castiel countered, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register that seemed to vibrate the floorboards. “She is a human being who has earned her place beside them. What you have done to her—and to this innocent man—is a violation of the highest order. You know we are not to interfere with free will.”
Dean’s grip on your waist turned to steel. He couldn’t get to Sam, and he couldn’t fight Sariel, but having Cas in the room meant they finally had a weapon. “Cas, slice this son of a bitch open!” Dean barked, his eyes flashing with a lethal impatience.
But Sariel was faster. With a sudden, blinding burst of motion, he lunged toward Castiel, his hand slicing through the air. A blade of pure, shimmering celestial light materialized in his palm.
Cas anticipated the move, drawing his own silver angel blade from his sleeve with a sharp, metallic ring just in time to block the strike. The collision of their weapons sent a shower of blinding, white-hot celestial sparks flying across the bedroom, illuminating the dark corners in violent flashes.
“Brian, get down!” you screamed, your old survival instincts roaring to life through the fog in your brain. You threw yourself across the mattress, grabbing Brian by the arm and dragging him down toward the floor on the far side of the bed, using the heavy wooden frame as a shield. Brian didn't even fight you; he scrambled down, his hands over his head, completely paralyzed by the supernatural war breaking out in his own bedroom.
Dean screamed your name but held his position, still between you and the angel.
The sound of blades clashing echoed like thunder in the enclosed space. Cas was holding his ground, his face set in grim determination, but Sariel was fueled by a fanatical, righteous fury.
“You cannot save her from her fate, brother!” Sariel roared, sustaining a vicious swipe from Cas that forced him back toward the doorway.
With Sariel’s focus entirely locked onto Castiel, the invisible grip holding Sam vanished. Sam dropped heavily to the floor, gasping for air as his boots slammed into the rug. He didn't waste a single second. He scrambled across the floor, his eyes scanning the debris until his fingers wrapped around the jagged shard of vanity glass he’d dropped earlier.
“Dean!” Sam choked out, coughing as he pushed himself up. “The sigil! I need a surface!”
Dean’s eyes snapped from the fighting angels to his brother, then to the blank expanse of the wooden headboard right above your pillows. “Right here! Do it now!”
“No, wait!” Castiel yelled. “Not yet.”
He moved swiftly and as their blades clashed again, Cas disarmed Sariel, his blade skittering across the floor toward the bathroom. Castiel’s blade was now under his chin pushing Sariel’s head up. “Now, brother, you will fix what you broke,” he demanded, voice firm and steady.
Sariel huffed out a hysterical sounding laugh. “I will not.”
Cas pushed the blade up just slightly puncturing a small hole in the angel’s chin, a bright blue and white light leaked out. “Yes, you will.”
Sariel raised his hands to his sides, surrendering. “Very well. I’ll fix them but know I will never stop. I will reverse this in due time and this time I will kill Dean. Your pet will be no more and then things will be as they should,” Sariel vowed as he stared down at Castiel.
Sariel closed his eyes, and a low, melodic hum began to vibrate through the walls of the room.
Suddenly, your head felt like it was splitting entirely in two. The white-hot pain returned with a vengeance, so intense that you collapsed against the side of the bed, your fingers clawing at the carpet as a muffled scream tore from your throat. Beside you, Brian let out a loud, agonized cry, his hands flying back to his head as he curled into a tight ball on the floor.
It felt like a dam breaking inside your mind. The last two years of your life—the quiet mornings, the cozy library, the wedding planning, the gentle, domestic love you had shared with Brian—didn't vanish, but they suddenly shifted, pushed aside by a massive, roaring tidal wave of years of your real identity.
Memories flooded back in a dizzying, chaotic rush. Hunting monsters. The smell of cheap motels and old diner coffee. Late-night drives in the Impala. The heavy weight of a shotgun in your hands. Fighting alongside Sam. And Dean. Dean. A year and a half of fighting beside him, laughing with him, loving him, and the agonizing memory of the exact moment Sariel had ambushed your car in Kansas and dropped you in Georgia, ripping you away from the only family you had left.
As the hum abruptly snapped off, the pain vanished as quickly as it had come.
You gasped, your chest heaving as you opened your eyes. The fog was completely gone. The room was sharp, clear, and terrifyingly real. You looked up, your gaze instantly cutting past the broken glass and the chaos straight to the man standing by the bed.
“Dean,” you breathed, your voice no longer carrying the timid, pained confusion of the last few days. It was steady, grounded, and entirely yours.
Dean’s green eyes locked onto yours, and the sheer, agonizing weight of the last two years seemed to drop from his shoulders in an instant. “Sweetheart?” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly, searching your face for the confirmation he was desperate for.
Before he could step toward you, Sariel’s eyes snapped open, his striking blue gaze flashing with a bitter malice. “It is done, Castiel. I have restored their pathetic little minds. Now, remove the blade.”
Cas didn't lower the weapon an inch. His expression remained grim, his deep blue eyes locked onto his brother. “You promised you would never stop, Sariel. You threatened Dean’s life. Heaven may not care about your personal vendetta, but I do. I cannot allow you to remain a threat to them.”
Sariel’s eyes widened slightly as he realized what Cas was implying. “Castiel, you wouldn't—”
“You left me no choice,” Cas said, thrusting the blade up through his jaw. A blinding white light burst through the angel, coming out of his eyes and mouth that was open in a silent scream. Black charred wings spread across the doorway and along the walls.
Cas slowly lowered his angel blade, sliding it effortlessly back into his sleeve as he let out a heavy, solemn breath. “I’m sorry, brother,” he whispered, mostly to himself.
The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. On the floor beside you, Brian was slowly uncurling, his breathing shallow and ragged as he stared at his hands. The look in his eyes was entirely different now—the glassy, brainwashed devotion was gone, replaced by the staggering, heavy realization of his own real past. He remembered Charlotte. He remembered Chrissy. He remembered his actual life.
Dean didn't care about the angel’s death. The second the light faded, he dropped to his knees right in front of you on the floor. His hands came up to cup your face, his fingers trembling slightly against your skin, his jade eyes burning into yours with a raw, fierce intensity.
“Hey,” Dean murmured, his voice rough and thick with emotion, his thumbs gently brushing across your cheekbones. “Hey. Talk to me. Tell me it’s you.”
“Dean,” you murmured as you threw your arms around him, raising up onto your own knees. You slammed your mouth into his, kissing him with every piece of your soul that had been locked away for two years. Dean’s fingers slid into your hair and pushed your head harder against his lips, his tongue exploring your mouth as if it were the first time. He kissed you deeply and a small sound escaped your throat and he swallowed it. As your lips moved against his you pressed your body tighter against him.
After a moment you pulled back, both of you breathless, staring into each other’s eyes like neither of you could trust that this was truly real. “God, I fuckin’ missed you,” he rasped, leaning his forehead against yours as his hands cupped the sides of your face.
“I missed you too. I love you, Dean,” you said, eyes watery.
“I love you too, sweetheart.”
Neither Sam nor Brian interrupted the reunion. Both fully understood the levity of it. Now that Brian was sorting through his own memories and emotions, he stood up and sat on the edge of the bed. He pulled out his phone and dialed Chrissy’s number, silently praying it was still the same.
“Hello,” her voice answered.
“Chrissy…” Brian said.
There was a long pause. “Brian?” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
“Yeah, it’s me, honey,” he said, a tear falling down his cheek.
“But… No, it can’t be. Brian disappeared two years ago. This isn’t funny. Who is this?” she said, emotions threatening to overwhelm her and he could hear it in her voice.
“It’s really me, honey. I was… well I was taken. I can explain everything. Are you still in Charlotte? Are you… are you still single?”
“Yes. And as of a month ago, yeah I am single again,” she said slowly. “Brian, is it really you?”
“Yes, babe. It’s really me. Finally,” he blurted out.
“Finally?” she asked, confused.
“Don’t worry. I’m in Mississippi but I’m going to pack my car and drive straight through to Charlotte. To you.”
“I can’t believe it’s really you. I’ve been so worried. I still think about you every day. I was so afraid that you–” she trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
“I’m coming home. I’ll explain it all when I get there,” he promised again. “Let me pack some things and I’ll call you from the car.”
“Okay,” she said, tears in her voice. “I love you.”
“I love you too, honey,” he said and then hung up. He turned to find the three of you looking at him but Sam and Dean quickly looked away.
You pulled out of Dean’s arms after giving him a quick peck to the lips. Slowly, you walked over to Brian and held out your arms. He gave you a hug and you both sank into each other. It was a long hug filled with all your past memories and the relief that you finally had your real identities back. When he pulled back you slipped off your engagement ring and tucked it into his hand, closing his fingers over it. You both gave each other a small smile of understanding.
“Thank you for being so good to me, Brian,” you said before you let go of his hands.
“You were good to me too,” he replied. “I’m glad you have your real boyfriend and I hope that Chrissy and I can get past this too. She won’t understand like your boyfriend does. Hell, I don’t even understand it fully. It’s a good thing I have a long drive to try and figure out how I’m going to explain it to her,” he said nervously.
“You will. If you need help, maybe Cas can come and explain it to her. Show her,” you said, looking back over your shoulder at Cas who gave you a simple nod of agreement.
Brian nodded too and looked at you one more time. “Take care of yourself,” he said, almost calling you honey but catching himself.
“You too,” you said and you watched him turn towards the closet to grab a suitcase.
You walked up to Sam and gave him a big hug. “I missed you too, you know,” you said with a smirk.
“Me too,” he said with a smile as he rubbed his hand over your back.
You turned and Dean was right behind you. Ready to pull you back into his arms again. “Babe, can you give me like ten minutes to pack some things and change and then we can get out of here?”
He pouted but nodded. “Yeah,” he said, letting his hands fall back to his sides. As you pulled some personal things out and set them on the bed, Dean began packing them into a bag from the walk-in. He wanted to get you back to the motel as fast as humanly possible. Sam was already downstairs in the car.
A few minutes later, you were ready to go. You gave Brian one more hug and hugged and thanked Cas for giving you your life back and told him you’d see him soon. Then you followed Dean out into the dark night. The crisp air hit your skin as you pulled the Impala door open and slid in beside Dean.
Summary: Dean met the love of his life. Everything was perfect, until you disappeared. Two years later he runs into you in a small town diner at 2 in the morning, with another man, and you have no idea who Dean is.
Rating: 18+
Word Count: 3467
Warnings: Language, Violence, Smut (for half a second)
A/N: Please let me know what you think.
Gone Masterlist
Dean’s hand on your hip tightened, but before he could even whisper your name in worry, the shadow beneath the door shifted. The closet door was ripped open violently.
The warm light of the bedroom flooded the small space. Brian stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his face twisting from confusion to absolute, stunned fury as he took in the scene. He saw you—in your pajama set, your hair messy, your back pressed completely flush against Dean’s chest, his hand gripping your hip and your face was pressed into his neck.
“What the hell?!” Brian gasped, his voice cracking as he stepped back. “What... honey? What is he doing in our house? What are you doing with him?!”
In a fraction of a second, Dean’s hunter instincts took over. He stepped out of the closet, entirely shielding your body with his own solid frame. His gun was up, pointed straight at Brian’s chest, his stance rock-solid and lethal.
“Step back,” Dean growled, his voice low, vibrating with a protective rage. “Back, right now.”
“Are you out of your damn mind?” Brian yelled, raising his hands but refusing to back down. “Honey, get away from him! He’s got a gun!”
But behind Dean, you let out another weak, ragged whimper, your knees buckling completely as the pain in your head flared again, threatening to pull you under. You slid down the wall, your hand slipping from the back of Dean’s shirt.
The sound of your pain shattered Dean’s focus instantly.
The gun didn’t matter. Brian didn’t matter. In a heartbeat, Dean spun around and dropped to his knees, catching you before you could hit the floor. He let his gun clatter to the hardwood, to catch you, as he gathered you in his arms.
“Hey, hey, I’ve got you,” Dean murmured, his voice thick with sudden, mounting panic. He cupped your face with his hands, his green eyes scanning your pale features. “Look at me, sweetheart. Just breathe. Sammy!”
You murmured something incoherent and then the only part that Dean could make out, “...they said they were doing this to save us. To save you from me. Or me from you.”
Brian’s anger instantly faltered, replaced by a sudden, nervous panic as he looked down at you shivering in Dean’s arms. “What...what’s wrong with her? What did you do to her?!” he stammered, taking a step closer, though he looked terrified to touch either of you.
“Get back!” Dean roared at him, not even looking up as he pressed his forehead gently against yours. “I swear to God, if you touch her, I’ll kill you.”
Your eyes were closed. You had passed out again. Dean lifted you into his arms and carried you to the bed, glaring at your fiance—a silent warning to get out of his way—and laid you down gently.
You weren’t out as long this time. It was only about ten minutes but it was a tense, silent stand-off in the bedroom. Neither man spoke but each was glaring at the other. Dean was contemplating killing Brian for whatever he’d done to you and Brian was thinking about going for the gun on the floor or calling the cops.
Just then Sam walked in. “Dean–” he trailed off as he took in the absolute severity of the scene. You were unconscious on the bed and both men were on either side of the bed looking completely murderous.
Before he could try and de-escalate things a soft groan left your lips and your eyes began to flutter. Both men’s attention snapped back to you. Slowly, you opened your eyes and squinted, trying to adjust to the light in the room after your blackout. You brought your hand up to shield your eyes.
“Sweetheart, talk to me,” Dean said, his jade eyes locked on you.
“Honey, are you okay?” Brian said, crawling further into the bed beside you, his eyes warily shifting between you, Dean and the tall stranger now standing near the door. He was starting to feel trapped in his own bedroom and he still wasn’t sure exactly what he had walked in on with you and Dean.
Sam noticed Dean’s gun on the floor and immediately retrieved it. That took out one of Brian’s options but he tried to keep his face steady and not show as much fear as he felt.
“Dean,” you murmured.
“I’m right here, sweetheart,” he said, reaching out to cup your cheek. “Where’s Brian?” you asked, voice still pained.
“I’m here, honey,” he said, puffing out his chest just a bit while he reached for your hand slowly and carefully, remembering Dean’s threat.
You squeezed Brian’s hand but turned your head back towards Dean. “I saw something,” you said weakly, still trying to regain your bearings.
“What did you see?” Dean asked softly, stroking your cheek with his thumb.
“Us. We were someplace big and we were watching a movie with beer and food and chocolate covered strawberries and we…” you trailed off, your gaze flicking to Brian.
“Chocolate covered strawberries. I remember. That was our anniversary…” Dean said, his eyes getting slightly moist but he blinked it away quickly. “We were on the floor of the bunker,” Dean continued, his voice barely more than a rough whisper. “We dragged the mattress from our room into the library. You said the couch was too lumpy. We drank cheap beer out of the bottle and you insisted we had to eat those strawberries because they were classy.”
Your eyes found Dean’s again. “We didn’t finish the movie… I remember us… being… intimate,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. You closed your eyes for just a second and saw Dean’s head between your trembling thighs, your hands gripping his hair tightly, back arched, flashing behind your eyelids. You let out a soft breath as you opened your eyes again, a shiver running up your spine.
Dean let out a raw, shuddering breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly. For the first time since he saw you again, the fierce, defensive guard he kept up completely crumbled. His hand remained on your cheek, his thumb gently wiping away a tear before it could fall. He looked at you with an expression of such profound relief and devotion that it made your chest ache all over again.
“We made it to the half-hour mark of the movie,” Dean said, his voice thick with emotion, a tiny, self-deprecating laugh escaping him. “Before I kicked the bowl of strawberries off the mattress because I couldn’t keep my hands off you.”
“Bullshit! You’re lying! You’re messing with her head, twisting her thoughts!” Brian yelled, squeezing your hand tighter. “Honey, this isn’t real! We are real. Our life together is real!”
“Brian, cut the shit, we know her accident never happened. So why don’t you start telling her the truth,” Sam said, his voice low and dangerous, the gun still in his hand at his side like a silent warning.
“I am!” Brian insisted, his voice cracking with a desperate, frantic sincerity that actually made Sam pause. Brian looked down at you, his eyes wide and completely terrified, swimming with genuine tears. “Honey, I swear to you, I’m not lying. I know you had an accident. I was there! The police called me from the hospital. They said you’d been run off the road, that your car was a total loss, and you didn’t have any ID on you but they found my number in your pocket. I rushed to Georgia. I took care of you. I—I built our home. I love you!”
Dean’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as he watched Brian’s breakdown. He was a master at reading liars, but looking at Brian right now... the guy didn’t look like a con artist or a monster trying to cover his tracks. He looked like a man whose entire reality was suddenly being ripped apart at the seams.
Sam slowly lowered the gun, his brow furrowing as he watched the utter panic on the fiance’s face. He stepped closer to the bed, his analytical eyes scanning Brian’s body language.
“Brian,” Sam said, his voice dropping the hard edge, replaced by a cautious, calculating tone. “When you got that call... what was the name of the officer who called you?”
“I... I don’t know,” Brian stammered, shaking his head rapidly as he clutched your hand like a lifeline. “Officer... Officer Smith? Or maybe Miller? It was two years ago, I don’t remember! I just remember the panic. I remember driving all night from North Carolina to get to you.”
“North Carolina?” Sam repeated, his eyes widening slightly. “But you live here. You’ve lived here your whole life, right?”
“No, I—yes. Yes, I’ve always lived here,” Brian said, then he blinked, a sudden, glassy look washing over his eyes. He shook his head, looking momentarily dazed. “Wait. No, I was in Charlotte. I had an apartment. No... no, I’ve lived in this house for five years. I...” He trailed off, his breath catching in his throat as he gripped his own head with his free hand, his face twisting in sudden, painful confusion. “Why did I just say North Carolina? I’ve never even been there.”
Dean’s hand stilled on your cheek. He slowly looked up, meeting Sam’s eyes across the bed.
“Sam,” Dean said, his voice dropping into a low, heavy realization. “It’s not just her.”
“Yeah,” Sam murmured, his expression turning grim. “Someone didn’t just wipe her memory and dump her here. They built a whole damn cage around her. They found a guy who was already alone, rewrote his mind, gave him a fake history, fake memories of an accident, and slotted him right in as the perfect, devoted boyfriend."
“Dammit, they’ve both been magically roofied,” Dean muttered. He wanted to continue to hate Brian but this changed everything. Brian wasn’t the threat, just another victim.
You looked from Brian—who was now trembling, staring at his own hands in absolute horror as his brain tried to process the gaping logical loopholes in his own life—to Dean, whose green eyes were filled with a mixture of anger and deep, aching pity.
“Alone?” Brian muttered, still looking down at his hands. He lifted his head, his eyes darting between the three of them. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t alone. Chrissy. I had a girlfriend, Chrissy. We lived together in–” He cut himself off, his hands flying to his own head, eyes screwed shut in pain as he let out a low groan.
“Brian!” you said, sitting up and reaching for him. Your hand came down on his thigh and you moved closer to wrap your arms around him. “Babe, are you okay?”
Dean’s fist tightened by his side but he remained still on the other side of the bed. This wasn’t his fault or yours. You were both victims. He couldn’t fault either of you for the feelings you’d built over the last two years.
After a moment, Brian opened his eyes again. They were glossy but he didn’t let the tears fall. He said your name and hugged you back. “But Chrissy. What happened to her? What the hell is going on?!” he said, voice panicked and desperate.
Sam let out a sigh and walked to the foot of the bed. “Something did this to both of you. It ripped you out of your lives and forced you into a fake life. We don’t know what yet or why but we will figure it out,” he promised.
“Something?” Brian asked, looking between Sam and Dean. “What does that even mean??” he said, throwing his hands in the air in frustration and confusion.
Dean looked at him and his eyes were slightly less cold but no less intense. He didn’t sugar coat it. “There are things out there that people think are just fantasy. They’re not. Vampires, werewolves, demons, and many, many more monsters. They’re all real. We hunt them. She did too before she was zapped into Pleasantville.”
Brian stared at Dean, his face completely pale, his chest heaving as he tried to process the absolute insanity of what he had just heard. He let out a breathless, borderline hysterical laugh. “Monsters? Vampires? Are you out of your damn mind? Honey, tell me these guys are escaped mental patients, please.”
You looked at Brian, your heart aching at the pure terror in his eyes, but as you opened your mouth to comfort him, a bizarre, heavy weight settled into your chest. The word monsters didn’t sound like a fairy tale. It sounded like an old, familiar textbook.
“He’s telling the truth, Brian,” you heard yourself say, your voice remarkably steady despite the circumstances. You looked over at Sam, then back to Dean. “I don’t know how I know... but he is.”
Brian’s mouth opened and closed, his gaze flickering down to your hand on his chest. He looked completely unraveled, a man watching the walls of his entire existence crumble into dust. “Chrissy...” he whispered, his thoughts looping back to the fracturing pieces of his own mind. “If she was real... what did they do to her? What did they do to me?”
“Hey,” Dean said, his voice surprisingly quiet as he addressed Brian directly for the first time without a murderous edge. He didn’t move closer—respecting the fact that you still had your arms around the guy—but his green eyes were deadly serious. “Listen to me. Whoever did this to you, they didn’t do it because they hated you. They used you. You were a prop to keep her hidden. If your girlfriend Chrissy is out there, we’ll help you find her. But right now, we need to figure out who pulled the strings.”
Sam nodded, tucking the gun into his waistband. “Brian, think. Two years ago, right before you got that phone call about the accident. Did anything weird happen? Did you see a flash of light? Hear a weird noise? Did a stranger come to your door?”
Brian clutched his head again, his eyes squeezed shut tightly as he forced his mind back into the fog. “I don’t... I can’t...” He groaned, the pain clearly flaring up the harder he tried to fight the mental block. “There was... a man. At my apartment in Charlotte. He had a coat. No, that’s not right. He was wearing a suit. He had these... these eyes. They weren’t normal. They were glowing. Like a blue fire.”
A violent shiver ran down your spine, and you instantly looked up at Dean.
Dean’s entire demeanor shifted. The pity vanished, replaced by a sudden, rigid tension that made his shoulders lock. He didn’t look at Sam; he kept his eyes locked on you, his jaw working as a dangerous, familiar anger began to simmer beneath his skin.
“Blue fire,” Dean repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerously low register. He knew that description. He knew exactly what kind of power it took to rewrite two lives so flawlessly and construct a perfect, localized prison.
“An angel,” Sam breathed from the foot of the bed, his face falling into a grim, exhausted expression. “Dean... it was an angel.”
Dean didn’t answer his brother. Instead, he looked at you, his thumb tentatively reaching out to brush a stray piece of hair behind your ear, his touch incredibly tender despite the fury radiating off him. “They told you they were saving us from each other, huh?” he murmured, recalling what you’d muttered before you passed out. A bitter, heartbreaking smile touched his lips. “They always think they know what’s best for us.”
Brian looked between you and Dean, noticing the unspoken, profound connection passing between you even in the middle of a literal nightmare. He slowly let his hands drop from his head, looking entirely defeated. “If my whole life is a lie...” he whispered, his voice cracking as he looked at you, tears finally spilling over his eyelids. “Was... was this a lie too? Did you ever actually love me?”
The question pierced right through you, throwing you into a tailspin of guilt and confusion. You looked at the man you had planned to marry, the man who had been sweet and gentle to you for two whole years, and then your gaze drifted to Dean, whose green eyes were watching you with a heavy, agonizing breath held in his chest, waiting for your answer.
You looked at Brian, your heart fracturing at the raw, vulnerable pain in his voice. This was a man who had held you when you cried, who had built a quiet, safe life with you, and who—until five minutes ago—truly believed you were his entire future.
“Brian,” you whispered, your fingers tightening into the fabric of his shirt as you held him. “I… I don’t know what’s real in my head right now. But the way I cared about you? The way you cared about me? That wasn’t fake. We didn’t know. You were good to me, Brian. That was real.”
Brian let out a ragged, shaky breath, closing his eyes as he leaned his forehead against your shoulder for just a second. It felt less like a romantic embrace and more like two survivors clinging to each other in the middle of a shipwreck.
On the other side of the bed, Dean didn’t move. His jaw tightened, and he looked down at the floor, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. It was a jagged pill to swallow—watching you comfort another man, hearing you say you cared about him—but Dean forced his own jealousy down. He could see the truth. Brian wasn’t the monster who had stolen you; he was just another piece of collateral damage left in a dick angel’s wake.
“Look,” Sam stepped in, his voice gentle but firm as he tried to keep them all grounded. “The angel who did this… they didn’t just want to hide you. They wanted to make sure that if Dean ever did find you, the truth would tear all of you apart. It was a trap designed to keep you from going back to your real lives.”
“So what do we do?” Brian asked, slowly pulling back from you. He wiped a hand across his wet eyes, looking completely exhausted, his gaze shifting from you to Sam, and finally to Dean. “If my memories are a lie… how do I get my real life back? How do we get our lives back?”
Dean lifted his head, his green eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp determination. The heartbroken lover vanished, replaced entirely by the hardened, fierce hunter who was done being a pawn in some cosmic game.
“We find the son of a bitch who did this,” Dean said, his voice dropping into a lethal, gravelly rumble. He reached out, his hand resting flat on the mattress right next to your hip, bringing his presence close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. “Angels leave a signature when they do mojo this heavy. Grace leaves a trail. We’re gonna find out which choir-boy stepped out of line, and I’m gonna personally rip his wings off.”
You looked at Dean, and for the first time, the sheer intensity of his anger didn't scare you. Inside your chest, a strange, dormant spark of fire finally flared to life. You recognized that anger. You had shared it once.
“How do we find him?” you asked quietly, your voice losing its timid, librarian softness and taking on a steady, focused edge that made both Winchester brothers instantly look at you.
Sam let out a small, encouraging breath. “First, we need to check the local area for any weird celestial activity over the last two years. Localized lightning storms, sudden clusters of cured illnesses—anything an angel leaves behind when they drop in to check on their handiwork. Because if they went to this much trouble to build a cage for you…”
“They’re probably still watching it,” Dean finished for him, his jade eyes locking onto yours with a fierce, protective promise. “And the second they realize the hinges are broken, they’re gonna come back to fix it.”
“Cas, get your ass down here or so help me God,” Dean growled.
You let go of Brian and leaned back on the headboard, turning to stare at Dean like he’d lost his mind. “Who are you yelling at?”
“An angel. One that’s BEING A DICK,” Dean said, yelling the last words at the ceiling.
Suddenly, a swoosh of air swept through the room and the soft sound of wings flapping echoed briefly. Dean was on his feet now and he spun around, immediately putting himself between you and the sound. An angel came when Dean called alright—he had been watching his project fail in real-time—but it wasn’t Castiel.
Summary: Dean met the love of his life. Everything was perfect, until you disappeared. Two years later he runs into you in a small town diner at 2 in the morning, with another man, and you have no idea who Dean is.
Rating: 18+
Word Count: 3373
Warnings: Language, Violence
A/N: Please let me know what you think.
Gone Masterlist
Dean bit down into his cheeseburger. Sam had his laptop open and a big salad with grilled chicken sitting to the side of it.
“Think she’ll reach out?” Sam asked.
“I don’t know,” Dean said and then paused. “Strike that. Yes, I do,” he said motioning to the front door with his chin. Sam turned around and watched you walk through the door and begin to look around.
Your eyes caught theirs and you slowly, shyly, walked towards them. You looked nervous, like you weren’t sure that you should really even be there. Stepping up to the table, you swallowed hard.
“Um, hi,” you said, voice too soft.
“Hi,” the brothers said in unison. Dean started to scoot over but you looked at Sam. “Can I sit here?”
Sam shot Dean a look but scooted over in the booth to make space. When your eyes met Dean’s again, he couldn’t help but look a little wounded. You hated that you've seen that look so many times since you met him but you felt a little more comfortable sitting next to the brother who didn’t stare at you with the heaviness and longing that Dean did.
“I-I’m only here because you said you know something about the hospital. I thought maybe you might know something about my accident.”
Sam quickly closed a couple of open tabs on his screen, leaving a clean official document visible before turning the screen slightly toward you. “Right. Of course. Well, first off, we dug into the records from that hospital in Georgia where you woke up two years ago.”
Dean didn’t say anything. He just watched you from across the table, his arms folded over his chest, his forgotten burger sitting in the basket. The wounded look was gone, replaced by that familiar, fierce intensity, but he was intentionally keeping his mouth shut so he wouldn’t scare you off again.
“Here’s the thing,” Sam continued, his deep voice calm and professional as he pointed to the screen. “The hospital records say you were admitted under Jane Doe after being found on the side of Route 16. The intake report lists your injuries as a concussion and dehydration. But there is absolutely no mention of an automobile accident. No lacerations, no broken bones, no bruising consistent with a crash. Nothing.”
You squinted at the digital document, your chest tightening as you read the words No physical trauma noted. “But… Brian told me the police said it was a hit-and-run. He said my car was totaled.”
“We checked the DMV and police databases for this entire region,” Sam said gently, his eyes filled with sympathy. “There is no record of a car registered to you ever being towed, impounded, or involved in an accident around that date. And your medical chart? The neurologist who examined you noted that your amnesia didn’t look like it was caused by a head injury. He actually wrote down that the cognitive block was ‘atypical’ and recommended a psychiatric transfer before you were suddenly discharged against medical advice.”
You sat back against the vinyl booth, the air leaving your lungs in a sharp gasp. The room suddenly felt very loud, the clinking of silverware and the murmur of other diner patrons buzzing in your ears. Your whole life for the past two years was built on the foundation of that accident. Brian had been the one to explain it to you, to hold you while you cried over your missing pieces, to help you start fresh.
“Why would he lie to me?” you whispered, your hands starting to tremble in your lap. “Why would Brian make all of that up?”
“Because he’s keeping you in a box,” Dean’s voice cut through the fog, low and rough. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, bringing himself closer to you. “Sweetheart, think about it. If you don’t have a past, if you don’t have a car, if you don’t have any family checking in on you, who do you have to rely on? Just him.”
“No,” you said, shaking your head, your voice rising slightly in panic. “No, Brian loves me. He’s sweet, he’s—he wouldn’t do something like this. He’s just a normal guy.”
“He might be a normal guy,” Sam interjected, trying to keep his tone soothing before Dean could push too hard. “He might just be a guy who found a vulnerable woman and saw a chance to build a perfect life. Or… he might be a part of whatever actually put you there. We don’t know yet. But the paperwork doesn’t lie. There was no accident.”
You looked from Sam’s steady gaze back across the table to Dean. His green eyes were completely locked on yours, practically begging you to see the truth. The ache in your chest flared up again, hotter this time, a chaotic storm of confusion, betrayal, and that terrifyingly deep familiarity swirling inside you.
“I have to go,” you stammered suddenly, sliding out of the booth before Sam could even move his legs. “I—I have to get back to the library. Brian is supposed to bring me lunch in twenty minutes.”
“Hey, wait,” Dean said, standing up immediately as you backed away from the table. He didn’t chase you, but his voice anchored you to the spot for a fraction of a second. “Take a breath. You don’t have to face him alone.”
“I’m fine,” you said, though the words felt hollow even to you. You turned and practically sprinted out the glass front doors of the diner, the bell jingling merrily above you as you burst back out into the bright morning air, your head spinning out of control.
Dean looked at Sam. “Well, she knows. That’s a start.”
“Do you think she’ll accept it though? Uproot the perfect life she thought she’d built here? With him,” Sam asked, raising a brow and tilting his head slightly for just a fraction of a second.
“I don’t know. But we can’t give up. She still has my phone number on her wrist. That has to count for something,” Dean said, voice low and rough.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Brian came and brought a pizza with him. You both were sitting in the breakroom eating together when you noticed he was eyeing you a little.
“What?” you asked, around a mouthful of pizza.
“Nothing. You’re just… quiet,” he said, eyes still studying your face. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” you said, quickly taking another bite to keep from answering another question.
“Okay,” he relented but his eyes still had that look in them.
You didn’t want to have a conversation with him yet. Not now. And definitely not here. You needed time to wrap your mind around everything, well as much as you could, before you asked him about the hospital. About the accident that apparently never really happened.
After lunch you walked him out to his car. He pulled you into his arms and gave you a long deep kiss. Somehow, you managed to kiss him back like nothing was wrong. His embrace was warm and his kiss was steady. Nothing gave away that he might be hiding anything. That sent a shiver down your spine but you gave him a smile and started to pull away to go back inside. He kept his hold on your waist.
“Honey,” he said, studying your face again. “Are you sure you’re okay after everything that happened last night with the weirdo?”
“Weirdo?” you said softly. “You mean Dean?”
“Yeah, him. He was weird and the whole thing really freaked me out so I can only imagine how you feel.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Really, babe,” you lied.
He looked at you for another moment before finally letting go of your waist and giving you a quick peck to your lips. “Okay then. I’ll see you tonight before my poker game.”
You nodded and gave him a small smile before turning and walking back into the library.
You walked back into the breakroom to hang up your jacket. Immediately, your gaze dropped to your wrist. You pulled out your phone and saved Dean’s number in it. As a small sigh left your lips, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. As you opened your eyes, Mary walked in and you stepped back out to get back to work.
The rest of the afternoon shift dragged by in an agonizingly slow crawl. Every time the library’s front doors opened, your heart leaped into your throat, half-expecting to see those familiar green eyes or Sam’s tall silhouette walking through the door again.
But they didn’t come back inside.
Instead, you spent hours shelving books in a complete daze, your hands moving on autopilot while your mind spun in exhausting circles. Every memory you had of your life here—every sweet thing Brian had ever done, every comforting word he’d spoken when you woke up terrified and blank in that hospital room—now felt tainted. It was like looking at a beautiful painting and suddenly noticing a massive, ugly crack running right down the center.
No physical trauma noted. No car registered to me. Why would he lie?
By the time 5:00 p.m. finally rolled around, you were completely spent. You said a quiet goodbye to Mary, gathered your things, and walked out into the cool evening air. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long, dramatic shadows across the pavement. You headed straight for your small white sedan.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dean was sitting on the edge of the motel bed, looking at Sam who was digging up info on Brian over at the desk. Dean glanced at the hole in the wall above Sam’s head then looked into the main part of the room, not focusing on anything in particular.
“Cas, get your feathery ass down here,” he said, as his eyes scanned the room for signs of movement. After a moment, he sighed. “C’mmon, Cas! This is the fourth time I’ve called you. I need you, man,” he gruffed, getting more annoyed by the second.
Sam turned and looked at Dean. “Still nothing, huh? That’s rough.”
“Fuckin’ angels,” Dean grunted.
Sam shrugged and turned back to his laptop, fingers flying across the keys.
Dean’s phone buzzed and he saw your number, your current number, pop up on the screen. He answered quickly, saying your name.
“Dean,” you said in a whisper.
“What’s wrong? Why are you whispering?” he asked, panic flooding his green eyes as he jumped to his feet. Sam spun to look at him, a questioning look on his face, but he remained silent.
“Dean, someone is in the house. Brian is gone at his poker game. I’m alone in here and I heard a crash downstairs,” you said quietly but fear penetrated every word and Dean heard it.
“Text me the address. We’re on our way,” he said, his voice deep and certain.
His phone buzzed again just as he slid behind Baby’s wheel.
Dean entered through the front door while Sam went around the back. He didn’t see anyone downstairs so he headed for the second floor, his boots silent on the hardwoods. He peeked in the first room. Empty. He swung his body around to point his gun through the open door of the second room. Empty. In the third room, he saw a flickering light. As he entered the master bedroom he walked by the door to the master bathroom. The tub was full of water and there was some water on the floor. A big candle sitting on the vanity bathed the room in a warm flickering light but it was empty too.
Dean turned and looked around the room. His eyes landed on the movement behind the curtains. He walked over to pull them back but didn’t have a chance.
You lunged out from behind the fabric with raw, explosive speed, your body moving on a pure, instinctual autopilot that your conscious mind didn’t even have time to register.
Before Dean could even react, you slammed your body weight into his chest, throwing him entirely off balance. Your hands gripped his collar, and with a swift, practiced twist of your hips, you swept his legs right out from under him. He went down hard, the back of his head barely missing the edge of the nightstand as he hit the fluffy shag rug with a heavy, breath-robbing thud.
In a fraction of a second, you straddled his waist, your knee pinning his arm to the floor while your hand flew to his throat, squeezing just enough to keep him pinned.
Your chest heaved, your breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps as you stared down at him, ready to strike.
Dean didn’t fight you. He didn’t even try to throw you off, though he easily had the size advantage. He just lay there on the floor, his free hand held up in a placating gesture, his green eyes locked onto yours. Even with your fingers pressed hard against his windpipe, there was no anger in his face—only a sudden, staggering wave of awe.
“See?” Dean choked out, a rough, proud little laugh escaping his lips despite the grip you had on his throat. “Told you... hunter, sweetheart.”
You blinked, the fog in your brain briefly clashing with the absolute lethality of the position you had just taken. You looked down at your hands, then at the way your knees were perfectly locked to pin his hips, realization slowly dawning on you. You didn’t know how to do this. You were a librarian. You spent your days shelving biographies, not dropping grown men to the floor like a SWAT officer.
“I...” your voice trembled, your grip loosening on his neck, though you didn’t get off him yet. “How…? How did I do that?”
“Muscle memory,” Dean whispered, his eyes scanning your face, drinking in the sight of you. “Your head might not remember the training, but your body does. You’ve taken me down just like that multiple times but usually it’s for the enemies.”
“Dean!” Sam’s voice roared from the hallway as he came rushing up the stairs, his gun drawn. He rounded the doorway of the bedroom and froze, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of you, in a tiny little tank top and shorts pajama set with your hair pulled up into a messy bun, straddling and completely pinning his older brother to the floor.
Sam slowly lowered his gun, a small, stunned smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, guess she’s still got it.”
“Shut up, Sammy, and help me up,” Dean grumbled, though he didn’t look the least bit upset about being held down. Dean watched, his eyes still holding the awe, as you released him and slowly stood up. You were now wrapping your arms around your middle shyly. “I…” you started. “I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry,” you murmured.
Sam grinned at you both. “I’m just going to be,” he paused. “Yeah, anywhere else,” he said, turning and walking out of the room as he shook his head. A moment later, you both heard the front door close behind him.
Dean’s eyes never left you. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You don’t have to apologize.”
You nodded slowly. “Was there anyone downstairs?”
“I didn’t fully clear it but Sam probably did. No sign of a broken window or anything though,” Dean said, climbing to his feet and smoothing down his clothes.
Just then Dean saw a shadow moving in the hallway. He grabbed you and pulled you into the closet, his hand sliding over your mouth. The closet next to the master bathroom was small, not like the huge walk-in across the room. Your back was pressed to his chest, in order for you both to fit.
His heart was slamming against his ribs. First you were straddling him and now you were pressed against him and he could feel the curve of your ass pushing against his dick, your slightly damp hair at the nape of your neck from where you’d been laying in the tub was against his neck, the smell of soap and your own personal scent overwhelming his senses. He whispered in your ear, without having to move at all, “Someone is out there. I’m going to lower my hand. Can you stay quiet?”
You nodded. Dean lowered his hand and it landed on your hip instinctively. He didn’t notice—his focus was split between the threat and your body pressing so tightly to his that he was starting to get hard.
Shit. Not now. I’m really going to fucking scare her off now.
Your breathing was ragged although you were trying to keep it quiet. As he spoke to you, you could feel his lips brushing against your ear, his breath warm and intimate against your neck. You could feel his muscular chest pressed against your back. Then you felt it. Your breath caught and you couldn’t help but let out a tiny rasp of his name, “Dean.”
Dean tensed immediately. Your voice. The way you said his name. It was practically a fucking moan. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, trying to hold it together.
“I know, sweetheart,” Dean breathed against your temple, his voice a low, raspy rumble that sent a physical shiver straight down your spine. “I know. Just try to breathe.”
He forced his mind to lock onto the hallway, blocking out the torturous reality of how perfectly your body curved into his. His thumb brushed a slow, unconscious circle against your hip, his grip firm but gentle against the smooth, silky pajama shorts, keeping you anchored to him in the dark.
Every single one of your senses was on fire. Your heart was drumming a frantic rhythm in your ears, but it wasn't just from the fear of an intruder anymore. It was him. The solid, heavy heat of his chest pressing into your half bare back, the raw masculinity radiating off him, the possessive way he held you—it didn’t feel terrifying. It felt safe. It felt like home.
Outside the closet door, the heavy oak floorboards of the bedroom creaked.
Dean’s grip on your hip tightened instantly, his entire body going rigid as steel. He reached down with his free hand, his fingers quietly finding the grip of his gun. His chest stopped moving against your back as he held his breath, listening.
Slow, deliberate footsteps paced across the rug. They stopped right in the middle of the bedroom.
“Honey?”
The voice echoed through the quiet room, sounding completely normal, yet making your entire body go ice-cold.
It was Brian.
“Are you up here?” Brian’s voice called out again, closer to the closet this time. “The front door was unlocked. I came home early because I was worried about you. Honey?”
You felt Dean’s breathing change behind you, a dangerous, protective heat rolling off him as his fingers tightened on the weapon in his hand. If Brian opened this door and saw the two of you like this, Dean wouldn't hesitate. But you could also feel the intense conflict in the way he held you—he didn't want to blow this apart for you if you weren't ready.
Dean leaned his head down just a fraction of an inch, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Your call, sweetheart,” he whispered, so quietly it was barely a vibration. “Do we go out there, or do I make him go away?”
You tried to hold your breath, to keep as still as possible, but the sheer sensory overload of Dean’s body heat, his scent, the absolute intimacy of the way his hand rested on your hip, and his lips brushing against your ear was too much. It made your heart hammer against your ribcage like a trapped bird.
Suddenly, a blinding, white-hot spike of pain shot directly behind your eyes. It was so intense it made your vision go black for a split second. A sharp gasp cut through your throat, followed by a low, pained groan that you couldn’t hold back. You slumped backward, your forehead resting heavily against the side of Dean’s neck as you clutched at your temples.
Summary: Dean met the love of his life. Everything was perfect, until you disappeared. Two years later he runs into you in a small town diner at 2 in the morning, with another man, and you have no idea who Dean is.
Rating: 18+
Word Count: 3373
Warnings: Language, Violence
A/N: Please let me know what you think.
Gone Masterlist
Dean bit down into his cheeseburger. Sam had his laptop open and a big salad with grilled chicken sitting to the side of it.
“Think she’ll reach out?” Sam asked.
“I don’t know,” Dean said and then paused. “Strike that. Yes, I do,” he said motioning to the front door with his chin. Sam turned around and watched you walk through the door and begin to look around.
Your eyes caught theirs and you slowly, shyly, walked towards them. You looked nervous, like you weren’t sure that you should really even be there. Stepping up to the table, you swallowed hard.
“Um, hi,” you said, voice too soft.
“Hi,” the brothers said in unison. Dean started to scoot over but you looked at Sam. “Can I sit here?”
Sam shot Dean a look but scooted over in the booth to make space. When your eyes met Dean’s again, he couldn’t help but look a little wounded. You hated that you've seen that look so many times since you met him but you felt a little more comfortable sitting next to the brother who didn’t stare at you with the heaviness and longing that Dean did.
“I-I’m only here because you said you know something about the hospital. I thought maybe you might know something about my accident.”
Sam quickly closed a couple of open tabs on his screen, leaving a clean official document visible before turning the screen slightly toward you. “Right. Of course. Well, first off, we dug into the records from that hospital in Georgia where you woke up two years ago.”
Dean didn’t say anything. He just watched you from across the table, his arms folded over his chest, his forgotten burger sitting in the basket. The wounded look was gone, replaced by that familiar, fierce intensity, but he was intentionally keeping his mouth shut so he wouldn’t scare you off again.
“Here’s the thing,” Sam continued, his deep voice calm and professional as he pointed to the screen. “The hospital records say you were admitted under Jane Doe after being found on the side of Route 16. The intake report lists your injuries as a concussion and dehydration. But there is absolutely no mention of an automobile accident. No lacerations, no broken bones, no bruising consistent with a crash. Nothing.”
You squinted at the digital document, your chest tightening as you read the words No physical trauma noted. “But… Brian told me the police said it was a hit-and-run. He said my car was totaled.”
“We checked the DMV and police databases for this entire region,” Sam said gently, his eyes filled with sympathy. “There is no record of a car registered to you ever being towed, impounded, or involved in an accident around that date. And your medical chart? The neurologist who examined you noted that your amnesia didn’t look like it was caused by a head injury. He actually wrote down that the cognitive block was ‘atypical’ and recommended a psychiatric transfer before you were suddenly discharged against medical advice.”
You sat back against the vinyl booth, the air leaving your lungs in a sharp gasp. The room suddenly felt very loud, the clinking of silverware and the murmur of other diner patrons buzzing in your ears. Your whole life for the past two years was built on the foundation of that accident. Brian had been the one to explain it to you, to hold you while you cried over your missing pieces, to help you start fresh.
“Why would he lie to me?” you whispered, your hands starting to tremble in your lap. “Why would Brian make all of that up?”
“Because he’s keeping you in a box,” Dean’s voice cut through the fog, low and rough. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, bringing himself closer to you. “Sweetheart, think about it. If you don’t have a past, if you don’t have a car, if you don’t have any family checking in on you, who do you have to rely on? Just him.”
“No,” you said, shaking your head, your voice rising slightly in panic. “No, Brian loves me. He’s sweet, he’s—he wouldn’t do something like this. He’s just a normal guy.”
“He might be a normal guy,” Sam interjected, trying to keep his tone soothing before Dean could push too hard. “He might just be a guy who found a vulnerable woman and saw a chance to build a perfect life. Or… he might be a part of whatever actually put you there. We don’t know yet. But the paperwork doesn’t lie. There was no accident.”
You looked from Sam’s steady gaze back across the table to Dean. His green eyes were completely locked on yours, practically begging you to see the truth. The ache in your chest flared up again, hotter this time, a chaotic storm of confusion, betrayal, and that terrifyingly deep familiarity swirling inside you.
“I have to go,” you stammered suddenly, sliding out of the booth before Sam could even move his legs. “I—I have to get back to the library. Brian is supposed to bring me lunch in twenty minutes.”
“Hey, wait,” Dean said, standing up immediately as you backed away from the table. He didn’t chase you, but his voice anchored you to the spot for a fraction of a second. “Take a breath. You don’t have to face him alone.”
“I’m fine,” you said, though the words felt hollow even to you. You turned and practically sprinted out the glass front doors of the diner, the bell jingling merrily above you as you burst back out into the bright morning air, your head spinning out of control.
Dean looked at Sam. “Well, she knows. That’s a start.”
“Do you think she’ll accept it though? Uproot the perfect life she thought she’d built here? With him,” Sam asked, raising a brow and tilting his head slightly for just a fraction of a second.
“I don’t know. But we can’t give up. She still has my phone number on her wrist. That has to count for something,” Dean said, voice low and rough.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Brian came and brought a pizza with him. You both were sitting in the breakroom eating together when you noticed he was eyeing you a little.
“What?” you asked, around a mouthful of pizza.
“Nothing. You’re just… quiet,” he said, eyes still studying your face. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” you said, quickly taking another bite to keep from answering another question.
“Okay,” he relented but his eyes still had that look in them.
You didn’t want to have a conversation with him yet. Not now. And definitely not here. You needed time to wrap your mind around everything, well as much as you could, before you asked him about the hospital. About the accident that apparently never really happened.
After lunch you walked him out to his car. He pulled you into his arms and gave you a long deep kiss. Somehow, you managed to kiss him back like nothing was wrong. His embrace was warm and his kiss was steady. Nothing gave away that he might be hiding anything. That sent a shiver down your spine but you gave him a smile and started to pull away to go back inside. He kept his hold on your waist.
“Honey,” he said, studying your face again. “Are you sure you’re okay after everything that happened last night with the weirdo?”
“Weirdo?” you said softly. “You mean Dean?”
“Yeah, him. He was weird and the whole thing really freaked me out so I can only imagine how you feel.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Really, babe,” you lied.
He looked at you for another moment before finally letting go of your waist and giving you a quick peck to your lips. “Okay then. I’ll see you tonight before my poker game.”
You nodded and gave him a small smile before turning and walking back into the library.
You walked back into the breakroom to hang up your jacket. Immediately, your gaze dropped to your wrist. You pulled out your phone and saved Dean’s number in it. As a small sigh left your lips, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. As you opened your eyes, Mary walked in and you stepped back out to get back to work.
The rest of the afternoon shift dragged by in an agonizingly slow crawl. Every time the library’s front doors opened, your heart leaped into your throat, half-expecting to see those familiar green eyes or Sam’s tall silhouette walking through the door again.
But they didn’t come back inside.
Instead, you spent hours shelving books in a complete daze, your hands moving on autopilot while your mind spun in exhausting circles. Every memory you had of your life here—every sweet thing Brian had ever done, every comforting word he’d spoken when you woke up terrified and blank in that hospital room—now felt tainted. It was like looking at a beautiful painting and suddenly noticing a massive, ugly crack running right down the center.
No physical trauma noted. No car registered to me. Why would he lie?
By the time 5:00 p.m. finally rolled around, you were completely spent. You said a quiet goodbye to Mary, gathered your things, and walked out into the cool evening air. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long, dramatic shadows across the pavement. You headed straight for your small white sedan.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dean was sitting on the edge of the motel bed, looking at Sam who was digging up info on Brian over at the desk. Dean glanced at the hole in the wall above Sam’s head then looked into the main part of the room, not focusing on anything in particular.
“Cas, get your feathery ass down here,” he said, as his eyes scanned the room for signs of movement. After a moment, he sighed. “C’mmon, Cas! This is the fourth time I’ve called you. I need you, man,” he gruffed, getting more annoyed by the second.
Sam turned and looked at Dean. “Still nothing, huh? That’s rough.”
“Fuckin’ angels,” Dean grunted.
Sam shrugged and turned back to his laptop, fingers flying across the keys.
Dean’s phone buzzed and he saw your number, your current number, pop up on the screen. He answered quickly, saying your name.
“Dean,” you said in a whisper.
“What’s wrong? Why are you whispering?” he asked, panic flooding his green eyes as he jumped to his feet. Sam spun to look at him, a questioning look on his face, but he remained silent.
“Dean, someone is in the house. Brian is gone at his poker game. I’m alone in here and I heard a crash downstairs,” you said quietly but fear penetrated every word and Dean heard it.
“Text me the address. We’re on our way,” he said, his voice deep and certain.
His phone buzzed again just as he slid behind Baby’s wheel.
Dean entered through the front door while Sam went around the back. He didn’t see anyone downstairs so he headed for the second floor, his boots silent on the hardwoods. He peeked in the first room. Empty. He swung his body around to point his gun through the open door of the second room. Empty. In the third room, he saw a flickering light. As he entered the master bedroom he walked by the door to the master bathroom. The tub was full of water and there was some water on the floor. A big candle sitting on the vanity bathed the room in a warm flickering light but it was empty too.
Dean turned and looked around the room. His eyes landed on the movement behind the curtains. He walked over to pull them back but didn’t have a chance.
You lunged out from behind the fabric with raw, explosive speed, your body moving on a pure, instinctual autopilot that your conscious mind didn’t even have time to register.
Before Dean could even react, you slammed your body weight into his chest, throwing him entirely off balance. Your hands gripped his collar, and with a swift, practiced twist of your hips, you swept his legs right out from under him. He went down hard, the back of his head barely missing the edge of the nightstand as he hit the fluffy shag rug with a heavy, breath-robbing thud.
In a fraction of a second, you straddled his waist, your knee pinning his arm to the floor while your hand flew to his throat, squeezing just enough to keep him pinned.
Your chest heaved, your breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps as you stared down at him, ready to strike.
Dean didn’t fight you. He didn’t even try to throw you off, though he easily had the size advantage. He just lay there on the floor, his free hand held up in a placating gesture, his green eyes locked onto yours. Even with your fingers pressed hard against his windpipe, there was no anger in his face—only a sudden, staggering wave of awe.
“See?” Dean choked out, a rough, proud little laugh escaping his lips despite the grip you had on his throat. “Told you... hunter, sweetheart.”
You blinked, the fog in your brain briefly clashing with the absolute lethality of the position you had just taken. You looked down at your hands, then at the way your knees were perfectly locked to pin his hips, realization slowly dawning on you. You didn’t know how to do this. You were a librarian. You spent your days shelving biographies, not dropping grown men to the floor like a SWAT officer.
“I...” your voice trembled, your grip loosening on his neck, though you didn’t get off him yet. “How…? How did I do that?”
“Muscle memory,” Dean whispered, his eyes scanning your face, drinking in the sight of you. “Your head might not remember the training, but your body does. You’ve taken me down just like that multiple times but usually it’s for the enemies.”
“Dean!” Sam’s voice roared from the hallway as he came rushing up the stairs, his gun drawn. He rounded the doorway of the bedroom and froze, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of you, in a tiny little tank top and shorts pajama set with your hair pulled up into a messy bun, straddling and completely pinning his older brother to the floor.
Sam slowly lowered his gun, a small, stunned smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, guess she’s still got it.”
“Shut up, Sammy, and help me up,” Dean grumbled, though he didn’t look the least bit upset about being held down. Dean watched, his eyes still holding the awe, as you released him and slowly stood up. You were now wrapping your arms around your middle shyly. “I…” you started. “I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry,” you murmured.
Sam grinned at you both. “I’m just going to be,” he paused. “Yeah, anywhere else,” he said, turning and walking out of the room as he shook his head. A moment later, you both heard the front door close behind him.
Dean’s eyes never left you. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You don’t have to apologize.”
You nodded slowly. “Was there anyone downstairs?”
“I didn’t fully clear it but Sam probably did. No sign of a broken window or anything though,” Dean said, climbing to his feet and smoothing down his clothes.
Just then Dean saw a shadow moving in the hallway. He grabbed you and pulled you into the closet, his hand sliding over your mouth. The closet next to the master bathroom was small, not like the huge walk-in across the room. Your back was pressed to his chest, in order for you both to fit.
His heart was slamming against his ribs. First you were straddling him and now you were pressed against him and he could feel the curve of your ass pushing against his dick, your slightly damp hair at the nape of your neck from where you’d been laying in the tub was against his neck, the smell of soap and your own personal scent overwhelming his senses. He whispered in your ear, without having to move at all, “Someone is out there. I’m going to lower my hand. Can you stay quiet?”
You nodded. Dean lowered his hand and it landed on your hip instinctively. He didn’t notice—his focus was split between the threat and your body pressing so tightly to his that he was starting to get hard.
Shit. Not now. I’m really going to fucking scare her off now.
Your breathing was ragged although you were trying to keep it quiet. As he spoke to you, you could feel his lips brushing against your ear, his breath warm and intimate against your neck. You could feel his muscular chest pressed against your back. Then you felt it. Your breath caught and you couldn’t help but let out a tiny rasp of his name, “Dean.”
Dean tensed immediately. Your voice. The way you said his name. It was practically a fucking moan. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, trying to hold it together.
“I know, sweetheart,” Dean breathed against your temple, his voice a low, raspy rumble that sent a physical shiver straight down your spine. “I know. Just try to breathe.”
He forced his mind to lock onto the hallway, blocking out the torturous reality of how perfectly your body curved into his. His thumb brushed a slow, unconscious circle against your hip, his grip firm but gentle against the smooth, silky pajama shorts, keeping you anchored to him in the dark.
Every single one of your senses was on fire. Your heart was drumming a frantic rhythm in your ears, but it wasn't just from the fear of an intruder anymore. It was him. The solid, heavy heat of his chest pressing into your half bare back, the raw masculinity radiating off him, the possessive way he held you—it didn’t feel terrifying. It felt safe. It felt like home.
Outside the closet door, the heavy oak floorboards of the bedroom creaked.
Dean’s grip on your hip tightened instantly, his entire body going rigid as steel. He reached down with his free hand, his fingers quietly finding the grip of his gun. His chest stopped moving against your back as he held his breath, listening.
Slow, deliberate footsteps paced across the rug. They stopped right in the middle of the bedroom.
“Honey?”
The voice echoed through the quiet room, sounding completely normal, yet making your entire body go ice-cold.
It was Brian.
“Are you up here?” Brian’s voice called out again, closer to the closet this time. “The front door was unlocked. I came home early because I was worried about you. Honey?”
You felt Dean’s breathing change behind you, a dangerous, protective heat rolling off him as his fingers tightened on the weapon in his hand. If Brian opened this door and saw the two of you like this, Dean wouldn't hesitate. But you could also feel the intense conflict in the way he held you—he didn't want to blow this apart for you if you weren't ready.
Dean leaned his head down just a fraction of an inch, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Your call, sweetheart,” he whispered, so quietly it was barely a vibration. “Do we go out there, or do I make him go away?”
You tried to hold your breath, to keep as still as possible, but the sheer sensory overload of Dean’s body heat, his scent, the absolute intimacy of the way his hand rested on your hip, and his lips brushing against your ear was too much. It made your heart hammer against your ribcage like a trapped bird.
Suddenly, a blinding, white-hot spike of pain shot directly behind your eyes. It was so intense it made your vision go black for a split second. A sharp gasp cut through your throat, followed by a low, pained groan that you couldn’t hold back. You slumped backward, your forehead resting heavily against the side of Dean’s neck as you clutched at your temples.
Summary: Dean met the love of his life. Everything was perfect, until you disappeared. Two years later he runs into you in a small town diner at 2 in the morning, with another man, and you have no idea who Dean is.
Rating: 18+
Word Count: 3490
Warnings: Language, Violence
A/N: Please let me know what you think.
Gone Masterlist
The sun had been up for a while but Dean’s exhaustion kept him in a heavy, if not restless, sleep. Four hours later his eyes didn’t just drift open lazily, they snapped open and his head whipped to the left, looking for you.
You weren’t there. Then slowly, it started to come back to him. You waking up and reaching for Brian. Asking him to take you home and Dean reluctantly letting him, to not cause you even more stress in those early morning hours. Dean, not wanting to push you too hard too fast as it was already taking a physical toll on you and that was only enough to remember his name.
Dean sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and scrubbing both hands over his face. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand which read 7:23 a.m. and groaned. At least he’d managed to get a few hours of sleep. He had a feeling he was going to need it.
He walked to the bathroom and after using it and then brushing his teeth he finally splashed some cold water on his face. It didn’t help. Then he heard the three harsh raps on the door.
Sam.
Dean walked out and swung the door open, turning and walking back to the bed. “It’s really her, Sammy,” he said, voice still rough with sleep.
Sam walked in and surveyed the room, craning his neck to peek into the bathroom. “Uh, well, where is she?” he said, turning to face Dean who was now sitting on the edge of the mattress, shoulders hunched, elbows resting on his knees.
“Gone. Again.”
Sam looked alarmed. Either his brother was hallucinating the whole thing or something was very wrong that would make Dean let you out of his sight after everything that had happened. Neither option was a good one.
“Where, Dean?”
“With her fiance. To their home. Together,” Dean said, sounding completely defeated.
Sam stood frozen by the small wooden table, his jaw slightly slack as he tried to process what Dean was saying. “Dean... what do you mean, gone? You told me on the phone she had a fiance, yeah, but you didn’t say you were just gonna let her walk out the door with the guy.”
“I didn’t have a choice, Sammy,” Dean muttered, keeping his eyes glued to the faded carpet between his boots that he was tugging on.
“What do you mean you didn’t have a choice?” Sam stepped closer, his brow furrowed in deep concern. “Dean, she’s been missing for two years. We’ve been tearing the country apart looking for her. You find her in a random diner, bring her back to a motel, and then just let some guy drive off with her? That doesn’t make any sense.”
Dean finally looked up, his green eyes bloodshot and filled with a dangerous, simmering mixture of grief and fury. “She didn’t know who I was, Sam.”
Sam blinked, the words clearly not registering. “What?”
“She didn’t know me,” Dean repeated, his voice cracking on the admission. “She looked right at me, terrified out of her mind, and treated me like a dangerous stranger. Brian—the guy—said she woke up in a hospital two years ago with a chunk of her memory missing. The exact amount of time she knew us, Sammy. Someone did a surgical strike on her brain. Wiped out just me. Just us.”
Sam’s expression shifted instantly from utter bewilderment to intense, analytical shock. “A total block? Dean... are you sure?”
“No, that’s the thing,” Dean said, standing up aggressively and pacing the small distance between the bed and the window. “It’s not total. Right before she passed out cold in the diner, she looked right at me and said my name. Her head didn’t know it, but her soul did. And then in this room, she woke up, looked at me, and said it again. But she was totally blank. She couldn’t tie the name to a single face or memory.”
“If she’s saying your name, the block is cracking,” Sam said, his hunter brain automatically kicking into gear. “But Dean... why let her leave?”
“Because pushing her was hurting her!” Dean snapped, his voice suddenly sharp with the raw emotion he’d been trying to choke down since last night. He stopped by the window, his knuckles white as he gripped the cheap plastic frame. “She was having a damn panic attack or a seizure or something just trying to remember a flash of a feeling. She looked at me and begged him to take her home. What was I supposed to do, tie her to the bed? Force her until her brain turned to mush?”
Turning quickly, he put his fist through the drywall above the little desk and let out a roar. His knuckles were starting to bleed a little but he didn’t care. Dean let out a ragged breath, turning back to the window and looking out at the sunny gravel lot. “I had to let her go. For now.”
Sam flinched slightly at the sudden crack of the fist meeting drywall, but he didn’t move away. He just watched his brother breathe through the pain, the silence in the room stretching out until the only sound was the hum of the old motel mini-fridge.
“Hey,” Sam said softly, taking a step toward the window. “Dean. Look at me.”
Dean didn’t turn around. He just kept staring out at the gravel, his chest heaving, his bleeding knuckles resting against the sill.
“You made the right call,” Sam insisted, his voice steady and grounding. “If a witch or a demon locked those memories down with a heavy hex, forcing the barrier to break all at once can cause permanent psychological damage. It could literally bleed her brain out. You protected her, Dean. Just like you always do.”
Dean let out a hollow, bitter laugh, finally turning his head just enough to glance at Sam over his shoulder. “Yeah? Well, protecting her feels an awful lot like losing her all over again. You didn’t see the way she looked at him, Sammy. She called him babe. She wanted to go home with him.”
The words tasted like ash in his mouth.
Sam grimaced, the sympathy clear on his face, but he didn’t let Dean spiral. “We’re going to get her back. The fact that she said your name—twice—means whatever magic they used on her isn’t perfect. The human soul doesn’t just forget that easily. It’s trying to fight its way out.” Sam walked over to the desk, pulling his laptop out of his duffel bag and setting it down right beneath the newly minted hole in the wall. “Now, what did the fiance say about where she works?”
“A library,” Dean said, the hunter in him finally forcing the grief down into a cold, dark corner of his chest. He walked over to the bathroom door, grabbing a rough white hand towel to wrap around his bloody hand. “Said she’s been here almost two years. Works at the library. Didn’t give a town name, but this one is pretty small so if they have a library there’s only one.”
“Okay,” Sam muttered, his fingers already flying across the keyboard. “A small-town library within a fifty-mile radius of this diner just to be safe. That narrows it down. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll have a list of every local library employee matching her description.”
Dean leaned against the wall, watching the screen light up Sam’s face. “Find her, Sammy. Because the second she wakes up today, she’s gonna be looking at that guy, wondering why the hell a stranger’s name is stuck in her head. And I want to be there when she realizes the truth.”
Sam’s fingers didn’t stop moving, the rapid click-clack of the keys filling the tense quiet of the room. “Alright, I’m pulling up employment records for the county libraries first. If she’s using her real name, this shouldn’t take long. If they gave her a fake identity when they dropped her at that hospital, it’s going to take a little more digging into recent hires from two years ago.”
Dean stood by the bed, slowly unwrapping the towel from his knuckles. The bleeding had stopped, leaving a raw, angry scrape that matched the burning sensation in his chest. “She was using her real name,” he said, his voice completely certain.
Sam looked up from the screen, raising an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“Brian said her name in the diner, Sam. He called her by it. Whoever did this to her didn’t care about hiding her from the world. They just cared about hiding us from her.” Dean tossed the stained towel onto the nightstand. “They wanted her living a normal, white-picket-fence life, completely blank to the fact that she used to bleed and fight by our sides.”
“Which means whoever did this wanted you to suffer,” Sam murmured, his eyes dropping back to the laptop. “They didn't kill her. They just took the one thing that kept you grounded.”
A sudden, sharp chime echoed from the computer. Sam paused, squinting at a PDF file that had just loaded on the screen. A slow, triumphant nod came from him. “Got it.”
Dean was at his brother’s shoulder in a split second, leaning over the back of the chair. “Where?”
“Oakwood,” Sam said, pointing to a scanned employee profile on the screen. There was a tiny, low-resolution digital photo attached to the file. Even though it was grainy, there was no mistaking your hair or the familiar curve of your smile. “Oakwood Public Library. It’s a small town about thirty minutes north of here, right off the main highway. According to the database, she’s scheduled for the opening shift at nine o’clock this morning.”
Dean glanced at the clock on the wall. It was 7:42 a.m.
“That gives us just enough time to grab a coffee and breakfast and get to that library right as the doors unlock,” Dean said, his defeat instantly melting away into a cold, determined focus. He snatched his keys off the table, the metallic jingle sounding like a promise. “Let’s go get our girl.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mary had just unlocked the doors and you were in the back of one of the stacks, reshelving books when a tall man walked around the corner and said your name. Your head popped up. You didn’t recognize him. He was really tall, dressed in jeans, a black and blue flannel and t-shirt.
“Good morning. Can I help you find something?” you asked brightly. You didn’t feel nearly as perky as you let on but you enjoyed your job and were going to try very hard to shake off the lingering, swirling emotions from the early morning craziness. That’s something you could think about later tonight, in the tub while Brian was at his poker night.
He just stared at you. You placed a book on the shelf and then turned fully toward him, waiting.
“You really don’t remember, do you?” Sam said.
Your whole body tensed up. “Excuse me?” you said, voice smaller now.
Just then Dean came around the corner. Your eyes immediately shifted from the tall man to Dean and back.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to–” Sam trailed off with a sigh. “I’m Sam, Dean’s brother.”
You looked between them again as Dean stepped up next to Sam.
“Wh-what are you doing here?” you stammered, gripping a book tight in your hand.
Dean, eyes locked on you, gave you a small smile. “I just wanted to check on you. Last night was… a lot,” he said.
You turned and shelved the book just to give yourself a second to take a deep breath. Finally, you turned back to face him. You swallowed hard, your knuckles turning white against the spine of another book. The familiar, terrifying ache threatened to flare up behind your eyes again, but you fought it down, desperately clinging to the quiet safety of the library stacks and the smell of old books.
“I’m… I’m fine,” you lied, your voice trembling slightly despite your best efforts. You looked at Sam, trying to map his long face and kind, concerned eyes, but there was absolutely nothing there. Just a blank wall. Then your gaze drifted back to Dean, and that strange, phantom heat flooded your chest all over again. Your body remembered him, even if your mind was screaming that he was a stranger. “You shouldn’t be here. Brian is… he’s going to be dropping off my lunch in a couple of hours. If he sees you—”
“We don’t care about Brian,” Dean cut in softly, taking a single, tentative step forward. He kept his hands open and visible, completely non-threatening, but the sheer presence of him seemed to fill the narrow aisle. “We care about you. Look at him, sweetheart.” He gestured faintly to Sam. “Look at Sammy. Just try to think. Two years ago, the three of us were in Lebanon, Kansas. We were sharing a crappy takeout pizza on the hood of my car. You laughed so hard you choked because Sam tried to explain the plot of some nerdy sci-fi movie.”
A sudden, sharp static buzzed in your ears. Your eyes widened, and the book in your hand slipped, thudding loudly against the carpeted floor.
A memory—or the ghost of one—slammed into your brain. It wasn’t a clear picture, just a chaotic rush of sensory details: the taste of cold pepperoni, the deep rumble of Dean’s laugh right next to your ear, and the towering silhouette of a very tall man sitting across from you in the dark.
“Stop,” you whispered, pressing the palms of your hands against your temples as your breath picked up. “Stop doing that. Please. It hurts.”
Sam instantly looked at Dean, a heavy warning in his eyes, but Dean’s focus never wavered from your face. His heart was breaking watching you fracture right in front of him, but seeing the way you reacted proved what he’d told Sam in the motel room.
The block was cracking. And they were running out of time before whatever locked your mind away realized someone was picking at the cracks.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Dean murmured, his voice dropping into that incredibly gentle, protective tone that made your knees feel weak. He didn’t push any closer, respecting your space, but his green eyes were fiercely holding yours. “We’re not gonna hurt you. I promise. But you need to know the truth. Brian isn’t your fiance. This town isn’t your home. You’re a hunter, just like us. And someone stole you from me.”
“A hunter? I’ve never gone hunting in my life. I don’t even like camping,” you murmured, still pressing your hands to your head.
“Dean, they wiped a little more than just two years if she doesn’t remember hunting. She was a hunter long before she met us.”
Dean nodded to Sam and then turned his gaze back to you. “Sweetheart, I know this all seems impossible but it’s true. And you weren’t that kind of hunter.”
“Stop. Please,” you pleaded, eyes begging as your hands dropped to your sides.
Sam laid a heavy hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean closed his eyes and nodded.
You felt the panic that had started to rise in your chest ease just slightly at his acknowledgement. You took in a couple of deep breaths and finally said, “I’m not a hunter, Brian is my fiance, and I’d like you to leave, please.”
Dean looked like he had been punched in the gut. That caused a heat and an ache to flood your chest although you still couldn’t pinpoint why he affected you so much.
Dean nodded again, and then his gaze fell to your wrist. His phone number was still written there. You hadn’t washed it off. You saw something unreadable shift in his eyes. Then he lifted his hands as if to surrender. You tugged your sleeve down over it. “Okay, sweetheart. We’ll leave. I know you’re working. But I’m not giving up on you,” he said soft but firm.
You didn’t reply. Sam didn’t say a word but he had a sympathetic look scrawled across his features and he waved a quiet goodbye.
You let out a heavy breath as they walked away.
You left your cart of books and walked back up to the front desk where Mary was sitting, just in time to see them walk out the glass front doors.
“They must be new to town. So handsome!” she whispered to you excitedly. “The short one is just my type. Maybe I should ask him out if I run into him again.”
Suddenly, a wave of nausea and what felt like jealousy surged through you.
Well, that was weird. I don’t even know him! Who cares if Mary likes him? I have Brian, who is sweet and loving and cares about me. … Dean seems to care about me too, though.
You shook your head trying to clear those thoughts away.
Mary looked up at you from her chair. “You don’t think he’s handsome?” she asked, catching you shake your head.
“Ohh. Um, yeah I guess he is,” you said quietly. You couldn’t really deny that he was truly attractive, almost beautiful, really.
Mary gave a soft, knowing chuckle, adjusting her reading glasses. “You guess? Honey, if I were twenty years younger and didn’t think your Brian was such a catch, I’d be dragging that man into the fiction section myself.”
You forced a small, polite laugh, but it felt hollow in your throat. Your stomach was still tightly knotted, the phantom jealousy refusing to fully simmer down. Mary’s words were meant to be lighthearted, but they only magnified the bizarre, magnetic pull you felt toward a man you supposedly met for the first time last night.
A hunter. The word echoed in your mind, sounding entirely foreign yet dangerously loud. You hated camping. You loved the quiet, predictable safety of rows of books and the scent of aged paper. You loved your cozy routine. Yet, when Dean had described the cold pepperoni pizza and the rumbled laugh on the hood of a car, your soul had literally ached with the memory of it.
“Are you alright?” Mary asked, her tone shifting from playful to genuinely concerned as she studied your face. “You look a little pale. Did that headache from last night come back?”
“Yeah,” you murmured, seizing the excuse gratefully. You rubbed a hand over your forehead, where a dull throb was still lingering like an unwelcome guest. “Yeah, I think the lights in the stacks are just making it a little worse today.”
“Oh, sweetie, go sit in the breakroom for a bit,” Mary urged, shooing you with her hand. “I can handle the front desk and finish up that cart. Go get some water. Brian will be here with your lunch soon anyway, right?”
“Right,” you said. Brian. Just the thought of his name usually brought a sense of absolute calm, a grounding reality. But right now, looking down at your wrist, your focus zeroed in on the dark ink of Dean’s phone number.
The handwriting was bold, slightly messy, and entirely authoritative. You’d had a shower this morning. You’d used soap. But subconsciously, you realized you hadn’t scrubbed that specific spot on your skin. You had protected it.
Stepping into the small, quiet breakroom, you closed the door behind you and leaned your back against it, letting out a long, ragged breath. Your hands were shaking again. Slowly, you walked over to the little sink, turning on the cold water and splashing it over your face, desperately trying to wash away the fog, the confusion, and the terrifying warmth that Dean’s green eyes had left behind.
You grabbed a paper towel, drying your skin, and then looked at your reflection in the small mirror above the sink. You looked like yourself. The same hair, the same eyes. But beneath the surface, it felt like a mirror fracturing, tiny hairline cracks spreading through everything you thought you knew about your life.
Almost two hours later, you were back in the breakroom again refreshing your coffee when your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out, expecting a text from Brian saying he was on his way with your favorite sandwich. Instead, it was a text from an unknown number.
Unknown: Sammy found something about the hospital you woke up in. We’re at the diner across the street from the library. I’m not gonna push you, sweetheart, I swear. But when you’re ready to hear it, I’ll be waiting.
Your heart hammered against your ribs. You looked toward the small breakroom window that faced the main street. Directly across the asphalt, the neon sign of the local diner flickered in the morning light, beckoning to you.
Summary: When you were re-kidnapped—kidnapped from the original kidnappers— you were unconscious. You woke up in a strange beach house and didn’t know where you were or what to expect. Then you realized that you were stuck in a house with several men, one of which was the infamous Soldier Boy and he wasn’t anything like the hero from the movies or Vought propaganda of the past.
Rating: 18+
Word Count: 5381
Warnings: Language, Violence, Kidnapping, Smut, Ben being possessive.
A/N: Please let me know what you think.
Leverage Masterlist
Ben settled back between your legs but before he could push into your moist heat, the bedroom door came crashing down. It didn’t just slam open, it exploded inward. You screamed and Ben yanked his pants back up as he used his massive frame to shield you from the splintered wood that flew through the room.
Ben let out a lethal growl as a large imposing man stepped into the obliterated doorway. With the dust and debris flying everywhere, Ben couldn’t make out who it was yet.
Then he heard the unmistakable voice.
“Get’cher fuckin’ hands off of her!” Butcher bellowed. Hughie, Frenchie and Kimiko came running up behind Butcher and stopped when they saw Soldier Boy on top of you between your spread thighs with your shirt hiked up. They also saw the terror scrawled across your face and wrongly assumed it was from Ben forcing himself on you, when in reality it was the terrifying scene that Butcher had just caused during a quiet moment of intimacy and vulnerability.
“What have you done to her, you bloody psychopath?!?” Butcher roared, his eyes on fire, completely ignoring the fact that Ben was practically fully dressed already. Butcher raised a heavy, dented crowbar, his grip so tight his knuckles were white.
Behind him, Hughie was frozen, his mouth open in an O of silent horror, already seeing the massacre flashing before his eyes. Frenchie muttered a panicked, “Mon Dieu,” reaching back for something, anything, while Kimiko’s face completely flattened, her eyes narrowing into murderous slits. She stepped in front of Hughie, her hands curling into deadly claws, waiting for the signal to strike.
Ben, still hovering over you on the mattress, finally locked eyes with Butcher through the choking haze of the debris. The murderous rage on his face didn’t falter, but it hardened into something colder, something strategic. Soldier Boy had returned.
“Butcher,” he rasped, his voice cutting through the noise with chilling clarity. He didn’t rise. He just settled his weight a little harder, anchoring himself over you like you were his single, most precious possession. “Fuck you!” Ben barked. “You have exactly three seconds to get out of this fucking room before I make sure you don’t have eyes left to see what comes next.”
Butcher didn’t count down. He lunged.
The heavy iron crowbar swung through the dust-choked air, aimed straight for Ben’s head. Ben didn’t even flinch. Moving with terrifying, superhuman speed, he caught the iron bar with one bare hand, the metal screeching under the sheer force of his grip. Without breaking eye contact with Butcher, Ben twisted his wrist, ripping the weapon entirely out of Butcher’s hands and throwing it violently across the room, where it embedded itself deep into the drywall.
“I told you to get out,” Ben roared, his voice a low vibration that rattled the windows.
He didn’t rise from the bed yet, still keeping his massive frame firmly positioned between you and the doorway, shielding your body from the intruders.
Butcher stumbled back a step from the sheer force of the disarm, but his expression didn’t shift from pure, murderous intent. “Kimiko! Take the cunt down!” he roared, gesturing wildly toward the bed. “Hughie, grab the girl and get her out of here!”
Kimiko didn’t hesitate. With a feral screech, she launched herself over Butcher’s shoulder, her fingers curled into claws extended, aiming straight for Ben’s throat.
At the exact same moment, heavy, tactical footsteps echoed frantically from the hallway behind The Boys. Ben’s men were rushing toward the noise.
“Ben!” a voice shouted from the hallway—the sharp, commanding tone of his own team arriving right on the heels of the intrusion.
The bedroom was about to become an absolute war zone, and you were caught dead in the center of it. Hughie was already scrambling forward, his hands reaching out to pull you away from the mattress, his face pale with panic. “Come on, we gotta go, he’s going to kill us all!” he yelled over the chaos, entirely misinterpreting the scene.
Ben swung his arm, striking Kimiko in the chest with his steel-like forearm, sending her flying back against a wall. “Touch her and you die, kid,” he growled, turning towards Hughie.
Hughie froze. Just then Rook came over Hughie’s shoulder with a right hook, knocking him out, as he fell to the floor, unconscious. Saint was across the room struggling with Frenchie as Butcher leapt towards Ben again.
The shock finally thinned just enough for you to finally find your voice and you screamed as loud as you could. “STOP!!!!”
The sound of your voice tore through the room, raw and throat-shredding, but the momentum of the violence was already a runaway train. To Butcher, your scream was the ultimate confirmation of his worst fears—a desperate plea from a victim trapped under a monster. To Ben, it was just background noise to the primal, territorial instinct to protect that had completely hijacked his brain. They had breached his perimeter. They had put you in danger. They had to die.
Butcher slammed into Ben with the full weight of his homicidal rage, his fists driving hard into Ben’s jaw, but it was like striking a mountain of solid granite. Ben barely blinked. His hand shot out, wrapping around Butcher’s throat with a sickening, heavy thud, his thick, strong fingers cutting off the man’s airway instantly. He lifted Butcher entirely off his feet, as he rose to his own feet, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth threatened to shatter.
“You walked into the wrong goddamn house, Billy,” Ben growled, his voice a lethal, low frequency that shook the floorboards beneath the bed.
Across the small bedroom, the chaos was deafening. Frenchie was fighting dirty, trying to shove a syringe into Saint’s neck, but Saint slammed him face-first into the wooden dresser, shattering the mirror into a spiderweb of broken glass. Hughie lay completely limp on the floor where Rook had dropped him. Near the doorway, Kimiko was already pulling herself up from the shattered drywall where Ben had thrown her, her broken ribs visibly snapping back into place with a sickening pop as her eyes locked onto Ben with unadulterated, feral hatred. Jack and Rook were flanking her.
“Ben, look at me! Stop!” you shrieked, scrambling forward on your knees across the mattress, pushing the blanket out of the way and your shirt finally falling back down over your thighs. You reached out, your fingers desperately clawing at the rigid, sweat-slick muscle of his shoulder, trying to force him to turn around. “He’s not going to hurt me! Ben, listen to me!”
He didn’t even flinch. His focus remained entirely locked on the choking, thrashing man in his grip. Ben’s arm flexed, his knuckles turning white as he prepared to slam Butcher straight through the floorboards to end it.
You looked around in a panic and finally just let out an ear-piercing shriek. No words. Just a high-pitched scream.
Everyone whipped their heads toward you at once. Kimiko froze mid-bracing to lunge, her claws hovering inches from Saint’s back. Saint paused, his fist clamped around Frenchie’s collar. Even Ben’s grip on Butcher’s throat stalled, his massive shoulders tensing as his emerald eyes snapped violently back to the bed, checking for a wound on you that didn’t exist.
The room fell still, dust still floating around the room, but all eyes were now on you. Your throat raw, you croaked out, “STOP IT! ALL OF YOU!”
You stood your ground on the mattress, your chest heaving, refusing to look down or back away from the heavy weight of their stares.
“No one here is hurting me!” you yelled, your voice cracking with the sheer force of your frustration. “You’re all fighting for no fucking reason!”
A heavy, suffocating silence dropped over the wreckage of the bedroom. Butcher, still dangling six inches off the floor by his neck, let out a choked, wheezing gasp, his eyes darting frantically between your flushed face, your half-naked appearance, and the bruising grip Ben still maintained on his windpipe.
“Doll…” Ben growled softly, his voice dangerously low as he slowly lowered Butcher until the man’s boots touched the floor—though he didn’t let go of his throat. He kept his body angled to shield you, his jaw tight. “Get back. These pieces of shit broke into my house.”
“They think they’re rescuing me, Ben!” you shot back, gesturing wildly to the unconscious Hughie on the floor.
Butcher swallowed hard against Ben’s thumb, his dark eyes wide with a mix of suffocating rage and sudden, horrific realization. “What… the bloody hell… is going on here?” he wheezed out.
Everyone took a step back away from the person they were fighting, although Hughie was still knocked out cold on the floor and Ben hadn’t let go of Butcher’s throat yet. Saint, Rook, and Jack now had their guns drawn, keeping them low but ready, their eyes scanning the intruders for the slightest twitch.
You reached out, your fingers pressing firmly into the rigid, burning muscle of Ben’s shoulder. It felt like trying to move a brick wall. “Ben, please. Let Billy go.”
His eyes locked onto yours for a moment over his massive shoulder. “Even if he isn’t a threat to you he still is going to die for betraying me for that fucking brat,” he snapped, his grip tightening just enough to make Butcher choke again.
Kimiko let out a feral sound and began motioning furiously with her hands, making smacking noises as she did. Rook took a step towards her. You held your hands up to her. “No, Kimiko. It’s okay. I got it.” You shook your head at Rook and he looked to Ben, waiting for a command.
Saint stood perfectly still, looking between you and his commander, gauging the shift in the room.
“Ben, please. Can we all just take a breath? Just for a second,” you pleaded, your voice dropping into that softer, desperate tone meant only for him.
He grumbled, a low, dangerous rumble in his chest, before abruptly releasing his grip. Butcher hit the floor, landing on his knees with a heavy thud, coughing violently and rubbing his bruised throat. “This doesn’t mean shit. You’re not leaving this house alive.”
Butcher spat a bit of blood onto the floor, his eyes darting back and forth between you and Ben as he dragged himself to his feet. “What the fuck is all this then?” he rasped out, his voice rough and dripping with disgust.
You nervously tugged at the hem of your shirt, suddenly acutely aware of how little you were wearing and how many eyes were in the room. Your gaze darted around the hardwoods, frantically looking for your discarded panties.
Ben caught the panicked movement of your hands. Without a word, he yanked the heavy blanket off the bed and wrapped it roughly around your shoulders. He didn’t let go, instead twisting his large arm around your waist and hauling you firmly into his side, pinning you against his hip protectively. His eyes never stopped sweeping the room, tracking every breath The Boys took.
You leaned into him, and Butcher scoffed.“Oi! What the fuck did you do to her?” Butcher sneered, glaring directly at Ben. “Brainwash her, did ya? All this time you been pulling that Stockholm shit on her?”
You sighed heavily. “Billy, he didn’t give me Stockholm Syndrome. For fuck’s sake. I was kidnapped on my way home from the grocery after our last mission. Three guys. They held me in a warehouse and then knocked me out. Next thing I know I woke up here. Saint,” you said gesturing to him with your chin, “killed them and brought me back here a couple weeks ago.”
“Weeks?” Butcher repeated, the word coming out as a harsh, bitter laugh. “So the bastard has been holding you hostage, twisting your thoughts, love. Otherwise, I would’ve heard from you, yeah? You would’ve come back.”
You looked up at Ben before shifting your gaze back to Butcher. “Uh, well, it’s complicated.”
“So according to you, you been here playing house with fuckin’ Soldier Boy?” he sneered, stepping closer, his face twisted in pure contempt.
Ben’s arm tightened around your waist like a steel band, his chest expanding as he braced to pull you behind him if needed. His face was locked into a lethal glare, eyes sharp and still watching the entire room and every single movement.
You completely ignored his last statement. “Butcher, those guys. The ones at the warehouse. They took me to get to you.”
Butcher’s face twisted into something even uglier. “Ya know who they were, love?” he said, using the pet name to try and get under Ben’s skin. It was working, you felt his arm tense up and his jaw looked like it was about the break.You found his hand under the blanket and squeezed it gently. That drew his eyes down to your face.
“Just breathe,” you whispered so low that only he could hear it.
You turned your focus back to Billy. “No.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Saint said from across the room, his voice that low guarded rumble. He looked at Ben who gave him a curt nod to continue.
“Well, out with it then,” Butcher said, impatience rolling off of him.
“They were pros. Part of a group called Apex Logistics,” Saint said, voice steady, like they weren’t all standing in the middle of a tense standoff.
“Oi, I’ve heard of those fuckers. Deadly. Love, you’re lucky you made it out,” Billy rasped, still rubbing at his throat.
“Not lucky. I have Saint to thank for that,” you murmured.
Butcher’s eyes snapped from Saint back to you, a cold, calculating look washing over his features. “Saint, is it? Right. So the Supe’s little lapdog does a bit of community service, and suddenly we’re all supposed to forget who he takes his bloody orders from?” He took another step forward, his boots crunching loudly on the shattered drywall. “Don’t be thick. They didn’t keep you here out of the goodness of their hearts. You’re a bargaining chip. Or worse.”
“Watch your fuckin' mouth, Billy,” Ben warned, his voice dropping into a register that made the floorboards vibrate. Ben knew Butcher wasn’t wrong. You did start off as leverage, even if you fell into his lap accidentally. He didn’t move an inch, but the threat in his posture was clear.
Under the heavy blanket, Ben’s hand wrapped completely around yours, returning your squeeze with a crushing, grounding pressure. He was still furious, his chest heaving against your shoulder, but he was listening to you. He hadn’t leveled the room yet.
Hughie chose that exact moment to let out a weak, pathetic groan from the floor. His eyes fluttered open, blinking rapidly at the wreckage of the bedroom. “Uh… Butcher? What’s… why is everything broken?” he mumbled, rubbing his head where Rook had leveled him.
Nobody answered him.
Frenchie slowly reached down, keeping his hands entirely visible to Saint and Rook as he helped a dazed Hughie to his feet. Kimiko remained completely still, her eyes darting from you to the tight grip Ben had on your waist, her head tilting in slight confusion. She could smell the sex in the room, she could see the lack of fear in your posture, and for the first time tonight, she looked like she was actually starting to question Butcher’s version of reality.
Butcher, however, was entirely blind to it. His obsession with pulling you away from a supe was the only thing driving him. He pointed a thick finger at you, ignoring Ben entirely. “You’re coming with us. Right now. We’re getting you out of this house, and then we’re gonna figure out exactly what these cunts did to your head.”
“The fuck she is,” Ben growled, his eyes darkening even more if that was possible. “You’re not taking her anywhere.”
Rook who was standing on the opposite side of you as Ben moved closer.
Butcher said your name, eyes locked on you. “Tell your little boyfriend he can’t keep you trapped here.”
You let out a huff, throwing your arms up in frustration under the heavy blanket. “Would you two put your dicks away and knock it off?!”
Ben’s emerald eyes instantly snapped down to you, dark with a heavy, unspoken warning that told you exactly how close he was to losing his temper.
Butcher chuckled, a dark, rough sound as his eyes locked onto Ben’s warning glare. “Careful now, mate. Don’t go showing your true colors in front of the lady. Might spoil the little fairy tale you’ve got going here.”
Ben didn’t take the bait. Instead, a chillingly calm, mocking smirk slowly spread across his face, his jaw relaxing just enough to let out a short, dark laugh that sounded like gravel grinding together.
“A fairy tale?” Ben rasped, his voice dropping an octave as he looked Butcher up and down with absolute disdain. “You think I give a shit about fairy tales, Billy? I’m Soldier Boy. I don’t need to play nice. And I sure as hell don’t need to explain myself to a bunch of fuckin’ trespassing pussies.”
His arm tightened around your waist, his large palm flattening against your hip over the blanket, a heavy, unyielding brand that made it clear you weren’t moving an inch.
“She stays because I want her here,” Ben stated plainly, his eyes cutting back to Butcher like a knife. “And she stays because she knows exactly what happens to you little rats the second she steps outside my sight. Now, you’ve got about five seconds to gather up your pathetic ‘team’ and get the fuck out of my house before I start tearing off limbs.”
Saint and Rook stepped forward in perfect unison, their boots heavy on the hardwoods, the silent, lethal promise of their presence filling the space.
Butcher’s smile vanished, his jaw tightening as he looked at the wall of muscle in front of him. He could see he was completely outmatched, but his pride was a stubborn, poisonous thing. He looked over Ben’s shoulder, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a hard, demanding intensity.
“You really staying with him?” Butcher demanded, his voice rough. “You really choosing a bloody monster over your own people?”
You glanced back and forth between them, your temper flaring. “Neither of you own me. Got it?” you said, somehow keeping your voice strong and even. “I’m staying with Ben,” you said, eyes on Billy.
Ben smirked, his ego and possessiveness showing through easily.
Your gaze flicked up to Ben. “And no more stiff rules. I'm staying because I want to. I am still part of Butcher’s team and will be rejoining them for missions.”
Ben’s smirk vanished instantly. The smug satisfaction that had just been radiating off him turned to pure ice, his large body locking up tighter than a bank vault. His emerald eyes bore into the side of your face, dark and incredulous, his heavy chest heaving against your shoulder.
Butcher, on the other hand, let out a sharp, mocking bark of a laugh.
“Rejoining us?” Butcher sneered, crossing his heavy arms, though his eyes never left the furious line of Soldier Boy’s jaw. “Oh, that’s rich, love. You think the bastard’s actually gonna let you off your leash? Look at him. He looks like he’s about to stroke out just hearing you say it.”
“Shut up, Billy,” you snapped, not breaking eye contact with Ben.
The silence in the room was deafening now. Saint and Rook exchanged a tense, guarded glance, while Frenchie and a still-dazed Hughie watched the absolute standoff near the bed.
“You think you’re going on missions with these pussies? The ones who let you get kidnapped in the first fuckin’ place??” Ben rasped, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly rumble that was meant for your ears alone, even if the whole room could hear it. His fingers dug hard into your hip through the blanket, his possessive grip threatening to bruise. “Not fucking happening. You belong here. With me. We just settled this.”
“We settled that I’m staying, Ben,” you corrected him smoothly, refusing to back down from the terrifying weight of his glare. “We didn’t settle you owning me. If I stay, it’s as your partner. Not your prisoner. And that means I keep doing my job.”
Butcher chuckled, a rough, goading sound from the doorway. “Hear that, mate? She wants a promotion. What’s the matter, Soldier Boy? Afraid she’ll realize how much better the view is when she’s not locked in your bedroom?”
Ben’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked near his ear. He didn’t look at Butcher. He kept his emerald eyes locked entirely on you, searching your face for any sign of a bluff, his breathing heavy and dangerous against your neck. This fucking woman is going to be the death of me.
He wanted to rip Butcher’s head off for the comment. He wanted to throw you over his shoulder and lock you away where nobody else could ever look at you again. But right now, with the entire room watching the cracks in his armor, his military mind took over. He needed these rats out of his house before he leveled the entire block.
He could handle you, and his new rules, the second they were gone.
Slowly, Ben turned his head back to Butcher, his expression completely wiping clean of any emotion, hardening into absolute, terrifying stone.
“Get out,” Ben stated, his voice a flat, dead calm that was somehow worse than the shouting. “Take your garbage, get off my property, and if I ever see any of your faces within a mile of this place again, I won’t just kill you. I’ll make it last a week.”
Butcher stared at him, his dark eyes flickering to you one last time, looking for any sign of hesitation. When you didn’t move, didn’t flinch away from Ben’s heavy, possessive grip, Butcher let out a harsh, bitter breath.
“Right,” Butcher muttered, his voice dripping with disgust. He looked at Hughie, who was finally leaning heavily against Frenchie, looking entirely lost. “C’mmon. We’re leaving.”
Frenchie didn’t need to be told twice. He practically dragged Hughie backward out of the ruined doorway, his eyes never leaving Saint and Rook’s drawn weapons. Kimiko was the last to move. She gave you a long, unreadable look, her hands dropping to her sides, before she silently vanished into the dark hallway behind the men.
Saint and Rook didn’t relax. They followed the sound of The Boys’ retreating footsteps down the stairs, their heavy boots echoing through the house until the heavy front door finally slammed shut, followed by the distant roar of an old truck tearing down the driveway.
The silence that settled over the bedroom was suffocating. The dust was still floating in the air, settling over the shattered wood of the door and the mattress.
Saint’s voice cut through the quiet from the hallway, low and cautious. “Perimeter’s clear, Boss. We’re taking the lower level.”
Ben didn’t answer. He didn’t even nod. The moment the front door had slammed, his entire focus had snapped right back down to you.
He didn’t release his grip on your waist. If anything, his arm tightened like a steel vise, hauling your body flat against his chest as he looked down at you with a gaze that was entirely dark, heavy, and boiling with an intense, quiet fury.
“Partner?” Ben rasped, the word tasting like poison on his tongue. He reached up with his free hand, his thick fingers tangling roughly into your hair to force your head back so you had to look him dead in the eye. “You think because I put my hands on you tonight, you get to dictate terms to me in front of my men, doll? In front of those pussies you call a team?”
Of course! His ego is wounded. Ugh!
You kept your face steady and your voice firm. “Ben, I wasn’t joking.” You dropped the blanket and turned in his arms, pressing your chest to his body, bringing your hands up to rest on his chest. “I do want you. I want to stay. Willingly. But I won’t be a prisoner anymore.”
The raw warmth of your skin pressed flat against his chest caught him completely off guard. For a split second, the rigid, iron-hard tension in his torso hitched, a sudden, ragged breath slipping past his lips as you brought your hands up to rest over his racing heart.
He didn’t let go of your hair, but his fingers loosened just a fraction, his heavy grip shifting from a threat to something fiercely anchoring. His emerald eyes burned down into yours, dark, unblinking, and entirely consumed by the sheer audacity of what you were doing. You were completely bare in his arms, vulnerable to whatever his temper decided to do next, yet you were looking at him like you weren't afraid of the nuke sitting right in front of you.
“Willingly,” Ben repeated, the word rolling out of his chest like a low, gravelly vibration beneath your palms. His gaze dropped to your lips, then snapped back up to your eyes, his jaw tightening. “You think you can just lay it all out like a business deal? Tell me you want me, put your hands on me, and then expect me to just let you walk out the front door whenever that bastard Butcher snaps his fingers?”
His hand slid down from your hair, his thick, heavy palm cupping the back of your neck, his thumb pressing firmly against the sensitive skin just beneath your jaw to keep you close. The possessive fury was still boiling right under his skin, but the cold, military mask he’d worn in front of The Boys was completely gone, replaced by a raw, frustrated hunger.
“You have no idea what you’re asking for, doll,” he rasped, his chest expanding as he leaned down, his face inches from yours. “I don’t share. What’s mine stays under my roof, where I can keep an eye on it. Where I know it’s safe.”
He tilted his head slightly, his mouth brushing yours as he spoke, a teasing, dangerous promise that sent a shiver straight down your spine. “You want to be my partner? You want to stay here willingly? Then you need to understand right now—the second you step onto a battlefield with those idiots, you’re a target. And if anyone so much as looks at you wrong out there, I’m not just going to help them with the mission. I’m going to paint the walls with them.”
His arm tightened around your waist, hauling your hips flush against his pants, letting you feel exactly how much control you still had over him despite his growling threats. “So tell me again. Look me dead in the eye and tell me how you’re going to play both sides when I already own the middle.”
You leaned up and pressed your lips to his. It was gentle but Ben wasn’t letting it stay that way. His lips pressed hard against yours, moving against them with the kind of heat that had been flowing out of him earlier. He slipped his tongue into your mouth and kissed you deeply. It was consuming and desperate and possessive.
You pulled back, lips parted, breath heavy. “Ben,” you murmured, barely a whisper.
He said your name, his hand still on the back of your neck but the grip was no longer tight.
His thumb brushed against your cheek, his touch surprisingly soft for a man who looked like he could snap iron with his bare hands. The absolute silence of the room settled over you both, thick with the scent of rain, dust, and the heavy, electric heat of his body.
“You think you can just kiss your way out of an argument, sweetheart?" Ben rasped, though there was no real bite left in it. His voice was a low, gravelly vibration that rattled right through your chest. He leaned down, his forehead resting heavily against yours, his breath hot and ragged against your lips. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”
He let out a short, defeated huff of a laugh, his chest expanding against yours. The territorial wall he’d spent the last twenty minutes building up in front of Butcher was completely crumbling under your hands. He hated that you were right. He hated that he was letting you have this kind of leverage over him, but as he looked down at your parted lips and your flushed face, his fingers relaxed completely against your skin.
“I’m not playing both sides,” you murmured, your hands sliding up the smooth, hard expanse of his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him. “I’m on my side. And I’m choosing to be here. With you. But if I’m going to do this, Ben, you have to trust me.”
Ben grumbled, a dark, stubborn sound deep in his throat. He shifted his weight, his large arm remaining firmly around your waist as he pulled you back down onto the rumpled sheets with him, bringing the heavy blanket up to cover your bare skin. He didn’t let go of you, pinning you securely against his side, his face burying into the crook of your neck.
“Trust is a luxury I don’t usually afford people, doll,” he muttered against your skin, his grip tightening just enough to remind you he was still there, still possessive, still dangerous. “But if you think you’re running off into a firefight with Butcher without me right behind you, you’re out of your mind. We do this, we do it my way.”
You shifted slightly to look up at him. “I can live with that. But you can’t kill my team. Even Butcher.”
Ben thought on that for a moment. “I make no promises. Especially when it comes to that British fuck,” he said, as if it were obvious and simple. “I don’t answer to those pussies.”
“You don’t have to answer to them,” you said softly, your fingers smoothing down the tense, stubborn line of his jaw. “You just have to trust me to handle them. No killing. Deal?”
Ben stared down at you, his face a mask of dark, unyielding gravity. The silence stretched between you, heavy and thick, punctuated only by the distant, low hum of the house settling. For a second, you thought he was going to refuse—that the old, lethal programming of Soldier Boy was simply too deep, too rigid to bend for anyone. He hated Butcher. And he hated being handled even more.
But as his eyes traced the stubborn set of your mouth and the calm, steady look in your eyes, something in his expression shifted into a reluctant, gruff defeat.
“You’re a real pain in my ass, you know that?” he muttered, a low rumble that vibrated straight through your chest. He didn’t say the word deal, but the way his thick fingers tangled back into your hair, tilting your face up to his, was answer enough. “No promises, doll. If he pulls a gun on me again, I’m breaking his jaw. That’s the baseline.”
Before you could argue the finer points of his compromise, Ben leaned down and closed the distance, his mouth covering yours in a deep, heavy kiss that effectively ended the debate. It wasn’t gentle, but the violent, terrifying edge from earlier had thoroughly melted into a thick, consuming heat. He scooped you up in his arms and carried you out of the wreckage that had been your room and down the hall into his own bedroom.
He laid you down on the bed and kissed you again. When he finally pulled back, his breathing was ragged, his thumb tracing a slow line over your lower lip. He shifted his massive weight, pulling you even tighter against his side, his large arm a solid, warm anchor.
“Get some sleep,” Ben growled softly against your hair, his eyes closing as he buried his face back into the crook of your neck. “Tomorrow, we figure out how the hell we’re going to manage this little arrangement of yours.”
Summary: Dean met the love of his life. Everything was perfect, until you disappeared. Two years later he runs into you in a small town diner at 2 in the morning, with another man, and you have no idea who Dean is.
Rating: 18+
Word Count: 2407
Warnings: Language, Violence
A/N: Please let me know what you think.
Gone Masterlist
Right as Dean leaned over, with you cradled against his chest, to unlock the door to room 4, Brian screeched to a halt right next to the Impala. Dean strode into the room, leaving the front door open for your sad excuse of a fiance, and laid you down on his bed gently. He brushed your hair out of your closed eyes and gazed down at your beautiful, peaceful face.
Even unconscious you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Brian rushed into the room, eyeing Dean suspiciously. Once he saw that you were just laying on the bed and that Dean wasn’t doing anything questionable he looked behind him at the open door, hesitating before he pulled it close.
He was stuck with some strange man who was very strong and didn’t mess around. But you were here and he had to make sure you were okay and get you away from Dean and back home somehow. He sucked in a breath and walked up to the opposite side of the bed that Dean was sitting on.
Dean raised his eyes to Brian for half a second before they dropped back down to you. He remained silent, just watching you. The intensity of his stare was tightening the growing knot in Brian’s stomach.
Dean reached down for you and Brian bristled. “You don’t need to touch her,” he said, trying to make his voice strong and half failing.
Dean ignored him and checked your pulse again. He let his fingers linger against your wrist for a moment before finally pulling back, although he stayed sitting on the side of the bed, his thigh pressed to your hip. His mind was racing. He pulled out his phone to text Sam.
Dean: I found her.
After a moment the bubbles popped up. Sam was still up. Or at least he was now.
Sam: Really?? Where?
Before Dean could reply his phone buzzed. Sam was calling him.
“Yeah,” Dean answered, voice rough.
“Dean, where did you find her? Is she okay?” Sam said so quickly that the words almost ran together
“I’m in Mississippi. I just sent you the coordinates,” Dean said.
“Is she okay, man?” Sam asked.
“Uh, she’s unconscious. Her…” Dean drug his hand down his face pausing for a moment. “Her fiance and I are sitting here waiting for her to wake up,” Dean said and Sam could hear the strain in his voice.
“Her WHAT?! I’m sorry, man, I think your phone cut out because I swear it sounded like you just said–”
“I did,” Dean gruffed, his voice dropping lower and lethal. “Just get here. Now,” Dean snapped and then hung up. He couldn’t take any more questions from Sam right now.
Sam: I’m not far. In NOLA. On my way.
Dean glanced up and Brian was eyeing him nervously.
“You’re calling for back up? Do I need to call the police? I don’t know what’s going on but none of this is okay!” Brian blurted out.
“Do whatever the hell you want but nobody, not even the police, is making me leave her side. That’s a promise,” Dean said, voice low and terrifyingly calm.
Brian opened his mouth to argue, but the sheer gravity of Dean’s words seemed to choke the breath right out of him. He looked down at you, then back at Dean, before slowly sliding his phone into his pocket. He didn’t call the cops. Deep down, he probably knew that a small-town deputy wouldn’t be able to handle whatever the hell was happening in this room anyway.
Instead, Brian sank heavily into the creaky wooden chair by the motel desk near the bed, his eyes locked on your pale face. “How do you know her?” he asked, his voice suddenly sounding hollow, stripped of all the previous bravado. “She’s lived here for almost two years. She works at the library. She… she doesn’t have anyone. No family, no ties from before she moved here. She told me she was in a bad accident and couldn’t remember much of the last year or two before waking up in a hospital three states over.”
Dean didn’t move a muscle, but his jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. A hospital. The bastards who took you hadn’t just wiped your mind; they’d dropped you off like unwanted baggage and left you to piece together a life out of nothing.
You don’t remember the year or two before you disappeared. A year and a half was the exact amount of time you knew me. Something doesn’t want you forgetting your entire past. Just me and Sam. Maybe just me.
“She isn’t from here,” Dean said, his voice flat, refusing to give Brian anything more than the bare minimum. “And she wasn’t alone.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, punctuated only by the distant roar of a semi-truck passing on the highway outside. Dean’s hand had made it back to your wrist at some point and he didn't remove it this time, his thumb resting right over your steady, slow pulse, occasionally stroking it gently, silently begging you to wake up.
It was another twenty minutes before you finally stirred.
A soft, pained whimper left your lips first. Your brow furrowed, your head shifting restlessly against the stiff motel pillow as your eyelids fluttered.
“Hey,” Dean murmured instantly, his entire demeanor shifting from a brick wall to something incredibly gentle. He leaned over you, his free hand coming up to cup the side of your face, his thumb sweeping over your cheekbone. “Hey, look at me. I’ve got you.”
Brian stood up so fast the wooden chair scraped loudly against the linoleum. “Honey? Are you okay?”
Your eyes finally cracked open, blinking rapidly against the harsh overhead light of the motel room. The sharp, blinding pain in your skull had faded to a dull, throbbing ache, but your mind felt like it was floating in a thick fog. You looked past Dean first, catching sight of the familiar, panicked face of your fiance.
“Brian…?” you whispered, your throat dry.
“I’m right here,” Brian said, stepping closer to the foot of the bed, though he kept a wary eye on Dean.
But as your vision fully cleared, your gaze drifted back to the man sitting right beside you. The man whose hand was warm against your face. The man whose green eyes were staring down at you with an intensity that made your chest ache with a sudden, overwhelming surge of familiarity.
You didn’t shrink away from his touch this time. Your mind didn’t recognize him, but your body did. Your heart rate spiked, your fingers twitching against the mattress.
“Dean,” you breathed out, the name slipping past your lips easily, naturally, like a habit you’d practiced a thousand times before.
Dean let out a ragged breath, a broken, beautiful smile flashing across his face for a split second before he caught the look in your eyes. You knew his name—your soul knew it—but the confusion running through your expression told him the wall in your head hadn’t completely broken down yet. He was still a stranger to you.
“Yeah,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s me, sweetheart. It’s Dean.”
“What’s going on?” you said looking back and forth between them, reaching your hand out towards Brian.
Brian, whose eyes kept darting between you and Dean, fully stepped up to the other side of the bed. He sat down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “It’s okay, honey. Everything is going to be okay.”
Dean’s hand that wasn’t still on your cheek, grasped the side of the mattress tightly, trying to restrain himself from shoving Brian away from you. He didn’t want to stress you out any further given that you had just passed out on him as it was.
You looked up at the ceiling, a heavy crease forming between your brows as you tried to force your brain through the fog. “I don't understand,” you murmured, your voice small, your fingers tightening around Brian’s hand. “I know I said it. I know I said your name. But... I don’t know who you are. I don’t know why I know it.”
Brian squeezed your hand, his eyes shooting a venomous, protective glare across the mattress at Dean. “You don’t have to know him, honey. He’s nobody. He’s just a guy from a diner who needs to leave.” Now that you were awake and confused, it seemed Brian’s defensiveness was back and he just wanted to get you away from here. Away from Dean.
Dean’s jaw clenched, his knuckles turning dead white where he gripped the edge of the mattress. The temptation to drop Brian right then and there was overwhelming, but he kept his voice completely level, completely focused on you. He slid his hand down from your cheek, letting his fingers rest gently against your shoulder instead, trying to keep you anchored.
“Look at me,” Dean said softly followed by your name, his green eyes drawing yours right back to him. “Just try to think about the year before you woke up in that hospital. Think about the Impala. A black ’67 Chevy. Think about Kansas. Think about the way we...” He choked on the words for a split second, the image of the ring in his duffel bag flashing through his mind. “Just think about me.”
You stared at him, your breath picking up along with your heartrate. You squeezed Brian’s hand again. “I’m sorry but I don’t know you, Dean.” You looked from him to your fiance, your eyes pleading for him to pull you into his arms and take you out of here.
A gasp caught in your throat, and your eyes widened in absolute shock. You ripped your hand out of Brian’s grip, your fingers flying up to press against your temples as another sharp, stabbing ache flared behind your eyes.
“Honey? What is it? What’s wrong?” Brian demanded, instantly leaning over the bed, his panic flaring right back up.
“I... I saw...” you stammered, staring at Dean in pure terror, your heart hammering against your ribs. “I saw a flash of something. But I couldn’t make it out. It was more of a… a feeling.”
Dean’s heart jumped in his chest, a small wave of hope crashing through him, but he immediately saw the agony on your face as you fought the block in your mind.
“Sweetheart, don’t push yourself. I can’t stand to see you in pain. It’s okay. We will figure this out,” Dean said, eyes locked on yours, voice soft.
You looked at him with a furrowed brow and pain still spread across your features. You turned to Brian. “Babe, I just want to go home.”
Dean’s heart sank.
Brian didn’t waste a single second. Seeing you reject Dean and lean toward him was exactly the opening he needed to regain control of the situation.
“We’re going home, honey. Right now,” Brian said, his voice dropping into a rushed, protective tone. He slid his arm behind your shoulders, helping you sit up on the edge of the mattress. Your legs were still a little shaky, and you rested your weight heavily against his side. Brian kept his eyes glued to Dean, half-expecting the man to draw a weapon or physically block them from moving.
Dean stayed completely frozen on his side of the bed. His heart felt like a lead weight dragging down into his stomach. Hearing you plead to go back to a life that didn’t include him—a life with a guy who had never seen a fraction of the things you’d survived together—was a deeper kind of pain than any blade could inflict.
He wanted to pull you back. He wanted to scream at Brian to get out. He wanted to tell you about the hunt where you’d almost gotten eaten by a wendigo, or the diner in Texas where you’d laughed until milk came out of your nose.
But as he looked at the tight, painful lines of exhaustion around your eyes, he forced his hands to stay at his sides. Pushing you right now was literally making your brain short-circuit. He’d seen the agony you were in just trying to fish out a single memory. If he forced the issue tonight, he might break your mind for good.
“You can go,” Dean said, his voice dropping so low it was almost a gravelly growl. “But first…” Dean grabbed a pen off the nightstand and wrote his phone number on the inside of your wrist. “Just in case,” was all he said. You looked down at it and then back up at him but didn’t say anything.
Brian blinked, visibly shocked by the sudden concession. He didn’t wait for Dean to change his mind. He carefully guided you off the bed, keeping his arm firmly around your waist to support your uneven steps.
You let Brian lead you toward the door, but just before your hand hit the brass knob, you stopped. Your body hesitated, a phantom pull making you turn your head back over your shoulder.
Dean was still sitting on the edge of the mattress, his broad shoulders hunched forward, looking incredibly solitary under the harsh motel light. He was staring down at his own boots, his jaw tight, his hands braced on his knees. He looked like a man who had just lost everything all over again.
“Dean?” you called out softly. The name felt so heavy on your tongue, so loaded with a history you couldn’t see.
Dean snapped his head up, his green eyes instantly locked back onto yours, a desperate, silent question hanging in his gaze.
“Thank you,” you whispered, your brow furrowing as a strange sensation of grief tightened your own throat. “For… for catching me.”
Dean didn’t say anything. He just gave you a slow, barely perceptible nod.
Brian quickly pulled the door open, ushering you out into the cool Mississippi night. The door clicked shut behind you, leaving Dean completely alone in the suffocating silence of Room 4.
Dean didn’t remember laying down. He didn’t remember drifting off; being completely pulled under by the exhaustion, but at some point he had. His dreams were restless and filled with a mix of good times with you and the gaping ache that your disappearance had left while he searched for you. Just a mirror of real life.
Summary: Dean met the love of his life. Everything was perfect, until you disappeared. Two years later he runs into you in a small town diner at 2 in the morning, with another man, and you have no idea who Dean is.
Rating: 18+
Word Count: 2404
Warnings: Language, Violence
A/N: Please let me know what you think.
Gone Masterlist
Right as Dean leaned over, with you cradled against his chest, to unlock the door to room 4, Brian screeched to a halt right next to the Impala. Dean strode into the room, leaving the front door open for your sad excuse of a fiance, and laid you down on his bed gently. He brushed your hair out of your closed eyes and gazed down at your beautiful, peaceful face.
Even unconscious you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Brian rushed into the room, eyeing Dean suspiciously. Once he saw that you were just laying on the bed and that Dean wasn’t doing anything questionable he looked behind him at the open door, hesitating before he pulled it close.
He was stuck with some strange man who was very strong and didn’t mess around. But you were here and he had to make sure you were okay and get you away from Dean and back home somehow. He sucked in a breath and walked up to the opposite side of the bed that Dean was sitting on.
Dean raised his eyes to Brian for half a second before they dropped back down to you. He remained silent, just watching you. The intensity of his stare was tightening the growing knot in Brian’s stomach.
Dean reached down for you and Brian bristled. “You don’t need to touch her,” he said, trying to make his voice strong and half failing.
Dean ignored him and checked your pulse again. He let his fingers linger against your wrist for a moment before finally pulling back, although he stayed sitting on the side of the bed, his thigh pressed to your hip. His mind was racing. He pulled out his phone to text Sam.
Dean: I found her.
After a moment the bubbles popped up. Sam was still up. Or at least he was now.
Sam: Really?? Where?
Before Dean could reply his phone buzzed. Sam was calling him.
“Yeah,” Dean answered, voice rough.
“Dean, where did you find her? Is she okay?” Sam said so quickly that the words almost ran together
“I’m in Mississippi. I just sent you the coordinates,” Dean said.
“Is she okay, man?” Sam asked.
“Uh, she’s unconscious. Her…” Dean drug his hand down his face pausing for a moment. “Her fiance and I are sitting here waiting for her to wake up,” Dean said and Sam could hear the strain in his voice.
“Her WHAT?! I’m sorry, man, I think your phone cut out because I swear it sounded like you just said–”
“I did,” Dean gruffed, his voice dropping lower and lethal. “Just get here. Now,” Dean snapped and then hung up. He couldn’t take any more questions from Sam right now.
Sam: I’m not far. In NOLA. On my way.
Dean glanced up and Brian was eyeing him nervously.
“You’re calling for back up? Do I need to call the police? I don’t know what’s going on but none of this is okay!” Brian blurted out.
“Do whatever the hell you want but nobody, not even the police, is making me leave her side. That’s a promise,” Dean said, voice low and terrifyingly calm.
Brian opened his mouth to argue, but the sheer gravity of Dean’s words seemed to choke the breath right out of him. He looked down at you, then back at Dean, before slowly sliding his phone into his pocket. He didn’t call the cops. Deep down, he probably knew that a small-town deputy wouldn’t be able to handle whatever the hell was happening in this room anyway.
Instead, Brian sank heavily into the creaky wooden chair by the motel desk near the bed, his eyes locked on your pale face. “How do you know her?” he asked, his voice suddenly sounding hollow, stripped of all the previous bravado. “She’s lived here for almost two years. She works at the library. She… she doesn’t have anyone. No family, no ties from before she moved here. She was in a bad accident and couldn’t remember much of the last year or two before waking up in a hospital three states over.”
Dean didn’t move a muscle, but his jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. A hospital. The bastards who took you hadn’t just wiped your mind; they’d dropped you off like unwanted baggage and left you to piece together a life out of nothing.
You don’t remember the year or two before you disappeared. A year and a half was the exact amount of time you knew me. Something doesn’t want you forgetting your entire past. Just me and Sam. Maybe just me.
“She isn’t from here,” Dean said, his voice flat, refusing to give Brian anything more than the bare minimum. “And she wasn’t alone.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, punctuated only by the distant roar of a semi-truck passing on the highway outside. Dean’s hand had made it back to your wrist at some point and he didn't remove it this time, his thumb resting right over your steady, slow pulse, occasionally stroking it gently, silently begging you to wake up.
It was another twenty minutes before you finally stirred.
A soft, pained whimper left your lips first. Your brow furrowed, your head shifting restlessly against the stiff motel pillow as your eyelids fluttered.
“Hey,” Dean murmured instantly, his entire demeanor shifting from a brick wall to something incredibly gentle. He leaned over you, his free hand coming up to cup the side of your face, his thumb sweeping over your cheekbone. “Hey, look at me. I’ve got you.”
Brian stood up so fast the wooden chair scraped loudly against the linoleum. “Honey? Are you okay?”
Your eyes finally cracked open, blinking rapidly against the harsh overhead light of the motel room. The sharp, blinding pain in your skull had faded to a dull, throbbing ache, but your mind felt like it was floating in a thick fog. You looked past Dean first, catching sight of the familiar, panicked face of your fiance.
“Brian…?” you whispered, your throat dry.
“I’m right here,” Brian said, stepping closer to the foot of the bed, though he kept a wary eye on Dean.
But as your vision fully cleared, your gaze drifted back to the man sitting right beside you. The man whose hand was warm against your face. The man whose green eyes were staring down at you with an intensity that made your chest ache with a sudden, overwhelming surge of familiarity.
You didn’t shrink away from his touch this time. Your mind didn’t recognize him, but your body did. Your heart rate spiked, your fingers twitching against the mattress.
“Dean,” you breathed out, the name slipping past your lips easily, naturally, like a habit you’d practiced a thousand times before.
Dean let out a ragged breath, a broken, beautiful smile flashing across his face for a split second before he caught the look in your eyes. You knew his name—your soul knew it—but the confusion running through your expression told him the wall in your head hadn’t completely broken down yet. He was still a stranger to you.
“Yeah,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s me, sweetheart. It’s Dean.”
“What’s going on?” you said looking back and forth between them, reaching your hand out towards Brian.
Brian, whose eyes kept darting between you and Dean, fully stepped up to the other side of the bed. He sat down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “It’s okay, honey. Everything is going to be okay.”
Dean’s hand that wasn’t still on your cheek, grasped the side of the mattress tightly, trying to restrain himself from shoving Brian away from you. He didn’t want to stress you out any further given that you had just passed out on him as it was.
You looked up at the ceiling, a heavy crease forming between your brows as you tried to force your brain through the fog. “I don't understand,” you murmured, your voice small, your fingers tightening around Brian’s hand. “I know I said it. I know I said your name. But... I don’t know who you are. I don’t know why I know it.”
Brian squeezed your hand, his eyes shooting a venomous, protective glare across the mattress at Dean. “You don’t have to know him, honey. He’s nobody. He’s just a guy from a diner who needs to leave.” Now that you were awake and confused, it seemed Brian’s defensiveness was back and he just wanted to get you away from here. Away from Dean.
Dean’s jaw clenched, his knuckles turning dead white where he gripped the edge of the mattress. The temptation to drop Brian right then and there was overwhelming, but he kept his voice completely level, completely focused on you. He slid his hand down from your cheek, letting his fingers rest gently against your shoulder instead, trying to keep you anchored.
“Look at me,” Dean said softly followed by your name, his green eyes drawing yours right back to him. “Just try to think about the year before you woke up in that hospital. Think about the Impala. A black ’67 Chevy. Think about Kansas. Think about the way we...” He choked on the words for a split second, the image of the ring in his duffel bag flashing through his mind. “Just think about me.”
You stared at him, your breath picking up along with your heartrate. You squeezed Brian’s hand again. “I’m sorry but I don’t know you, Dean.” You looked from him to your fiance, your eyes pleading for him to pull you into his arms and take you out of here.
A gasp caught in your throat, and your eyes widened in absolute shock. You ripped your hand out of Brian’s grip, your fingers flying up to press against your temples as another sharp, stabbing ache flared behind your eyes.
“Honey? What is it? What’s wrong?” Brian demanded, instantly leaning over the bed, his panic flaring right back up.
“I... I saw...” you stammered, staring at Dean in pure terror, your heart hammering against your ribs. “I saw a flash of something. But I couldn’t make it out. It was more of a… a feeling.”
Dean’s heart jumped in his chest, a small wave of hope crashing through him, but he immediately saw the agony on your face as you fought the block in your mind.
“Sweetheart, don’t push yourself. I can’t stand to see you in pain. It’s okay. We will figure this out,” Dean said, eyes locked on yours, voice soft.
You looked at him with a furrowed brow and pain still spread across your features. You turned to Brian. “Babe, I just want to go home.”
Dean’s heart sank.
Brian didn’t waste a single second. Seeing you reject Dean and lean toward him was exactly the opening he needed to regain control of the situation.
“We’re going home, honey. Right now,” Brian said, his voice dropping into a rushed, protective tone. He slid his arm behind your shoulders, helping you sit up on the edge of the mattress. Your legs were still a little shaky, and you rested your weight heavily against his side. Brian kept his eyes glued to Dean, half-expecting the man to draw a weapon or physically block them from moving.
Dean stayed completely frozen on his side of the bed. His heart felt like a lead weight dragging down into his stomach. Hearing you plead to go back to a life that didn’t include him—a life with a guy who had never seen a fraction of the things you’d survived together—was a deeper kind of pain than any blade could inflict.
He wanted to pull you back. He wanted to scream at Brian to get out. He wanted to tell you about the hunt where you’d almost gotten eaten by a wendigo, or the diner in Texas where you’d laughed until milk came out of your nose.
But as he looked at the tight, painful lines of exhaustion around your eyes, he forced his hands to stay at his sides. Pushing you right now was literally making your brain short-circuit. He’d seen the agony you were in just trying to fish out a single memory. If he forced the issue tonight, he might break your mind for good.
“You can go,” Dean said, his voice dropping so low it was almost a gravelly growl. “But first…” Dean grabbed a pen off the nightstand and wrote his phone number on the inside of your wrist. “Just in case,” was all he said. You looked down at it and then back up at him but didn’t say anything.
Brian blinked, visibly shocked by the sudden concession. He didn’t wait for Dean to change his mind. He carefully guided you off the bed, keeping his arm firmly around your waist to support your uneven steps.
You let Brian lead you toward the door, but just before your hand hit the brass knob, you stopped. Your body hesitated, a phantom pull making you turn your head back over your shoulder.
Dean was still sitting on the edge of the mattress, his broad shoulders hunched forward, looking incredibly solitary under the harsh motel light. He was staring down at his own boots, his jaw tight, his hands braced on his knees. He looked like a man who had just lost everything all over again.
“Dean?” you called out softly. The name felt so heavy on your tongue, so loaded with a history you couldn’t see.
Dean snapped his head up, his green eyes instantly locked back onto yours, a desperate, silent question hanging in his gaze.
“Thank you,” you whispered, your brow furrowing as a strange sensation of grief tightened your own throat. “For… for catching me.”
Dean didn’t say anything. He just gave you a slow, barely perceptible nod.
Brian quickly pulled the door open, ushering you out into the cool Mississippi night. The door clicked shut behind you, leaving Dean completely alone in the suffocating silence of Room 4.
Dean didn’t remember laying down. He didn’t remember drifting off; being completely pulled under by the exhaustion, but at some point he had. His dreams were restless and filled with a mix of good times with you and the gaping ache that your disappearance had left while he searched for you. Just a mirror of real life.
