In every sense, really, but mostly when it comes to you. Sam reminds him daily, how much of an idiot he is for you. Dean’s been head over heels for you as long as he can remember—just pathetic for you, honestly. He’d do anything you asked, anything you wanted him to do. He’d walk on hot coals, believe anything you told him. That’s dangerous, especially in his line of work. It’s a liability, a weakness to have someone you care about close. It’s almost a death sentence. And Dean knew it.
Dean also knew something was wrong when you’d abruptly left the bar last night without so much as a look in his or Sam’s direction. The waitress was talking his goddamn ear off, and he knew you were getting bristled. For God’s sakes, he was, too. He tried to put his heart into the flirting with her, but it’s been so difficult to lately, especially in front of you.
With flirting, it’s mostly reflex for him. It’s easy. He’s been doing it as long as he can remember having a conscious thought—whether it was to get information, to get a bed for the night, or just for fun. It was one of the few things he was good at in life. Dean could flirt with anything, if he tried hard enough, but the past few weeks, months, hell, maybe even years, Dean’s head hasn’t been in the game when it comes to flirting someone’s pants off. Even if you’re not sitting next to him, he still feels like he shouldn’t be doing it.
He’s actually turned down people, which isn’t how the night’s supposed to go. He’s supposed to chat up the bartender, waitress, or whoever, ask them what time they get off, then kick Sam and sometimes you out of the motel for the night. But Dean hasn’t done that in a really long time. He just can’t do it anymore, not with the way he feels about you. He knows how he feels, but he won’t let himself have it. Have you. Yet everything else feels half-assed. Empty. It’s a vicous cycle of self destruction only Dean knows how to do.
Now, it’s finally come to bite him in the ass with this case.
He’d almost blew it when that stupid sheriff’s officer was talking to you. Dean took one look at him, trying to talk to you in a non-professional manner, and wanted to strangle him. Wanted to kill him, for even looking in your direction. He could do it, too, no problem. He’d do it quick, get you safe, obviously, just so he could have you all to himself. He’d gank that son of a bitch into next week for even having the audacity to fucking breathe in your direction. Was that normal? No. Couldn’t be. But Dean would’ve shot him without another thought, in that moment. Then his nose started bleeding before his hand went to the butt of his gun. And he knew.
He was in the bathroom while you and Sam were waiting for him, trying to stop the nosebleed—and somehow, Dean got it under control. He doesn’t know how. But he knew he couldn’t let this happen to him, not right now. There was a case to be solved—even if he was the next killer. Even if he ended up shooting off the head of the next person that looked in your direction. He fought the urge, plugged his nose, and sucked it up, the way he’s always had to do things. No time for his own personal feelings. He’d figure it out after you guys went to the shithole house that is quite literally your only lead.
So now, you know, thanks to the demon from the bar, that Dean’s ass-up in love with you. But what he wasn’t expecting in his entire lifetime was for you to feel the same.
See, Dean knew he’d always love you. He’s been prepared this entire time to love you in silence, to push it down deep, even though it hurts. You deserved someone better, anyhow. It wasn’t his place to keep you from getting away from him. Even though he’d sell his soul, again, if it meant spending one more day with you. You’re in his Heaven, and you make his life seem like it means something more than just hunting monsters. You make life seem not so bad, even though Dean has spent the past 3 decades of his life living and believing otherwise.
He knows he doesn’t show it, these so-called feelings he has. He never shows the people he loves that he does, in fact, love them. He’s gotten reamed out by Sam, Bobby, and sometimes even you yourself when he disrespected you. The first time Dean saw you cry because of him, he wanted to take a swan dive off the nearest surface. Because you were crying over him. He wasn’t worth that. You’ve cried multitudes of times since then over him, over something he said, something he did. He doesn’t necessarily see it, but your face is all puffy and cute the next morning. It softens something inside him and stabs at him all at once. He didn’t deserve you. Not in this lifetime. Not in any fucking lifetime. And yet, you felt the same way about him that he felt about you. All this time.
So that’s why he was shell-shocked, when that demon told you that she’d been trying to get to both of you, but didn’t prevail. He was even more surprised when he kissed you the second time—all he wanted was to make you feel better. He thinks he did a good job, judging by the way you melted into him the second time. You just looked so nervous, so uncomfortable, and he hated that. So he wanted to fix it, like he always does.
But you did instead.
There’s steam rising from where Envy fell to the ground, the demon-trapping bullet putting her down for the count. Dean stands there, more useless than a sack of potatoes as you finish the job with the demon knife, just… staring. You really are his dream girl: ganking the demon after kissing him senseless, looking hot as fuck. Jesus. And all he did was just sit there and watch.
You don’t look back at Dean right away, don’t let him see you—because now, he knows. He knows that your feelings for him are strong enough to take advantage of, knows that there is not a single thing that is platonic about the way you feel about him. You killed the demon, and now? You have to deal with your feelings.
You’d take the demon any day.
Somehow, you finally get the courage to look at Dean. You don’t know how, but you do it. But he doesn’t look upset. Or mad. He just looks really, reallysurprised. Like you haven’t been tripping and falling for him since as long as you can remember.
He takes a step towards you after you rise up from the ground. You take a step towards him, too. Dean swallows hard, looking down, then up at you again. It’s like you’re magnets—because soon enough, you’re inches apart again, and not because of a demon this time. You just… click together, like you always do. It’s like your bodies can’t bear to be far from one another for too long, always wanting to be as close as possible. It seems like for as long as you’ve known him, it’s been like that.
Dean can’t think. Can’t fucking speak, can’t do anything but look at you, into your beautiful eyes that are looking right back at him. He thinks you’ve put him under a spell, half the time. You’re lulling him to you, but he’s going willingly, anyway.
He gets lost in your eyes often, and he’s well aware that he does, but he can’t seem to care. You’re looking at him like you did that one night when he asked you to stay with him, when the nightmares were just too bad. You came to check on him, and you looked at him not with pity, but you looked almost tortured that you couldn’t do anything to help him. You looked at him like you cared, like you saw him for the man he could be, cracked open against his will by his ghosts that lurk in the shadows. You stayed that night, and he’d held you so close and tight that he thought you might pop in his hands. But you didn’t. You just held him too, looking at him with those eyes.
The same ones looking back at him now.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You look between Dean’s eyes, a million words to say, but none actually spoken aloud. You want to say how you’ve felt about him all this time, that ever since that night you stayed with him and even since before that, you want him. Even if he’s not perfect. It doesn’t matter to you. It feels like you’ve spent the entirety of you frindship with Dean trying to prove to him that maybe, just maybe, you like him for who he is.
Dean knows, too. Deep down, he knows that you’re the one for him, and some small, hopefull and goddamn childish part knows that you love him. He’s just been too scared to accept that. He’s been too terrified of the cost to admit it to himself—but now that it’s all out in the open, it’s all he wants to do. All he wants to say.
Sam’s muffled voice rings out before either of you are able to work up th courage to speak, calling you both back to the present. You don’t move right away, though. Neither does Dean. You stare at each other for what feels like houlrs, both unwilling to break apart, but eventually, you do.
You somehow silently agree on not telling Sam what happened. Just that the last demon of the Sins was killed. Sam is unusually quiet the entire ride back to the motel, too—and you’re too tired to ask why. Between running on a few hours of sleep and the emotional toll the case has taken on you, you’re dead on your feet as you slump in the Impala, but you can’t rest. Not really. Not with things left unsaid.
You’re still tossing and turning an hour after you said goodnight to Sam and Dean, then showered. It’s conflicting—because while every part of you screams to just go and talk to him, you know he’ll close up like a clam. It’s hopeless, and the other part of you knows that it is. A part of your brain believes that tomorrow, Dean won’t bring it up. Won’t look at you any differently, and just pretend like nothing happened. Like he’ll dissmiss his feelings for you simply because they’re too complicated to deal with—because you’re too complicated to deal with. So it’s easier to just bury it down, and to not even try to make the effort to love you.
That’s what sends you outside at 1:28am.
You’re sitting on the sorry excuse for a bench in the back of the motel—the mosaic of stones digging into the back of your thighs through your pajama pants. The entire charred-yellow lawn behind the building is filled with cigarette butts, strewn about among the weeds. The moon, however, is full and bright above you, high in the glittering starry sky—a dramatic contrast to the wasteland you’re sitting in. Your chest hurts, and it can’t seem to go away.
So you let yourself feel it. Just for tonight.
Dean can’t seem to sleep, either. He’s been listening to Sam’s quiet snoring for the past 45 minutes, unable to rest—but not because of the lawn mower-like noises coming from his brother. It’s because he’s thinking about you.
Not like that’s a new thing. He thinks about you all the time, especially when he can’t sleep and his mind wanders—but this is because of what happened earlier. How now, things can’t be the same between you two, no matter how much he pretends it hasn’t. And he can’t seem to get over it.
Usually, Dean’s been able to move on, for the sake of not only the person he cares about, but for him, too. He’s done it countless times, most of the time before the relationship even starts—yet it’s not coming as quickly this go around. You’re still in his mind, still making him debate if he wants this. Wants you. Dean Winchester doesn’t debate relationships. He doesn’t have them with anyone, period—but you’re changing his mind, somehow. You have captured him in a way no one else has been able to, and have been able to see him, understand him, love him in a way that he craves more than anything on this planet. It’s why he can’t move on or sweep it under the rug, he realizes—because you complete him.
That’s what sends him outside at 1:44am.
He stops in his tracks when he sees you sitting on the bench—and for a split second, he debates turning around and going back inside. Dean’s scared, terrified of what to say to you. What happens if it all goes wrong? What if you’re finally sick of him and his bullshit? It’s all he can think, but something inside him tells him to stay.
Dean makes his way to your side. You don’t notice him until he starts to sit down—and you look up at him, then look back down. You can’t face him, not like this. Not when your heart’s being ripped in half. He’s probably here to let you down easy. Probably here to say that what you heard ‘doesn’t matter, because he’s Dean Winchester, and he doesn’t do relationships, or love, or anything remotely’—
“Y’kinda remind me of the moon.”
Dean’s voice rings out, bringing you out of your thoughts, but somehow launching you back into them at the same time with his words.
“Huh?” You say intelligently, blinking up at him again.
“Y’heard me,” He mutters, leaning against the back of the bench as he sits next to you. “You remind me o’ her.”
“Her?” You echo, mostly in disbelief. Who knew Dean Winchester referred to the moon as a woman.
“Yeah, ‘her’,” He mocks back, almost daring you to question him again. He glances over at you before looking back at the moon. “Y’know, pretty, beautiful... jus’ the brightest one of ‘em all. She’s gotta lotta craters, but she’s the best thing in the sky.”
You look at Dean, your heart soaring, but he’s still looking up at the sky—and you think he’s doing it so he doesn’t have to look at you. He doesn’t look at you again, so you look at the sky, too.
“Yeah, but she’s all by herself,” You remark, noting the double entendre.
“Yeah,” Dean lements. That backfired. “But don’t think for a second that you are.”
You close your eyes, already starting to shake your head. “Dean—”
“Jus’— Just lemme get this out, alright?” He asks, not looking away from the sky. “Then y’can say whatever. I just… really needa do this.”
You bite back the words in your throat, nodding—and you know Dean sees it in his peripheral when he takes a deep breath in.
“I uh, don’t really like… feelings. I mean, that’s a helluva understatement, but, uh, yeah. I just… I can’t do ‘em. Not good, I mean. Y’know, not in the way I should. Or the— or the normal way. But, uh— Jesus, this is harder than I thought.” He sighs, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. “Uhm. You make me… feel things. Yeah. Good things, obviously, but it kinda sorta scares the crap outta me. But, uh, I like it. I like bein’ around you. I like seein’ ya everyday. S’just… I dunno. It’s hard. S’like I’m bein’ pulled in two different directions. Part’a me wants to, y’know, feel those things, and the other part wants me to bail. Y’know, run for the hills. Am I makin’ sense?”
Dean finally turns to you—and his face is so vulnerable, so honest, it makes you want to kiss him. You’d been looking at him for a while now, watching him fidget with nothing. He looks smaller, in the moonlight. Reduced to just him, now that there’s no one to perform for. No one to galavant for.
You nod.
“Good. Uh. Well, y’know, I usually let the bailin’ thing win. Jeez, what the hell am I sayin’. S’not usually— ‘s all the time. Every time,” Dean chuckles coldly, the self-deprication dripping from his words. “I bail on everyone. ‘Cause I can’t let ‘em bail on me first. But you… y’stuck with us. With me. All this time. And I… I can’t ignore that.”
“Dean—”
“What I’m tryna say is, you make me feel things that scare the hell outta me,” he says again. “But I… wanna keep feelin’ ‘em. I like bein’ around you. Y’make it better, bein’ here. Make me better. So I wanna keep bein’ around you. I wanna… well, I dunno.” He shakes his head, scratching at his jaw before straightening, a newfound sense of confidence overtaking him. “No, yeah, I do know. I wanna be with you,” He nods to himself, then looks at you. “I wanna…”
Dean trails off when his eyes lay fully upon you, his gaze softening completely. You’re looking right back at him, no judgement in your face. No annoyance. No anger. You’re just listening to him.
And it is then Dean needs to say it.
“I love you.”
Your lips part open, his words crashing into you like a wave breaking on a rock. He said it. He said it, and he really means it, because he’s looking at you, searching your face a little frantically now as you stare at him.
You’re frozen, looking at Dean. You blink once, stuck in the same position you’d been looking at him in. You think you’re dreaming, because you haven’t heard those words ever leave Dean’s mouth in the entire time you’ve known him—and now, he just said them to you. After blinking again, you scoot closer to him on the bench, the warmth from his body soaking into your skin. He glances down at your lips when you lean in a little more.
“I love you, too.”
Now it’s Dean’s turn to blink at you, his mouth parting, too. He short-circuts much like you did, swallowing when he’s able to, then looks down between you before scooting closer to you, a dopey grin spreading on his face when his nose brushes yours.
“Awesome.”
Your own smile appears on your lips, your forehead pressing against his—and he sighs, melting a little into you at the contact. Dean’s hand finds yours when he looks at you again, his eyes glancing down to your lips.
“I, uhm.” He starts, and you take it upon yourself to scoot closer to him until your legs are touching. “Hey.”
“Hi,” you murmur back, your free hand finding his shirt—not pulling, just resting your hand on his chest.
“Hey,” He repeats again, getting a little more nervous once more. “You— uh.” He stutters, eyes flicking down to your mouth again.
“Can I have a kiss, Dean?” You ask, lifting your head off his just enough.
“Y— yeah,” he nods, leaning in fully now. “‘Course y’can.”
Dean’s lips are soft. Warm. And soft. Softer than you’d imagined them to be—and he kisses you gently, holding you against him. You expected him to be a little rougher, but this is much better. You like Dean kissing you like this. Gentle, but still possessive. Like you’re his.
Some part of you knew from upon first laying eyes on Dean tonight that you wouldn’t be so ending the rest of the night alone. You take him back to your room to stay with you, even though Sam’ll be asking all kinds of questions in a few hours when you all get up to pack and leave. But for tonight, you’ll stay with Dean beside you.
pairing; soldier boy x supe!reader word count; 11.2k 🪐
summary; decades spent apart, you've lived an entire life without each other. that was never the original plan, and a chance reunion reminds you both of that fact
tags/warnings; language / not canon-compliant / heavy angst / time jumps (pre and post vought rising era) / canon typical violence / best friend bombsight (completely platonic) / op supe!reader / jealous ben / hurt/comfort / mentions of depression and suicidal ideation / loss and sad feels / childhood best friends to lovers to strangers to ?, the boys season five spoilers, 18+ only ✮.ᐟ
⋆˚࿔ notes; okay so this part is a lot of backstory / lore .𖥔 ݁ ˖ (working our way up to where we left off in the last chapter). but it's needed for the finale to make sense :p also sorry in advance I went a little crazy with the angst for this part 👉🏽👈🏽
♪ now playing; tears in the rain by the weeknd
cause no one will love you, like her,
it's pointless, like tears in the rain
part one ⟡ part three
series masterlist ᝰ. ben masterlist
the past
You'd never really spoken to Ben's brother.
Maybe once or twice in passing. A few glimpses here and there when you were growing up. But you were never actually around his family, didn't interact much with them.
Part of it was because you were in a lower class, in comparison. His father owned half the mills in the state, while your father was a humble carpenter—complete coincidence you managed to end up as neighbors. It was also because he kept shipping Ben off to wherever he could so he wouldn't have to deal with him, unable to stand the sight of him.
It seemed despite the loss of his other son, the sentiment for his youngest remained the same.
Mere weeks after the horrors of harmony, you accompany Ben to his brother's burial and funeral reception—a large event considering he was beloved in the community and known as a hero. Seems the only person you actually recognize is your boyfriend, though he’s been understandably closed off and reserved since he'd gotten the news.
When you step outside for air as he talks to some people you don't know, his father comes to stand next to you on the empty deck, facing the massive yard.
A minute passes before he breaks the silence. "I've known about the apple since the day it happened. You are terrible at climbing trees, even worse at getting helped off 'em."
You turn your head sharply in his direction, eyebrows in furrowed confusion, and he looks at you in amusement. "You think I don't know what goes on under my own roof?" He clicks his tongue. "I thought you would be good for him, that maybe he just needed someone different to show him why he should aim to be the best man he could be."
You cross your arms in front your chest, more for comfort than defense, as you continue to listen quietly.
"Thought with you he’d have more motive to shape up and stop getting sent back from those schools, you seemed like a good enough girl. Your father built some benches for one of my factories, sturdy and reliable. Figured you couldn’t have been terrible bein’ raised by a hardworking fella like that."
He looks away from you and into the yard for a moment.
"I didn’t expect him to go anywhere near the army, after what his brother went through, how he came back. No I thought he’d finally wise up for good. He was supposed to get a respectable job, nice dame on his arm. Get married, have a couple rugrats running around callin' me grandpa. I would’ve handed over the mills to him, keep the legacy going, make our family proud..."
He sighs deeply, his expression dampening as he turns to look at you once more. "But of course, only thing he could manage is the lazy route, the easy one."
At that you can't help but speak up, "It was actually far from easy, believe me. What he went through—"
"Was entirely his decision." He interrupts sharply, and you bite your tongue.
"I don't know how you could've, encouraged that ridiculous train of thought. Super powers? Please. It's not natural, and it's a damn shame he took you down with him sweetheart."
Your jaw clenches, but you opt to keep your silence, mindful of where you were. He shakes his head, clicking his teeth again before taking a step closer.
"I'm telling you this now, he will disappoint you if he hasn't already. Not a matter of why, just of when. It's who he is, it's in his nature—the walking embodiment of what could've been."
A strong arm wraps around your waist moments later, the solid feel of Ben's embrace startling you for a second. He looks between the two of you, at his father's stoic expression, your tense form. "Everything alright?"
His father merely stares, at his son's face, yours, the arm snaked around you and back up into Ben's eyes again. He walks away without a word, but his expression told you both everything you needed to know.
Your eyes stay on him as his form retreats into the crowd, his words lingering in your mind and it takes a hand on your cheek to snap you out of it. "You good?" He murmurs.
"Mhmm." You manage, steeling yourself. Not the time or place to unravel. With a deep breath, you turn to face him and bring your hands up to his shoulders, rubbing them in soft circles. "I'm fine. How're you holding up?"
He wants to question you further, since he was unable to pick up any hints of your conversation outside with all the chatter surrounding them inside. Maybe if he had focused harder, but there's too much going through his own mind—the unit leader for his upcoming assignment let him know he'd be shipping out in a week for the war (or whatever it was Vought really wanted him to do).
You don't tell him what his father said that night.
Even when it's all you're thinking about the longer time goes on, as you slowly watch him slip away from you. Unknowingly proving the words true—not what you wanted, but what happened anyway.
Left with nothing more than the thought of what could've been.
Soon after the funeral and just before Ben got shipped off, the group gets summoned to the building they'd designated as Vought Headquarters.
He still hasn't said much since then, but he keeps a careful eye on you. Full of wonder and questions, surely. You think maybe he doesn't ask because of the lingering guilt he feels, at what happened to you.
The less he knows the better.
You're in a small room—several couches, tables with water and snacks among them filling the space. You watch the others walking around antsy, wondering what this was going to be about, but thankfully it's not long before someone walks in to explain.
"Alright if I could please get everyone to stand in a line, shoulder to shoulder, we have much to discuss regarding your image!"
An enthusiastic woman with an interesting outfit, strong voice and a southern accent sizes you all up eagerly. It's like she's already dressing everyone in her mind. "But of course, where are my manners? My name is Lottie, i'm here to assign your figure names and costumes, courtesy of Vought."
Everyone goes along with it, cautious but not questioning. She starts with names, going down the line that started with the blonde woman and ends with you. She reads each file, asks more about the documented powers, and brainstorms out loud in real time, then assigns the name.
So you can heal injuries? And you look absolutely ethereal my dear, we shall call you Private Angel. Our lovely healer, the perfect combat nurse.
Hmm...super underwater speed, you can breathe down there too, and you're very durable...like a Torpedo. The perfect coastal machine to aid our navy.
Extreme durability...wow. You can fly? It says you have a tendency to land heavy...the most accurate Bombsight we have if you ask me. Air force's best assist.
She gets to Ben, and you can't help but shuffle slightly closer to him. You don't like the way she's eyeing him at all, like she wants to devour him whole. Can't exactly blame her but, still.
Also extremely durable...tremendous super strength, great in combat, toxin resistant...everything a perfect solider should be. Soldier Boy.
Your eyebrows furrow the slightest bit, and she reluctantly turns her attention from him to you, side eyeing your proximity for a moment.
"And you...well the only thing in your file is 'unworldly durability' and 'teleportation'. Not much to work with there...how about you show me? Teleport to the other side of the room." She smiles, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes. Instead you zap across the space with a purple glow, and back next to Ben in seconds.
Her eyes literally light up with glee.
"Oooo okay okay, bright and sudden...a beautiful hue...unworldly durability...I got it! Like the formation of a new star, you will be known as Nova."
She claps her hands and gets ready to move onto costumes.
Everyone gets moved into the photo room after being given their new outfit—except you.
You're still wearing your black trousers, a silky plum colored blouse under a cute bolero jacket and black slip on loafers. Not that you mind, you're comfortable. Ben can't say the same in his fitted leather costume, but damn if he didn’t look good.
You're standing off to the side with him away from the others, helping with a few adjustments. He watches you quietly, fondness in his chest at the sight of you so focused.
"Mmkay, just gotta secure this here, I think, and—is that too tight? Can you move okay? Talk to me baby i'm flying blind here."
He finally smiles, grabbing your fussing hands in his gloved ones and placing a gentle peck onto them both. "I'm fine, thank you."
You soften in return, taking a breath and smiling nervously back. "Of course." You murmur. "Here, let me help you with these um, goggles?"
"Protective eye wear."
"Protective where, they're literally empty. Like glasses but just the frame." You tease, easing them onto his pretty face anyway. "You look gorgeous."
He huffs. "I do not look gorgeous, I look handsome. Dashing. Unbelievably good looking—"
"And don't forget incredibly humble." You deadpan.
He just smirks. "Of course."
For a moment, it was just the two of you like the old times. Playful banter and tender affection, exactly what you've both missed and needed. But it's interrupted by Lottie walking in with an excited squeal.
"Oh you guys look wonderful!! Fantastic, lets get your pictures taken!"
She ushers everyone except you to the photo backdrop in the corner of the room, and Angel looks in confusion. "Wait, why doesn't she get to be a part of this? And where's her costume? Doesn't seem very fair."
Lottie looks through her chart. "Well, she's not in the notes."
"I'm more behind the scenes, just here to get you guys from point A to B—think of me as your cosmic chauffeur." You explain, and she tilts her head. "So you don't get to be in the pictures?"
You assure her it's fine, and she reluctantly gets into place where Lottie is ushering her to. Ben watches with a slight clench in his jaw, understanding why, but not liking it. You were never meant to be a part of whatever Vought had planned for the group of survivors.
And they certainly weren’t trying to give you any sort of ammunition against them now, but you didn't mind the slightest bit, wanting no part of it. You're still only here to support Ben and for your own comfort.
After everything you just want to be close to him; you're not sure how you'll withstand the time apart. You'll cross that bride when you get there.
They follow Lottie's directions, smile and strike their poses. For about an hour it goes on, group photos and individual until they hear a final shutter and a cheerful clap. "Alright, I think we got it! It'll take about a day to get the results, but I'm sure they're perfect."
Everyone relaxes, wandering around the room, grabbing snacks or talking to Lottie, but Ben goes to bring you closer and stops the photographer from putting away his equipment just yet.
"I want one with her, but not for them. You give it to me when it's ready. Deal?" He hands over a wad of money, and the guy easily agrees.
Your heart warms at the gesture, and he holds you gently from behind, wrapping strong arms around your frame. Your hands lay gently atop of them, both of you smiling softly into the camera.
With a click and a flash, the moment is captured.
As he gathers his equipment up and leaves, Ben still holds you in his arms, turning you around and smirking at the sight of your lovesick face. "What?"
"That was sweet."
"Need something to hold me over during our time apart sweetheart."
"...Okay now it's less sweet, perv." You smack his arm playfully.
He laughs. "Hey I meant that sincerely, whenever the bullshit gets to be more annoying than usual I'll just...look at that picture, let it ground me or whatever. Your face is all I need to see for my heart to be at ease doll."
You snort, face warming up regardless at the cheesy line. "Romantic."
"I agree." He brings a hand up to caress your cheek.
You smile up at him, and he leans down to give you a tender kiss.
Bombsight catches the interaction from where he stands, smiling softly. He'd hope to find something like that someday, he thinks to himself.
After two extra pecks you finally part, and you take his hand in yours as you start moving closer to the group again.
"Okay everyone, if you can please gather 'round, we need to discuss next steps—"
Before Lottie could finish her sentence, something gets thrown through the window, crashing through the glass and releasing a loud and steady blare of high frequency sound waves, affecting everyone in the room.
For you it lasts a couple seconds, then it feels as if your body adjusts to the noise. Still ringing, still feeling some pressure on your ears, but you had enough stability to focus.
With an inhale you look for whatever was thrown in, a small grey device that landed in the middle of the room. You zap yourself over to stomp on it, and the ringing stops for a moment.
Everyone takes a breath, before it starts up again, but this time through the open window. They grunt, moving their hands to cover their ears again and you zap yourself outside in the direction it's coming from.
A burly man stands next to a strange device—looks almost like a record player—facing the building, producing those sound waves. He's startled by your sudden appearance, clearly not expecting you to pop up in front of him like that. "The hell—"
You don't let him finish before you're punching the device, your strength shattering it into silence before it even clatters to the ground. He picks it up, exclaiming angrily. "You dumb broad, look what you did!"
You roll your eyes and grab him by the arm, zapping the both of you back inside. He shakes your hand off and makes the mistake of sucker punching you. You barley even feel it, still, the damage is done.
In seconds Ben is crossing the space and scooping him up by the throat, choking him out. The gadget clatters to the ground, and you zap it onto the empty coffee table before placing a hand on your boyfriend's arm.
"Hey, he can't talk with a broken windpipe, put him down. I'm fine, m'sure his hand hurts more than my face." You say softly, and he looks at you, holding him up for only another moment before he lets him drop to the ground like a sack of potatoes.
The guy's coughing and wheezing, you take the opportunity to zap yourself and Ben a bit further from everyone, to his discontent. The abruptness of it throws him off. "Don't do that—"
"Are you okay? Your ears are bleeding—"
"Quit fussing, I'm fine." He grumbles but you just sigh, using a soft handkerchief from your pocket to gently clean the blood away.
Around the room, some Vought 'agents' had shuffled in to detain the culprit, Angel reluctantly healing him enough so he could talk on their orders. Another group in suits shuffled in soon after to collect the strange sound devices and take them for investigation.
Everyone was seemingly alright, no permanent damage, and you were all dismissed for the day.
It took some time for the strange phantom feeling of pressure to go away for the both of you, longer for him, taking the time to lounge at home. Something you hadn't done much lately; time with him you cherished despite the circumstances.
He observes you throughout it, when you feel better and start on dinner. As you're eating quietly with him at the table, eyes tired but full of love. You were being gentle with him, showcased especially later with the soothing feeling of your hands on his skin in the shower.
After so much grief weighing him down lately, it felt amazing having someone care for him so tenderly, wholeheartedly and sincere.
You took your time to wash him gingerly, extra careful when you get to his face, and by the time he's able to open his eyes again he can't take it anymore, sliding his hands up to cradle your jaw and bring you into a loving kiss. Not rough, not hungry, just...sweet. Words he'd hardly said lately pouring through his actions the rest of the night.
Calm before a storm.
The day before phase one begins and the team gets shipped off, Fredrick and Clara analyze the fresh photographs in his office, discussing their images and super personas, among other things.
"Everything is in motion, should go according to schedule. How did the fail-safe test go?" He asks his wife, skimming through the individual pictures, before looking at the group ones.
She smiles at first, "They are susceptible to the sound—it affects them enough to slow them down if the need calls for it." She starts to hesitate. "But...the machine was destroyed...and Ritchie was captured. He won't talk, I've made sure of it. We are down a man however."
He takes a deep breath. "Thanks to Nova, I'm assuming?"
She nods, and he clicks his teeth.
"We cannot risk losing everything on the chance that this girl might change her mind, Clara."
"I know, I have a plan."
He rolls his eyes, but she continues. "Isolation. We can't get rid of her, so she has to leave on her own—and the only reason she's even around is because of Benjamin. We separate them."
"Have you not heard the phrase, distance makes the heart grow fonder? Or do you choose not to remember?" He quips in their native language, and she sighs.
"Men like him are predictable, darling." She retorts carefully. "With enough power and distraction, he is sure to gravitate towards things she is no where near interested in. I assure you."
For a long moment, he's quiet, thinking. Looking between his wife and the pictures laying on the table. With a final nod, he simply responds with "We will see."
Saying goodbye was a lot harder than you thought it would be.
You knew it would hurt, but you didn't expect the deep ache in your chest to settle in so quickly at the thought of so much time apart, and the painful silence that followed his departure.
The entire night before had been spent in each other's arms—talking, thinking, feeling. Enjoying each other's presence and affection while you still could, much needed for you both.
Your picture together from the day of the photo shoot came in the mail that morning, and Ben shows you as you're plating breakfast. Two small 3x4 rectangles, one for you and one for him.
You smile at the sight of them.
Quiet music plays on the record player as he holds you close, settled on his lap. Perks of your power—you don't actually have to drive anywhere, which meant he could stay with you until roll call. But the time came eventually, and you parted with a tearful goodbye.
"Be safe, yeah?"
"Baby you realize I'm like, practically indestructible right?"
"Practically." Your pout gets to him, and he rolls his eyes to deflect.
But your hands are still on his cheeks, caressing soft skin, asking him to please come back to you.
And he can't help but soften, assuring you with a gentle kiss and a low murmur. You're stuck with me sweetheart, promise.
A part of you counts that as the last time you really saw your Ben. The version that came back was too hard, too cold. No longer did you see the warmth reserved for you in his eyes or in his demeanor.
Once again his father's words had come to haunt you.
The first few weeks were the hardest.
Without him around your mind was free to spiral, about what you went through at Fort Harmony, about what your life has become.
It's why you accepted small jobs from Lottie—transportation mostly. Easy to stay on schedule, no annoying road trips, no nausea inducing train rides. Just a flash and a brief moment of disorientation, well worth it if you asked her though.
Your first day, you accidentally bump into a guy who was rushing into the building like his ass was lit on fire, zapping right into his path. The box he carried falling—papers scattering everywhere.
"Shit, I'm sorry. You alright?"
He looks a little taken aback, maybe you shouldn't have cursed.
"Woah...where did you come from??"
Oh, right. Your powers.
You busy yourself with picking up some of the papers, helping him gather them back into a pile he plops back into the small cardboard box instead of answering him. He straightens up, clearing his throat as you finally meet his eye. "Sorry about that."
He shakes his head "Oh no problem, it's alright. Probably shouldn't have been rushing like that anyway."
You hum in agreement. "I'm sure they won't fire you for being a few minutes late."
His face drops, suddenly remembering the reason for his rushing. But he didn't wanna leave without introducing himself at least, it was the polite thing to do. "I'm uh, Theo, by the way."
You nod, "You work for Vought?"
"Yeah I'm their new creative director—gonna help them come up with their signature design." He smiles.
You squint slightly. "Isn't that what Lottie does?"
"Well uh, no. She works with the people under Vought, I'm working with them. She takes care of the asset personas and I'm in charge of the company's image as a whole." He rambles, adjusting the box in his arms.
You hum quietly in response, smiling politely as you bid him goodbye. "Well, sorry again, glad you're alright. Have a good rest of your day."
He seems a little disappointed, but smiles back nonetheless. "No worries, really, I'm sorry too. See you around!"
You watch him scurry into the building and sigh.
Barley day one and you're already messing up, you've got to be more careful. Get a firmer grip on your abilities.
The work isn't too bad, though sometimes you're bored out of your mind, which leads to thinking. So you try to multi-task, busy yourself, revel in the distraction. Taking the time to train, to get a better hold of yourself so you don't accidentally hurt anyone.
You're lucky that civilian wasn't carrying hot coffee or something.
Distractions only work for so long though, and you couldn't escape the loneliness taking root in your soul. You needed something soothing, something familiar. It's why you chose to go check in with your parents after weeks of radio silence.
You knew it would go poorly the moment you appeared on the lawn of the house you once called home. Your mother immediately scowling at the sight of you, your dad bracing himself for what he knew was coming.
"How dare you show your face here again."
Your eyebrows furrow, "Mom—"
"No, let me stop you right there." Her voice grows angrier. "You don't think we would've reached out after those suits came down here to tell us what had happened with you if we wanted to? But you made your choice, and it wasn't us. Wasn't a noble profession, or a life where we'd actually become grandparents someday. You took that from us."
A slight tremble in your small cracking voice appears. "I-I didn't—"
"You chose to be a whore, followed that man without a ring on your finger into something you were never supposed to be a part of, and now look at yourself. At what you've become. You were always difficult, but now, instead of someone honorable you're a complete and utter abomination."
That stops anything you had to say, eyes watering.
"The day you left, I officially lost both my kids. Because of you. And i'll never forgive you for that." Her voice wavers, but the venom in her stare remains. "And for what? A rich boy who doesn't give two shits about you. You think he would've done the same for you? He'll toss you aside once you've served your purpose, and you'll think of me when he does."
Your chest feels tight, a stubborn lump lodged in your throat.
"Get the hell off my property, I don't ever want to see you again."
With that she gives you one last tearful look of disdain, before turning around and walking back inside the house.
Tears silently stream down your face, lip quivering as you watch your dad step closer to you after a moment. "Dad..."
Without a word, he takes a small rectangle from his shirt pocket, warm hands placing it into yours before walking away, following his wife.
You unfold it.
It's a picture of you and Max, taken the day of his third birthday when you were only seven, a simpler time. Your dad had saved up so much for this photo, working extra jobs and holding on to the little memory in his shirt pocket, close to his heart, for decades.
The way he just gives it to you now, no hesitation, no problem...it hurts yours in a way you didn't think was possible.
You'd always been closer to him, especially after the accident that claimed your brother's life, and the resentment your mother started to feel towards you began to build. The annoyance, the hatred. For having the audacity to survive since her son couldn't.
He was always there to hold you, to remind you it wasn't your fault, to make you feel better. Now he can't even stand the sight of you in a photograph.
That's the last time you see either of them.
After a few months of working for Lottie here and there, a few members of the unofficial team come back to town—except for Ben.
He's still busy, one of the managers had told you. But it seemed strange. Bombsight and Angel came back, why couldn't he?
Your new assignment was transporting them to wherever Vought needed them to go. Meetings, events, more meetings, commercial sets, whatever.
You stayed hidden in the shadows, doing your job quietly. At first you did ask about Ben, when Bombsight introduced himself officially and thanked you again for helping him when they initially got to Harmony.
"They separated us, to be honest. Also I spent more time in the skies than on the ground. But I will say, when I was around the base I'd see him practically glued to Clara's hip. Not sure what that was about."
It made you feel sick.
You could teleport to him...you think. The problem comes with obtaining his exact location. In order to go somewhere, you need to know where you're going. You're still learning to navigate these abilities.
Slowly you start to bond with Bombsight—Robbie. Angel was polite but kept her distance for reasons unknown to you both. You didn't take it personally though, she was still nice.
Robbie was kind, very respectful. He'd listen to you talk about Ben, hearing you vent about how much you miss him. You'd be there for him too, hearing him out on his own issues; familial ones, frustrations about his love life. It felt like you were gaining an actual friend for the first time in a long while.
Then he randomly gets reassigned again, somewhere nobody wouldn't tell you. Makes you wonder if it was intentional. You're not stupid, you know the only reason Vought has kept their end of the truce is so you don't retaliate. Doesn't mean they can't be petty though.
Overtime you take less jobs, opting to stay home instead despite Lottie and her team's annoyance. They couldn't make you go though and the sadness was starting to drain your energy more with each passing day.
By the time Ben did come home, months later, you were almost a complete shell of who you once were. Of the bright eyed girl he fell in love with, the woman who followed him to hell because of what she felt for him in her heart.
Peace and quiet with your love was all you wanted, all you craved.
You didn't realize how hard he was trying to cope with the conversation he just had with his old man, you couldn't have possibly known that his first stop wasn't the house—it was his old one, where we went to talk to his father. Hoping to have finally made him proud like all the people cheering for him in the streets. But he was hit with a cruel reality when his father expressed nothing but disgust and disappointment.
Saying that he cheated, took the easy way out. Telling him those powers didn't matter cause he would let everyone down eventually, including you if he hasn't already.
And when he got home to you telling him that they should run away from everything he just accomplished? It struck a nerve you didn't know had formed. You didn't mean to. But there was no shaking the voice in his head reminding him of his father's words.
He hated that some of them rang true, worried him. Because if they all rang true, everything he's done with his life thus far, what he's accomplished, would mean nothing at all.
He just didn't realize what he was trying to avoid, became the reality for you. Everything you'd done, what you went through, for the sake of staying with him, reduced to nothing in a single night.
When you decided you wanted to disappear, you meant it.
So after you'd cried your heart out on an empty beach, you waited until you caught your breath. You checked that the picture of you with Max, and the picture of you with Ben were still carefully tucked into your pocket. The only two possessions you carried, only ones you cared about. You looked up into the sky, thought long and hard. Took one deep final breath, and zapped yourself onto the moon.
It worked, to your surprise. But beyond that, you took another deep breath as you stood on the new ground. You were completely fine.
As trippy as it was, it's a welcomed distraction. You were always fascinated by the stars, by space and the unknown. Now here you were, able to start knowing them. First hand, authentically, no limitations (within reason, of course). It felt freeing in a brand new way, like a newfound purpose with no barriers.
Who had jurisdiction on the moon? No one.
So you settled your affairs on earth, quietly. Took all the money you'd earned, bought a small property in California. It was really cheap because of the location—a small house surrounded by grass and trees, next to a beautiful lake. An isolated location, surrounded by land. Difficult, nearly impossible to get to by car. The roads that led to it super tricky to maneuver, it's why the owner wanted to sell so urgently.
Clearly getting to it wouldn't be a problem for you. And it gave you an extra sense of security, a win win.
From there you fixed it up, made it cozy, your home.
You took the skills you'd learned from your dad, built a nice bench to sit on outside and watch the lake. Even planted a tree behind it, making sure it was far enough from the water so the roots could grow comfortably but close enough to enjoy sitting near it.
Your teleportation was your greatest asset, your lifeline. You didn't feel trapped anymore—caged in a bubble or a pawn in somebody's game. Hidden from Vought and from anything that had to do with such a painful past, you finally felt free.
Certainly bittersweet, but ultimately better than you've been in a very long time.
Ben couldn't say the same about life without you.
At first he brushed it off, feeling odd but focusing on the attention he was getting. Everyone wanted a piece of him, even the proposal of a day being named after him floating around. Clara was all over him since learning of your sudden departure, pushing him to be the face of whatever project she was cooking up.
But it caught up eventually.
It was in everything. How the house was just silent all the time now. No jokes he could easily laugh at, no genuine conversations. Everybody around had a motive behind their words, all wanted something from him. He could see right through them.
Even within the team they were more formally putting together come the 50s, there were no sincere connections. Angel was polite, she never made any moves on him. Robbie was getting more annoying by the day and Torpedo, well...he never talked much. To anyone.
All he could think of the more years passed and the more shit went down, was how much he missed you. The regret eating away at him throughout the decades, after Clara broke it off for good because he "couldn't fulfill her vision", whatever the fuck that meant.
Long after the team disbanded, it's short but chaotic run.
Even during his time with Payback in the eighties, when he was with Countess trying to have a semblance of the life he once discarded, all he could think about was you. Your softness, your light. He could only hope you were having somewhat of a good life, wherever you were.
And when he's in captivity, it's not Countess or Clara he thinks about—it's you. Wishing nothing more than to see your face one more time, not only in his memories. He knows if he was given that chance, he would do anything not to fumble it, again.
back in the present
Your hand is still trembling a bit when you slowly ease it back, out of his grasp and close to your chest.
He looks like he wants to protest, but knows he has no right to contest anything. "Are you alright? The hell was that."
You nod. "M'fine, just used a good bit of energy." You start to walk past him, but he places a hand on your arm, uncharacteristically gentle.
Whatever he's going to say gets cut off with a tired sigh, as you carefully shake it off. "Ben I didn't come here for you, okay? If it had been up to me, we wouldn't even be having this conversation right now."
Ouch. Don't lash out, he reminds himself.
"I just...it's been so long."
A contemplative hum escapes you. "It has. Do you remember why?"
"You left."
"You told me to." You rebuttal immediately, and he wisely doesn't try to defend himself again. "I'm not doing this, okay I'm tired, and I've said what I needed to say."
You don't give him another chance to answer, walking over to your friends, watching as the mystery crew beside them scramble to seem as if they hadn't been eavesdropping. Or, trying to.
"Robbie, what the fuck?"
He looks apologetic, "I didn't know, all this would go down, alright. These people were holding Goldie hostage and once Ben showed up I knew the best way to resolve the situation...was to..."
"To call me in as a distraction for my ex?"
"And to help her, which you did."
You can tell he does feel bad for bringing you into this, rubbing a hand over your forehead. "Okay, but why did they take Goldie?"
"We just want the V1." You hear one of the guys chime in, thick British accent, a little weary of you. After what they just witnessed, you don't blame him.
"Compound V1? As in the little blue serum?"
At his confirming nod, you snap your head back to Robbie. "Why do they think you have that?" Guilty silence has you scoffing in disbelief. "God dammit, do you have some on you? Seriously?"
"It's for Goldie! I, I don't wanna lose her. And I can't stop time. This can give us a chance."
You shake your head. "Everything you've heard me talk about in regards to that shit over the years, all the harm, and you want to inject the love of your life with it, are you actually fucking insane—"
"What other choice do I have! If you had this back then you know it could've helped Rue."
You flinch back without even thinking about it, the words feeling like a slap to the face, and he immediately regrets it, cursing himself softly. Goldie wheels herself close enough to smack his leg, giving him a look.
"Wait no, I'm sorry. That's not fair of me to say." He backtracks, complete sincerity in his voice.
You take a deep albeit shaky breath, refusing to cry in front of all these strangers (again). In front of Ben, who watches you both with a mix of curiosity and jealousy. At your closeness with him, your dynamic.
It's clear you two share history, he just wonders how the hell it even started, and how long it's been. Last he saw Robbie, years before his captivity, you were still nowhere to be found.
When would your paths have crossed?
the past
You'd become somewhat of a hermit, over the years.
Avoiding as much as you could about Vought, and Ben, and anything that would spike your sorrow, honestly. Peace was all you wanted, all you could manage. Your home became your solace.
You had a garden that blossomed beautifully. Flowers and plants and various vegetables—it was a wonderful way of passing the time. With your abilities you were able to travel wherever you wanted, opting to go out when it's quiet, not too hectic. Most of your interactions came from small family shops, open markets, places that still operated with cash and couldn't tell you the first thing about what a supe even was.
The places you'd gone to were peaceful, your time spent finding a mellow activity, volunteering (without necessarily exposing your powers), exploring the local wildlife and exhibits. Very different from the hustle and bustle you grew up around, but in a good way.
The only times you didn't choose peace were when you'd go on stealthy vigilante missions, in neighborhoods that needed it. When the law failed, and people continued to get hurt. Few believed it wasn't coincidence, called you phantom punishment. It was a win win—bad people would be stopped, you'd practice and evolve your abilities.
Decades pass with only a few interesting adventures here and there, some adrenaline pumping but nothing major, and when the 90s roll around you felt like you'd finally found your footing. In what were technically your seventies...geez.
You thought you'd seen it all by then, but you were proven wrong one chilly night somewhere in downtown LA, mid November of 1990. On occasion you would volunteer at shelters under an alias, one of the many things that helps you stay grounded, connected to your humanity.
You're wrapping up after a tame night, getting ready to teleport home after your goodbyes when you hear something from the nearby alley.
A small voice, pleading. A little shaky, "are you okay? why can't you wake up? I-I don't know how to help—"
You round the corner behind a couple dumpsters, taking in the sight before you. A scared little kid, couldn't have been over nine, hovering worriedly over an unconscious figure. She turns her head as she senses your presence, and you get a good look at the guy laying on the ground.
Holy shit.
"Hey, sweetheart. Are you okay? What happened? I gotcha." Your voice is low, soothing as you try not to startle her further. Poor kid is shaking.
"I was running from, over there and I came here to hide but this guy hasn't moved and it's really cold." She rambles, and your heart aches even more. How the hell this sweet little girl ended up out here with your old friend of all people you'd have to figure out, after getting them both some help.
During one your endeavors, you made friends with the lovely owners of a small clinic not too far from where your house was, after helping them with an emergency one hot summer night a couple years ago.
Not that the location would be an issue for you anyway. It was lowkey and trustworthy, the perfect place for you to zap into with two new patients at three in the morning on a wednesday night.
Scaring the shit out of Desiree at the front desk, of course.
"Jesus—dude, you've got to give some kind of warn—" She stops herself at the sight of a passed out Robbie leaned against you with one arm wrapped around him, your other one holding the little girl's hand.
She quickly pages for a gurney, a small team of nurses laying him onto it and starting to treat him immediately. The girl leans closer to you at the sight of another person in scrubs coming to a stop in front of you both, crouching slightly.
"Hi honey, what's your name?" Dr. Green asks, but the girl only hides behind you, clutching on to your hand.
You share a look with Sandra who steps back for a moment, as you're crouching down yourself to look her in the eye. You introduce yourself softly, careful not to frighten the kid further. "And that's my friend over there, she's a doctor. Means she can help you if you're hurt."
You explain, feeling the weight of the world staring at you behind big glossy eyes. "...i'm not hurt."
Your heart skips a beat. "You sure?"
"just...cold."
You nod, Sandra going to get a warm blanket for her.
"Okay, we'll get you warmed up sweetie. Is it okay if my friend takes a look at you? Makes sure you're okay? I'll stay with you the whole time."
She comes back with the blanket, and you wrap it around the little girl's shoulders—she looks at you for a moment, before nodding her head.
You ask her about her parents, and she seems to shut down at the mention. So you ask for her name.
"...rue"
"Pretty. Just Rue?"
"it's short for ruby..."
"Really, wow. Like the gemstone."
She nods slightly, lighting up the tiniest bit at that. "mommy would say I'm her favorite one."
Would. You take note. "That's so sweet. What's your mommy's name?"
"I call her mommy, but it's sah-fire."
"Sapphire?" She nods. "Oh that's so cool, you guys match pretty much."
"papa too. sorta. his name is Edward but mommy says it's close enough to emerald." She rambles, and another nurse takes note of that information, going to search for them in phone books and public records. Shouldn't be too hard to find this family with those names.
Hours later, Ruby is napping in a warm bed, safe and comfortable. No harm on her person, thankfully. You can't say the same for her family though. Sapphire and Edward Stone, a young couple not too far from the alley you found her and Robbie in.
They were on a newspaper, local house fire rattles quiet neighborhood. But they were all listed as deceased, Rue included, and alarm bells rang in your mind. You'd have to ask her about any relatives when she woke up.
Meanwhile you check on Robbie in the next room. At nine in the morning he's finally waking up, startled to see you standing over him. "Huh...how high am I right now..."
"You're not hallucinating, we're at a clinic right now."
You help him sit up, gentle hands guiding him into a sitting position before getting him a cup of water. He takes it appreciatively, still looking at you as if you were a figment of his imagination. After a shaky sip, you set the cup down on the table for him and he clears his throat.
"Whatcha doin' here?" He asks quietly.
You take a good look at him, at how exhausted he looks. The bags under his eyes, the paleness of his clammy skin. You take one of his hands in yours as you sit on the edge of his bed, your voice calm and gentle. "You had enough drugs in your system to knock out fifteen horses. Robbie, what's going on?"
He wants to lie, to brush it off and say he doesn't have a problem. Convince you to pick up some authentic supply (not that you have or would even go for it). But he's so tired. Of the drugs, and the hangovers, and the side effects and the way it doesn't solve any of his problems. Also, seeing you after all this time had to be some kind of sign, right?
So he opens up to you, about his problem with substances over the years. How much he has to take for it to even cause any effect on his super-powered body. You listen with no judgement, hearing him ramble like old times. In the end he asks for your help, and you take him in.
You also take Ruby with you, after finding no living relatives. When she awoke, she said her parents didn't have friends or family. Said she'd been hiding where she can, since her mom helped her climb out a window and told her to run and get as far from the burning building as possible. The whole thing was too strange, and all you wanted was to keep this little girl safe.
They explore your home with awe. It's a beautiful little place on massive grassy land, next to a lake, blue on the outside with whimsical star, moon and sparkles painted around the outer walls.
The roof was a shade darker, an almost navy blue, matching the window trims. The inside was painted a soft brown—same as your childhood home was—for a sense of comfort. It had three bedrooms, three bathrooms (one in your room), a cozy living room with a reading nook by the window, and a lovely kitchen—the small window above the sink facing the water. The other rooms were empty up until that point, and they got to each claim one as their own.
Decorating was fun considering you could go anywhere to get anything. Princess painted drawers for her stuff? Check. Wacky mirror? Sure. Race car be—race car bed? ...Robbie you won't fit in that.
And though she was still quiet, Ruby had a lot of fun with it. She'd lost everything—her family, her home, all her things. It broke your heart, so you made sure to make her feel as loved and cared for as you could, beyond just material.
Not that it was hard, she was the sweetest kid. With your guidance, and some from Robbie, that remained the same the older she got.
And you always made sure to keep her parent's memory alive.
A few months after taking her in, you tracked down a few photos of her family, mostly from public records. Gave her all of them except one. A family portrait from a local newspaper—her mom planted the biggest pumpkin their small town had ever seen.
She seemed to be about four or five in it, smiling in between her parents, held in her dad's arm. All of them looking so happy into the camera, the prize winning pumpkin beside them. It was in fact massive.
You framed it, placing it up in the living room, and she gave you the softest hug when she saw it, something in the gesture soothing the ache of guilt in her soul.
Realizing you weren't replacing what she lost—you were just someone new to love. Both you and Robbie, who stuck around.
He also recovered over the years, improved greatly. They both flourished with your love and care, and in return you finally felt the warmth of the sun on your skin once again.
But of course, every bit of calm, in your life tended to be followed by a raging storm.
Among the few friends you've made over the last few decades, one of them was an Astronomer. She was sweet and humble and passionate about the subject, after a few months of friendship you opened up about your abilities, told her you could help. And you did.
Every month you'd go down to the space center she worked at to help with research. Even taking them up there (the moon) with the proper precautions and equipment—not that it was known to the public. And you were only willing to do it for her, basically giving her tenure of sorts. She appreciated it greatly, relieved to have that stability for her family.
Aurora was amazing at what she did, stayed humble always. When you'd told her you had to step back for a while (after adopting Ruby) so you could focus on your kid, she was nothing but supportive. Even reaching out and checking in, she soon became Auntie Borealis (her idea of course).
It was no surprise that Rue gravitated towards astronomy, fascinated by it all throughout the years, eager to learn and grow. You'd gone back to the center when she was thirteen, after finally settling into a familial rhythm. One of the lovely ladies there would keep an eye on her if Robbie didn't tag along (while you were in space—at the base she was practically glued to your hip) but he usually did.
It's a chilly day, late November of '99.
With a fanny pack full of snacks, a notepad, her favorite writing pen and a yellow disposable camera, your sixteen year old buzzes with excitement for today's trip. She'd finally be going to the moon—briefly, with all the proper equipment. You're quadruple checking everything.
She only grumbles a little, playfully since she's still the best kid. The way you prep Robbie too makes her laugh.
Keep your harness on and do not try to fly away, I don't know how to zap into the open space yet.
I'll be on my best behavior, don't worry
You said that last time—
—I mean it this time
And he did, really mean it.
You guys arrive at the building after her favorite breakfast—blueberry pancakes and an oreo shake—meeting Aurora in the front hallway, the usual banter and chatter amongst the three of you as you made your way inside. Two interns were tagging along to hold down the base communications for the day since all three of you would be in space, chiming into the conversation every now and then. You all walk down the corridors, Ruby chattering with excitement.
"Do you think my camera will work in space? I bedazzled it last night with the kit Uncle Bobbie gave me for my birthday." She asks Aurora.
"Hmmm i'm not sure honey, but we have some specialized cameras that might, like the one she uses when she helps us out." Tilting her head in your direction. "Of course you're more than welcome to use those sweet pea."
Robbie nudges her with his elbow. "Hear that kiddo? Official space exploring equipment. You're practically an astronomer already."
You smile as she beams, "You think so?"
"Yep, know so. Nova commands outer space while Rockin’ Rob, Rori and Rue are taking over the skies together, just you wait.” He nudges her again and she giggles.
"Wait isn't space just a big sky?"
He shrugs. "Uhh maybe, I don't think so? We'll have to explore extensively to find out I guess." He teases, and she shakes her head with a smile.
“I don’t think mom would like that.”
You smile, your heart still warming every time she calls you that (she started to last year after an emotional christmas).
“I’d be fine with it…as long as you’re safe. Responsible.” You muse.
“I’m both.” She protests, and you nod.
“I know, you’ll be the best of us honey. I was talking about Robbie.”
She laughs again, the sound bringing a smile to everyone’s face. It was so joyous, contagious.
It’s all you’re focused on when the bullets begin to spray out of nowhere.
Seconds before the forcefield goes up, before you can even process the situation, what just happened—the ambush had worked in their favor.
Ammunition clatters against the dome, but all you hear is a high pitched ringing in your ears. The interns, Ava and Anna, are lying unresponsive, gone. Blood pooling from beneath them. Aurora’s hurt, placing pressure on her side, onto where she was struck. Robbie’s shaking, unscathed, saying something.
But you can’t focus on anything other than your baby girl.
Eyes still open, unmoving in your arms—you gently ease her down onto the ground. You’re trembling violently, waiting for her to blink, to move, even the slightest twitch...and you’re met with nothing but silence and a heartbreaking new reality.
You can’t fall apart yet though.
It’s like moving on autopilot.
You don’t even register how you tell him to stay with her, don’t notice how he complies immediately, tears streaming down his own face as he cradles her gently. You zap Aurora to the nearest hospital, and set your sights on the ones responsible.
They've stopped shooting by now, staring you down with their guns raised. A tactical team of roughly fifteen agents, dressed in heavy black and grey armor—and behind them all you spot Phillip. A former employee, a dishonorable one at that, he left a few years ago when Rori got promoted over him. Not without some choice words and a bitter attitude, he held a grudge for sure.
You don't have to look down at your blood stained hands to see red.
Flashes of purple are all they see, as you go picking them off one by one. Sickening cracks and grunts and screams, you tore through them all with nothing but your fists and your rage. They didn't stand a chance with your speed or your super strength.
But it seems ol' Phil had a backup plan. He uses a pager when he sees how his men drop like flies, signaling in what seemed to be a rogue group of a wannabe supe team to enter the fight.
They came in from behind him, a speedster shoving you across the room. It sends you tumbling for a moment before you're rolling back up on your feet, into a defensive stance—annoyed but not injured.
Robbie watches in hesitant conflict from under the protective dome, wondering if he should step in and help you but you turn your head to give him a look of reassurance. With that enraged glint in your eye? He knew you'd be fine. Granted this was the first time he was really watching you in action with your powers, besides the teleportation. It's safe to say he wasn't expecting what you were capable of.
The speedster darts straight to you, but with a flick of your wrist you slow him down, zapping him right in front of a solid concrete wall before releasing him back to full speed. He splatters against it instantly.
His friend—wearing some sort of golden metal around his wrists—yells in outrage. He rushes forward, stepping closer and raising his hands to launch scorching flames at you. The contraptions he's wearing are basically guardrails; instead of uncontrolled wildfire it's aimed in one place, making it more powerful, more damaging to whatever he decided to blast.
But it's still fire.
Before it can even brush against the hairs on your arm, you raise your hands and counter it with icy wind. At first you're just blasting the fire back, the strong gust becoming too much for him and his flames to handle. But you keep hitting him with that chill even after the fire's out, and he yells in agony and fear, as you freeze him. Literally, leaving him as practically an ice statue. After he's a solid popsicle, you walk in his direction towards the remaining two that are more weary than angry now. Probably slight shock.
Ice scatters across the floor under the pressure of your shoe.
The next dude to try and fight you wears a silver bodysuit with a bunch of tiny panels adorning the outfit. Turns out they were small panels of metal he could control and manipulate, mold them to his liking—he was basically wearing his ammunition. He starts launching them as tiny spears towards you in a desperate attempt to keep you back.
You dodge and weave, blocking them with simple hand movements and zapping them into empty space where they couldn't hurt anyone, way out of his control range.
After the last blade is gone he shouts, brandishing a bigger piece of metal from his boot, morphing it into a long sharp spear. He runs and launches it at you like he was performing a javelin throw at the olympics. You let it get close before taking control, flipping the sharp end towards him and launching it right back. You zap it closer before he can even think to dodge and it impales him in the heart, leaving him stuck against the wall.
By this point, Phillip has used the distraction to run outside, and the last supe standing has figured it out. You can counter any power used against you. He'd have to kill you old school, hand to hand combat.
But he should've gone ahead and joined the slimy weasel in running, standing no chance against you.
At first you just block his hits, letting him tire himself out. It's making him angrier, and one bold move is all it takes for the fight to be over. He tries to land a sucker-punch to your cheek but you weave to the side, grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back painfully. You then kick the back of his leg, and he stumbles onto his knees. You use that to your advantage, wrapping your other arm around his neck and choking him out.
In a last ditch effort, he uses his power, eyes turning completely milky white as he stutters out, "I-I heard a rumor, y-you let me g-go."
Before the invisible swirl of words can reach your system, your own eyes become white as you block them out, whispering in his own ear, "And I heard a rumor you dropped dead."
He collapses like a sack of potatoes, unconscious and lifeless.
Robbie watches you scan the area, breathing heavily, covered in blood, still glowing purple. You pause when you don't see Phillip, breathing deeply and focusing. Sensing his energy outside.
You zap directly in front of the car he was trying to hot-wire in the parking lot, ripping the door off and grabbing him by the collar, flinging him onto the open pavement behind you.
He's scrambling back in a panic, shaky hands coming up in from of him. "It, it wasn't me, I-I don't, It didn't..." He can't even think of what to say, trailing off in defeat. Before you can even do anything, he takes a gun from his belt.
Doesn't point it at you when it goes off.
You stare for a moment, before stepping back and taking a deep stuttery breath. For a moment you just want to believe the last twenty minutes have been nothing more than a nightmare—that you're gonna wake up startled, at home, with your daughter and Robbie safe and sound in their rooms.
But you have to go back inside and burst that wish.
He watches you zap in front of them and approach the dome, slowly, trembling. Hears the way your heart beats a mile a minute. Rue's eyes were closed now, by his gentle hand.
You crouch in front of them, tears already blurring your vision, and he carefully eases her into your arms. She feels colder now.
You just look at her for a moment, before you bring her close to your chest, your head resting in the crook of her shoulder and a hand on the back of her head. Cradling her like you used to when she was smaller and wanted your comfort.
It's then you ultimately break down, holding her as you cry.
In Robbie's long, nearly eighty years on this earth—he's never heard anything as sad as the way you sounded that day.
It's a quiet autumn morning. The air crisp, sunrise reflecting majestically on the water.
You and Robbie stand near the edge of the lake next to your house, right beside the massive tree you had planted so long ago when you first moved here. It grew to be massive, stunning. Next to the sturdy bench you had built so long ago—that you dedicated to her parents on her tenth birthday, a small metal plaque adorning the middle—laid her beautiful headstone.
Rue Rue ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ 1983 — 1999
Beloved daughter, niece, friend, astronomer.
"A new friend is only a conversation away."
You held a small ceremony for her a few days ago at the funeral home in town, letting her friends say their tearful goodbyes. Aurora was still recovering in the hospital, devastated she was unable to go. She felt so guilty, but you reassured her, told her to rest up and recover for her family. You then attended Ava and Anna's combined funeral the next day while the cremation took place.
Now, you stand here with only Robbie. You both performed the burial yourselves, spending the sunrise and early hours of the morning to make sure her resting place was as secure and cared for as possible.
With the way your tears won't stop silently flowing, you don't even bother with sunglasses. Both your eyes are red and glossy. Small sniffles are heard every few moments. He lays a gentle hand on your back, rubbing small circles near your shoulder.
"She was a great kid, and you gave her a wonderful life."
Your voice is small and congested. "I didn't protect her when it mattered."
"It always mattered. And you always did." He immediately counters, gentle but firm. "You can't blame yourself for something you couldn't have predicted. It's not fair."
You simply stare at the shiny black onyx marble, thinking of your Rue. Of the sweet kid you'd met while she was trying to help a random stranger at her small age. Even then, a heart of gold.
"None of this is fair."
He didn't have an answer for that.
the present
You clench your jaw now, willing the knot in the back of your throat to go away, your eyes stinging slightly.
"None of this is fair." You whisper, making him flinch as he remembers the echo of the conversation those words were from. Felt like deja vu with a large helping of guilt.
"Robbie that poison...it stole my entire life from me. Everything I had, everything I wanted, it took it all. Ruined it. And when I finally managed to pick up enough of the pieces to actually try and have a life again..."
He nods solemnly.
"It's truly a curse, to live this long where the only consistent thing you have is loss. I wouldn't have done that to her—put her through that. I know you wouldn't want that for Goldie either."
He sighs in resignation, looks to his love who nods at him, before taking the small container from his pocket and handing it over.
You take it carefully, opening the case and inspecting it with disdain and sorrow. So much destruction, so much pain that you've endured—all because of this tiny little thing. You're glowing as you evaporate it with a purple hue, everyone watching in fascination as it disappears.
The group all breathe sighs of relief at the fact Homelander would never get his hands on immortality. And of course, Butcher always takes an opening when he sees one.
"Oi, Tinky Winky, if you got nowhere to be, we could use your help with a little somethin'. Don't know if you've been livin' under a rock but that caped cunt you handed the belt to, he's a psychopath terrorizing the general public back in the states. Soon enough the bloody bastard's gonna want to expand, worldwide."
Your brain buffered at the nickname. "Did you just refer to me as the fucking Purple Teletubbie?"
"Ah, so you're not hiding under some boulder? You just watch the world burn and do nothing about it with all that power?"
"My foot's about to be hiding up your ass if you keep insulting me Quagmire. I've been disconnected from the general public for decades now, and that's all I'll tell you about my personal life cause it's none of your damn business. Now what's this about that guy terrorizing people?"
Ben chimes in, annoyed by your lack of attention. Irrational? Yes. But again, just how he feels. "That psychopath is my son."
Your head whips in his direction. "What?"
Okay maybe he shouldn't have chimed in.
"I almost killed your son??"
"He's—honestly the only thing that binds us is my nut. Beat my meat into a cup back in the fall of '80. I tried giving him a chance but the truth is...he's nothing more than a failed lab experiment on a delusional rampage. He's...weird." He explains, leaving you even more confused.
They each take turns giving you the rundown on who Homelander was and what he's done, what he plans to do, and by the end of it you're more than inclined to help them stop what's clearly a problem to thousands of innocent people.
It's past midnight by the time a plan is made, and you zap everyone (and their van) to a lowkey motel in the desert, somewhere in California.
You ask Robbie if he and Goldie would like to stay at your house for now, if he's ready to face it again after so long, and they agree. With a nod, you turn to face the crew. "Okay so, I'll come back here tomorrow and we can go from there? Come up with more plans? Also whatever we need won't be a problem either, as long as it has a solid location. So don't waste your gas unnecessarily."
They nod, agree, and start to head in to grab a room. Ben stops you before you can turn away. "Wait, can I come with you?"
You take a breath, willing yourself to stay strong against those shiny eyes, the pleading look on his face you used to fold for all the time. "Ben...I'm not ready to bring you into my home, like everything is just fine. Not when the only reason I even have it is because you decided you didn't want me anymore."
He clenches his jaw, nodding. There's nothing he can say to dispute facts, not with you. He remembers your heart, and knows he won't get anywhere with you through anger and demands. You may have been soft, but never naive. He's seen enough to know the version of you now is a lot stricter than the one he had planned to propose to once upon a time.
And he's willing to do anything to earn your trust back, knowing that's always been the most important thing for you.
You part ways, agreeing to see him the next morning, and he watches you zap away with an ache in his chest.
One he can only blame himself for.
part one ⟡ part three
series masterlist ᝰ. ben masterlist
⋆˚࿔ notes; soooo how we feelin? 🤠 there will be more conversations and action and other goodies with ben and the crew in part three! <3 this was just getting superrr long lol, had to split it into multi parts. but ty for reading !! let me know what u think 💜💜 :')
*banners etc made by me in canva | above image links x x
Ch 2: Regression to the Mean
Read on AO3 || Series Masterlist
Pairing: Dean Winchester x f!reader
the placenta effect (pla-cen-ta ef-fect), n, a phenomenon in which the mental health of non-committed partners decreases due to inept compliance with at-home pregnancy tests; this can lead to additional delayed or secondary results that negatively affect their physical health, emotional wellbeing, other relationships, employment and personal growth; individuals partaking in the family business should proceed with caution
Tags/Warnings: explicit | smut, angst, fluff & hurt/comfort | friends with benefits | friends to lovers | idiots in love | pining | unplanned pregnancy (pregnancy test, early stages) | monster of the week - vampires | case fic | non-linear narrative | POV Dean Winchester, incl. Dean being a dumbass | 18+only MDNI | chapter word count: 10485
A/N: Chapter two of my @storytellers-contest ‘s The Jensen Ackles Chronicles. Competition Entry. Beta'd by @kblognar
ONE || TWO || THREE || FOUR || FIVE
regression to the mean: a statistical phenomenon where data samples will often produce extreme values, followed by lows; a confounding factor found in both placebo and placenta effect studies; in regard to the placenta effect specifically, it is considered the point in which the non-committed partners become inept in their compliance due to stress and anxiety, and also includes the initial low values
Months later, you’re a world away from that stretch of highway outside Omaha; sitting in the living room (read: industrial freezer) of one, Marjorie Humphries, a seventy-something-year-old who seems to prefer layering herself up with the oversized doilies she hasn’t used to decorate with.
There’s plenty of room for you to straddle Dean’s lap in the Grafton home. No doubt about that. The shag carpets’d be nice and cozy next to that fireplace—if it was on. Dean would lie down and have you ride him, but there’s no way you’re getting your legs around his lap without removing that fine piece of skirt you’re wearing off your ass first.
He’s wearing his fed suit, too. Even with his coat still on, he’s not exactly toasty. It bunches below him; pulls at his neck. The cushion below it is rather comfortable, but he sits half off his seat, elbows on his open knees, just to keep his balance and stop himself from sinking into the old springs that creak whenever he shifts.
Any extra weight right now is out of the question, hence the pulling. The thick padding strains against his back because he’s already tried to fix it multiple times.
And he thought old people complained about the cold. He’s not saying he’s old, just…getting closer to forty daily.
Yeah, North Dakota is a far-cry away from Omaha, alright. It’s a little too close to the Canadian border for Dean’s liking. He’s got blue balls again, since he got to this stinking town. His junk, lacking in blood thanks to the ice he put there himself. Skin is sticking to skin in all the wrong places, which only makes things worse when he shifts forward again.
But that’s not why he’s bitching.
“The coroner said your husband was undergoing chemo?” His tone’s much kinder on the surface, trying the less cynical approach for Marjorie’s sake. His usual touch of charm he often pulls on cases like this, is hard to draw upon. However—
“He has—had testicular cancer,” Marjorie says, and Dean’s jaw pulls tight at the struggle to reference his passing. It can’t be easy being married to someone for so many years only to have them battle a deadly disease and still turn up as vampire chow.
She doesn’t know that, of course. You both do. Dean in particular, having gone to the morgue himself.
You hadn’t.
Which is just another slight he’s trying to ignore. He’s certain even Sammy wouldn’t get this close to a deceased’s widow, even if her age matches the usual crowd he tends to draw in. You, though?
You’ve known Marjorie for all of five minutes, fifteen technically, yet you sat next to her on the two-seater sofa, over taking up the armchair next to him. And there’s the real problem. It’s actually hard to swallow. Watching your palm come to her shoulders like the dutiful granddaughter you’re not when the cold Dean’s really facing is the cold from your icy heart and a rather harsh round of PMS.
He clears his throat and nods to your tender fingers in warning. It’s not that it’s a huge deal, it’s that it’s not part of your job description to comfort her, whether your cycle has you more impartial to a stranger right now or not.
You’re here on business, not shopping ‘round for adopt-a-grandmother programs. You should reel that palm back in and stick to the questions you’ve come here to ask, but you don’t. Your eyes just flick to him. A hundredth of a second of your attention thrown his way before you’re turning back to the sweet old lady who’s resumed playing with her false teeth.
“Did he attend any appointments the day he went missing?” you ask, knowing full well he didn’t. No medical professional is leaving a catheter in the body once the occupant has passed, but Ronald showed up on the riverbank, tubing still attached to his wrist.
There were a couple of fang marks at the base of his throat, too, but Marjorie doesn’t need to know that. Not when the coroner put them down to a bunch of trees in the river.
She shakes her head no and rubs her lips together, blissfully unaware, though that’s up to interpretation. “We see,” she says and corrects herself again with a further tremor in her jaw, “We saw Dr. Dolgado every second Tuesday. That was supposed to be tomorrow.”
“And there were no other appointments the week he went missing?” you say.
“No,” she softly hoots, dropping her head down. Her shoulders shake beneath your palm, that’s still resting there. Dean’s surprised you’re not attempting to draw your arm behind them, but he’s also surprised you turn to look at him, eyes now pleading.
They turn downwards. Your own lower lip would wobble if your own jaw weren’t tight like his had been.
Are you actually looking to him for some sort of advice, or do you want him to say something? ‘Cause he’s got nothing—but he tries.
“We—” Dean also has to correct himself. The lump in his throat gives him enough pause to do so. “The coroner found a catheter in his hand,” he says, which, granted, is probably not what you were expecting from him. There’s not much more he can do, though.
“There’s no way he’d have access to one outside of his appointments, is there? He wasn’t a doctor before he retired, or—?” Or what? Did he have a kink for medical supplies? Was he a kleptomaniac, pillaging the local hospitals and clinics?
The sheriff’s report had him down as a retired PE teacher. His medical history had him down as attending the free clinic in town outside of his chemo and oncologist appointments. Unless he’s been inspired by Walter White, Dean can’t see how there’s any logical explanation for the catheter in his hand besides vamps becoming respectable now. Has to be the cutlery equivalent for drinking blood, he supposes.
Marjorie shakes her head again. The words don’t even form this time; meanwhile, you’re glaring at him harder.
Dean can see this interview ending rather abruptly. Pretty much has. You know what you’re chasing, and aside from Mr. Humphries and his mysterious catheter, there are still others who haven’t been found yet. Ronald was just the unfortunate first to show up dead.
“Well, I think we’ve got all we need for now,” Dean says, as mindful as he can be at the end of an interview. He checks his footing and uses the pressure of his arms still on his thighs to hoist himself up. Before you or Marjorie can say otherwise, he looks to you with a flick of his eyes toward the door.
You’re still not the most pleased, but it seems you can’t argue with him. At least, not in front of her.
Your fingers squeeze her arm over that doily shawl of hers, smiling quite warmly considering the tension in your own shoulders. “He’s right. We still need to interview the other families, but we really appreciate you talking to us today, even with your loss.”
And though her head still trembles and she doesn’t meet your gaze, Marjorie does give you her quiet thanks before you take your leave. Dean insists you can walk yourselves out.
He follows your lead to the front entrance. In view of the living room, anyway. He nods his head to her as he closes the door behind him and steps out onto the small covered porch at the front of the house.
Outside is a shock to his system. Like stepping out of a regular household refrigerator and into an industrial freezer, his junk turns from stuck to frozen solid in a fraction of a second. Two ice blocks and an icicle clunking together between his legs? He’s a walking clacker toy from the nineties, what with the way you’re looking at him. Still insistent on keeping his sack iced.
“What?” he says. It’s not like he voiced his Walter White thought, or said anything bad or obtuse for that matter. He knows you’re not a mind reader. If you were, you would’ve done more than glare at him while he was exploring the possibilities of the Humphries living room floor.
No, you’re just back to silence because you can. Your back is doing the talking for you as you step over the grass towards Baby. No mention of what you’ve just discussed with Marjorie. No hunches about the case like you’d normally do once you leave the comfort of the apple pie lives you’ve been presented with.
Dean blinks, stuck in place for a second. His legs, hesitant. They’re either concerned about the potential Darwinism they have the sole charge of preventing, or they’re scared of you and your irrational wrath. It’s not like what he did was that bad. Most of the time he was good.
Your situation was always good. The sex was fantastic. Sure. Ever since Omaha, it’d been roadside hookups and sneaky motel room romps for quite a few months, and not for any reason. Often, that’s just when he wanted you the most. A hunt gone bad, a clash of personalities, with you or any other person.
Now, though, he spread you wide, like a piece of art made for him and his bed. You, as wrecked as he felt. Eyes, half-lidded and almost closed from all your previous exertions.
Your chest heaved, lifting the girls higher. Your nipples, pebbled and peaked. Mouth parted, much like your legs were, hooked over his thighs keeping you open for him, wet and wanting. Him wanting so much more.
He raised himself to lean over you, chin dropping as he angled his weeping head and swiped it through your folds, collecting the mess he’d helped create and spreading it further. Him, the master still at work, and you, giving into his whims however he wanted you.
He groaned as he pushed forward. His hand guided himself down and caught the crown on your entrance. Slipped inside with ease.
Your pussy lips clung ‘round him like the thirsty thing you were. Desperate to milk him dry. Desperate to feel him deeper. “So wet f’me.” He dipped lower, pressing an inch more of himself into your heat. “You feel that?” ‘Cause he sure did. “Greedy cunt, tryna pull me in down here.”
His lip curved up on the side, feral at the sight of you. It was all he could do not to slam his hips, but after the day he’d had, he needed to take his time. Even if his body couldn’t take much more, there was something about being put under a love spell and losing his will to Sabrina’s kid sisters that day that just did it to a guy.
Made him want to be in total control of himself and his body again.
Made him want to be in control of you.
You might’ve teased him for his cosmic fate line, but you were kinda sorta perfect under him.
Your arms stretched out in search of his shoulders. Not quite able to latch onto anything until he leant forward that bit more. He adjusted his knees beneath him and dropped to his hands and elbows, gliding all the way down your channel with a long drawn out hiss that turned part grunt on the end as your cry reached his ears.
“Tell me you want it, baby.” He drew up just enough to find you staring at him. Still blissed out, but a little more amused than he was hoping for. No-one smiled like that during sex.
“What?” he said, not as confident as he had been for a guy who was still balls deep.
Your cunt squeezed him just right, tight and warm. Soft, slick walls parted open, surrounding him; had him trembling just to hold himself there and not try to bury his tip deeper. A sexy game of hide the sausage, only—yeah, nope. That wasn’t helping.
But neither were you.
“Baby’s new,” you said, looking much different now. You’d lost that edge to your cheeks.
He swore he’d seen the warmth coming off them like the haze lifting off Baby’s hood on a hot summer’s day. Your eyes no longer closed but opened wider, raised with scrutiny. Your brain, no longer short circuiting, nor close to shutting down.
“No, it isn’t—” It wasn’t. “I’ve said it before.” He raised himself up, arms straight, weight denting into the memory foam. He risked swallowing you whole if he sank any farther into the spiral that threatened to take his very manhood away.
“You really gonna keep tabs when I’m in the moment now?” He eased himself back. It pained him to do so. Your chuckle wasn’t helping.
“Dean.” His name’d sounded better before. The slight come hither you made when you split the sound in two was more dream-like. Pulled from his worst nightmares of women leaving him. Of those damn witches.
But you weren’t them. Your thighs, wrapping ‘round and drawing his length back to the hilt didn’t belong to them, either.
“Easy,” he drawled, when you clenched, inside and out. Your arms, tugging on his shoulders, pulled the rest of him flush against you, taking his attention away from your face to your breasts, pliant and full beneath him.
“M’not keeping tabs. Just—making observations,” you hummed, insisting on talking more, even as Dean’s mouth moved to your collarbone.
“Oh, yeah?” He nipped; your skin clinging to his lips, poignant on his tongue, and so deliciously tart, he’d be choosing you for his last meal, if he ever got the choice to choose it, because you sighed, fingers carding though his hair, keeping him in place. There was no other place he wanted to be.
“What else got you observing?” he said, not actually expecting a coherent answer because when he tested the connection with a gentle thrust of his hips, he followed through with another, and another, swifter and firm. He ground his pelvis against you. Soon pushed you further into the bed, pushing himself further into you. Pushing you both further still with a sudden snap that became the set rhythm.
Moans, and sweet sounds of skin slapping skin, only heightening the experience until the pull in his gut was pulling his leg muscles taut.
His mouth took a nipple. Fingers sunk into your flesh, marking your skin, making his entire body tingle. And when you breathed out another expletive, he groaned around you, thrusts pushing harder; pounding—earth-shattering.
He released your tit and tried drawing air into his lungs, but all he could manage were quick, short gulps that did little for his head and rhythm.
He was faltering. “M’close,” he stuttered—cringed at how fast he’d come undone. “So fucking good. I’m gonna—” But the remaining words didn’t fall. They couldn’t. His next three thrusts took everything from him.
With a heavy grunt, he slammed himself in as far as he could go. The resistance from your walls, futile, even though they tried to clamp in on him.
His dick pulsed. The familiar quickening as his balls tightened flooded his nerves before he felt the burst pump thick ropes of cum through him to you.
“Fuck me.” His head dropped to your shoulder, breathing laboured. The rest of his body, limp aside from the aftershocks that left him jerking over you. “Haven’t nut that hard in a long time,” he chuckled.
It’s a little strange to go from a seventy-year-old man’s home to that of a seventeen-year-old girl’s. The case is like one big joke with the catheter alone, and even then, it’s not the biggest one.
Dean has already likened the mystery to one of those old riddles where three different people walk into a bar. Except there’s no president or priest here. No rabbi or shaman. Edith Walsh isn’t drinking unless she’s doing it under the nose of her parents, which, possible, but she’s not doing it in a public place.
There’s also five victims, not three. Well, four now that Mr. Humphries’ body’s been found, and that’s the weird part. That was three days ago, while victim number five, a middle-aged councilor, was reported missing yesterday on the drive here. She leads an entirely different life to the mother of three and the former bodybuilder who also went missing.
Yes, the town is dropping like flies, as far as cases go in a town so small. It’s just lucky for you the sheriff has fallen into the old trap of small-town folk jumping ship for somewhere larger and more exciting. He did struggle to explain Mr. Humphries away, though.
If it were true and they were skipping town, Dean wouldn’t blame them. The place has its small town charm, sure, if you ignore the temperature. Dean’s surprised more men aren’t doing said skipping because of it.
As Sammy said, the place is surrounded by farmland. Like Lebanon, there can’t be many opportunities outside of farming for the young folks like Edith. The Red River Sam was also oh so interested in talking about isn’t even red.
But as Dean turns onto Dogwood Avenue, leaning over Baby’s wheel in search of the house numbers, he’s met with that small town charm he was talking about.
Like Lisa’s place in Cicero, only without a suspicious mini-me in Ben clouding his judgement, he’s met with yet another postcard example of the apple-pie life he once thought he wanted. The one he thought he wanted again for a fleeting moment, only to remind himself that ship had sailed with Emma.
Someone should put a warning on it below Dogwood’s Irish green-looking marker. Someone may as well have pulled the street itself off the little town model some guy has in his swanky city office and placed it, smack bang in the centre of Grafton.
Number fourteen-thirty-nine sits halfway down the street, shrouded by a couple of leafy trees, bordering the drive. Dean pulls over to the side next to one of them. The light filtering through the cracks in the fall foliage sprinkles the cab with a soft, spotty glow.
You’re no exception. Even your winter coat picks up the sheen, and Dean has to shake his head before it goes anywhere he doesn’t want it to.
“Nice digs,” he tries, but it’s pointless. He knows it. He’s just surprised you agree and say so.
“It’s exactly the same as the Humphries.” Your face scrunches up like he’s let one rip.
He hasn’t. He dropped a doozy this morning on account of the cheeseburger he ate last night after first arriving. His stomach, clear of knots—now, thanks to the booze he downed it with and the extra coffee—yours, he had with his own. Whatever they put in those sweeteners you like, it wasn’t fit for human consumption.
Maybe that’s why you’re so much more indifferent than normal? This silent treatment you’re dishing? A mix of him being in your bad books and you being hangry on top of your period that’s pulling you through the ringer this cycle.
All that extra blood. It makes sense. It’s just surprising he can’t hear your stomach over Baby’s purr.
“That was—nice.” He’s a little too defensive about something so insignificant. If he had cut one loose, he’d be guilty as fuck. The smirk he’s sporting isn’t evidence enough against him, though; he’s just smug from his winning you over. “Just didn’t comment on it,” he adds, “Not a lot of commenting going on today.”
Your brows raise; he cuts Baby’s ignition, leaning back in his seat, not letting your gaze that’s on him go. It feels like days since you last looked at him, and he means really looked, even though it was just the other night.
“You know, silent treatment is a form of emotional abuse, right?” He pouts, and damn straight, it’s on purpose.
So is your initial hum in response, humouring him. Taunting him further. “Think it only counts if it’s intentional.”
“And this ain’t?” Chuck knows he can’t take much more of whatever the hell it is you’re doing to him. You’ve been there for him through thick and thin these past few months. The least you could do is let him in after everything that’s happened between you because he knows you’re hurting. He knows he’s to blame, which is why he’s trying to fix it.
“I got nothing important to say to you. That’s all.” Your hand reaches for the door handle like the conversation is over before it’s even begun.
All he can do is repeat your last line in question before you open it and walk out on him.
“Yeah, Dean. That’s all,” you snap, and though your gaze turns into a glare, at least your fingers let go of the handle in favour of balling up into a fist. “I can’t do this now. Not when we have missing people to find. Our relationship problems aren’t—”
“Oh, so they’re relationship problems now?” His jaw draws back. “Last I checked, you rejected me.”
“With good reason, apparently,” you scoff. “Who comes in and says they want to talk, but then brings up a case, which,” your head swipes towards the Walsh’s house, “we’re on, by the way.”
“It was time sensitive.” He sits up and the vinyl under his ass squeaks.
It’s not ideal. In any other circumstance, he’d be laughing at the interruption. Here he is, trying to have just one serious moment with you here, has been since this morning, and his life, his car, his first love, wants to hinder him. “S’not like I planned on Sam finding a case. You didn’t wanna talk to me the night before, either.”
“I needed a little space. A chance to think,” you say. And, okay? He could understand that. After the dreams and a little shuteye. Your head drops and your hands do the same in your lap. Your fingers now pull at themselves again, twisting, turning, pulling the skin against the bone.
You woulda had little sleep yourself the night before on top of the test, even if you were alert yesterday morning.
Couldn’t blame you. If he had something potentially growing inside him, he’d have been a little freaked, too, and still dealing with it. It’s not the kind of thing that went away just by throwing it away and into the trash. This stuff, it—well, it was life changing. One second you’re you, the next you’re not only with added responsibility and an asshole that makes passes at you, but you have to consider what comes next.
It’s kinda what he’s doing now. What he did after Emma—which, you’d think he’d have learnt something. Though, in his defence, you weren’t exactly a stranger, even if you weren’t his significant other. Further away than ever it seems, even though he wants to fix the distance.
Luckily, you don’t seem to be in a rush to say anything more or leave the cab for the Walsh’s house yet. He’s surprised you gave so much back to him just now, and all because he called you out. If only he’d done that sooner after taking the softer road and dealing with it. Chuck knows it wasn’t easy watching you with Marjorie. With the way things are going, the Walsh’s’ll be the same.
He looks over to the house, too. Picture perfect frontage, just like the Humphries’. Driveway. Nice, tidy lawn. Then his eyes flick to you. Still sitting there. Quiet. Lost in your own head.
Dean purses his lips, stretching his jaw. At least here, he has you cornered, so to speak. He can get the most important stuff out now before you go back to whatever you end up deciding on after you hear him out.
“I just wanna know you’re okay… That you will be,” he says, and it’s gentle now. “S’not about me.” It’s not. It’s about you. This whole thing started with you.
But you don’t give him much more than a subdued “Okay” and a nod before there’s silence again.
It’s not awkward as such. Not much to make a headline of, though it’s as if he’s said nothing of importance to you in the last couple of minutes.
It’s the kind of silence where your eye twitches and your tongue plays with the back of your teeth. Unless you’re looking or know what to look for like he does, you can’t tell.
All Dean can do now is wait for your next words to come, but they never do. Not in Baby’s cab, at least, because the next second, you’re reaching for the handle and you’re committing to it this time.
You open the door and step out onto the curb, closing it again with him still inside. Starting your ascent up the Walsh’s drive, leaving Dean dumbfounded.
“Okay?” he says, but of course, you don’t hear him.
Dean’d needed to stretch his legs, he’d told himself. At least he’d told Sam that as he’d left the kitchen that morning. And he did. He needed to stretch his arms and fists, too, because Chuck knew he needed a change from hanging around the bunker. He couldn’t keep waiting for Rowena to find Gabe or spending his days thinking about his mom and Jack, and you.
You were the worst of his problems. He hadn’t seen you since he’d left you standing on read in the bathroom last night—unless you counted his dreams. They were the only reason he knew he’d slept.
He could still feel the vase Ben broke on Lisa between his fingers that he himself broke in one, thinking he’d caught you, only to open more and more stall doors and curtains of all things.
Of all the bathrooms to be in during sleep, you’d think his subconscious would throw him in a truck stop stall with a guy named Phil over Lisa’s. But he also supposed he was lucky to not be thrown in with Shia LaBeouf or Karen Allen. He doubted he’d be able to run from Indy’s giant boulder on top of chasing after you.
He wasn’t judging his subconscious. There had to be worse things in there, but what the actual fuck was with the bathrooms? Tiles upon tiles. Stalls upon stalls. Green grass, velvet cushions, and gold trimmings, even he didn’t wanna ask about, yet no matter the location, he came up empty every time.
And that was the problem. Why? Weren’t you supposed to be chasing him? He’d left you there. He’d walked out on you because you hadn’t wanted to talk to him, so why the hell was he doing all the grovelling in his dreams?
Why was he so hesitant to go to you now?
Because there was no movement from your room when he’d hit the head or returned past it on his way to the kitchen, That’s why. No sign of you even waking yet. He could only assume you’d slept because there was no bowl in the sink from the cereal you ate religiously. It was the only thing that didn’t go off and was quick to fix, or so you always said.
Your go-to coffee mug still sat in its usual spot next to the machine, which, great for you. Must be nice for some people to not need coffee to fuel or wake them up, like the bitter smell did for him most mornings. It’s why he was up. That and his shoulder. Couldn’t be his guilty conscience…
Nope.
Not at all.
It was all on his shoulder. It still ached. His very conscience, doing fine on account of the dreams, but that muscle in his shoulder? It tingled. Even after your tender loving care during the early hours of yesterday morning.
Kinda funny how one minute he was comforting you, the next he was running from your poor pathetic excuse for some, only to go back to sniffing you out.
But you had a case. Fucking North Dakota. His throat was tight again just thinking ‘bout it.
Last time he was there, he was Crowley’s demonic wingman in all aspects of the word. He wasn’t even sure he was allowed back in the state, yet here he was heading to your door to tell you Sam’d found a case there.
He couldn’t let Sam do it because then Sam would start asking questions, and Dean was still healing all wounds. Tail and shoulder.
His fingers were tight, trying to circulate the blood that seemed to insist on sticking round the entry point of the bullet wound. He flexed them as he walked down the hall to your room.
Ketch’d said nothing ‘bout after care for it. No, he just concentrated on telling Dean to go through the rift without him.
And suppose he hadn’t? He wouldn’t be in the mess he was in now, and—huh.
Maybe that’s why you were so concerned with his welfare in the kitchen the night before last.
That’d been rather nice, actually. Meant you cared about him. And you cared about him, right? That’s what this whole thing was about. You didn’t wanna let him down. Didn’t wanna ruin the friendship. The—it’s not you, it’s me line, tongue tied on account of you not being able to express the sentiment at that moment?
Yeah, that was it. It had to be. Everyone sucked at relationship stuff sometimes. Even Dean.
He rolled his shoulder as he neared your door, though. Gearing up to knock. He had to slow his steps, having no idea how he was going to do this. What was he supposed to say to you for starters? Because he couldn’t just jump straight in with Sam’s gotta case. Meeting in twenty, get your ass up. No. Despite other prior examples, he didn’t have a death wish. His ego couldn’t take anything more after last night.
He balled his fist and rapped below the brass aquarian star like he had no hesitation in the world, though. Purposeful, with a knock that expected reciprocation, not that he expected it. He just wanted you to know it was him.
If you didn’t answer, he’d tell you through the door about the case. If you did, well, he’d do the same, but by then he also hoped he had a plan.
And while you didn’t respond with the typical double knock that accompanied his playful one, he did get a, “Door’s open, Dean.” out of you, and hey, that was a win, right? Wasn’t exactly friendly, but you were open to communication.
He opened the door with that and poked his head in. “Hey,” he said, eyes searching for you through the stretch of darkness the hallway granted to your room, and you, sitting up in your bed, legs crossed.
He didn’t know what to expect, but he hadn’t expected you like this.
You. Your hair swept back, messy, as he was most familiar with of late. Told Dean you hadn’t been sleeping in the last thirty minutes and had done something to tame the bedhead at the very least. There was no indent from a pillow either. Quite the opposite, actually. Must’ve had just as much sleep as he had if your tone had been anything to go by, yet you hadn’t had breakfast.
“You, ah, you eaten?” He placed the charm on thick. That boyish chuckle he often used to annoy Sam but get his way with the ladies he met on the road was a surefire hit.
It didn’t blow your socks off, though. In his defence, you weren’t wearing any. You were in another t-shirt that looked suspiciously like his.
Not hoarse, but not laced with gravel either, “What kind of question is that?” you said.
“The kind where I don’t know what else to say.” He wasn’t ashamed to say it. Honest—the words spilled from his lips without thought as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, hands remaining on the handle. “I, ah—didn’t mean to run out on you like that.”
“You didn’t?” If you were wearing glasses, they’d have fallen off your nose and into your lap. Your forehead, shinier than a bowling ball thanks to the low light of the bunker’s early morning ambiance. Dean could see the frown lines when you scrunched your brow. “Never thought I’d see you run like that,” you scoffed. It was just as insulting as ever.
He ran all the time. Came with the hunting territory. What he’d done had been a dash at most. You’d given him nothing. Weren’t chasing after him yourself.
“Yeah, well, you were a barrelful of laughs.” He crossed his arms and lifted his head like he was showing off the bob in his throat or rearranging the extra layers in his neck. He brought it back down and glared back at you, less intimidating than you were, with a look that said he wasn’t backing down. “I think you said two words to me after I brought up us dating again.”
He was proud of bringing it up. Until he remembered you’d said more, and “No,” he shook his head. “You said you were going to bed.” He would’ve pointed his finger, but he was a little too close to replaying the speech he’d given his mom months ago. That wasn’t happening. Even if you hadn’t had the pleasure of the original. Only the aftereffects.
“Yeah.” For a short word, you made it extra sharp. Your chin flicked, just as. “You’re here in my room, remember? Last I checked, that was okay,” your body leaned forward a fraction, “Unless you want me to leave like you did?”
Dean was still by your door, arms still folded. “That’s not—” What wasn’t it? Fair? How it happened? His lashes were fluttering to take flight again. “You rejected me.”
“And you asked me out in a bathroom. And I believe the exact words you used were, ‘So, you wanna date me?’ Oh, and, ‘that’s an easy fix,’ like you offering to be my boyfriend is some sort of consolation prize. You know women do this alone, right?”
“You said we weren’t dating.” And you weren’t pregnant. He was smug, but it didn’t line up.
“I said we’d been careless. Forgive me for not wanting to make two big decisions at the same time.”
As far as he saw, there was only one, and another he had no control over that didn’t even hold weight now, though much for the best, he supposed. But as if the audacity were on him, you sighed and stood up. Dean, still by the door, arms still folded, held his ground. “I wasn’t expecting one. Just wanted to talk about it.”
“Well, you’re here now.” You shot him a look. “I’m listening.” But all he saw was you walking ‘round to your closet.
“Oh, you’re listening?” He leaned forward, stomach muscles folding. His knees bent in turn. A short tick that’d drop him to the ground if anyone were to come ‘round behind him and kick him there. “Really looks like it, too.”
“I’m getting dressed,” you said, back turned to him, sound muffled. Your muscles moved beneath the fabric. The little sleep shorts you’d been wearing last night, revealed whenever your shoulders raised, were still kissing your thighs. “It’s called multi-tasking.”
“Yeah, well…think you can pack, too?” He cringed as soon as the words left his mouth. It wasn’t the way he wanted to bring it up, and it wasn’t what he wanted to talk about, because he did want to talk to you. He wanted to set things right before things escalated, and he pushed you away again.
But you were too, by the looks. Cringing. Body still now. He brought his hand up to his still unshaven cheek and smoothed the hairs. He’d do it when you got to Grafton, if the northern air didn’t mess with his complexion. The red face beneath his stubble was less visible that way.
“You’re here to tell me there’s a case?” you whispered, and it was soft. Nice change for being rather scornful, though he didn’t blame you, even if he wasn’t the most accommodating after how you’d shut him down last night. He could forgive it—really. His actions now, just the repercussions of his own ego getting torn down a notch.
“Yeah, ah, Sam found one in North Dakota. Couple of people missing.” He moved into your room further. Boots landed on the rug beneath your bed. “Told him we’d leave in twenty.”
“Right,” you said, lifting your shirt over your head to reveal your bare back. Even under the shadow of the closet door, he could see which bra you were about to put on. Though it didn’t take a genius to know you’d choose one of the more comfortable ones. Your push-ups, reserved for cases, you’d once told him. After that lobotomy thing in Grand Junction. Guess he should feel lucky he could still go to strip clubs with you now.
Your hands reached round to do the clasps. He was inclined to step forward and help you, but you were reaching back into the closest and pulling a different, more fitting shirt back over your head. Your hair further ‘combed’ if you could call it such, even with the static. “What is it?” Your voice tremored.
“Ah. Vampires he thinks. Going by the lack of animal attacks being reported.” He swallowed. You were busying yourself with something at the base of your closet now. Sleep shorts still on, you crouched low, squatting as you reached for something new.
He’d been in your room plenty of times, but he’d never paid attention to the layout of your closet. Your room was just another one in the bunker. Same furniture as his. Same general layout, aside from the bed being opposite the main door.
“Guy was found in the river. Cancer patient. He ah,” he shook his head. This could all wait for the car. “We won’t have much of a chance to talk on the road, so maybe we can—”
“He’s the only one?” You stood again, still refusing to look at him. A pair of jeans hanging from your arms.
“Yeah.”
You slipped your shorts off, kicking them back into the corner of the closet. “How many’s a couple?” Your foot stepping into the denim legs had your panties mooning him. And seriously? It’s like you were doing it all on purpose. Had to be. If he squinted hard enough, he was certain he’d see the marks he’d left on your ass yesterday morning, slipping out from under the elastic.
You knew he’d been rather proud of that. Knew he’d confessed his feelings for you when you were laying with him after. But there you were, having not even given him the chance to answer the first question, still avoiding the others, and determined to get all the info it seemed. “Three? I dunno. I—”
“But it’s in North Dakota?”
“Yes,” he huffed. “Would you look at me? I’m trying to talk to you.”
“And I’m trying to get the details.” Your hands came to your hips, and only then did you turn around and face him. Pout clear on your face. “You said twenty minutes. Means I have to pack or am staying behind.” Your eyes narrowed on him. They’d be cat-like in the darkness if they glowed. There was that look, part alert, part ready to skitter off, never to be seen again if he didn’t say the right thing.
“So which is it?” you said, and he considered you for way too long. At least if he insisted you did, he could find the time to talk to you—eventually.
The dishwasher gurgles next to Mr. Walsh, creating such comedic timing Dean struggles to keep a neutral face. The thing’s been humming most of the time you’ve been sitting at their kitchen table, but it’s the first instance Dean’s questioned if it’s a machine, or someone’s stomach.
He’s heard it before. The Walsh’s argument that is. They’ve already spoken to the local authorities; you’re wasting your time. He’d be questioning Gary’s motives himself if Dean hadn’t seen the fang marks on Mr. Humphries’ neck.
Don’t dentists know a thing or two about general body stuff and anesthesia? You’re close to looking at all the medical facilities in the area as it is, but with a town like Grafton, and many people traveling to larger hubs, Mr. Humphries’ catheter isn’t a lot to go on when he’s only one person.
You need something more, anything, but Mrs. Walsh is apologising for her husband, and since the gurgle, all Gary’s done is uncrossed his arms, refolded them, and leant against the kitchen bench.
Diane, Mrs. Walsh, shakes her head some more. She’s been doing that a lot. Like Marjorie, she’s beside herself over her daughter, and that makes sense. It’s just a wonder it hasn’t fallen off with all the extra tremors and the cross around her neck that’s on a rather short chain.
Her palm comes up to trace it again, rolling the gold across her cream sweater. “Sorry. We’re just a little on edge,” she says.
A little? Dean shoots a look your way, but you’re still ignoring him. Your focus on Diane. You reach your arm across the table to lay a gentle hand on hers—and it’s like Marjorie all over again. Lending a comforting touch to someone when it’s not your place to do so. Mrs Walsh has a daughter, depending on how you look at it, but you’re way too old to replace her.
“It’s alright,” you say. “I know it doesn’t feel like looking at photos is going to do anything to help find Edith or the others, but we’re just trying to cross all our bases.”
As if she sees hope in your words, Diane sits up straighter. “But the sheriff doesn’t think there’s a connection?”
“And there might not be one,” Dean points to Mr. Humphries, whose face is sitting amongst the pile of photographs, front and centre on the table. “All we know is he didn’t die where they found him.” He leaves out the part about the catheter. “And she’s got three kids of her own, another on the way. Neither of them had any reason to disappear, either, but they all have families waiting for them, just like your daughter.”
Dean’s about to continue on the tirade and get his point across, because you’re wasting time going ‘round in circles. Marjorie was way more co-operative; you’re wasting time doing it. But his phone rings, and hale-fucking-lujah. Saved by the ringtone.
He wastes no time fishing it from his pocket and looking at the flashing screen while you take over the table.
“Excuse me,” he says, the politest he’s been while on the case. Even compared to Marjorie's. He scrapes his chair against the tiles as he gets up from the table, making his way to the front room, knowing full well Gary can still see him through the door.
It’s wide enough. You could fit their two sofas through the doorway with room to spare in the kitchen once they made it. Dean stands behind the low back, looking down at the large cushions that won’t suck his ass in like the Humphries one did. He taps the screen to answer.
“Hey,” he says to Sam on the other end, screwing up his nose. There’s a lot of space for a family of three, but he wonders if any of them have sat on it when there’s not a mark in sight.
“So I just left Maria Russell’s office,” Sam says down the line. “Her secretary mentioned she’d had a few appointments at a local clinic.”
“Don’t tell me we’re dealing with cancer patients.” Dean turns his back to face the scene in the kitchen. Gary’s a tool, but asking or even suggesting his daughter might have a tumour on top of being missing isn’t something he feels like doing—ever.
“Well—Mr. Humphries’ cancer has something to do with it.”
“How?”
“I, ah, think it’s a blood thing,” Sam says. Dean rolls his eyes.
Of course, it’s a blood thing. How could it not be? Sam was at the morgue, too. He saw the catheter and the bite, but, “Maria had a pamphlet for an obstetrician’s office in her desk,” Sam says, and that’s…that’s way worse.
“You think she’s knocked up?” Dean’s still watching Gary. Gary’s still watching him, and the cancer line of thinking is looking mighty fine right about now. How could it not?
The father of one has joined his wife at the table, sitting opposite you. That makes Dean’s stomach drop.
His cheeseburger resurfaces, gurgling low in his stomach. Could’ve sworn he dumped it all, but something draws up into his throat, forming a lump he could’ve sworn he left back in the Bunker’s bathroom.
“I need to make some calls. See if I can get into her medical records.”
“Okay, but two pregnant women don’t connect a bodybuilder and a cancer patient,” Dean says. Unless Sam’s gonna tell him the bodybuilder conceived at age fifty-eight, too. Then the theory is a bust. Not to mention, why the hell would vamps be so selective about their food when blood is blood and humans are, well…humans.
Sam doesn’t, though. He chuckles, and it’s not in a funny way. Dean can see the smug, unapologetic look on his face, and “Actually, it does,” he says through it.
“How?”
“Human Chorionic Gonadotropin.”
Yeah, that mouth of Sam’s is smug, and now speaking in tongues because, of course, he says the big words matter-of-factly.
It’s like he’s been practicing it for a test. Looking down upon Dean like that chick with the mound of hair from Harry Potter does to Harry and the red-head kid. Levee-oh-sar is not a part of anyone’s everyday vocabulary, including Sam’s, even if he were a witch. As it is, Dean can’t even repeat what he heard. Can’t even break it down besides the word human before getting stuck.
Chlorine? Chloroform? Sam repeating it doesn’t help.
“Human Chorionic Gonadotropin,” he chuckles again, “H.C.G.” Why couldn’t he have just said that? Dean can say the letters. He can remember those, even if he has no clue what they are or mean combined.
All it takes is a pause on the line for Sam to spill the knowledge, of course. Dean doesn’t need to bother asking, because Sam’s know-it-all is jumping at the chance to tell him, further personifying the child-witch their Charlie loved so much.
“It’s a hormone that’s associated with pregnant women. I looked over the cold case again. One of the missing from four years ago was also pregnant,” Sam continues, “Y’know, home pregnancy tests?”
“Yeah.” Dean knows them alright.
“Well, they pick up the HCG in women’s urine. Turns out it’s also a marker for testicular cancer.”
“And bodybuilders?” Dean hones in on that one. He’s listened to every word; he’s just not too fond of any of them.
The world keeps getting stranger. The universe continues to mess with him, and it’s got nothing to do with Gary and his perfect princess.
But if art imitates life, why is it his life is always the one that gets freakishly ironic?
“Sort of,” Sam says, missing the cogs grinding away in Dean’s ear. Even though his phone’s pushed up against it and there’s the perfect opportunity for the pathway to be heard, Sam can’t see the look on his face. Or the shade it’s turned to know he needs to. No, nothing’s amiss, according to Sammy. “It’s used in a treatment to stimulate testosterone,” he says. “Again, I need to look into the records, but chances are—”
“Farley’s been using it,” Dean concludes, though he’s hating it. It sure gives you a motive, not that the vamps needed one. Not that you haven’t been wrong before, either. It’s still that factor that your lives seem to follow the cases you work, like Chuck himself is personally throwing things at you to teach some sick life lesson that’s sticking to him.
Well, Dean doesn’t want a life lesson.
Still, Sam agrees. “Not something the sheriff would’ve thought to look into.” He’s right on the money about the sheriff, too. But why does it have to be this way?
“Yeah. Doesn’t mean much if we don’t know where these people are,” Dean says. Anything to keep his focus on the case and nothing else, ‘cause he still hears you talking to the Walsh’s.
“No, it doesn’t, but you’ve still gotta talk to the Walsh’s right?”
“We’re here now.” His head tilts. eyes now watching you, too. Your back still to him.
At least for Dean’s sake, Sam says something that he’d honestly much rather do over anything else at that given moment, and given the circumstances, and that’s saying something.
“Any chance Edith has a boyfriend?” he says—the little chuckle isn’t appreciated.
Dean’s chest was as tight and constricting as the plastic was ‘round his fingers as he stepped back into the bunker that afternoon. It all came down to that moment. The test he’d bought for you in the bag, weighing on you both even before he’d collected you and guided you towards the main bathroom.
The halls were, albeit silent, aside from your hurried footsteps. Sam, nowhere to be seen. Though with how loud and fast it was pumping, his heart threatened to change that. Dean, surprised you didn’t hear it. Or the tiles painted red with the pressure.
He locked the door behind you, heading straight for the row of sinks along the wall where he dumped the pharmacy packaging and held the ClearBlue box up to you. “This thing costs more than a Beauty,” he said like he was some kind of used-car guy, selling you the opposite of a lemon; making the mark-up work for him. “Makes sense when you think where else I coulda—”
He stopped himself, shaking his head through the chuckle you weren’t pleased to see. You mightn’t have been all that impressed with him, but in his head, he had a valid point.
Sure, he could’ve nutted in his favourite skin mag. Sure, the two of you wouldn’t be standing there if he had. Wouldn’t have been as pleasurable, either, though. And you couldn’t say you didn’t enjoy it when you often begged him for it. Pretty sure you’d said you’d needed him earlier that morning when he was balls deep.
Your brows raised much like they had as he’d spilled into. Your hands came to your hips like you were already practising your poses for a future guided by a positive result. The look you’d given him alone, enough to make even him, as potential dad to this situation, shudder, and the toughest of employees change their tactics over it alone.
As such, “It’s a digital one,” he added, ’cause that was the real selling point in his eyes. More accurately, for $19.99, the cost alone meant the thing had to work. When all the others were half the price.
“Will tell us straight, too,” he took the test out and offered it to you, still in the foil, “Either you are or you aren’t. No messing about with lines.”
‘Cause that’s what you wanted, right? Accuracy. Simple. At least, that’s what he wanted. He just had to shake it a little more in front of you before you took it off him. Your fingers, as apprehensive as he felt, minus the wisecracks, curling ‘round the end he’d held out for you, slow and cautious.
“You’ve done this before,” you said. Neither a question nor a statement. The cogs behind your eyes, grinding to a halt, extended their weight to the plastic still held between you. It alone shifted the moment from casual to way too real.
“Yeah. Wasn’t planned or anything.” He clicked his tongue against his cheek.
There was no way you wanted to hear about Lisa right now. There was no way he was going to say her name. He knew you’d have known who he was referring to, without even saying it. Wasn’t like Lydia had shown him proof Emma was his, aside from the teen coming after him as the lore had said.
“You’ve never?” he asked—and really? He dug his hands into his pockets. What was that even supposed to mean? You were a hunter, sure. You had to be more cautious than most about getting knocked up, avoiding getting stuck with decisions he and so many males in the profession got to walk away from.
He half expected you to say no, but, “Once. In college,” you supplied. All well before hunting had swallowed your life, and you’d met him.
“Guess I should feel special, I also re-popped that?” He chuckled again. As if re-de-hymenating you wasn’t enough.
You weren’t laughing. “I’ll just—” You thumbed to the stalls behind you, leaving him with no choice but to sit back and wait while you closed the door and dropped your panties behind it.
Wasn’t like he was there for anything else. Which…well…it wasn’t good.
The walls were thin. The space between them only grew thinner with the movement you made behind the crack. Skin, fabric. He’d have closed his eyes, but the tiles’ echos picked up the surrounding sounds better than the halls had with the clinks and shuffles of porcelain kissing thighs.
It left him with little to no imagination—except, now he knew how Indiana Jones felt in all his movies. That giant boulder had Dean’s name on it, hurtling towards him with all that was imminent.
Not that Indy ever worried about the consequences of his actions with the girl.
No, he fucked off. Left Karen Allen behind, never knowing he had a kid until Shia LaBeouf showed up looking for those ridiculous skulls. At least Dean was here, and you could tell him you were late. At least he wasn’t feeling too inadequate—until he heard you sniff.
Then he threw his head back to the ceiling, tracing the watermarks and anything else worthy of interest to respect your privacy. “What’s the holdup?” he said. Anything to block out his own thoughts, still waiting for a telltale tinkle because you were quiet, and he was impatient. There’s a reason he told you to drink a bottle of water before he left.
“I thought you had to—”
“Give me a minute, will you?” you groused. “There’s a lot of pressure here.”
Performance pressure came to mind, but he didn’t know why he was insulted. It’s not like he had any issues with that. “You’ve taken a leak in front of me before.” He huffed.
“That was different.”
“How’s the road different? There’s a door here.” His hand pointed, though you probably didn’t see it.
It was a rather open one, too, but when you responded with his name, the distinct sound of a steady stream hitting the bowl soon followed it. All Dean could do was smirk to himself and continue his waiting for you to finish.
It’d been a tough couple of hours. He could wait a little longer.
As it was, it took you most of the early hours of the night of you talking in the kitchen. Then in his bed that morning for you to come straight with him. He wasn’t sure why he was complaining. He didn’t know how it worked, besides knowing that morning’s nut wasn’t the nut, and he’d told you so. His arms, still looped around you as he had.
Startled? Sure. More off guard because you’d said nothing in the kitchen. Though he now saw that’s what you meant when you said you weren’t fine.
That morning was a rare one for you. He still couldn’t get those eyes of yours out of his head when he’d looked down over you. His hands on your ass, gripped and spread you open. Was that why it felt so different?
Dean ran his palm over his face like the combination would push the memories away, just in time for you to reappear with the most murderous of eyes.
His grin was sketchy. Yours wasn’t there. There was no way either of you were winning the socks off of anyone at that moment, screw picking up at a bar or fooling the Feds.
He wiped his hands over his hips, ridding himself of his nerves as best he could, hoping for the best that the sweat didn’t stain his jeans. “You, ah,” Dean glanced down at your hands. He’d have yanked the test out of them if he could’ve, but in that moment, he couldn’t manage more than a simple, “You good?”
You looked good. He’d say you were glowing, but the fluorescents overhead made even the mildew and the limescale in the bathroom shimmer. The affirmative flick you gave contradicted the way your body crossed beneath them. “Three minutes, right?” You said in a shaky whisper. All the confirmation Dean needed to swoop in.
He hovered close, waiting for you to wash up and finish what you needed to. Overbearing? Probably. Did he care? Nope. He shut the faucet before you could reach for it yourself, having had enough of doing nothing but standing there playing trophy wife while he waited for you.
“You gonna dry them, too?” You shook your hands at him.
“Smartass.” He drew you in by your wrists and a crooked smirk. Then he raised your palms to his shirt, doing as you’d dared him to, only at a loss on what to do next.
Like the front of the Walsh house, you’re out of the Impala ahead of him. Having shut the door before Dean’s even cut the engine this time.
He sits there just a moment longer; watches you enter the room and shut the door behind you. At least you didn’t slam it, but he wonders if that’s for Sammy’s sake and not his own.
Of course, he knows it’s not for him. He’s not an idiot; he’ll keep reminding himself he’s not—because he’s not.
He told you what you were looking for when you entered Edith’s room, and you’ve been weird like he knew you would. That’s not dumb. That’s intuitive.
And why wouldn’t you? Be weird; that is. You’re the one who took the test. You’re the one who’s dealing with the aftereffects of it, and that includes him.
Also, not him being weird. No, you’re just dealing with him. Tolerating. Making do. Putting up with, because you wouldn’t be here, literally. If it weren’t for him.
Which also makes him think. Why bother coming? It’s not like he forced you. Just told you ‘bout the case in case you wanted in. And like that moment in your room, and out the front of the Walsh’s, he still wishes you would just open up to him. Talk to him. Tell him what’s on your mind.
He holds his breath as he walks into the room a few seconds later. Though why is he surprised you’re not sitting at the table with Sam?
Dean’s eyes scan the small room. “Hey,” he says to Sam. Your rollaway in the corner is empty. Your duffle, missing off the floor. In fact, the only evidence you were ever here in Grafton was your water bottle by the castors of the folded extra bed.
Honestly, Dean could say the neatened sheets and that piece of plastic still ain’t solid evidence. But the door to the bathroom is closed. You sure seem to like your time there of late, which again makes sense. Period. Blood. Again, he doesn’t know how it all works, but jostling you around the way he did the morning before you took the test must’ve done it. Just…a delayed response?
And maybe you should’ve stayed behind? It’s safer than bringing the vamps their dinner when you end up locating the nest. Not that you could tell before you left.
Like their last phone call, Sam has that look on his face that Dean imagined. Smug and one-hundred percent Mr. Know-it-all, Sam looks at him, eyes wide and expectant. The question on his lips and palm against his thigh, thinking, what’s up with her? ‘Cause you didn’t give him anything, either it would seem. Your animosity is spreading ‘round.
Dean says nothing to it. Just pulls his coat off, and slumps down in a vacant chair.
Like the Walsh’s he’s purposeful with his actions, though Sammy might not know it. He’s facing the door, dragging another chair with his boot. He raises his feet all casual-like. Then regrets he didn’t grab a beer.
“So I called Mrs. Humphries,” Sam says. As usual, straight into the case.
“Yeah.” Dean’s eyes flick to him, then move back to the door. Shifting his ass in his seat. Flexing his wrist as he lets his sack de-ice again.
The temperature is getting ridiculous. The constant cold, warmth, and cold again. Your ass in that skirt. Your ass getting cold on him. He stares down that door you’re behind, waiting, observing, attempting to listen for any sign you’re coming out ‘cause you can’t stay there forever. No doubt Sammy’s got some news.
“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat, also watching Dean as he glares at the chipped wood, like it has any chance of picking up the specks of colour that long stuck to the carpet. He gives Sam a longer, lingering side-eye to satisfy him, though. “Got the name of the oncologist he was seeing and his referring doctor at the clinic.” Sam leans back in his seat, face now beaming harder with that knowing pride. “Guess who else is a patient there?”
“Got the name of the oncologist he was seeing and his referring doctor at the clinic.” Sam leans back in his seat, face now beaming harder with that knowing pride. “Guess who else is a patient there?”
Dean shows even less interest as opposed to what little interest he’d had at the Humphries’ and the Walsh’s. Until he’s reminded of another smug face: Gary’s, and his brow raises high. Body twisting enough to give Sam his full attention. “Couldn’t be, miss, not-allowed-to-date, is it? ‘Cause there’s a boyfriend, alright. Just hid it from Mommy and Daddy.”
“And Maria. I hacked the databases. Turns out she’s pregnant, too.” Sam says.
A/N: Still with me on those time jumps? It sure was fun to figure out.... I probably have two fics worth of scraps in my Google docs (plus the multiple backups lol). Next up, Dean is in for a rude awakening. ❤️
he didn't think it would bother you this much but he should've known better, truly. you loved a good bath—a hot relaxing one with candlelight and soft music playing. so soothing on your hunter ridden body, it was your favorite personal 'reward'.
your relationship with sam was still new, so it took a minute (a few weeks) for you to figure it out, but you did once you finally reached the 'showering together' phase.
the night it happened you were exhausted, a long stakeout in a crammed rental followed by an even longer hunt for a rogue werewolf. you were a little battered, a little bruised, and a bath sounded absolutely heavenly. even better, a bath with sam. but after a hot relaxing shower first, he had to break the news to you.
he doesn't fit in most bathtubs. after a certain height he just hasn't...found a tub that'll fit his long stature.
it devastates you.
if anyone deserved to have a decompressing, tranquil, peaceful bath, it's your lovely hardworking 6'4 sweetheart of a boyfriend. you couldn't sit still with this. so you put your hunting skills to work—for a bathtub he would fit in.
it took a frustrating (for you, he was unaware) amount of time to locate the perfect motel—clean and safe and near the highway for a quick exit. The guys had dropped you off to check in while they took a quick look at something, and after taking a peek into the bathroom you grinned, going back to order a second room for dean.
because tonight after you wrap this ghost hunt up you'd be enjoying a serene bath with gentle soaps, lit candles around the room, a soft melody playing from your phone.
in a bathtub he finally fit in. it was much nicer than he thought. you told him to admit your reaction was completely justified.
he just kisses you with a cheeky smile. (and that lets you know you're right)
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
sam masterlist ⋆˚࿔ main masterlist
.✦ ݁˖ notes; dude at 5'9 I don't even fit in my own bathtub :[ I think about sammy's height struggles at 6'4 so often, sweet gentle giraffe </3
SUMMARY: With darkness unleashed upon the world, they have a new battle to fight. Amara seems to have taken a liking to Dean, which sends his girlfriend’s thoughts spiraling down a road of worry, jealousy, and insecurity. When her newfound hope starts to stand on shaky ground again, Dean knows just the way to rebuild the foundation of their relationship.
SHIP: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader
GENRE: Angst, Smut (MDNI)
TO NOTE/WARNINGS: Not Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Fingering, Dirty Talk, Praise Kink, Cowgirl Position, Unprotected P in V (wrap it before you tap it)
WORD COUNT: 5.8k
A/N: After 84 billion years and then some, the Epilogue is finally here! I have to thank everyone who has read, liked, and commented on this story, and of course I will forever cherish @flanneledfae for hyping me up and beta-reading this fanfic. ❤️ This sure has been a journey — the first longer multichapter project I have done in years. Thank you for joining me on this rocky ride!
CREDIT & LINKS: Header by me ──〃★ divider by me ──〃★ Series Masterlist ──〃★ Ao3
⏪PREV. CHAPTER ⏯️PLAYLIST
Bony fingers brushed over his jaw, the touch surprisingly tender. Cold skin and breath ghosted against his, almost melting together but not quite. Pale lips made promises, the words by no means hollow.
“You will understand eventually, Dean.”
Except he did not. None of this made any sense to him. Where he was, who he was talking to, and why they knew his name. It was all engulfed in a thick, dense fog — the gray, stormy clouds that used to be in his head were suddenly set free, and they were now hanging above and around him instead.
The dark tendrils infiltrated his head as though the curse was still pulsating deep beneath his veins.
The only difference now was that he was staring at the Mark of Cain on someone else — something else. On a sharp collarbone, hidden barely by the flowing fabric of a black dress and tickled by brown curls. The appearance might’ve been that of a human, but every fiber of the hunter’s instinct warned him otherwise: Whoever was standing in front of him was no ordinary woman.
He meant to ask what she was, but out came an inquiry of whom he had the pleasure of speaking with.
“Amara,” she declared, not particularly solemnly, but the three syllables carried a certain weight. “My name’s Amara.”
None of Dean’s muscles would move, no matter how much he thought he should run away. Something prevented him from doing so. At first, he thought it was her doing. But when her dainty hand trailed down his arm, stopping at the empty spot where the scar used to sit, he realized with horror that he didn’t want to escape.
The grazing left a familiar buzz in his blood, his skin prickling with a dangerous warmth — a deep, insatiable hunger.
“I have to thank you for setting me free,” said Amara, voice steady and earnest, and somehow Dean didn’t know whether it should make him angry or scared.
They should’ve known better. Hell, they did. Of course, removing the curse would lead to consequences. Even Death warned him about what would happen. But this, whatever it was, was too big of a mystery.
“Who are you?” Dean repeated.
“I’m your past,” she answered vaguely, her delicate hand brushing over the red outline sitting just below her shoulder. A scar, the shape of which would haunt Dean for years to come. “And I’m your future, Dean.”
“This,” she trailed off, tapping the Mark embedded into her skin. “This is what binds us. Even if you no longer have it, it’s our connection.”
Dean scoffed, though it lacked the heat he wished he could scream into the world: “So, what are you? The curse running loose?”
“Think of me as the manifestation of all the Mark made you crave,” Amara explained calmly.
Bloodshed? Violence? Chaos?
“Evil and destruction incarnated?” Dean gruffly guessed, his answer only half-sarcastic. “That’s reassuring.” His senses were tingling, hyper-aware of how dangerous Amara was. Just because someone wore a pretty face and was not aggressive from the get-go did not mean they weren’t capable of causing harm.
Her eyes softened, though it took him a second to realize that it was disappointment flickering across her features. It was almost like what he had accused her of upset her personally.
“No, no such thing. Nothing bad,” she muttered, brows knitted together like she needed him to really understand her. Her hand wandered lower, frigid palm pressed flat against his, with her fingers splayed out.
“I am above good versus evil,” Amara sighed. “There are beginnings and ends, shadow and light. But they aren’t opposites; they’re two sides of the same coin. One can’t exist without the other. It’s a symbiosis.”
Dean didn’t know what to make of that lecture. Nor did he know how to handle the swirl of black, ash, and dust filling his lungs and blurring his vision.
He jolted awake with a gasp, sitting upright in his bed, and a layer of sweat sticking to his forehead. It was the dim glow of their moon-shaped ceiling light that eased his state of disorientation. He lost count of how many times this strange dream interrupted his sleep.
And hers.
“Dean?”
Déjà-vu.
And at the same time, things couldn’t be more different from his last streak of nightmares. No imaginary red blood was staining his hands. He no longer felt the urge to rip something apart. But there was something about the stale air, the heavy silence, and the uncertainty that had him think they were back to square one.
He could certainly live without the full circle moment of startling in the middle of the night, alerting his concerned girlfriend like he had so many months ago. As if on instinct, his clammy hand rubbed over his lower arm, just like last time. The tension in his shoulders did not vanish until he found the spot empty now.
That’s right. They’ve successfully removed the Mark of Cain. So why could he not shake this icky feeling? What was the meaning of this reoccurring dream? He saw it flash before his eyes every night, and without failure, he’d forget most of it by the time he woke up.
“Just a weird dream, sorry,” Dean muttered, voice shakier than intended.
The bedsheets rustled softly as she sat up beside him. He couldn’t bring himself to look in her direction. After all, they’ve been through enough already. He wasn’t ready to face a new problem already. Even worse: He couldn’t bear the thought of burdening his girlfriend with yet another impending doom.
Was it even on that scale? Maybe he was overthinking things, maybe it wasn’t half as bad as he feared it might be.
“A tea-with-rum kind of dream?”
Her question was meant to lighten the mood, even if one could argue it was a little early for jokes about their last predicament. Still, his lips twitched into a weak, crooked grin while he shook his head. Even if it took him a deep breath to believe the mantra, this was no life-or-death situation. None that required any liquid courage either.
He appreciated the effort regardless. It felt good knowing she would always have his back, even now. Still, no immediate danger was afoot. Just his girlfriend, offering him a reassuring smile and an open ear. This time around, he knew to accept it without hesitation. He’s learned his lesson the hard way.
“C’mere,” Dean breathed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer, and settling back into the pillows with her. She snuggled up to his side, letting him tuck her against his chest like this was where she always belonged.
“I don’t want you thinking I’m keeping any secrets,” he murmured afterwards, voice laced with the guilt from the past couple of months. He’s fucked up quite a few times there. He did not want to repeat his mistakes. “I keep having this weird dream. Can’t really tell you what it’s about, though. It’s all a blur.”
Her fingers were splayed over his chest, absentmindedly tracing the outlines of his tattoo. The touch stirred something in him, triggering flickers of someone else’s hands ghosting over the non-existent mark on his arm and of someone else’s palm sizing up his.
Tensing ever so slightly, Dean took her wrist — his grip was both gentle and firm, neither pushing away nor pulling closer. He did stop her movement, though. He just needed something to ground himself with. To remind himself of what was real and what was fake.
“I’m back in that grey storm outside the diner, and there’s this woman. Amara, I think,” Dean continued, hesitantly so. “She’s got the Mark of Cain. But I don’t know what she wants.”
That, at the very latest, made her freeze. She blinked up at him, droopy eyes and sleepy lashes now wide and alert. When Dean’s gaze met hers, he thought the question marks in her eyes mirrored his own. He, too, was absolutely clueless.
“It’s probably nothing,” he sighed. “Aftershocks of the stress or something.”
But she wasn’t buying it. It sounded too specific to be brushed off as random. “I don’t know,” she muttered, her weak attempt at getting to the bottom of this already faltering. “Maybe we should look into it more. Can’t hurt to be careful.”
She hated to be paranoid. Hell, if anyone knew how badly they needed a break from constantly being on edge, it was her. At the same time, they couldn’t afford any more risks. Even with the Mark of Cain gone, a deep fear had settled in the pits of her stomach. What if it wasn’t over? What if the spell didn’t work, or if the curse somehow would restore itself?
Dean mulled over her words, watching the concerned crease between her brows deepen into a brooding furrow. He gently poked her forehead, drawing her attention.
“We’ll look into it,” he agreed somewhat begrudgingly. Under one condition: “Tomorrow.”
Before she could even think of a counterargument, Dean pressed a chaste kiss to her hairline, practically feeling her anxiety ease under his caress.
The wrinkles on her forehead melted, as did the bristling behind that stubborn skull of hers. Frankly, she was tired and still a bit drowsy from just waking up in the middle of the night. Whatever battle they had to fight next, it could wait until tomorrow. What better way to restore your energy than nestling into Dean’s embrace and allowing yourself to drift back into slumberland?
Dean, on the other hand, did not fall back asleep for a while.
He kept lying wide awake, his hands rubbing slow circles on the small of her back. No matter how many bad scenarios must’ve popped up in her head, double the amount swirled in his own. It was not until he forced himself to listen to her deep in- and exhales, a steady rhythm, that he was lulled back into a restless sleep.
Their concerns, as it turned out, had not been entirely unwarranted. Looking up lore on some Amara or more information about the Mark of Cain was futile. However, an unexpected ally joined their forces soon after.
From what they could gather, the dark mass of fog they unleashed upon the world proved to be highly dangerous. An entire town was wiped out by it, and people exposed to the fog for too long fell ill or died shortly after. All but one, anyway. They were in the middle of questioning this man when they realized the course of his life had changed forever.
“Professor Redfield,” she started through gritted teeth, hating to be the bearer of bad news and struggling to find the right words.
“Call me Donatello,” the man responded, a proud smile twitching at his mustached mouth. “I’m named after him.”
“The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle?” Dean asked, confused.
A beat. Donatello’s smile faltered, faded, then turned into an awkward one.
“The Renaissance sculptor,” he clarified.
“Right,” she nodded and awkwardly cleared her throat. “Dean, a word.”
She tugged at his sleeve, pulling him aside. Over her shoulder, she glanced back at Donatello, who sat down on the folding chair, looking as out of place as can be. The poor bastard had no idea what was coming for him. A flash of pity rushed through her.
“He’s a prophet,” she whispered to Dean.
“Didn’t he just say Donatello was a sculptor? Which one is it?”
“What– No, you idiot!” she groaned. “Not the artist Donatello, him.”
And when Dean still looked confused, she pointed towards the innocent old man with his tiny spectacles sitting on his button nose and his round cheeks. He was wearing a vest made out of soft wool, for God’s sake! The guy looked like he preferred to spend his afternoons nursing a tea and knitting in an armchair by the fireplace. The most adventurous event in this guy’s life was probably the annual mini golfing with his brother-in-law and his niece.
It was obvious this guy was not made to join their fight against demons, but such is the cruelty of fate.
“Donatello Redfield. The visions he’s describing? The sudden epiphany of clarity, or whatever? He’s a prophet.”
Scratching the stubble on his chin, Dean didn’t look too convinced. “Didn’t Crowley have them all wiped out?”
That part confused her, too. She thought the King of Hell ensured that nobody could steal and read any of the tablets anymore. But judging by everything Donatello said so far, she had no other explanation. There was the iconic moment that felt a lot like getting struck by lightning — in this case, a stormy cloud of mystic darkness — as well as the strange visions.
She shrugged, sighing: “Maybe it has something to do with the dark fog.”
Dean nodded along, eyes flickering back and forth between her and the witness. It was strange that he survived such a long span in the fog and came back with nothing but sudden, frequent migraine attacks, which were apparently accompanied by weird imagery flashing before his inner eye. Visions. Maybe she was onto something.
“Donatello, we have some more questions for you,” Dean said then, approaching the desk he sat at again.
The man, his hands folded neatly on the table’s surface, looked up at him as though he was a high school student about to get scolded. Yeah, you just had to feel bad for him.
“You’re not in trouble,” she reassured him quickly, thinking the quiet part to herself: Yet. “We just want to hear about these visions you mentioned. Is there anything in particular that you keep seeing, or anything else you remember?”
For a moment, Donatello frowned, then he took a deep breath. “Uhm, I suppose there is this woman. Brown hair, black dress. She has this… symbol on her chest. Right here. A tattoo, maybe, or a scar. I’m not sure.”
She felt Dean tense at her side without having to look at him. He stiffened, suddenly anxious.
Nervously chewing on the inside of her cheek, she fished for a small notepad and pen, handing both to the professor. “Do you think you could draw the symbol?”
Donatello scribbled the design down hastily. Something that looked like an upside-down L with two little lines emitting off to the side. Undoubtedly, the Mark of Cain. Unless this professor, who, to their knowledge, was teaching chemistry, had a special interest in religion or Christian mythology, this proved that she was right about her hunch.
The huntress glanced over to Dean, who stared at the doodle like it personally offended him. He looked like he had seen a ghost.
“Donatello,” she continued, nudging Dean’s side with her elbow. “Could you read this out loud for us, please?”
She scrolled through her photo gallery until she stopped at a picture of an Enochian spell, handing the man her phone. He took it, eyeing it with suspicion and bemusement.
“I have never seen a language like this, what even is—” Donatello chuckled nervously, before his eyes suddenly darted back to the screen. He squinted, and surely enough babbled to himself: “Combine two crushed raven skulls and a vial of angelic grace over a fire— What is this?”
And there they had it.
She gave Dean a ‘told you so’ look, but he still seemed shook by Donatello’s drawing. Which, when the professor noticed, she quickly snatched away. “I never said I am as much of an artist as the man I was named after,” Donatello muttered shyly, almost apologetically.
“You’re fine, this gave us an important hint,” she reassured him. “We might need your help at the station. Can you come with us?”
It took some convincing, but eventually the professor was sitting in the backseat of the Impala. Dean was dead silent while he drove them back to the Bunker — past the local police station. Before Donatello could voice any concerns, she shot him a telling glance. “Sorry, Prof. You’ll be safer with us. We’ll explain everything later.”
Turns out the explanation was trickier than anticipated. She couldn’t blame the guy for being a non-believer. Try kidnapping an atheist and bringing him to an underground Bunker in the middle of the woods, filled with occult artifacts and strange sigils covering most walls. To top it all off, you just had to inform him that he was a Prophet of the Lord, yes, like the ones in the Bible, and of course, he would stare at you like you were bat-shit insane.
“Sit,” she sighed, nudging Donatello into the nearest chair. The poor guy, probably more out of fear than anything, complied. Since he wanted some cold, hard proof, she had to deliver. She wanted to go about it the nice way, but Dean, ever the one without patience, laid out the cold, hard facts for him. Their quote-unquote victim didn’t stand a chance against the good-cop-bad-cop method, though.
Mercifully, fate sent an angel their way — literally. The moment Castiel entered the bunker, she practically jumped him. It was the perfect opportunity for him to show off some magic tricks, whatever it took to convince Donatello that his kidnappers might be insane, but they weren’t liars. Moreover, whatever it took for Dean to go easy on the poor bastard.
What sucked most about this was the tension and its familiarity. Watching Dean fall back into a pattern of clenched jaw, gruff tone, and short temper triggered several alarm bells within her. Suddenly, she found herself overcome by the same kind of worry she thought they had conquered weeks ago.
The fact that she couldn’t even blame him came in close second. It was the same for her, after all. Whatever was happening was clearly tied to the Mark of Cain and to their removing said curse. Everyone and everything had warned them that there would be consequences, likely of cosmic scale. It didn’t exactly bite them in the ass, since they saw it coming. But it bit them regardless, and now they realized that despite all the apocalyptic dangers they’ve dealt with so far, maybe they bit off more than they could chew.
The research won bronze in the category of shittiness. Just reading more texts about the Mark of Cain — or rather, rereading the same old songs, because she was pretty sure she already memorized most of them by heart — filled her with nausea. She thought she’d never have to look at the symbol ever again. Oh, how wrong she had been.
She could try to stay calm and collected all she wanted. Every “We can tackle this, too.” in her mind was followed by a mean, small whisper at the back of her head. Could they? What if they couldn’t? They did it before. Except they didn’t, otherwise they wouldn’t be in this mess again. In fact, they never left this mess behind at all.
Their research, reports from the angel radio, and translations done by their newly installed prophet all pointed to a solid 10/10 in how badly they were screwed. The more they found out about this brunette woman, Amara, the more worry washed over the huntress. And not just that. It filled her with jealousy. Irrational and selfish jealousy.
Amara — whatever she was, a Goddess? Darkness? Not even the lore they studied really had a term for her — she was directly connected to the Mark of Cain. And the Mark of Cain, removed or not, had been connected to Dean. Apparently, that was enough for this being to take an interest in him.
Dean didn’t choose any of this. He didn’t want any of this, she knew that. But all of a sudden, there was this almighty entity, which was ancient and powerful and greater than anything a mere huntress like her could ever hope to be. How could she not feel small in comparison? Unimportant. Disposable. Worse than that: Replaceable.
Who was she to stand in between what might’ve been destiny for Dean and that curse and Amara? Time and time again, there’s been that thought that maybe she should’ve heeded to what his demonic version wished for; to leave him be.
Slowly but surely, she fell back into old patterns as well. The schedule was tight — shower, library, if she was lucky, a little snack while she was still hunched over another book, sometimes a power nap at the desk. Her days consisted of sleep deprivation and insecurities. Not to mention the desperation, which worked wonders against the need to rest. Who needed shut-eye when you had an impending doom waiting to be fixed?
By the time she lost count of how many nights she spent at the library instead of their shared bedroom, she didn’t even flinch anymore at Dean’s voice. Every evening, he asked her to get some sleep, to which — every evening — she said she needed to finish up on research first.
Eventually, Dean had enough, though.
“Don’t make me carry your ass to bed,” he sighed.
“I’m not making you do anything,” she countered, humorlessly.
“I mean it, sweetheart,” Dean insisted. He walked up to her, reached over her shoulder, and snatched the book away. That one was new; he was switching tactics. Before she had a chance to protest, he snapped it shut and held it out of her reach. “We can save the world tomorrow.”
“What if there won’t be a tomorrow?” she snapped without meaning to. Her biggest fear just escaped her mouth like she wasn’t able to contain it anymore. But in her mind, she had a point. Who knew how much time they had left? What if this Amara was already tracking Dean down? What if she didn’t even need to do anything like that? It probably takes one snap of her fingers, and she’d steal you away, just like that. And then what could we possibly do to save you this time? Kill another cosmic entity? Cause another mayhem? Set the world ablaze? How would I even go about that? And what good would it do, since I stand no chance against Amara anyway?
In fact, the bond between you and her is divine, Dean. Divine! Like biblically set in stone, if not preceding holy scriptures and shit. How should I compare?
She didn’t even realize that she was rambling all this out aloud. Not until Dean firmly cupped her face and forced her to look at him, to which she effectively pressed her trembling lips into a fine line.
“Whoa there, easy now,” Dean cooed. “Breathe, baby.”
She tried, and though she didn’t do it very well, the attempt was what counted.
“It’s gonna take more than that for anyone to steal me away. Hell, no smiting in the world could make me pick something else over you.”
Her brows furrowed slightly. A subtle twitch of her eye made him wonder if she really didn’t believe him entirely or if the stress was starting to get to her. Good thing was that there was a remedy for both — a two birds with one stone kind of solution. In one swift motion, his calloused hands let go of her face. Instead, he hooked one arm under her knees and wrapped the other around her shoulders, pulling her out of the chair and picking her up bridal style.
Despite the yelp that escaped her, her fingers curled in his shirt. “What are you doing?”
“I told you I would carry your ass to bed if you didn’t listen,” Dean huffed.
He successfully ignored all the complaints she had and wordlessly walked down the hallway. Upon arrival, he entered their room, kicked the door shut behind them, and carefully dropped her onto the mattress. She let out a soft oomph, bouncing on top of the sheets, but looking up at him half-expectantly.
If she needed him to prove just how much he worshiped the ground she walked on — along with the legs she was doing it with; or the sweet treasure in between them — Dean would gladly comply.
He climbed on top of her, arms bracketing her shuddering frame. His eyes never left hers while he unbuttoned her shirt with one hand and used the other to unbuckle her belt. He relished the hitch of her breath like he knocked the air out of her lungs. He soaked up the shiver that went down her spine like she quenched his thirst.
The fingers of his left hand splayed over her chest, his palm flat against her warm, soft skin, and pressed right against her heartbeat — it whirred like a little hummingbird, precious and quick. Alive and kicking. Uncontrolled, because of him. The fingers of his right hand ghosted over the waistband of her jeans first, before slipping past layers of fabric and lace — she felt both like velvet and silk beneath his touch. Fluttering in tandem with her pulse. Already damp, because of him.
The sweetest of whines escaped her pretty mouth, and the most beautiful shades of pink dusted her nose. All because of him. And he would be damned if he let anything or anyone stand in between this. In between them.
Dean pressed closer, applying pressure to both the valley of her breasts as well as her core until she erupted into another one of those cute gasps. His mouth nipped at her jaw, where he paid extra attention to the sensitive spot just below her ear. His lips curled into a half-smirk when he felt her shaky fingers claw at his shoulders.
“You really think I would trade this for anything else?”
His voice was a siren’s song in her ear, the lyrics inviting her to just let go.
Once she was just there, teetering on that sweet edge of bliss that his ministrations expertly had pushed her towards, he pulled away. An involuntary whine escaped her, feeling hollow because the only physical contact left was the string of her arousal sticking to his digits. Not that she had much to fret over for long.
The next thing she knew, Dean captured her lips as though a deep kiss might make up for her denied orgasm. He slanted his mouth over hers and pawed at the plush of her hips.
It couldn’t have taken more than a couple of seconds, but then again, every touch and every piece of fabric shed was a hazy blur. Like time couldn’t go fast enough, there was also the urge to savor every second. Thus, hungry hands were both eager to undress as well as make the most of it.
Her shaky fingers unbuckled Dean’s belt, he kicked off his jeans, she yanked at the hem of his shirt, he pulled it over his head.
Her lips wandered from his down his jaw. She nipped at his neck, hard, sometimes biting with the intent to leave a mark. A claim. A signature. She wasn’t even sure who she wanted to prove her ownership to. She was, on the other hand, very much aware that it was unnecessary — pure hedonism drove her to this point.
Dean belonged to her, and she wanted everyone to know. Him. Herself. Amara. Didn’t matter, so long as he carried a piece of her brandished on his skin.
Her hands moved with the same confidence. She explored every inch of him, tracing every freckle and scar without having to look, because this was Dean. Her Dean. And she knew him inside and out in ways others could only dream of.
Apparently, great minds think alike. Judging by the way Dean’s grip on her waist tightened, at least. His fingers dug into her skin so firmly that she wouldn’t be surprised if prints were left behind the next day.
Suddenly, he lifted her. Within one yelp, they flipped around so she was on top of him. With their positions now switched, Dean sat back against the headboard and pulled her into his lap. Her thighs were already trembling as she straddled him, and her dripping folds were now pressing against his hard cock instead of gushing around his thick fingers.
Even better.
She rolled her hips; slowly at first, then ground down against him more insistently, until she found a rhythm that had Dean grunting against her mouth.
His head fell back, hitting the wall behind him with a soft thud. The green of his irises was swallowed up by a black — the kind that did not startle her, but filled her with a perverse sense of power. She was the one he was looking at like she hung the damn moon for him. She was the one earning herself that smug smirk. It was her fingers that carded through his hair until it was messily sticking out in all directions, her mouth that painted constellations on his throat, her body fitting seamlessly against his.
“You wanna claim your stake, sweetheart?” Dean rasped. Damn mind reader. Then again, it wasn’t only her knowing him too well. It went both ways. He leaned in closer, until their noses brushed together and their breaths mixed. “Go ahead,” he whispered. “Take what’s already yours.”
She didn’t need to be told twice.
Lifting her hips, with a little bit of his help, she shifted to align herself perfectly with his throbbing length.
Both their breaths hitched as she sank down. His bulbous tip breached her entrance; her warm walls welcomed him in.
Dean didn’t thrust up, not yet, not until she lowered herself all the way and dropped her forehead onto his shoulder. They sat there, bodies tightly intertwined with one another, not knowing where one of them began and the other ended. Both inhaled shakily and exhaled all the same, in unison, just feeling each other.
She lifted her head, resting her forehead against his now instead. Her gaze dropped to his kiss-bitten lips, then blinked back up into his. Again, without having to ask any questions, Dean answered: “I’m yours.”
They melted together, Dean bucking his hips, she tightening around him, their lips closing the little space that was left between them. They moved together, synchronized to perfection. With heaving chests and each other’s name rolling off their tongues like prayers.
She was the first to shatter. Her peak hit her like a tidal wave, unexpectedly washing over her and consuming her mind, body, and soul. She clung to Dean like her life depended on it, collapsing against him while he drove his hips up into hers.
Thanks to her fluttering around him, he followed close behind. His arms were wrapped tightly around her, holding her impossibly close. Hot, red skin stuck to hot, red skin, flushed and sweaty. His mouth latched onto the curve between her neck and shoulder, where his teeth sank in to muffle his growl. He spilled deep into her, milked by the pulsating of her tight channel.
They held each other like that for what felt like an eternity. A blissful eternity, that is. Basking in the aftermath like it was paradise on earth. Their chests were still pressed flush together, hearts beating in a harmony that slowly but surely ebbed into a steady rhythm. The same applied to their heavy panting, which eventually softened as they caught their breath.
Dean was the first to speak up, but not the first to move. Neither of them did. Neither of them wanted to let go, let alone pull away. Not when she felt so heavenly and warm around him still. Not when he was stretching her out so nicely, even as he softened inside of her.
“Still have any doubts?” Dean huffed, only half-joking.
“Are you teasing me?” she pouted, only half-offended.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dean chuckled in response. “Unless it always leads to good sex.”
At that, she couldn’t help but snort. She rolled her eyes, but there was no heat behind it. In fact, the smile that twitched on her face was gentle. Loving. As was the twinkle in her glossy eyes, laced with raw adoration.
“What I’m hearing is you think I’m hot when I’m jealous,” she concluded, poking fun at herself more than anything.
Now it was his turn to let out a humorless laugh. He shrugged, brushing his fingers up and down her arm tenderly. “Jealous, huh?” he echoed with a shit-eating grin.
That earned him a smack to his arm, not a hard hit, but definitely firm enough to make him chuckle and reel back. “Okay, okay!” Dean laughed, then winked. “You’re not jealous, got it. Just a little possessive, eh?”
“I’m worried, jackass,” she huffed, but the flustered pink dusting her nose gave her away. She was totally jealous, and there was no use denying it. “It’s just— all this talk about Amara being connected to you scares me.”
The silence that followed was just slightly tense, but not uncomfortable. Just earnest and vulnerable. She thought of this as an ugly wound that she was laying out for him, her heart on her sleeve, except it was battered and bruised. A sad little thing hanging on by a thread.
“Me too,” Dean hummed eventually, triggering a doe-eyed reaction.
He didn’t know what was so baffling about his anxiety. He understood perfectly well why she was so tense. It wasn’t that much different for him. If anything, he was the one with a weirdo on his ass talking about doomed fates and whatnot. The only difference between her fear and Dean’s?
He never, not even for a moment, second-guessed whether or not they belonged to each other.
After all that they’ve been through, after everything they endured together, their bond was stronger than ancient shitheads and monsters he killed for a living. In the end, that’s all that Amara was, too, right? Just another case to solve.
A stronger one, sure.
And maybe they couldn’t say that they’ve survived worse. But they’ve survived enough to know that they could conquer this, too.
“I’m not invincible, you know?” he chuckled, stopping the movement of his hand right at her wrist. Where his thumb felt the thrumming of her steady pulse. “We don’t really know what we’re up against, so yeah, that’s terrifying.”
“We know that whatever she is, she’s got her eyes on you,” she shrugged with a frown. She didn’t even mean to sound jealous on purpose. It wasn’t even just that. But clearly, Dean already knew.
“Then she can watch me pick you, always,” he replied without hesitation. Like it was some unwritten rule of the universe that she would always remain his number one choice, unconditionally and without exception.
She rolled her eyes again, in that flustered fashion, with the shy smile on her lips and the blush on her cheeks. “You’re such a sap, Winchester,” she mumbled before she leaned in to quickly peck his lips.
“I mean it, though,” Dean continued, closing his hand around hers to lift it to his mouth and press a chaste kiss to her palm. “You’re stuck with me, remember? And the rest, we can deal with tomorrow, one battle at a time.”
summary: ben’s plan worked… just not in the way he intended
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Ben got what he wanted.
Mostly.
You got pregnant. Carried his child for nine long months while he acted smug and possessive the entire time, constantly touching your stomach, constantly talking about “his boy”. Someone to carry on his legacy, someone strong, tough, just like him.
Instead-
The afternoon light filtered through the curtains into the nursery. Tiny clothes were folded on the changing table. Plush toys scattered in one corner. A soft blanket hanging from the crib.
And in the middle of it all stood Ben.
Looking profoundly uncomfortable.
Your baby girl blinked up at him from where she rested awkwardly in his arms.
You had given birth to a girl.
Ben stared back at her like she was some complicated bomb someone had dropped on his arms.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with her?” He muttered to you.
You looked up from where you were folding tiny clothes nearby and held back a chuckle “Hold her, Ben”
“I am holding her”
“You’re holding her like she’s about to explode”
He grumbled.
“She’s so damn small”
Your daughter made a tiny little sound at that, squirming in his arms, and let out a tiny sneeze.
Immediately, Ben went stiff.
“See? See, she’s doing something”
“She sneezed”
“She’s twitchin’”
“She’s fine”
Honestly, watching him —the intimidating, arrogant man who could throw people against walls without blinking— stand frozen because a small baby moved unexpectedly was one of the funniest things you’d ever seen.
Ben frowned down at her suspiciously.
The baby blinked up right back at him.
“At least she looks like you” He added gruffly, like it was some kind of consolation prize.
You laughed “Wow. That’s high praise”
For months during your pregnancy, he’d been convinced it would be a boy.
Not hoped. Convinced.
A son.
You remembered the smug look on his face every single time he talked about it. A little boy to carry on his legacy, follow him around, idolize him, be “a real man” or whatever version of fatherhood existed inside Ben’s head.
Then the doctor had said It’s a girl.
And Ben had genuinely looked offended.
Not angry at you. Just… confused.
“A girl?” He had repeated like the universe had betrayed him.
Because in his head, he’d already imagined a mini version of himself following him around.
Instead, life handed him a tiny baby girl wrapped in pink blankets.
Now here he was, holding his daughter for maybe the fourth time voluntarily since she had been born. And still looking deeply confused about the whole situation.
“She just stares at me” He muttered.
You look up from folding tiny clothes, glancing now at them.
The sight made you smile a little.
Ben was huge compared to her. Big rough hands. Broad chest. Permanent scowl.
And then this tiny little baby tucked against him, wearing a pale pink onesie and looking completely content.
“She likes looking at you” You say.
“She doesn’t even know what’s goin’ on”
“Neither do you”
That earned you a glare. You just chuckled.
The baby suddenly wrapped her tiny hand around one of Ben’s fingers.
He froze instantly.
You watched his entire expression change for just a second. Not softer exactly, but… less guarded.
“Steong grip” He muttered quietly.
And slowly, little by little, he started getting less awkward with her.
One afternoon, you were in the nursery putting away clean clothes while your daughter was in her crib, looking at the little spinning mobile. She kicked her legs happily, making tiny little noises at the little stars spinning above her.
Ben then walked into the nursery.
“Doll” He started, walking towards you “You seen my—”
Then he heard her making sounds, and his head turned to the crib.
“She cryin’?”
“No”
He stepped closer to the crib to get a better look of her.
“She looks like she’s thinkin’ about cryin’”
Before you could even answer, he was already reaching down to pick her up.
Just in case.
“She wasn’t even close to crying” You say with amusement.
Ben shrugged “Well, she could’ve”
Another night, you walked into the living room after your shower, and stopped in the doorway.
The TV played softly in the background. Ben sat on the couch with your daughter on his chest, one large hand resting on her tiny back.
Both of them were asleep.
The sight alone almost melted your heart.
You approached quietly, smiling to yourself.
But the floor creaked faintly under your foot, and Ben’s eyes snapped open immediately.
For half a second he looked disoriented, then he realized you’d caught him.
“She fell asleep first” He grumbled “I was watching tv. She’s clingy”
And another night, while he held her against his chest, he looked down at her tiny sleepy face, then back up at you.
“She’s kinda badass, actually”
You smiled “Oh?”
“Yeah” He said quietly, eyes back on her “Mean look. Definitely got that from me”
Ben looked down at the little girl for another long moment before speaking again.
“Still should’ve been a boy” He couldn’t help but grumble.
But then he muttered quietly, almost to himself “S’pose I can work with this”
⧼ older sub ! dean x fem ! reader . . . sex in the impala. ⧽
📬 ! guys. apologies for the delay. the past 2 weeks, the universe (and tumblr) have been… reallyyy fucking Testing me. like no other. but nonetheless i prevail. with sub!dean in hand.
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it’s raining as you drive the impala back to the bunker.
you insisted on driving, since dean had been doing all the driving for the two of you the entirety of the hunt. he’s been acting a little needy since you both finished up. both of you decided to go back to the bunker tonight since your own bed in your own… somewhat house couldn’t compare to anything a motel had to offer.
as he’s gotten older, you’ve noticed, dean has somehow gotten simultaneously more shamless and more reserved. he’s still horny as fuck a lot—he’ll basically hump you like a dog in public sometimes with no reservations, or he’ll blush like a schoolgirl when you squeeze his bicep at a bar before sitting down next to him. it’s a tightrope that dean balances on daily, how much he can get away with, but also how much he can take.
dean’s been keeping his hands to himself so far—but before you’d both gotten in the car, he begged for a quickie before you left. almost got down on his knees in the motel room, too. you hadn’t had a chance to have sex this entire hunt, which is rare, but it comes with the job.
so dean’s needy.
for you.
you’d coaxed him enough, you’d thought, to last until you both got home. but even though you’re focusing on the road, you can still feel him. looking at you, shifting on the impala’s bench every so often. he’s already closer to you, because that’s just who dean is—always wanting to be as close as possible to you. he’s much further away from the passenger side window than he was before when you initially started driving, and you can feel the heat eminatng off his body.
you want to say something, but the truth is, you want dean to be close to you, too. maybe just as much as he does with you.
you haven’t been talking much. dean’s dozed off a couple times since you started driving, but he doesn’t sleep for long. you steal glances at him when you hear his breathing get deeper, more slow. sleep breathing. most of the times you look over, his lips are parted just a little.
he looks younger like this, with all his lines on his face smoothed out, his brows only a little furrowed instead of being deeply set like they seem to be permanently stationed at when he’s awake. you imagine a younger dean when you see him, imagine what he looked like when it was just him and his brother back in the day. you wonder if he preferred being young over the life he’s living now. it was probably easier, you think. maybe not easier, but less of a toll.
you’ll never know the answer.
dean’s chin rests on your shoulder, at some point. he relaxes into you, slumping into your side. you take your right hand off the wheel and wrap your arm around him, which causes him to further nuzzle himself into you, too. he sighs softly, but he’s not annoyed. he’s just safe. he dozes off again, the rain hitting the top of the car lulling him under. he snores, but just a little—it sounds more like a cat purring on you than anything else. you sometimes call him your ‘little personal lawn mower’.
he stirs once more, and his hand rests on your thigh after a little bit of him being awake. it’s not too high up on your jeans that you’re raising a brow, but you know he’s getting ansty from being so close to you. he lets his mind wander, especially when you’re alone together, or just when he’s alone. you assume he’s doing that right now.
and he is.
dean fantasizes often about you, sometimes and most of the time when you’re literally right in front of him. it’s a little humiliating for him, though, because you’d coaxed the information out of him a while ago, and he was so embarrassed telling you that he daydreams about you when you’re right next to him he almost ran out into traffic. now, he’s still aware he’s pathetic for it, but he just doesn’t really care all that much.
the most recent daydream he’s been fixating on lately is you in a dress. the dress changes color and fabric type often, since you look good in anything, but what doesn’t change is you sitting on his car, waiting for him. sometimes he takes you right on the hood of the impala, right out in the open. sometimes it’s in the backseat, sometimes it’s in the front—but it always starts the same. the sun’s behind you, and you look like a dream, looking back at him. well, obviously, it is a dream—but dean knows one day, it’ll be real: just you, him, baby, and an open road.
kind of like now, actually.
minus the dress.
he’s mostly wanting to kiss you, currently, he thinks. just a few pecks. and maybe a little tounge. okay, maybe some over-the-clothes action, too. okay, maybe he just wants you to pull the car over and ride him into next week. whatever. he shifts his legs, trying to ignore what his thoughts are doing to his body, but it’s not really working. he nuzzles his face further into your neck, breathing you in. his hand on your thigh moves up a little higher, and he lifts his head off your shoulder just enough so his nose brushes your neck.
dean doesn’t say anything. you freeze up when his nose grazes on a sensitive spot, shivering a little as his hand simultaneously gets closer to the inside seam of your jeans. you almost say something to him, but you don’t. you just tighten your grip on the steering wheel, trying not to melt in a puddle. dean notices, of course. he nudges his nose against your neck a little more, inhaling deeply. it sends another, more heated shiver down your spine.
he murmurs your name into your neck, while his hand reaches the seam of your waistband, tugging on it gently. you shiver again, leaning into dean subconsciously—and he takes advantage of it, the bastard, mouthing at the sensitive spot behind your ear he knows makes you dizzy.
“baby,” he almost moans into your neck, shifting against the leather of the seat. “…need ya.”
“dean, we—”
“please.”
and dean winchester doesn’t say please. not to anyone.
except you.
so after an embarrassingly short amount of time contemplating, you glance in the rearview mirror before pulling off the main road, taking the dirt road running parallel to it until you reach a more secluded spot. you don’t think twice after you put the car in park, the windshield wipers pausing halfway through the motion—because you know he’s really going through it to be this needy.
dean’s on you before you can turn to face him, making it his personal mission to kiss your breath away, it seems. his lips mold over yours immediately, your hands going to his face and the back of his head as he pulls you into his lap. you let him deepen the kiss, straddling him. he’s getting squeamish already, you can tell—because he’s fumbling for your waistband.
dean makes quick work of your clothes—probably the quickest he’s ever been, and that’s saying something—and soon enough, your bra is the last to go. he mouths at your left breast, then shoves his face in your chest, kissing whatever skin his lips reach first. his rough, warm hands trail up your waist, sending tingles throughout your skin. he nuzzles his face further in between your boobs before kissing up your chest and neck, finally finding your lips again briefly before pulling you closer to him.
“can’t believe y’re mine,” dean murmurs quietly. he says it just for you. he looks up at you—and you can’t see him very well due to the rain and it being pitch-black outside the impala, but you can see the way his eyes shine at you, even now.
and you know what he means by that.
you know it means dean doesn’t believe he actually deserves you. you know it means he feels like he has to prove himself to you, over and over again, in order to be worthy of your love and attention. it’s just how he’s wired. how he compartmentalizes things, how he deals with everything. and it won’t change.
but you won’t stop trying to make it change.
you take dean’s face in your hands, and he immediately softens more, sighing and melting between your palms like you’re a warm pan. your thumbs brush his cheeks, and you press a quick kiss to his lips before tugging at his shirt. dean buffers for a second, still caught up in the kiss before realizing you want his flannel off. he pauses after you remove his flannel, almost hesitating before putting his arms up for his shirt underneath.
you know why. the past few years, dean had been… more filled out, recently, in his torso. nothing crazy, but you noticed. some punk-ass kid said something stupid to him on a case a few weeks ago, nothing worth repeating. and you know despite his gruff, uncaring exterior, he takes those things to heart. you know he’s been spiraling over it, over the fear of losing you not because of something out of his control—but because he wasn’t good enough, wasn’t fit enough to make you stay.
after tugging his shirt off, you don’t let dean shy away from you, even though you know that’s where his instinct goes. he looks down almost immediately, but your hands return to his face, keeping him steady. keeping him looking at you.
“m’yours,” you assure dean. and you know he needed to hear it, based on the way his entire body shakes when he closes his eyes.
you know it’s not an ownership thing, at least not completely. you know dean just needs to hear that something, someone is just his to keep for his own, and no one else’s. he nods once, then buries his face in bewteen your boobs again, inhales like he needs you to breathe. he sighs, pulling you flush against him, and your hands leave his face to wrap around his shoulders. you stay like that in his lap, holding each other for what feels like a century.
eventually, dean pulls away—just enough to look up at you again. his hands brush their way down to your hips, and you know where they’re going: to get you ready. your own hands find his wrists, stop them in their tracks. he tilts his head back up to you, confused.
“not tonight,” you murmur to him, releasing your grip as you shake your head. your hands go to his jeans that are unfortunately still on and start to undo his belt.
dean wants to protest. usually, he always gets you ready. it almost feels weird to not eat you out, or at least finger you. not do something. he really wants to say something—jesus, he needs to get you ready before he can be inside you—but you’re already tugging down his jeans enough so that his dick springs out, so all his attention is immediately focused on the throbbing in his lower region. he almost forgot how hard he was. up until now.
it is then that it dawns on him that you’re doing this for him. he was so needy for you all this time, and you’re not teasing him about it, or making him suffer. not that you ever did, but dean willingly suffers in silence with pretty much everything else. he always expects you to do the same, but you never do. you almost always give him what you want.
he thought you might give him a handjob. but you don’t—you just stroke him a few times, and notch him to where he’s been dying to go for the past two weeks. no teasing, no witholding. dean could cry, from how it feels to just be inside you. and he has cried, more than once, while buried deep inside you.
he can’t belive that you just let him have you like this. he would’ve been proud to get you ready, get you soaking, dripping wet for him like you always are after he’s through with you. but you don’t let him, this time. he didn’t have to really do much to get you, even though that’s how he’s lived his life all this time. he’s always had to sacrifice something, always had to give something up in order to get what he wants. and more than half the time, it’s not even what he wants at all. but he’s never done that with you—or never had to, that is. you always just… give him what he wants when it comes to you. sometimes it’s sex, but it’s really just you he wants. just to be near you, to see you, to hold you.
just like he’s doing now.
you found out dean was a whimperer on beleive it or not, the first sexual encounter you both had together. he’d been eating you out, humping the mattress like a dog in heat, and whimpering right into your pussy. his eyes were all glazed over, and he looked a little drunk—but most importantly, he looked at peace. like this was what he was meant to do his whole life: lick and suck on your folds and clit for the rest of his days.
he spends so much time down there, worshipping you, night after night, day after day—and you know that while it comes from a place of devotion, it also stems from needing to provide you with something so you’ll have a reason to stay. you also know that while you are unable to rewire dean’s brain, it won’t stop you from keeping him close to your heart. it won’t stop you from loving him right back, the way you know he craves to be loved.
dean’s face is buried in your chest as you start to slowly grind down on him, and he lets out his first whimper. it’s gotten a little deeper, rougher over the years you’ve been together, but it still sounds natural. it sounds like dean. his big arms tighten around your waist, then unloosen again so he can look up at you. he gets like this sometimes—like he’s unsure where to look or put his hands when you’re in control like this. he settles on your hips, not guiding, just holding as you move them. you take the oppurtunity to lean down just a little as you grind again, kissing a few freckles dusting on his cheeks. they’re starting to show more, with the sun being out longer. a broken, beautiful sound leaves him, and you know he’s already close, just from a few passes of your hips.
he feels like a young man again sometimes, already so close to blowing his load this early, but his age is also daunting on him, looming in the darkness like a bunch of clothes over a chair. he’s nearing his father’s age when he died—and in a few years, he’ll be older than his father ever was. older than most hunters ever came to be. it’s a terrifying thought—but knowing that you’ll be there beside him is a comfort no one else can satiate. nothing could come close.
because dean feels safest with you. it’s a known fact—it’s like his body can relax a little. like he can hang up whatever he’s dealing with at the door, and dive into the warmth and comfort that is you, and actually feel like the weight’s off him, just for a brief moment. even in sex, he’s safest with you.
it’s indescribable, how he’s able to just let go when he’s with you. he doesn’t have to put on a show, even though he usually does—and he doesn’t have to worry about sounding ‘manly’ when you’re milking him for all he’s worth. he can let himself be as loud as he wants, as shameless as he wants, and he knows you won’t judge him. he knows you’ll just hold him like he’s always wanted to be held. like he’s one of a kind. like he actually matters.
like he’s actually loved by someone.
it’s astonishing, really, how dean has given up on love so many times, yet continues to have hope in it. he had his reservations, when first getting with you. the usual: that you’ll finally peek behind the curtian and see the real dean, then leave once you figure out who he truly is inside. or maybe that you’ll realize he’s too much work. yet, he still wanted to know. what if this thing with you worked out? so once more, he decided to try and love again. he decided to stay instead of go, and it seemed like it worked in his favor. you’re still here beside him. he has those doubts, of course, and the fear that one day, you’ll be taken from him by something that’s out of his control—but the love, finally, finally outweighs the pain. it’s worth being with you now, than have never been with you at all.
dean’s holding off on coming. he wants this heavenly feeling to last as long as possible, but it’s starting to hurt now. he’s holding you in spurts—your hips, then your waist, then the curve of your back. you notice, obviously, that he’s holding back.
your hands find his face once more, leaning down to kiss his freckles on the bridge of his nose this time, clenching around him as you do so. dean whines, nuzzling his face into yours as you continue to press kisses to wherever your lips land. your hands remain on his face, keeping up your rythym as dean slowly starts to unravel below you.
he finally comes, loudly—but the sound is buried in your skin as you ride him over the edge. his arms had found their way around you again, holding on for dear life, whimpering and panting and groaning into your damp skin as he spills into you.
he blinks hard a few times, still breathing heavy as he moves his head to look up at you, eyes hazy and half-lidded from his orgasm. usually, he’d stay close, face nuzzled into you—but he needs to look at you right now. the impala’s windows are all fogged up from your activities, but dean can still make out your face in the dark. not that he needs to really see your face—he’s memorized it, by this point. he knows every dip and curve of your face and your entire body. he can name every scar, every divot.
he knows his home.
he knows every part of you he can hide away in, just for a little while. just enough to keep his head above water.
you look down at dean, too, and you want to be somehow closer to him, even though it’s not possible. you’re as close as can be—he’s literally inside you. so you settle for nudging his nose with yours, then wrapping your arms around his shoulders.
Summary: The full story. The true story of how you met Mark, with every tantalizing shade of public humiliation. You knew better than to date a cop, let alone a detective in your father’s division. But Mark Meachum was exactly the kind of stubborn and reckless man that threatened to knock every responsible thought out of your head, if he could convince you to take a chance on him.
AN: And we’re back to the beginning with this series! I was very happy that so many of you said you wanted more Mark because I had a craving, and I truly love coming back to TWDUP. It’s now gotten pretty long with the main series and post-series shots. About time we get to some more prequel shots tho. One scene in particular should be familiar to you. 😉
‼️ Remember that this is set six years before the main series, so I'm pinning Mark as 39, reader in her late 20s.
Posted on Patreon: May 22, 2026
Word Count: 11K
Tags & Warnings: Meet cute (lol), Mark being a walking warning label (his version of flirting), father-daughter dynamics, detective work and other sleuthing, the return of Rachel, and more…
🎵 Series Playlist: YouTube || Spotify
⊹ Series Masterlist
The smell of stale coffee hit you the moment you got off the elevator. It never failed to remind you of ink-stained pages, and your dad’s calloused fingers turning them.
You knew him best by the shape of his shoulders hunched over his work, like that alone could stop you from being curious.
You would hazard a peek inside his office at home, on late nights where you were meant to be in bed hours ago. But if your dad was still awake, you knew the house was safe. For some reason, as a kid, you needed that reassurance. You needed to know the monsters he caught—the ones you overheard him telling your mom about—were outside. They weren’t getting in. Not past those broad shoulders.
The memory of that cold, forgotten mug of coffee that sat as a near constant by his writing hand wafted nostalgia in your mind’s eye as you hastened down the second-floor corridors of the Central L.A. police station.
It was one of those rare days when you were actually nervous to meet your dad for lunch.
…Okay, maybe not nervous exactly, but you knew you need to bring your A game. Today had a purpose, and you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t have a plan.
You asked Sarah, your best friend since college, to help you prep for the interview you had later this afternoon. You found what you thought was the perfect outfit: professional, approachable, but sharp.
You had a folder balanced in one arm, the strap of your purse hanging on the other shoulder. The clack of your heels echoed in the hall as you wove your way through the building. You’d already sped past general reception, avoiding the booking rooms and various administrative offices, then taken the elevator upstairs. Your dad’s office was through these glass double doors that revealed an ecosystem of desks and cubicles, as well as various officers and personnel scattered throughout the bullpen.
The corralled chaos downstairs was for tourists. This was the Homicide division.
Phone calls, conversations and voices thrown across the room, research typed out at speed, the whirring of printers and coffee being made in the breakroom on a constant basis—it was a familiar drone that you mostly tuned out as white noise. But there was one voice you couldn’t, up ahead. It was deep, soaked in whiskey, and seemed to cut through it all.
“I don’t need to take it slow, Lieu. What I need is a real fucking case, not a milk run. Give this one to Vance. He likes traffic detail, lets him plant his ass on a corner and catch up on Below fucking Deck.”
You almost rolled your eyes as you turned the corner of a cubicle. Typical alpha male thinking his dick drags across the floor. Too good to keep people from killing each other during rush hour. Probably drives a fucking Prius.
“All right, look, wise guy—”
You heard the exasperated warning from Lieutenant Rivera, but you didn’t see the officer in question until he was shoulder checking you to the ground, startling as gasp out of you when you slipped in your heels. But his firm, steadying grip on your arm kept you from busting your chin, at least.
“Jesus!” you breathed.
“Ah, sorry, ma’am. That’s totally my bad,” he said, crouching down on bowed legs to help you pick up your scattered belongings. Meachum read the badge at his belt.
Once you got past the shock of it, you aimed a narrow look at him.
“Okay, cowboy, you don’t have to ma’am me. I’ve got it,” you said flatly. You were on your hands and knees on a dirty linoleum floor in your best interview pantsuit, your freshly styled hair getting in your eyes.
It was your big “everything” purse that got knocked over too, as in everything you might need on the day-to-day, or even in a pinch.
Which was why your head snapped up at hearing his intrigued hum. A gasp choked and died in your throat.
From his loose fingers, a lacy pair of panties unfurled like a delicate theater curtain. Dark purple. Victoria Secret.
In his other hand, he held a pack of condoms and travel-sized baby wipes. His lips twitched at a smile.
“Something tells me you’re always prepared,” he teased.
Your face flushed and burned with increasing degrees of outrage and embarrassment. By now there were other officers and staff members eying you two, some smirking, others at least having the decency to hide their smiles and pretend to be working. Every single one of these people knew who you were, even if this guy apparently didn’t.
And if he did, it meant he didn’t care much about getting his ass raked by his boss.
You glared hard at Meachum and snatched the panties out of his hand.
“Can’t always expect a man to be packing, now can I?” You dipped a purposeful glance down his body, down to his jean-clad thighs and the taut muscles there—then back up to the amused sage of his eyes. His lips curved into a smirk.
You stuffed the panties and the rest of your shit back into the purse and managed to stand back up in four-inch heels, refusing his offered hand of help when he stood along with you.
“Don’t you want these?” he said. His eyes gleamed while he shook the condoms and wipes in his hand. “You might need ‘em in the near future.”
You bit the inside of your cheek. Don’t hold your breath, asshole.
“Keep them. Now you can say you’re packing.”
With the last word claimed, you doubled down with a swift walk-off, breezing by him to yank open the door of your dad’s office. You could almost feel the burn of the officer’s head-tilted stare on your ass.
Your face was still flushed—now mainly from repressed anger—when Dan looked up at you from his computer. His frown was telling as he took you in, then glanced past you, spying one of his usual suspects walk past through the gap in his office blinds.
“What the hell happened out there?” he asked.
You finished gathering yourself together, smoothing out your blazer and blouse underneath.
“Some asshole, Meachum,” you said. “Lacks spacial awareness, and clearly thinks he’s God’s fucking gift to women.”
Dan blinked his surprise, then huffed in lack of amusement.
“Been back all of five goddamn minutes, and already he’s a persistent pain in my ass,” he muttered, watching Meachum continue arguing with Rivera about his assignment, all cool cocky confidence and an audacious fucking grin, as if he knew he was about to get his way.
Dan rolled his eyes and refocused on you.
“Don’t mind him. He just got back a couple weeks ago from being on a federal assignment,” he said. “He’s just antsy to get back in the action here.”
You couldn’t help your curiosity, or the glance you made toward the detective. He was tall, a sharp jawline covered by a well-trimmed beard, his brown hair somewhat lengthy framing his face, but more tapered toward the back. His arms were crossed and likely toned under his buttoned-down shirt and brown leather jacket. He carried himself a lot like your father—like a military man. Relaxed, but controlled.
“What kind of federal assignment?” you asked.
Dan shot you a shrewd look. “A long one. He’s been out for a year.”
If his goal was to quench your curiosity, that only tipped another shot of lighter fluid and lit the match.
“Explains why I haven’t really seen him before,” you murmured. You’d just started making a point to have lunch with your dad during the week, ever since you moved into your own apartment six months ago. You were finally in a position where you could afford it in Los Angeles. But speaking of your job…
“Okay, anyway, let’s just go to lunch. I have something I need your input on,” you said, reminding yourself to concentrate on the plan here.
You’d take him to a place with a good burger, or maybe even a steak, and get a strong drink in his hand to lull him into a more contented state, like a lobster in a slow boil. Then you’d get him talking about the Lakers’ recent win, hitting him with the proverbial slab of butter before you came for his hard shell with the pliers.
Dan stood up from his desk and eyed your outfit with suspicion.
“My input, huh? Does it have something to do with why you’re all dressed up and made up? And why you’ve got that folder on your arm, like you’re getting ready to interview me for the 7 o’clock news.”
“Maybe.”
“Sweetheart, you know how much I love surprises,” he said dryly, “but how about you just lay it on me then.”
So much for the slow boil. You took a moment to steel yourself.
“Actually, the interview is for me,” you said. “This afternoon.”
Again, Dan frowned. “Didn’t think you would actually leave that school. It pays well, doesn’t it?”
“Dad, being a paralegal at a private school in Beverly Hills is like being at the DMV with celebrities. All I do is file complaints. One of the assholes from How I Met Your Mother tried to get their kid’s teacher fired, just because she failed him on a midterm.”
He arched a brow. “All right. So what’re you going for, another law firm?”
“I saw an open position in the Head District Attorney’s office for an executive assistant,” you said.
Dan’s face slackened. He raised an incredulous hand.
“Wait, wait. Valwell? You wanna work for that fucking suit?” he said gruffly, shaking his head. “Why would you want to work for the DA? So you can slog case after case on murderers, drug dealers… I told you about the ADA who got shot and killed last year, right? Left behind a husband and three kids. That the kind of career you want to have?”
You sighed. Time to pivot.
“Dad, this isn’t anything close to actual criminals or fires or drugs,” you argued. “It’s a desk job. It’s something I know I can do, it’s got decent pay and great benefits, and it’s my foot in the door, helping the office that prosecutes criminals. I can even try to help make sure the victims get the support they need. One day, I might be able to help make a difference. You put that idea in my head, remember?”
He breathed the hot air of resignation through his nose. He could see that you were serious.
Stubborn as hell, being the usual key phrase.
“I do have other prospects, but for this one I need a recommendation letter,” you said, and opened your manilla folder to show him the printed copy you wrote for him, leaving space for his signature.
“See? It even sounds like you. I think I nailed down your voice pretty well.”
“Honey—”
“And it would be great to be able to say my dad, the literal police captain, believes in me.”
Dan’s gaze returned to yours, a slight smile tugging at his lips.
“That’s never been in question,” he said.
You smiled back. His soon fell, though.
“Listen, I’ve told you this before. This world,” he said, tapping his fingers on his own desk. “It’s messy even within the rules, and it’s flawed across the board. The higher up you go, the more you see it.”
“I know,” you said. “But I think this one’s right for me.”
Dan could see that you were serious. You wouldn’t have come to him like this if you weren’t. At the end of the day, if either one of his daughters was going to step into law enforcement, in any capacity, he knew it would have to be you.
He took a pen from his desk and signed the letter after giving it a cursory read. You really had nailed his voice.
You took the letter when he was done and smiled brightly, kissing him on the cheek.
“Thanks,” you said. “How about Leonardo’s for lunch? I’ll buy.”
He snorted, holding the door for you as you led the way out of his office.
“Not a chance, honey. You know that wallet’s only good for showing ID when you’re with me.”
Rivera finally caved and gave the traffic duty job to Vance. At the moment, he did have the most margin in his schedule out of the patrol officers. It might mean a few more hours of work for Vance, but at least he’d get overtime. And it freed up Mark to finish the rest of his paperwork before he could officially take on another Homicide case.
It also gave him the opportunity to watch from his desk when you stepped out of the Captain’s office. The man himself walked with you toward the glass exit doors. Mark once again got to appreciate the calm, confident sway as you walked in those heels, brushing your hair over your shoulder when a strand stuck to your lipstick.
“We have plenty of time. My interview’s not until 4,” you said.
“Did you get the day off or something?” Dan asked.
“Yeah, I took PTO. I already know traffic’s going to be insane.”
“What you want to do is avoid the expressway. Remember the shortcuts I taught you…”
You stepped through the door he held open, all while Mark ran mental calculations on what your relation was to the Captain. You weren’t in law enforcement. That, Mark was almost certain of. You were too young to be Dan’s wife or sister. So most likely, you were one of his daughters. Mark knew there were two.
While Dan followed you out and the door began to swing closed, you happened to look back, your gaze catching on Mark.
His lips tugged at a grin. He just couldn’t help himself.
He shot you a wink.
Your lips pursed in annoyance.
The glass door shut, but you were already turning on your heel, headed down the hall with the Captain right behind you.
Mark leaned back in his chair, folding his hands on his chest. He glanced over at Finau, another detective who now sat at the desk to his left. Some new guy named Stevens had Mark’s old desk. Apparently a lot of shuffle could happen in a year, even with something as sacred as an officer’s fucking workspace.
“You know who that is?” Mark asked, gesturing in the direction of your sexy little storm off.
Finau chuckled, a small shake of his head.
“You don’t? That’s the Captain’s daughter, man.”
Bingo.
“Hmm,” Mark nodded. “What’s her name?”
Finau blinked, both amused and slightly beside himself.
“Bro.”
“What?”
“You really think she’s gonna give you the time of day after the shit you just pulled, in front of the whole fucking squad?”
Mark popped his brows. “I can be persuasive.”
Just then, the department’s office assistant, Vanessa, breezed between them with her cobb salad, vinaigrette on the side, no croutons. She greeted him with a bright smile.
“Welcome back, Mark,” she said, with a certain smoothness in her voice and a gleam in her eyes. He knew them well, and he gave her a nod.
“Hey, Vanessa. Good to be back.”
“Let me know if you need anything,” she said.
Her hand brushed his arm as she walked by.
Finau watched the exchange, his expression wry and incredulous at the same time.
Mark gave a smirking shrug, reaching for his phone to make sure he still had Vanessa’s number saved. He could use a good homecoming.
Finau just rolled his eyes. “Right.”
By 2:30 in the afternoon, the Captain returned alone. He called Mark over on the way to his office. The younger man followed, feeling the prickle of censure coming. He decided to be preemptive.
“Ah, if this is about this morning, I just want to apologize for the little episode you might’ve heard about in the bullpen there,” Mark said. “That was your daughter, right? Didn’t mean to run into her like that. But she’s very, uh…”
Dan sat back in his desk chair and crossed his arms. A stoney deadpan fell across his face—one that made Mark wisely rethink his words.
“You know, driven,” he said.
Dan snorted. “Take some advice, Meachum. You want a long career?”
Mark inclined his head. “Yes, sir.”
“Keep your eye on your fucking cases, and not my daughter,” Dan said. “Is that understood?”
Mark’s brows rose a tick, but he nodded.
“Very much so.”
“Good.”
And with that, the Captain’s gaze cut away from the detective and down to his computer. A clear dismissal. Mark took his cue to leave the office, letting the heavy door shut behind him.
Well then. He’d just been given the first official warning. It’d probably be smart to follow this one, but when Mark thought about your testy mouth, that spark of challenge and appraisal in your eyes when you’d seized him up from dick to face…
Yeah, it was hard to put an off-limits label on that one.
Just as he got back to his desk, his phone buzzed with a call from Dispatch. He temporarily shut the thought of you away as he answered the call.
A body was found in Elysian Park.
Manuel Silva, 73-year-old Hispanic man
He got up early for his morning walk, like he did every day before he opened up shop at his family-owned insurance agency. He was murdered by a small fry drug dealer who was high himself. He just wanted Silva’s vintage leather jacket.
At least it didn’t take Mark long to track the asshole down. Within a week, he was booked and arraigned for second-degree murder.
But Mark was also the one who had to drive down to Mr. Silva’s house on the day of the murder and talk to his wife. It was never easy to see the loved ones break down. Mrs. Silva clung to him the same way his mom had, after his old man’s stroke three years ago.
Now, Mark was once again eyeballs fucking deep in reports.
What should perk up his day but you, strolling into the bullpen as if those glass doors were meant to open just for you.
But you still paused to say hi to Hank, a custodian you also knew by name. You gave him a genuine smile as you breezed by in an outfit that was professional, but still clung to your form in every right way. Mark found himself tracing your shapely lines with his eyes, on route to your face, and the new shade of lipstick you wore. He was partial to red.
Mark was a natural opportunist. He would’ve been remiss if he hadn’t gotten up from his desk, grabbing a few papers he had no intention of copying at the printer. It gave him a reason to cross paths with you though, nearly making a repeat of last week’s collision.
He steadied you with a light touch on your arm and chuckled through an apology.
“My bad,” he said, meeting your eyes. “Though we gotta stop meeting like this.”
You had the look of steeling yourself as you cleared your throat, curling a strand of hair behind your ear. You gave him another one of those appraising looks. He wondered just what you were thinking, and if you secretly liked what you saw.
“Meachum, right?” you said.
“Detective,” he added, injecting a little more charm into his smile as he offered you his hand. He hadn’t forgotten your name, though you hadn’t been the one to give it to him. “Again, I’m sorry about last time. I didn’t know you were the Cap’s daughter.”
“So if I was a nobody off the street, that would make bulldozing over a woman like a linebacker acceptable?” you retorted.
“Hey, to be fair, I tried to help you like a gentleman. And you generously made sure I didn’t walk away empty handed,” he said. A grin pulled at the corner of his lips, noting the way your face slid into a familiar testiness. “How’d it go with your interview, by the way?”
You paused in surprise. “How’d you know about that?”
“Your dad mentioned it last week,” Mark said. Or he might’ve overheard some of your conversation when you stepped out of Dan’s office.
“Oh, um, I think it went well, but I’m still waiting to hear back,” you admitted. “It could be a few weeks before they call me.”
“What’s the job?”
“D.A. Valwell is looking for an executive assistant.”
Mark whistled lowly. “Okay, the order side of Law & Order. That tracks. What are you, a lawyer?”
“Paralegal.”
“All right, cool. Where do you work now?”
“Uh, well, I work for a school full of trust fund kids who’d rather do blow in the bathroom than learn algebra,” you said, shifting on your feet. Mark’s broad frame was blocking your way to your dad’s office—on purpose, you were beginning to think.
The man chuckled. “Interesting. I’d like to hear more about it, but I know you’re probably here to have lunch with your dad. How about you join me for a drink tonight? There’s this chill place near downtown. Not too loud. Good beer on tap. Unless you’re more of a martini kind of girl.”
You sighed in amusement. “More of a whiskey sour girl, actually.”
“Well, what do you know. A woman after my own heart,” Mark said, his brows raising along with his grin.
He eyed you in a subtle way, yet you’d never read a clearer danger sign in your life.
You glanced around his arm and caught the way your dad was frowning while sitting at his desk, his firm gaze planted on you and Mark.
“Something tells me you’re severely lacking in self-preservation,” you said, more quietly. “Either that, or you’re just that fucking cocky.”
Mark’s lips quirked. “Maybe a little of both, I’m ‘a be honest.”
You bit your lip against a laugh. “Well, I’m sorry to tell you this, Detective, but I don’t date cops.”
“Why’s that?”
“First of all, terrible work-life balance,” you said, citing the least of your reasons on your index finger.
“Mmm, fair,” Mark conceded.
“Divorce rate. Some studies say as high as 75%,” you said, adding the point to your middle finger.
“As opposed to the average?”
“40-ish%.”
“Well, we’re not getting married anytime soon, are we?” Mark teased.
Your lips tugged at a smile, but you still raised a challenging brow.
“Domestic violence,” you added onto your ring finger. “28% of law enforcement relationships, versus the average 16%.”
He acknowledged that with a nod. Unfortunately, he’d seen it happen a few times, on the force and in the military. Some people just couldn’t handle the stress of the job, what they’d seen and done, and how it fucked with their head. Some had control issues. Some guys were just fucking animals who liked the job a little too much.
“I can assure you, sweetheart, on my mother’s life,” Mark said, “I’m one of the good ones.”
There was still a degree of cocky in his crooked smile, but his eyes were serious. You didn’t know quite how to feel, only that your own sense of self-preservation was throwing up several color-coded flags in your mind. The problem was, they all conflicted.
“If you say so,” you said, in a tone of acceptance. Pending evidence to the contrary.
“While I hope none of those points are from personal experience, I’ll bet I can change your mind,” he said.
“Oh, really? Wonder how long that’ll take,” you mused wryly.
“All right, you wanna up the stakes? Let’s say…30 days or less,” he bargained. Still, with that smile that did everything to compliment his handsome features: a GQ-worthy jawline covered by the kind of beard that wasn’t too rugged, clean lines, with enough scruff to run your nails through.
There was a quiet intensity to his eyes, hunter green. And if you were honest, his voice was the kind that likely knew how to make you wet.
But you’d already had your unfortunate entanglements with men like him. Hence the dating rule. After a while, the thrill wore off, and the reminder came—the one that said you’d always be second best to the job.
“What about me is making you this tenacious?” you asked.
“I’m good at reading people. Kind of part of the job description. But I’ve just got a feeling that you’re worth knowing,” he said, meeting your gaze. “Intimately.”
A blush flared hot in your cheeks. The man had nothing but audacity, and he knew how to sling it.
You managed to contain your reaction though, tilting your head up at him as you crossed your arms. You were all too aware of the fact that he was close enough for you to smell his cologne, hovering just on the edge of what was appropriate in the middle of a busy office.
Your lips parted, and you managed to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth.
“It’s been tried, Detective.”
The way his gaze roamed your face, then held your eyes…it made a warm tingle run up your spine.
Another slight smile curved his lips.
“I’ve got no doubt about that,” he said.
Despite the way you rolled your eyes and finally managed to slip around him, Mark won your smile.
He spied the edge of it before you brushed by him to get to your father’s office.
Day 3
You hadn’t been back to the station for another visit just yet, but that wasn’t unusual. Mark found out from Finau that you came around for lunch with your dad roughly every other week. Sometimes less, depending on your schedule and the Captain’s.
You two must have been close. Mark couldn’t exactly relate. His father had been the drag you by the ear between his next beer kind of parent.
Mark subtly (carefully) asked around with the people that knew you a little better, like Vanessa. A couple of drinks after work at his favorite bar led to a couple more at his apartment, and another homecoming.
When he mentioned how often you’d been visiting the station, Vanessa told him over morning coffee that you’d recently moved into an apartment in Central Alameda. You’d asked for her opinion on nearby gyms. You even told her you tried to go three days a week after work.
But this was fucking LA. That gave him a solid 15 options on gyms within a five-mile radius. Mark decided against checking out the yoga studio and the hot Pilates just yet, and went for the LA Fitness Vanessa suggested to you first.
Mark took advantage of a free trial day promotion. He knew it was a long shot to think he’d run into you—never mind the mild creep factor of this kind of reconnaissance.
But he wanted to see if he could catch you outside of the station, where your dad’s presence loomed large and his eyes were on Mark’s back like a red-hot target.
Day 4
Captain Polenta, Mark’s old CO in the Army, always told him he was fucking hardheaded. Stubborn. Unwilling to quit while he wasn’t ahead. Until he was—until he proved himself.
After that waste of time the previous afternoon, Mark lost patience and came by the gym again after work. The difference was, he was still dressed in his normal jeans and jacket combo rather than activewear. He whipped out his badge at the front desk. Some twenty-ish Timothée Chalamet looking dude was distracted on his phone. Mark thought he heard some kind of TikTok video playing.
“Hey, man. Detective Meachum. I’m looking for someone who might be a member here. Have you seen this woman come in here in the past few weeks?” he said, holding up a picture of you on his phone that he found on your Instagram profile.
“Uh…” Chalamet’s brows knitted together as he looked over the photo. He shook his head. “I don’t recognize her. What’d she do?”
“Can you look her up by name?” Mark asked.
Common tactic to avoid giving away unnecessary information: ask follow-up questions.
Chalamet looked annoyed, but he nodded.
“Yeah, what’s her name?”
Mark gave it to him, silently wondering why the fuck he hadn’t done this earlier.
The guy was able to tell him that while you didn’t have a membership, you’d come in for your own free trial day four months ago.
Mark decided to use the same tactic across four other gyms over the next few days, until he finally found you. Rise Bodyworks. A little bougie for his tastes, but he could see you fitting in with the small sea of tights and grip sock-wearing women, with their high ponytails swishing on the ellipticals or balancing mini hoola hoops between their thighs in the pilates room.
Interesting, he thought, his lips tugging upward.
He lingered near the front desk as he scoped the place out, and soon enough, he actually spotted you on a mat in the stretch zone. You had your own pair of tight-ass yoga pants, the straps of your sports bra crossed between your shoulders, your body curving into Warrior 2 as a fine sheen of sweat glistened on your bare skin.
Jesus Christ.
He ducked out quick to grab his exercise bag from the car. He was driving some bullshit sedan while his car was in the shop with an oil leak problem.
But in a rare moment of hesitation, he had to ask himself: Was he really about to do this?
Were you worth the trouble he was sure to rack up with the Captain if this little calculated risk didn’t pay off?
Again, Mark thought of that spark of challenge and appraisal in your eyes, the cheeky curve of your mouth.
Hell yeah, he thought. Understanding an order didn’t make it a good one to follow, and he’d come this far.
You breathed through your cooldown routine, bending forward at the waist for a full-body stretch. Your arms shook a little when you went into Downward Dog. You were lost in the music playing through your Airpods and the concentration you’d managed to maintain for the past hour, until felt the vibration of steps coming toward you.
You glanced up and nearly went cross-eyed at the sight of those familiar bowlegs approaching. You almost fell over when you took in the rest of the man. He was grabbing two 25-pound weights off the rack.
“Jesus!” you uttered, your knees sinking to the mat less gracefully than you would’ve liked.
It earned the attention of the detective, Mark fucking Meachum. He glanced over your way with a look of surprise. It soon melted into a grin as he took out his own Airpods.
“Well, hey. Small world,” he chuckled, veering over to your mat.
He offered you a hand to help you stand. This time, you actually took it, if with an edge of suspicion in your almost involuntary smile.
“What, are you following me?” you said, raising a brow.
“Come on. I’ve been coming here for a few weeks now,” Mark said. “I tend to work out in the morning though.”
“I…try to get here after work, when I can,” you said. You still didn’t know if you believed him, but you supposed it was possible. “Where do you live?”
“Not far,” he said. “You?”
Kind of vague, but you guessed you couldn’t blame him. You didn’t feel comfortable telling him you lived barely ten minutes away, most of which due to traffic.
“Same,” you said. “Well, um, have a good workout.”
You grabbed a hand towel you left on the ground and began rolling up your mat.
“You done already?” Mark teased. “That was some nice stretching, but I doubt that justifies the price of this little monthly membership.”
$50 a month was steep as hell. Thank fuck Mark was able to talk himself into a free seven-day trial with the girl at the front desk.
He grabbed your water bottle for you though, even as you eyed him in contemplation.
“FYI, I’ve already been here for an hour,” you said, gesturing at your sweaty arms and chest as you patted them dry with a hand towel. “But if you’re willing to take it easy on the treadmill, I guess I could use a longer cooldown.”
Mark nodded, setting the weights he grabbed back on the rack.
“Sounds good to me,” he said. “I should probably get some cardio in first before the lifting.”
“What’s your typical routine?”
“Oh, you know, start with 25 pounds each just to warm up. Then work my way up to about 175, 205 if I’m bench pressing.”
You noted the look he aimed your way, gauging your reaction. You smiled in amusement.
“Well, that is impressive,” you said.
He chuckled again. “You don’t sound like you believe me.”
“Oh, I sure do, Detective. You’ve got meaty man muscles upon muscles. That’s got to be worth at least a Police Star.”
You had a way with sarcasm. It sounded like silent laughter in between.
“All right, I warn you. I’ll bench press you if you want proof,” he teased.
You snorted, despite the prickle of a blush.
“That’s not necessary.”
Mark joined you at the treadmills, and you two fell into an easy walking pace side-by-side.
“Heard back on the job yet?” he asked.
You were surprised he remembered. “Um, yeah, actually. I have the second round tomorrow.”
“Good,” he nodded. “So, paralegal, huh? You aiming at being a lawyer?”
“Not so much,” you said. “I mean, that was my plan at first, since I was Pre-Law in college. But I was still studying for the LSAT when I worked for my first law firm. Defense attorneys who give the decent ones a bad name. They cared more about getting their Jag detailed than the scumbag clients they were representing.”
Mark hummed in commiseration. “I’ve been cross-examined for some cases. It’s no picnic. They’ll try anything to trip you up.”
“Yeah, because they’re assholes,” you said. “It made me realize that one day, I’d probably turn into exactly what these people were. I’d owe my cheating ex-husband alimony and let a nanny raise my kids. I’d live out of my office and survive on Red Bull for breakfast and depositions for dinner, until I’m successful enough to have the underling lawyers at the firm doing all the grunt work while I’ve upgraded to vodka tonics, trading witty repartee with rival lawyers instead of genuine conversation. That’s no way to fucking live.”
Mark wore a faintly amused look, just watching you. You couldn’t tell if he even heard what you just said, or if he was just trying to figure out when you’d take a breath.
“What?” you asked, smiling on reflex.
He shook his head. “Nothing. I’m just impressed. I wish my suspects were more like you. They’d crack under interrogation in .5 seconds.”
You had to laugh, holding onto the treadmill to keep yourself up and moving with the pace you set. Mark chuckled and briefly grabbed your hand too, for balance.
“My point is, the paralegal thing has been my way to pay the bills while I figured out what I actually want to do,” you said, meeting his eyes. “I want to do something that matters, you know, in a good way. I’m just…open to the possibilities.”
He nodded, still amused, but more genuine too. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
You shrugged. “Well, that’s where I’m at. What about you? Was being a cop always the plan?”
He whistled low and shook his head.
“Hell, no. Per my father, I thought I had a healthy mistrust of the whole system. That was until he had me enlist.”
Your brows rose in interest. “You were in the military?”
“Airborne Ranger, Sergeant in the 75th Ranger Regiment,” he said, taking some pride to do so, you noted.
But this time, you really were impressed.
“Very A-Team of you,” you remarked. “You probably know my dad was in Special Ops, a Weapons Sergeant.”
Mark nodded. “That I did. Kind of hard to believe he hasn’t moved further up the ladder in PD.”
“He doesn’t want to,” you said, quirking a smile. “He already resents the fact that he has to review budgets and all the other heaps of paperwork. He always says it only gets worse the higher up you go.”
“I hear that,” Mark said. “You’ll never catch me in a desk job. I’d go fucking comatose.”
You laughed. “Not enough adrenaline, huh? That why you were out for a year working for the Feds?”
He blinked in surprise.
“Well, well, look who’s done some due diligence of her own,” he teased. “You checking up on me?”
You rolled your eyes, despite your more reluctant smile.
“My dad told me. After you ran me over, I had to ask him who the hell you were.”
He hummed, gnawing on his lower lip.
“All right, what’s it gonna take for you to forgive me on that one, huh? I offered to take you out for a drink. Hell, I’ll take you to dinner. We can settle our little bet here and now.”
Your mouth pressed into a line.
“Oh, I know you haven’t forgotten about that,” Mark said knowingly. “I’m serious about it too.”
“I’m sure you are,” you replied. “Sorry, like I said. I don’t date cops anymore. Too much stress on my life that I don’t need.”
“Anymore,” he echoed with interest. “Okay, so there is a story there.”
You sighed, then laughed as you rubbed both hands over your face. You were probably smudging your makeup, but at this point you could care less.
This guy just didn’t quit.
Day 12
He didn’t manage to get your number out of you that day in the gym, but you did let it slip that you liked working out on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays if you could make it.
By Thursday, Mark had gotten some more stories out of you—namely the one where you’d actually dated an officer who’d gotten promoted to Sergeant a few months ago. Peter Callahan. Mark knew him by reputation: a bit of a kiss-ass when it came to the higher ups, but a solid cop overall.
It was hard for you to tell that story though. Mark saw the struggle in your eyes, the old scars that hadn’t made you hard, just guarded. He could understand that.
“Peter’s a good man,” you said eventually. “He just…didn’t have room in his life for me. Not where it mattered.”
Mark took that in with a nod, and a hum that didn’t really give his opinion one way or the other. Because that was the moment he began to doubt himself.
He started to think that maybe he should leave you alone after all.
You weren’t a Vanessa. And you wanted more than he could probably give you on his best day, after a twelve-hour shift finished kicking his ass.
But every time he considered ending this, whatever it was starting to be, a flash of your smile, your teasing, your sharp sense of humor, or that thing you did, when you swept your tongue across your lower lip after taking a sip from your water bottle—
It all kept him reeled in, somehow willing to pay for a gym membership he didn’t need, just to have an hour or two with you. He knew he was doing too much, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was worth it.
Day 18
The next time you saw Mark Meachum was in the lobby of the police station. Your dad told you to start calling him when you got there on Tuesdays. Instead of going all the way up to his office, he intended to meet you downstairs. You had a feeling it was less due to his schedule than it was the potential for…future collisions.
Too bad one of his Homicide detectives had basically gotten your scent embedded in his brain, like a goddamn dog.
Mark was on his way out when you were on your way into the station. The moment he saw you, a slow smile spread across his face.
“Hey, there. Been a minute,” he said, squeezing your arm in greeting. It wasn’t quite a hug, but it was close enough that you needed to crane your neck slightly to meet his gaze. Again, you could smell his cologne—musk and spice, with a hint of sandalwood. It was probably imprinted on the brown leather jacket he wore so often. It hung on his shoulders well.
You now knew just how broad and toned they were, since he always came to the gym wearing loose sleeveless shirts. He’d spotted you once while showing you how to deadlift the meager weight you could. His chest had been warm at your back, with his big, steady hands molded to the curve of your waist.
“Hey. On a case?” you asked, clearing your throat.
“Grabbing lunch real quick,” he said, a grin beginning to pull at his lips. “You’re welcome to join me.”
There was the slightest hesitation in your reply, and he didn’t miss it.
“Can’t exactly bail on my dad, can I?” you said.
“I’m sure he’d understand.”
“No, he wouldn’t. And you know that,” you said with a snort of laughter, shaking your head. “Jesus, you’re a walking warning label.”
He smirked. “Well, I promise the contents are worth a night of bad decisions.”
“One night, huh?” you said.
Mark’s lips quirked. “Your dad certainly doesn’t have to know about it.”
Your gaze lowered as you nodded in understanding. “Hmm, I get it.”
Mark paused, noting the way your demeanor began to shift on him. While he tried to work out why, you crossed your arms, your amusement fading.
“You know what, Mark, it doesn’t feel like this is about dating me. Feels like it’s about nailing the Captain’s daughter, with a side of bragging rights. Been a hot minute since I’ve heard that one,” you said.
Mark’s mouth parted, but he found himself in the unusual position of coming up empty on something to say. He followed you though, when you started to walk away from him. He called your name, more seriously.
“Listen, that’s not what I meant.”
You had no intention of stopping to hear him lie. You had a mind to just reschedule your lunch with your father all together. But you did pause for an older woman walking into the station. She looked uncertain, intimidated by the bustle of so many people—mostly officers and staff—in such a large, open space.
“You need some help?” you asked her.
“Uh, yes. I’m looking for a policeman—”
“Mrs. Silva?” Mark cut in. He stepped around you to greet her with a friendly, guiding touch on her shoulder, leading her away from the chaos of the central lobby.
You were curious enough to linger there, just close enough to hear their conversation.
“You have good timing. I was just about to step out,” Mark said. He reached into his pocket. “I’ve got something for ya.”
He pulled out a small plastic bag, marked Evidence.
“I spoke to the ADA, and I was able to convince him that this wasn’t essential evidence to the case,” he said.
Mrs. Silva took the bag with slightly shaking hands. She opened it and found a broken silver Rolex inside.
“I can give you the number of a good repair shop,” he said, pointing at the spindly crack at the corner of the watch face.
Mrs. Silva shook her head.
“I got this for him on our 25th anniversary,” she said, in a soft, unsteady voice. “Manuel was a bit of a butterfingers. He dropped it the first time he tried to put it on.”
She laughed and swiped a tear from her eye, then another.
“But when he picked it up, the watch still worked. So he wore it like that for twenty years more.”
Mark smiled. “My mom had an old shelf Dad built for her flowerpots. She kept that thing until it had rain rot and splinters.”
Mrs. Silva’s face warmed that slightest bit. She took his hands in hers, along with the watch.
“Thank you, mijo,” she said.
She even smiled at you on her way out. You reciprocated gently and opened the door for her. But after she left, you glanced back at Mark with mixed feelings. He might not have been as big of an asshole as you thought, but he was probably still an asshole.
He tried to close the distance between you, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Look, I’m—”
“Meachum,” the Captain said sharply. He’d just gotten off the elevator, and he met you with a hand on your shoulder. His gaze fell back on Mark. “Rivera has a case for you and Harmon. They’re waiting for you upstairs.”
“Yes, sir,” Mark said, biting back the sting of a lost opportunity.
Dan guided you toward the exit doors. You were annoyed at his obvious meddling, even if you were finally on the same page with him. And yet, you couldn’t help glancing over your shoulder.
Mark met your eyes for a moment, but ultimately, he didn’t have the follow through. He headed back toward the stairwell.
“A weekend cruise would be fun, but if we try to make it a girls’ only trip, Lauren’s going to throw a tit-fit that she can’t bring her man. Like seriously bitch, it’s been three months already. You can’t go three days without his dick?” Rachel said as she scrolled through her phone, looking at an Instagram reel of Top 10 Hottest Spots in Downtown LA.
You were sitting at your mom’s kitchen table, a glass of wine in your hand while you counted the number of paisley flowers across the table. After twenty minutes of this, you were starting to zone out of your own body.
“That’s the honeymoon phase. She still likes his dick,” you remarked.
Lisette was busy peeling garlic in the kitchen for the spaghetti, but she frowned in distaste at both you and your sister.
“Do you have to say dick at the table?” she asked. Rachel got up to grab a Celsius from the fridge.
You smirked. “You’re right, Mom. Best place is in the foyer. The acoustics are better.”
Rachel snuck up behind Lisette and leaned in close to her ear.
“Dick-dick-dick-dick-dick,” Rachel whispered, giggling when your mom grabbed a wooden spoon to swat her with.
“You both are horrible. I blame your father entirely,” she said, despite her amusement.
You snorted. Your dad, the literal army sergeant? Your mom’s attempt to implement the swear jar hadn’t even lasted through your fifth birthday.
“You married him,” you reminded her. Rachel rejoined you at the table and continued snacking on the salami and cheese Lisette put out. Your mom was nothing if not the perfect host, even when it was just her daughters coming over for a family dinner.
“Yes,” Lisette sighed. “A fact I have to contemplate every day. Speaking of, he got held up again. But he should be here by 7:00.”
“Right, so you mean 8:00,” you said, finishing off your glass of wine. “Time for more Chardonnay. What time is The Bachelor on again?”
Rachel grabbed onto your arm and held you back from leaving the table.
“Nooo, wait, you’re supposed to help me figure out what to do for my birthday!” She leaned over and showed you the list of clubs she was breezing through on her phone. “Look, this one’s new. It has a rooftop bar!”
“Why don’t we just go out to a nice restaurant. If you want to go dancing, I know a cool salsa club,” you suggested.
Rachel pouted. “I’m turning 25! I want to let loose and have some fun! You know what, I’m calling Yesenia. She’ll know what clubs are hot right now.”
You watched her go out to the back porch, restraining a sigh. You didn’t really want to be the de facto designated driver for these girls. They were mostly your friends in high school, who’d gotten used to Rachel tagging along with her older sister. But even now, they still acted a lot like Rachel, especially when they were drunk (or high).
She had a point though. It was her birthday, and she could go a little wild if she wanted to. Your job, as always, was making sure she didn’t go too far off the reservation.
A few days later, you ended up paying a whole $25 to park near Exchange LA, a trendy club in Downtown. You corralled Rachel and the other girls like herding cats—all the way from the parking garage and into the immense club. Already you could see the large TV screens and streaming lights. You felt the bass in the floor, vibrating in your chest and underneath your platform heels.
Well, here we go.
It was damn near three in the morning when Mark handed his perp off to Murphy, one of the officers in Booking. After thirty-six hours on a stakeout, he finally caught her coming back to regroup at her mom’s house, after shooting her cheating ex-boyfriend and taking back her cat.
But what Mark saw in one of the other female holding cells made him pause. He blinked in disbelief.
He found you, sitting on a bench with a young woman laying down with her head in your lap. Both of you looked frizzy and wrecked, your mascara and eyeliner dark around your eyes, lipstick smudged, along with a bruise forming under your eye.
The moment you recognized him, your lips pursed, and you looked away in embarrassment.
Two other women were sitting near you—he assumed they were your friends. They were trying to sleep sitting up against the wall with the pairs of their six-inch heels resting in a line on the bench beside them.
“What the hell?” he said incredulously. “Is this a fucking Bridesmaids reenactment?”
He looked around and realized that there were three other women in the next holding cell, similarly dressed like they’d just come from a club. And they were even more fucked up than you and yours. One girl had tissues stuffed up her nose and dried flecks of blood on her dress.
You sighed tiredly and rolled your eyes heavenward. “Of fucking course.”
“What the fuck happened here?” he asked.
“My sister’s birthday.”
“Okay. So, what, not enough Magic Mike strippers to go around?”
You snorted. “I’m never going to another fucking club in Downtown again. The girls hit harder than their boyfriends.”
At that, Mark frowned harder, but he nodded at the officer who came through to check on the scene. Perfect timing.
“Hey, Murphy. Get this door open for me, would ya?”
Murphy came over, giving you and the others a once over to make sure you were fine. He was resistant to Mark’s request though.
“They haven’t been processed yet.”
Mark’s frown deepened.
“Don’t you know who the fuck they are?” he said, gesturing at you and your sister with a jab of his thumb.
“Yeah, we called the Captain. He said to leave ‘em there ‘til morning.”
Mark had a hard time believing that, but he showed the officer his watch.
“Well, look at that. It’s 3:00 a.m. I’d say that’s morning,” Mark snapped. “Open the goddamn cell, Murph.”
Your previous annoyance slowly melted into surprise. You perked up hopefully.
The officer shot Mark a terse look, but the detective knew how to throw his weight. It was just enough to let him inside the cell so he could help you up, then your sister and your grateful friends. They murmured their sleepy thank yous while slowly putting their shoes back on.
“Seriously, what happened?” he asked. He touched the side of your head lightly as he got a closer look at the bruise under your eye.
You winced on reflex, but seeing the note of concern in his eyes, you almost smiled. You finally gave in with a sigh.
“I took them to Exchange,” you said. “It was crowded and crazy, but it didn’t get bad until we were all a couple drinks in. In Rachel’s case, more like a few. This guy was all over her on the dance floor.”
“Jesus, I was just vibing,” she interjected.
“Fine, I’m just telling him what happened,” you said to her. Then you returned Mark’s gaze, more than a little exasperated. “To be fair, she was just letting loose. How the hell was she supposed to know this fucking guy had a girlfriend?”
You gestured at the cell next door. As far as you were concerned, those were the real perpetrators. “One of those bitches came out of nowhere and started running her mouth. By the time I got over there to try and deescalate, she was dragging my sister like a ragdoll, and her asshole friends were helping her. I caught a few strays just pulling them off each other. Then shitty boyfriend joined in, and it all was fucking insane. But when Security finally showed up, they didn't ask any questions on who started it, and they didn't care! They just dragged all of us out.”
You rubbed your arm in annoyance as it all replayed in your mind like a shitty reel.
Mark noticed a bruise there too, right above your elbow.
“I’ll take care of this,” he said.
Within the hour, you, Rachel, and your friends were free to go, as were the other girls who attacked you and your sister. As it turned out, they were vacationers from New York. They had more than learned their lesson.
Mark called the club and talked the manager out of pressing charges for the disturbance and damages, especially the glass you shattered over the skeevy boyfriend’s head.
But by then, your father arrived at the station, just in time to chew you and your sister out in his office. But mostly you.
“Fucking disgraceful,” he snapped. “How could you let this happen? You’re supposed to look out for her, not let her reenact Girls Gone Wild at the fucking club!”
You crossed your arms defensively, on her behalf. She looked sad and pitiful sitting in the spare chair, even with his jacket thrown over her shoulders.
“She’s an adult, Dad, and not a damn nun either,” you argued. “And I was looking out for her—”
“Really? Is that why you’re both all tore up, looking like a couple of scrapping junkies? You could've just called Security over, instead of engaging in a goddamn free-for-all,” he said cuttingly. “And you’re the one who wants to work for the DA’s office. What if Valwell hears about this little stunt, huh? What’s he gonna ask me the next time I gotta be in the same room with him? You oughta think about your reputation—and how it’s going to reflect on me—before you go smashing bottles over people’s goddamn heads.”
You looked away, your jaw clenching. Mark caught a glimpse of tears welling up, even though you tried to blink them back. Until now, he’d been a silent watcher from where he stood against the wall with his arms crossed. But he felt compelled to say something.
“It sounds to me like she stopped a creep from taking advantage of her sister, and his crazy bitch from thrashing her on the dance floor,” he said, earning the steely look of his captain. “I’d say that protective instinct reflects pretty well on you, sir.”
Dan held up a finger, aiming his firm glare at Mark.
“Now’s a good fucking time for you to butt out, Meachum. Matter of fact, you’re dismissed for tonight. Go home,” he said.
You looked over at Mark, a hesitation in your eyes as you blinked back their watery shine. His lips quirked, but he followed his orders and stepped out of the office, heading out of those glass double doors.
Rachel sniffled, wiping at her own tears.
Dan let out a heavy exhale. “Come on,” he said, reaching to help her up with a note of gentleness. He nodded up at you.
“Let’s go. I’ll take you home,” he said.
“It’s fine. I can drive myself. I need to pick up my car anyway. It’s sitting in a parking garage racking up an hourly fee,” you said. You swept your hair away from your face to disguise the way you brushed away any remnants of tears.
Dan hesitated. He realized then that he may have been a little hard on you.
“It’s almost four o’clock in the morning. Just let me take you over there,” he said.
“Sorry, I can’t be in a car with you right now,” you said, grabbing your jacket and your purse off the floor. You stepped out of his office and headed for the hallway elevators on aching feet.
When you stepped off, the lobby was dark and empty—except for the two night guards, and one Detective Meachum.
He stood leaning against the wall with a hand resting in his pocket, the longer strands of his hair falling forward as he scrolled through his phone. He looked up at you with a smile. Your face slackened in shock and confusion.
“What are you still doing here?” you asked.
“You left your car behind, right?” he said.
You shook your head with a huff of laughter.
“Didn’t exactly have a choice on that one,” you remarked, quirking your head. “What if I had come down with my dad? You really do have a death wish, don’t you?”
“Calculated risk,” he said, grinning a little. “I’ll give you a ride Downtown if you want. Or, I can just take you home. I’ll call in a favor and have your car dropped off at your apartment in a few hours.”
You didn’t know what to make of this guy. But you also didn’t have a lot of time to deliberate. You knew your dad and sister had to be coming down on the next elevator. Your nails tapped against your purse in contemplation.
“I’ll give it to you. You’re trying real hard to get into my panties,” you muttered.
“It’s got nothing to do with your panties, though I know better than most what a sexy sight that is,” Mark said, earning a flicker of your reluctant smile.
More earnestly, he said, “Are you gonna let me help you, or what?”
You sighed in defeat.
“All right, Mark,” you said. “What do you drive?”
“A sexy Ford Bronco. 1975. But it’s in the shop at the moment, so I’m stuck with a Chevy. This way, please.”
He fell into step with you as you switched directions and headed toward the staff parking lot out back. He matched your slower pace to rest a supportive hand on the small of your back. You looked exhausted, cranky, and sore enough to fall ass over tea kettle.
He held the door open for you when you reached the end of the hall, and held you steady by your arms when the cooler winter air buffeted you back against his chest.
He shrugged out of his jacket, pulling it over your bare shoulders. He liked the look of you in the little black dress you had on, even better in those heels. You murmured your thanks, your hand brushing with his when it fell away from your arm.
You were starting to picture that Bronco he mentioned, even as you approached his rental car, a silver Chevy Cruze.
“1975, huh?” you mused. “The year of Jaws and rioting Led Zeppelin fans.”
“You’re a Zep fan?” Mark asked in pleasant surprise.
You smirked. “Through Good Times and Bad Times.”
He smiled too. “The Song Remains the Same.”
“Call it my ‘Immigrant Song.’”
“Only ‘In My Time of Dying,’” he replied, opening the passenger side door for you.
You hesitated there, leaning against the side of his car for a moment. You met his eyes with a cheekier curve of your lips.
“Good one. I guess ‘You Shook Me,’” you said, “all night long.”
You ducked into the car, and Mark shut the door for you. He jangled his keys in hand as he made his way to the driver’s side. He smiled to himself and quirked his head.
“Okay,” he said to himself.
Whatever the next hour was going to be, he was up for it.
It was still dark when he walked with you from his car to your apartment building. You punched in the code that let both of you inside the lobby. Only one hazy light was on to let you actually see the way down to the elevator, but you stopped short, slipping out of the jacket and the scent of his cologne washing over you. You handed it back to him.
“Thank you. For tonight and…everything,” you said. Your voice was laden with more than one meaning, and he read them all.
His lips tugged upward. “You’re welcome.”
You considered him then, wondering if he was going to be bold enough to ask you how grateful you really were.
“I’ve heard some things about you, you know,” you said.
“Uh oh,” he said in amusement.
“Let’s see. My dad called you a pain in his ass. You have a reputation for being reckless, with surprisingly little regard for protocol or paperwork, for that matter,” you said, a smirk playing at your lips. It soon faded though. “One thing you do seem to appreciate is the hard work of my dad’s office assistant, Vanessa. Then there’s Anette in Billing, Officer Bella Hastings, and let’s not forget Nina, the receptionist in HR.”
His chuckle was a bit strained. He ran a hand through his hair and rubbed absently along his neck.
“Okay. You’ve certainly done your research,” he said, crossing his arms as his head tilted. “Which means you’ve been contemplating this, you and me.”
“It means, I do appreciate what you’ve done for me tonight, but I don’t think I’m what you’re looking for,” you said.
He hummed, his gaze dipping down to your mouth, and back up to your eyes.
“Oh really, and what’s that?” he asked. “Since you think you know me so well.”
“I think you’re the guy who throws everything he has into the job, because that’s what it demands. I’m familiar with the type,” you said wryly. “So you look for what’s convenient in the half a second you let yourself breathe—between the bastard you’ve got in front of you, and finding the next one who murders a man for his fucking jacket.”
Mark took a calculated step closer, beginning to breathe your air.
“Think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?” he asked.
Your gaze met his, direct and firm.
“I’m not convenient, Mark. I’ve already been down that road, and I don’t like bullshit.”
“No, I don’t imagine you do,” he said. “And I respect that. But you gotta know, the fact that you’re telling me this after you just spent the night barefoot in jail for beating some dude’s ass—”
“I was protecting my sister, okay?”
“Exactly,” he smiled, gesturing at your frizzy hair, the strap of your dress slipping down your shoulder, and the heels hanging from the tips of your fingers. “This is just about the sexiest thing I can imagine.”
Somehow, he got you to smile.
No matter how much you fought it, a bubble of laughter managed to escape you too.
He laughed with you, then gave into the itch to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheek. He got to feel the warmth of your blush. By now you’d fixed some of your smudged makeup, but it didn’t take away from your natural beauty. A rarity in this town.
Your mouth parted softly, but for the first time he could remember, you were at a loss for words.
“You know, tomorrow marks 30 days,” he said, with a teasing grin. “It also happens to be my day off. How about you let me take you out. Give me one day, and you make your judgment call on me. I’ll respect whatever you decide. But just so you know, while I also respect your father, I don’t give a shit that he’s your dad. What I’m not looking for is bragging rights.”
You bit your lower lip as you thought it over.
At the very least, he heard you. He seemed to respect you too. He cared about you enough to make sure you didn’t spend the night in jail, and made sure you got home safe.
Your head was telling you one thing, but maybe if you gave him a chance, he’d prove you wrong.
So, you smiled.
“All right, Mark. You’ve got a deal,” you said. “Tomorrow around 5?”
“Let’s do it. I’ll pick you up,” he nodded.
You tacitly agreed, though a mischievous idea had you wanting to test his resolve. Smiling, you adjusted the shoulder strap of your dress back into place. You turned on your heel, hesitating on purpose as you fiddled with the back zipper at the base of your neck.
“Hey, would you mind helping me with this? I always have a hard time with this dress,” you said, sweeping your hair to the side.
Mark’s brows arched high. That certainly wasn’t what he was fucking expecting. But you had a habit of keeping him on his toes.
“Sure,” he said, clearly his throat.
He stepped in behind you, close enough to feel body heat. He took the edge of your collar between his fingers and started dragging the zipper down slow. He drunk in every inch of your smooth skin that he exposed.
“All the way?” he asked.
“Halfway is good,” you said. He wasn’t able to see your smile, but he heard it.
Little minx.
Mark obliged you, but his hands lingered, his knuckles just brushing your spine. He was very tempted to lean in and lay his lips wherever you allowed him, starting with the side of your neck, and moving downward from there. But he knew, this had to be a damn test.
“Thank you,” you breathed.
Then you walked away from him, heading toward the elevator. As you went, he watched you reach back with nimble fingers and drag the zipper the rest of the way down, past the small of your back, stopping just above your ass. He followed the natural curves with his eyes.
And his jeans were getting tight.
You turned on your heels and hit the elevator button for your floor. You met his eyes, and the tease of your smile made him shake his head in amusement. You were a cruel woman.
“Goodnight,” you said.
“‘Night, sweetheart,” he said, just as the elevators closed.
Afterward, he quirked his head and turned to leave. He accidently pushed on the pull handle of the exit door, making him stumble slightly. Clearing his throat, he stepped out more smoothly on the second try. He headed back to his car, like that didn’t just get caught on the surveillance cameras.
He was taking today as a win though.
He had a date.
AN: loll not always as smooth as he thinks he is. 😆 How'd you like the very start of their story? 💛
And are you ready for the steamy continuation of their first date, directly after Pedal Down? 😏
Next Time — in One Good Try:
“Third floor, huh? I like that,” Mark said.
His beard rasped along your neck as he pressed a kiss there. He smelled like dulce de leche churros from the Mexican restaurant he took you to—like caramel, cinnamon sugar, and whiskey. You would never admit to melting a little more, your head tilting with a sigh as you braced yourself against the elevator wall. You needed the stability.
“Why’s that?” you asked.
“Safer than the ground floor,” he said, humming in pleasure as he inhaled your perfume. “That’s nice. What’s that, Burberry?”
“Yves Saint Laurent,” you replied, smiling harder, trying not to.
“Fancy,” he murmured against your skin.
“It was a birthday gift.”
He wondered if your ex, Sergeant Perfect, was the one to get it for you. But he realized that it didn’t matter. Mark had a hold of you now, and he didn’t feel inclined to let go.
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⋆ compound v latches onto your scorpio stellium first—sun, mercury, venus, jupiter, and pluto all packed into the same sign like an emotional pressure chamber with excellent instincts. you feel things deeply, but you don’t experience emotion as something soft and simple. you absorb subtext, tension, pain, dishonesty, the little shift in the room before anyone admits something is wrong. then your pisces moon makes the membrane between you and everything around you even thinner. people, animals, nature, atmosphere—you pick up more than most. virgo rising tries to organize it, make it useful, stay composed. compound v finds the part of you that has spent too long carrying feelings that were not always yours and asks the nastiest possible question: what if you could give them back?
⋆ your manifested ability would be biological resonance transfer. you can sense emotional and physical distress as a living pulse, then redirect it through organic matter around you. fear, pain, grief, rage—you can pull it from one body and push it into roots, soil, vines, moss, bark, even the water stored inside leaves. when controlled, you can calm injured people and frightened animals, settle panic responses, and absorb pain long enough to get someone to safety. when threatened, though, the stored energy comes back out. roots burst through concrete. branches twist toward whoever caused the harm. vines lock around wrists and throats. flowers open too quickly and darken at the edges as the ground physically reacts to the emotional charge you fed it. beautiful from a distance. deeply upsetting up close.
⋆ your power intensifies when you witness cruelty, betrayal, suffering, or emotional manipulation. pisces moon makes you porous, scorpio placements make you intense, and mars in sagittarius gives the reaction a sharp moral streak: once something feels wrong, you don’t want a gentle little debate about it. you want the truth. immediately. saturn in aquarius adds another trigger around systems that harm people while pretending to be neutral. if someone exploits vulnerability, treats living things as disposable, or tries to turn compassion into weakness, the environment around you starts answering before you do. the calm version of you is soothing. the angry version of you makes the floor crack.
⋆ the drawback is emotional contamination. you can move pain, but you still have to touch it first. every transfer leaves a residue in your nervous system: nausea, shaking hands, exhaustion, intrusive flashes of someone else’s fear, a heaviness in the chest that’s difficult to name. overuse can also make the boundary between your feelings and everyone else’s harder to find. physically, your skin develops thin dark veins around the wrists and collarbone, almost root-like, after carrying too much at once. emotionally, the real danger is self-erasure. because if you can ease suffering, how do you decide when not to? how do you walk away without feeling guilty? compound v doesn’t just weaponize your empathy. it tempts you to drown in it.
⋆ vought would name you wildheart. it sounds warm, natural, trustworthy, and conveniently vague enough to hide the part where you can turn a landscaped corporate courtyard into a hostage situation. “wild” sells the nature imagery, instinct, freedom, and untamed edge. “heart” sells compassion, animals, healing, softness, the public-friendly fantasy that your power exists to comfort people. vought would absolutely describe you as “nature’s guardian” in press releases while quietly adding reinforced flooring to every room you enter.
⋆ publicly, vought would brand you as the gentle eco-protector. animal rescue campaigns, conservation partnerships, soft green visuals, flowing silhouettes, maybe a truly unbearable skincare sponsorship involving botanical extracts. the public would see you as calming, intuitive, elegant, compassionate, almost ethereal. behind the scenes, though, vought would struggle with you badly. you feel too much, notice too much, and your scorpio placements don’t respond well to manipulation once you identify it. they would want the sweet nature supe who comforts frightened children and poses with rescue animals. what they would actually get is someone who can feel the rot inside a room before the executives finish smiling.
.𖥔˚ 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭,
⋆ your closest friend would be kimiko. the friendship would begin quietly because neither of you needs emotional intimacy turned into a performance. your pisces moon would understand the feelings she doesn’t always put into words, while your scorpio placements would respect her privacy instead of treating her pain like something to solve for your own comfort. she’d trust that you’re gentle without being fragile. you’d trust that her violence doesn’t erase her softness. there’d be a lot of shared silence, little acts of care, animals wandering over to sit near both of you, and the occasional moment where one look is enough to establish that somebody else in the room is being deeply annoying.
⋆ romantically and sexually, you’d feel pulled toward frenchie. scorpio venus wants depth, intensity, loyalty, and the kind of emotional honesty that feels slightly dangerous because it gets underneath the skin. pisces moon is drawn to softness, creativity, brokenness, and people who understand that tenderness isn’t the same thing as innocence. frenchie has that exact strange little combination: chaotic, observant, guilty, affectionate, capable of finding beauty in things other people recoil from. the pull would be intimate fast, even if the relationship itself develops slowly. very late-night confessions, careful touch, shared guilt, and the occasional argument because both of you are too willing to carry pain that was never meant to become your permanent luggage. tender. messy. possibly healing if neither of you turns martyrdom into a love language.
⋆ you would clash badly with homelander. your whole chart would recoil from the way he treats empathy as weakness and affection as ownership. scorpio placements would see the fear underneath his cruelty, pisces moon would feel the emotional damage radiating off him, and mars in sagittarius would eventually stop caring about diplomacy. he’d hate you because your power responds to the suffering he causes. every frightened person in the room becomes evidence. every living thing around you becomes part of the witness statement. he wants to control the atmosphere through fear. you make the atmosphere answer back. not ideal for his ego.
⋆ the boys would recruit you, but with real concern about the cost. your power is useful for extraction, de-escalation, tracking emotional distress, calming civilians, and turning outdoor spaces into tactical advantages without immediate lethal force. mm would respect your care but insist on boundaries. hughie would trust you quickly, maybe too quickly, because your presence physically makes panic easier to breathe through. frenchie would be fascinated, obviously. kimiko would understand you fastest. butcher would value the results and absolutely push too hard if nobody stopped him, because compassion is still a resource to him when the stakes get ugly. the boys wouldn’t try to kill you unless you lost yourself completely in everyone else’s pain. more likely, they would try to pull you back before vought turns your empathy into an industrial extraction method.
⋆ you could almost make it into the seven, but you’d reject it once the truth became impossible to ignore. vought would want you badly because the branding is perfect: beautiful, compassionate, environmentally conscious, emotionally resonant, safe enough for families, dramatic enough for rescue footage. but the seven would expose you to too much rot too quickly. you’d feel the fear in the halls, the grief behind closed doors, the panic under polished smiles. vought would ask you to use your power to make the aftermath look cleaner without stopping the harm that caused it. you wouldn’t last. one day, the landscaping outside vought tower would start moving, and everybody in legal would suddenly have a very bad afternoon.
.𖥔˚ 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬,
compound v did not give you empathy. it gave every feeling you carried a root system and taught the ground how to remember—⌞ 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝 ⌝
want to know what compound v would do to you? file access is open through my ko-fi. ⌞ breached ⌝
Oh this was soooo much funnnn (I've read it a couple of times by now, always kicking my feet and giggling feelin all diabolical heh)
Those powers sound so friggin coool?! and yup, I'd absolutely take that whole tower hostage before walking out to join the Boys lmao 🙂↕️
And I LOVE LOVE LOVE the supe name "Wildheart". I think it fits me pretty well actually? I'd definitely vibe with Kimiko, ahhh and Frenchie, mon loulou fou. <3
I mean, all of this resonates so well with me 😍
Thank you for the amazing reading, @notmeolive !! 🫶 Y'all go and support her right now!!
(I lowkey hoped for Ben to make a small appearance 😂 buuuuut I also know that in reality, I - I mean Wildheart lol - would be so friggin annoyed by his macho talk that she'd just try (and fail) to strangle him with a bunch of roots and vines while he'd call her a pentup tree hugger ☠️)
"You meet Sam and Dean Winchester on a hot summer afternoon when you’re seven. You don’t know it yet, but they will become the most important part of your life."
WARNINGS
This story is Sam x reader x Dean, as well as Dean x reader and Sam x reader.
Specific warnings can be found on the individual chapters, but here are some general ones I found important to mention ahead of time.
Neglectful parents. Referenced sexual abuse. Polyamory. Heartbreak. Pregnancy & child birth. Explicit sexual content.
A NOTE ON CANON DIVERGENCE
I've taken some big liberties with canon (I hardly know her) that will become apparent while reading, but here is the gist of it:
Mary Campbell makes a deal for her lover's life with a cross-roads demon and is killed by it ten years later. John goes on the hunt for the demon and takes his infant and toddler sons with him. Sam isn't fed demon blood. The brothers aren't the warriors chosen by heaven and hell to fight an apocalyptic battle.
They are just boys, not loved enough or not the right way. Rough around the edges.
They spend their summers at Bobby Singer's house in Sioux Falls. This is where they meet you.
PARTS & CHAPTER OVERVIEW
New chapters on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
PROLOGUE - If only things could be like this forever - 6/11/26
PART I masterlist - 6/11/26
PART II masterlist
PART III masterlist
PART IV masterlist
PART V masterlist
I want to thank @kblognar for their amazing help with this fic, for getting my head straight when I went down the rabbit hole and for loving the bbys probably nearly as much as I do. I also want to thank @ambiguous-avery @aniresrene @bettystonewell @jollyreads @aseafullofstars, all of who I have yapped at about this and who have been there to support and help! This was two years in the making and I am ready for this baby to see the world.❤️
Summary: He picked up the phone. He ignored the shake in his hand as his thumb pressed a series of digits he’d long ago memorized, just in case he ever had to call you from a phone that wasn’t his, on a line that couldn’t be traced. This was one of those times.
AN: This can be a stand-alone one-shot, but it fits well in the Every Second Counts-verse — between Bubbly and Breaking Point. (Inspired by 3x22 but not set in that episode.)
Posted on Patreon: May 29, 2026
Word Count: 2.7K
Tags & Warning: Angst, blood, “last words,” Colter sighting, hurt/comfort, tinge of spice and implied smut
You were really gonna kill him this time.
A grunt passed between his lips as he moved his hand back an inch, catching a gnarly glimpse of oozing blood and raw flesh under the soaked bandage square.
Yep. Smothered in his sleep, that was his bet. Or maybe a little Raid sprayed on his food—that would be creative. Because you knew he couldn’t resist your cooking.
Russell groaned and tried to push himself off the wall, but his body wouldn’t budge.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
He was a sitting fucking duck here. Literally.
A labored breath escaped him, along with another rivulet seeping through his shirt. His free hand itched for the cell phone lying beside him on the cement. Backup was on the way, taking a bit long though.
Time was always the question and the challenge. The decisions in between were what he was usually good at, even in moments like these.
He picked up the phone. He ignored the shake in his hand as his thumb pressed a series of digits he’d long ago memorized, just in case he ever had to call you from a phone that wasn’t his, on a line that couldn’t be traced. This was one of those times.
The line rang so long, he was losing hope that you’d answer.
Until your voice finally greeted him, with a raspy clearing of your throat and sleep-laden confusion.
“Hello?”
His lips raised toward a smile. “Hey, sweetheart. Sorry I woke you.”
“Russ? Hey…what’s this number you’re calling me from? You okay?” you asked. He heard the shifting of fabric.
He could imagine you sitting up in bed, leaning on your elbow as the sheets slid down your body a little. He closed his eyes. He could pretend he was there with you, sliding in from behind and burying his face in the familiar hollow of your neck and shoulder. Your hair would tickle his forehead, but he’d get the flowery mix of your soap and body lotion stuck in his nose, rather than the copper tang of blood.
“Yeah, everything’s cool,” Russell said. He bit the inside of his lip as the gray ceiling momentarily turned charcoal in his vision. There was numbness in his fingertips. “Just had a minute, wanted to check up on you.”
“I’m good,” you said. “Miss you though.”
He was trying to keep his breathing shallow, but he needed a deeper one then.
“Miss you too, baby.”
“When will you be home?”
“Soon as I can,” he said, stifling another pained grunt as he shifted against the wall. “Keep the lights on for me.”
“Yeah? Last time you said that, you were held up for three weeks," you said wryly. "Think I need to collab with Dory and invent a virtual lie detector."
“You know what, maybe you should just tell me what you’re wearing. Give me some ideas on how to make it up to you when I get home,” he teased, though it ended on a shallow cough.
His gaze wandered the warehouse. It looked like it hadn’t been in use for a while, but he could smell the remnants of sawdust and mildew in the air. The only light came from the slivers filtering in through the closed exit doors, and a small window for ventilation near the ceiling.
He didn’t think he’d go out in a fucking backwoods middle of nowhere place like this, but it was as decent as any he could expect in this line of work. Good enough, if he got to talk to you first.
But you didn’t laugh like he expected.
“Baby,” you said. Concern crept back in. “For real, are you okay? You don’t sound right.”
“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Just a little tired. Waiting on someone to get here, so we can get this show on the damn road.”
Just then, he heard the sound of wide tires pulling to a stop outside the warehouse. Russell didn’t relax just yet. That could've either been his backup, or his target's delayed reinforcements. He tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder on his right side, wincing at the pain the movement caused as he reached for his gun.
“Actually, they just got here. Gotta let you go,” he said.
“Russ, wait.”
“I love the sound of your voice, you know that?” he said, flickering at a smile. “And I love you.”
“…I love you too,” you said, on a slightly unsteady breath.
He knew he hadn’t convinced you that everything was fine. You were too smart, knew him too well by now.
Regardless, he had to hang up. Then he raised his gun at an angle that still kept his elbow steady, resting against his side.
The door scraped against the ground as it opened. The man’s tall gait came in swiftly, then picked up speed. Russell’s vision might've been blurring on the edges, but he recognized that blonde head. He was able to relax, lowering his gun.
“Russ,” Colter said, grabbing his brother’s shoulder that didn’t have a hole shot through it, just inches below. “Hey, you with me?”
“Mhmm,” Russell said, as his eyes closed on him for a second. He forced himself to stay awake through sheer willpower. “Not goin’ anywhere, little brother.”
“That’s right,” Colter said more firmly. The worry was clear in his brown eyes, but he smiled anyway, digging into the small duffel he brought with him. He went for the antiseptic and the bandages first, then the pliers. “You’re lucky I wasn’t too far.”
He moved back Russell’s jacket, then tore at the collar of his grimy, blood-stained shirt.
“Who me? I’m fine,” Russell said. “I’ve had way worse than this.”
“You don’t look fine,” Colter said, trying to gently pry Russell’s hand away from the wound. “Here, let me see.”
“I’m good.”
“No, you’re not. Move your hand so I can see?”
Russell smirked. “So bossy.”
Despite himself, Colter shook his head in amusement.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle. You should see the other guy.”
“Right. That’s why you called me, because you have this all handled.”
Russell’s body seized up with a flinch at Colter’s pliers seeking the fat piece of bullet still lodged inside his chest.
“Hey, have a heart, huh?" Russell complained. "Some anesthetic, please.”
It was another 18 hours before Russell’s Chevelle Malibu crossed the threshold of Wyoming’s state line, and another two before he stopped in the driveway outside the modest house he now called home.
He was slow moving as he hefted his duffel bag. Every step was a calculated trudge up the wide, white stones of the pathway. The neighborhood was quiet after dark, but the porch light was on. It was his target, and his beacon.
He unlocked the front door with his keys and found mostly darkness, except for the warm glow of the hallway light. He didn’t have time to make it there though—not when you were already hurrying out from the master bedroom to meet him.
He smiled at the sight of you in a tank-top and your most well-worn sweatpants, but you looked more relieved than happy. The kind of relief that wasn’t calm, even when your hands were on him, gripping his leather jacket like you were making sure he was actually there. He let his duffel fall those few inches to the hardwood floor.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, though he stiffened and grunted in pain when your hands landed on his shoulders. Specifically, his left.
You pulled back on reflex, gasping softly. You stared up at him in worry. He looked so pale...
“It’s okay,” he said, holding you by your waist. “It’s just—”
You didn’t wait for his inevitable lie. You were verging on angry as you carefully pulled down the zipper of his jacket.
“Uh, wait a minute,” Russell said, but you couldn’t be placated. You wouldn’t let him stop you from finding whatever he didn’t want you to see.
Soon, you almost wish you had.
“Oh my God,” you breathed, though it was choked by tears as you took in the blood covering the entire left side of his gray plaid.
He had a red-tinged bandage covering the area just above his heart. It was held in place by medical tape and stretchy gauze that wrapped around his shoulder and under his arm. His chest and stomach were stained with crimson blotches leading from the wound. He smelled like rust and antiseptic, grime and sweat.
He watched every shade of your reaction, from shock to dismay. In hindsight, he should've at least tossed the shirt.
“Russell, what the fuck?” you said shakily.
His hand raised to cradle your cheek, earning your attention back up to his face rather than his body. His thumb caressed your skin, brushed away some tears.
“It looks worse than it is,” he said.
You shook your head. “You need to go to a hospital."
“I already got patched up. It’s okay, just need to sleep it off,” he replied. Colter had stabilized him enough to take him to the closest ER for the stitches. Colt even stuck with him until the doctor was done, probably to make sure Russell actually sat through the whole process.
“It’s not okay,” you snapped. “It’s not fucking okay.”
You stepped away from him and retreated back into the bedroom, holding a trembling hand to your mouth as you went.
He didn’t exactly know if he was welcome, but he really needed a shower and a solid night’s sleep, and he never slept better than when he was beside you.
But you avoided looking at him as you got ready for bed, haphazardly ripping off throw pillows and pulling back the comforter. Russell noticed your laptop on the nightstand, no less than three half-drunk mugs of coffee pushed back by the lamp, as well as a small hoard of candy wrappers and a bowl of popcorn on the floor. It was near four in the morning, and you hadn’t even tried to go to sleep. Or more likely, you couldn’t.
Russell carried the weight of that guilt into the adjoining bathroom, where he started by slowly trying to take off his jacket. He got halfway through peeling the sleeve off his left shoulder before the sharp pull of his wound forced a hiss from between his teeth.
“Fuck,” he said under his breath. There were more grunts and struggles, though he tried to keep it quiet. Once the jacket was a useless pile on the floor, he got a better look at his tattered shirt and released a steadying breath, almost shrugging at himself. All right, here goes.
He pulled back the collar of his shirt, but dried blood had adhered the fabric to the sensitive skin around his wound.
“Goddamn it,” he said lowly.
The bathroom door slid open. You paused in the entryway and crossed your arms, taking in every ridiculous part of this.
For once, Russell didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to upset you (anymore), and he had a feeling you’d appreciate a you should see the other guy joke even less than Colter had.
“Sit,” you said, pointing at the closed toilet lid.
“I got this,” Russell said. But you pinned him with a sharp look.
“Russell, sit down.”
He quirked his head. “Okay. Yes, ma’am.”
Your lips almost curved upward, but you remained firm. Your hands were gentle though; they grasped his arm and helped him sit. You started with the easiest part, kneeling down on the tile floor to unlace his boots.
Russell wanted to tell you that you didn’t have to do it, but he also didn’t want to rile you up again. Instead, he steadied himself by grabbing the edge of the counter. Guilt twinged more heavily in his heart as he watched you slide off his left boot. He tried to help you with the right one, hooking his foot behind the heel, but you laid a hand on his knee.
“I’ll do it,” you said, your gaze flicking up to his. “Just stay still.”
Russell paused, but he conceded. Soon you’d worked off his boots and socks, then slowly, his shirt. He held you to him afterward, by your hips. You saw that even his hands were stained pink. Either he’d scrubbed them raw or hadn’t scrubbed them hard enough.
“What happened?” you asked.
“Just…you know, got clipped,” he said. “It’s no big deal. As you can see, I’m fine.”
You shot him a flat look. “How did it happen?”
He sighed. “You know I can’t tell you that.”
That you did, but you hated it anyway. Your gaze once again drew to the web of bandages wrapped around his right shoulder. Your fingertips landed just beside the thickest padding above his heart. Russell’s hand covered yours.
“Thank you...and I’m sorry,” he said at last. “Didn’t mean to worry you.”
Your lips pursed. You took his face in your hands, a touch softer as you stroked his bearded cheeks. He was still too pale, but nonetheless, unfairly handsome.
“Please don’t do this to yourself anymore,” you said. “Don’t do this to me. You promised you’d be done with Horizon by now.”
Russell nodded. “I know.”
“You know?” Your brows rose. “Do you know what the past 24 hours were like for me since you called me in the middle of the night like that? I could hear it in your voice. You weren’t sure you were going to make it home.”
Your voice wavered as tears welled up in your eyes again, despite your attempts to blink them away with a sniff.
Russell didn’t have a clever retort this time. No way to downplay or tease. He had come back with a few scrapes and sprains before, but this was different. That look on your face when you opened his jacket, saw the blood and bandages, probably picturing a horror show underneath...
He wasn't ever going to forget that look. And it was better he didn't. He had to remind himself that you were a civilian. You weren't used to all this shit, the hazards of the job.
“You’re right. It’s not fair to you,” he said. “Just uh…give me a month or so to wrap things up. I already signed on for a couple more contracts.”
“You better mean it, Russ,” you said. You tilted his face upward, making sure he met your eyes. “You gave me your word.”
“I know, and I’m gonna keep it,” he said, squeezing your hips. He smiled. “To prove it, how about we reseal the deal, huh?”
You stared down at him, heaving a more exasperated sigh.
“Come on,” he said, biting his lip on a smirk. “We both know you wanna kiss the hell out of me.”
You wanted to slap him, more like.
You shook your head and pressed his face between your hands, grunting in sheer annoyance. But you still bowed your head and kissed him.
He smiled against your lips. His arms slid around your waist and trapped you against his body. He hummed at the feeling of you, of every soft curve that fit just right against him.
Your fingers slipped through his hair, gently at first. But you reminded him of your resolve with a tighter grip.
“I'm serious,” you warned, between kisses. Each one meant something different—relief, fear, yearning, passion, love, and long-suffering all at once.
He nodded, though he groaned, palming your ass as your tongue slipped against his.
“I got it, sweetheart,” he said. "Not happening again."
His hands then wandered down your back, dipping under the waistband of your sweatpants. He found you bare underneath, no panties. He was pleased at the thought as he pressed a line of open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down your neck, earning your soft moan. His fingers trailed under your tank top next, pushing the fabric up higher and raising goosebumps in his wake.
“Take a shower with me?” he asked, with lips pressed to your skin.
“Hmph. You definitely need a shower,” you said through slightly panting breaths. You helped him stand so you both could work on getting off his jeans.
He grinned. “So that’s a yes?”
Your lips threatened a smile in return.
“That’s a, get your ass in there,” you said, but you grabbed his elbows to steady him when his broad frame teetered on his feet. “Be careful.”
His hand fell to your shoulder gratefully.
“Yes, ma’am.”
AN: lol what are we gonna do with him? 😅 I think this helps make even more sense why reader's so mad at him in Part 1 of Breaking Point.
And I seriously hope Russell comes back more regularly for season 4. That twist at the end of 3x22 is more interesting than any other episode/arc in S3 imo. Until then, hope you enjoy some angsty hurt/comfort!
Let me know what you think in the reblogs/comments! 💙🩵💛
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You and Sanji have a mutually beneficial agreement.
Word count: 4K
Tags: MDNI! smut, 18+, secret relationship, Sanji loves to please, oral sex, fingering, p in v, multiple orgasms.
A/N: I've always had a little crush on Sanji, but it's become unbearable since OPLA came out. And I blame Taz Skylar and his Instagram account.
Enjoy!
You snort and shake your head at the boys while you get up and clear your plate, the mood in the kitchen light and cheerful. Both Luffy and Chopper are back to pretending to be walruses again and Usopp has engaged in an enthralling tale about the Sniper King’s adventures, but as fun as an evening of camaraderie might be, you have different plans for tonight.
Sanji’s bent over a cutting board, garnishing a cheese platter that he just threw together when you put down your plate at the sink, casually excusing yourself from the party.
“I’m gonna call it a night, I still have some work to do. You guys have fun! Oh and… Sanji? I probably could still go for some dessert later, if you wanna whip something up. I’m in the mood for something salty today, I think.”
Out of the corner of your eye you see Nami waving good-bye, Robin’s head turning, and, of course, Sanji just about catching the drink he almost toppled when he heard your request. You don’t turn to look at him, not wanting to risk Robin catching your glance. Discovering your little arrangement. She really is annoyingly perceptive, that one.
A little over half an hour later you’re sitting at your desk, brows furrowed over today’s newspaper. You’re trying to align the information printed with the things your little birds from all over the world wrote to you in their letters when you hear a knock at the door. Two short raps, followed by a long one.
“Come in.”
The door creaks open, and a half bowing, long, slender figure appears in the doorway. Funny how he can make himself so small, you think as Sanji slips inside your room, quietly closing the door behind him.
“Evenin’, love.”
He straightens up as he makes his way toward you just to bow down low again when he reaches you. You can feel his cheek brushing against your hair, how he's greedily inhaling your scent while his hand carefully places a small plate in front of you, careful not to put it on your documents.
“Chocolate soufflé, with a dash of Aqua Laguna salt. And I still had some of those white strawberries you liked so much.” The tone of his voice is so sultry, so charming, it sends a tingle down your spine. You turn a little to look at him, his keen eyes observing your reaction.
“That looks delicious, Sanji, thank you,” you say as you pick up the spoon, take a bite of the treat. You close your eyes, savor the explosion of flavors on your tongue with a soft hum as you lick the spoon clean. When you open your eyes again you can see Sanji staring at your mouth, his lips slightly parted, almost drooling on your shoulder. You have to giggle when a needy little huff leaves him. “Anything for you, dear.”
“Roll your tongue back up, Sanji,” you smirk, and he snaps back to reality. “You know you’re gonna be using it quite a bit.”
You can hear Sanji inhaling deeply, breath staggering as his ears turn pink. He clears his throat, takes a step back and sits on the edge of your desk.
“Anything specific you're in the mood for today?”
You turn on your seat to fully look at him, standing there. He’s got his hands stuffed away in his pockets, you can see they’re balled into fists beneath the silky fabric of his trousers. His eyes are glued to you, follow you around the room as you stand up and walk over to your vanity.
“You know, I’m still not done working. I really have to figure some stuff out…” you sigh dramatically as you reach under your skirt, hook the waistband of your panties with one finger and quickly pull them down. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t get started.”
Sanji all but squeals as his head snaps to the side, turning to follow your panties’ trajectory as they fly over to the bed. You can’t help the self-satisfied smile on your face, you just love watching him like that. Big ocean eyes, adoring, practically begging for you to let him do your bidding. You know he has very little self-control when it comes to beautiful women, that he will bend over backwards to get praise from anyone with a nice pair of tits and a pretty smile, but you know he'll drop anyone if you summon him. He's even pried himself away from Nami to revere you.
It was purely carnal at first. You had gotten drunk on a long voyage after not setting foot on land for weeks, things had gotten boring for everyone on the Thousand Sunny. So you threw a party. Everyone had had a blast, and Sanji had waited on you, Nami and Robin hand and foot. Paid you compliments. Boosted your ego. And it had made something stir deep inside of you.
You can’t fully recall the events of that evening, but you do distinctly remember squeezing his face with one of your hands, telling him that you’d kill him if he was ever to breathe a word of what was about to happen to a living soul – or Brooke – and then you’d been on each other. And boy, had he delivered.
You had always imagined Sanji to be like one of those firecrackers that immediately exploded in your hand, but you’d never been so wrong. Behind the facade of that lovesick puppy, chasing after any short skirt, getting a nose bleed from talking to a woman for too long, there was an animal lurking, a lion waiting to be freed from his cage.
You don’t remember how many times he had made you come that night, but it was more than enough to break your previous record, and to make you crave more of it as soon as you were able to walk straight again. And Sanji? Happy to do your every bidding. Now, you'd like to think what you're doing is strictly physical, but if you were honest you would have to admit to yourself that you enjoy the attention. Really enjoy it.
When you’re back at your desk, you lay your hand on Sanji's cheek, softly guide him onto his knees as you sit back down. You’re met with zero resistance, and you feel his nose running up the inside of your leg as soon as he’s vanished under the table. You have to grin to yourself as you hear his blissful sigh, then you get back to work on your letters.
You feel Sanji’s hands wandering up and down your legs, caressing every inch of your skin with the soft tips of the fingers he’s so careful never to use in a fight, peppering feather-light kisses all over you. He pries your legs open, just like you’ve seen him do to all kinds of exotic fruit with practised ease, slowly getting you ready for what he’s about to give you.
When his mouth finally reaches the inside of your thigh, he, apparently not being able to help himself, bites down on your flesh longingly, prompting a small moan full of surprise from you. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and you want to reach under the table, grab a fistful of his hair, tell him he’s doing good, but you’re not there yet.
You close your eyes, take a deep breath, focus on the sensation between your legs and try to relax. You've noticed over the past couple of weeks that Sanji has this weird, pressure relieving effect on you that's so much more enduring than when you just get yourself off. He'll just keep working you for hours and hours on end, putting you in an almost trance-like state as he pleasures you just the way you like it, without even so much as thinking about his own high.
You've learned not to be impatient, to savor Sanji's diligence as he makes sure every inch of your body gets worshipped the way it should. Your lower half is already tingling nicely when he finally comes close to where you really want him.
Your back arches involuntarily when his tongue runs up the inside of your thigh, you can feel your legs twitching but Sanji's firm grip keeps you in place. He places a kiss right in the valley where your leg ends, and then one more further up. You're not sure when you started holding your breath, but the gasp shaking your body when he finally runs his tongue through your folds fills your lungs with new life.
You feel the vibration in your core as he hums into your body, satisfied with the response he's eliciting from you. You can feel him nuzzling his nose into you, tongue lapping up every bit of wetness he can find. The first time he went down on you like that you were genuinely scared he'd suffocate, but you've come to learn that Sanji has a strong will to live. Especially when he's drowning in pussy. Now, you just lean back and enjoy the entertainment.
You feel the buzz spreading through every cell of your body, the heat in your core rising, and if you let yourself, you could easily come right on the spot. But that's not what you want. You want to make this last, stretch it as far as you can, because once he pushes you off that ledge? You'll be a goner.
That's why, when you feel one of Sanji's slender fingers getting closer to your entrance, you tell him, “no.”
His movement stills immediately, you can feel him lifting his head. Like a good little soldier, waiting for your command.
“Not yet,” you huff, noticing how mellow your voice sounds. “Just your tongue, for a little longer.”
“Your wish is my command,” you hear his raspy voice from underneath your desk, and without further ado, he dives back in. You finally give up on reviewing the paper, let your head drop onto your arms that are lying on the table, and you notice how you almost fall off your seat because you keep scooting forward, your body seeking out more and more of the delectable sensation Sanji's providing you.
You feel Sanji's grip on your thighs tightening as he keeps devouring you, edged on by your moans that become less controlled with each passing moment. All the muscles in your lower body seem to be fighting against you, spasming as you try to ground yourself, try to control your breathing, but when Sanji finally finds that unforgiving rhythm that's just right for you today, you give in.
The sound you make is beyond sinful as you finally allow yourself the release you've been building up to. You know exactly what's going on in Sanji's head, that he must be bursting, finally reaping the reward of having you come on his face, but apart from his fingertips sinking deeper into your skin it doesn't show. He just keeps you high, firm grip on your thighs so you don't accidentally crush him.
He only eases up when your quivering legs finally start to slump, your moan turning into a staggered growl. He chuckles as he wipes his lower face on your thigh, keeping you close as you twitch in response to the feathery light kisses he scatters on your skin.
You groan, letting your head loll to the side, lids heavy, hair sticking to your sweaty face. Everything's still in a haze, you don't remember him getting up when you feel Sanji brushing the offending strain away with his thumb. You can smell yourself on him when he lowers himself to your level so his face is mere inches from yours.
“You good, princess?”
“Mhm,” is all you manage to press out, accompanied by a half-hearted nod that Sanji rewards with a light chuckle.
“Come on. Let's get you to bed.”
Before you fully realize what's happening, Sanji has swept you up, your body apparently weighing nothing to him, and carries you across the room. You're still breathing heavily, press your face into his firm chest and let yourself fall into his delicious, peculiar scent of cloves and some other spice he must have picked up in one of the many towns you passed through.
He gently places you on the bed, making sure your head is resting on a pillow and your skirt pulled down enough to cover you, and then he sits down next to you.
“That kinda took it out of you, huh?”
You sigh blissfully, heart still racing, but Sanji’s voice immediately reignites something deep within. You roll onto your side, prop yourself up on one elbow and look at him, expectantly. He raises his eyebrow, a puzzled look on his face.
“Oh, you– do you still want more?”
You can feel the confusion flicker across your face for a second, and then you see that intoxicating smile of his curling around his lips.
“Sanji!” You both laugh as you playfully hit him in the chest, and then, before you could say “millefeuille”, he’s on you again. You squirm a little as he covers you with his long body, moan when you feel his hot breath against your neck. Sanji leaves enough space between the two of you so you can unbutton his blue pinstriped shirt and make quick work of his belt buckle. He’s already down to his boxers when you quickly peel yourself out of your shirt and bra while he pulls your skirt down, finally discarding it on the floor.
Sanji’s kneeling over your naked form, drinking you in, his face appearing almost reverent in the low light. You bite your lip, earning a breathless huff from Sanji. He places his hand on your collarbone, then proceeds to trace it down your body, along your curves and dimples until it finally comes to rest just underneath your hipbone.
“God, you’re beautiful.”
You hum softly, and while this kind of praise from Sanji is exactly what you want, exactly what gets your engine going, the sincerity he expresses it with goes straight to your soul. You tilt your head up, and, as he always does, Sanji gives you what you want.
You can positively taste the burning passion as he kisses you tenderly, a quiet little moan betraying how much he’s been longing for this. Still, he’s so soft, so controlled, not allowing himself to run wild. Stoically holding back. When you lift your hips, trying to seek out some friction in vain because Sanji’s too far away, you know what you must do.
There’s not a lot of space on your bed, but luckily, Sanji’s not the only one who knows how to use his legs. You wrap yourself around him, and, with the smoothest movement, spin him to lie flat on his back. Now, finally straddling him, you press down and feel his hot, throbbing cock pressed right up against your still needy pussy.
Sanji groans as you slowly grind over him, only the thin fabric of his boxers separating your heat from his. His hands find their way to your hips, fingers denting your skin while he throws his head back, eyes closed. You run your palm over his chiseled chest, his lean body twitching in sync with your movements. For a second, you think you should drag this out as well, just keep riding him like this. But when you look at his twisted little face you decide you want him, stat.
You shift your weight so you can reach under yourself, and, unceremoniously, pull his boxers down only as much as you need for his cock to spring free. You grab him, maybe a little too tight, give him a couple of cursory strokes, and then sink down on him with no hesitation.
One of the things you love about Sanji is the fact that he's so vocal. Every little movement of yours is rewarded with a moan, growl or quiet curse. The way he whispers your name when your pussy clenches around him sends shivers down your spine every damn time, the way he mewls when your fingers wander over his skin makes you feel so powerful and wanted at the same time you could combust.
You shift a little, settling on his lap, allowing him to reach even deeper. Through hooded lids you can see that Sanji's eyes have fluttered shut, he looks like he's hanging on by a thread. Still, you decide to start grinding. You know he's not going to disappoint you. Your vision goes blurry when you start rolling your hips, Sanji's thick head inside you hitting that spot that switches off the outside world.
You can already feel yourself speeding up, your body just taking over, greedily seeking out another high. Your hips keep working him, nails digging into his hard surface in a way you're sure it would hurt a normal person, but you know he can take it. And even if he couldn't, he wouldn't complain.
When you feel you're close you lean back, prop yourself up on his thighs for a better angle, better purchase. You and Sanji almost fall out of rhythm as he tries to match your erratic movement, but when the wave finally crashes down over you, your back arching, toes curling, Sanji's got you. Like he always does.
A loud, almost pained moan spills from your lips as he keeps thrusting while you ride your high, pulling you into him as your cries turn into whimpers before you finally go slack.
You feel your arms on his thighs turn into jelly, but Sanji sits up in the blink of an eye, catching you before you can fall. He pulls you close, your bodies slick against each other's, your chest heaving way more noticeably than his.
Sanji pulls you into a tight hug while you try to regulate your breathing, nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck while you try to come down. His hand wanders up and down your back, gently caressing you, keeping you as close as he possibly could. Whispering sweet nothings into your ear.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you just looked? Like a goddess come down to earth just to bless me.” He inhales deeply, the squeeze he’s giving you turning possessive for an instant before he quickly regains his composure.
As soon as he notices you shifting, having recovered enough to move again, Sanji gives you space to lift yourself off him. He groans at the slight twitch your pussy gives around his still hard cock.
“Okay. Wow. That was… that was good.” You fumble with your legs as you lift yourself off him, your body immediately protesting at the loss of contact even though you should be exhausted.
Sanji cocks his head, looks at you with that impish smile of his, the erection between his legs bobbing up and down.
“Good? Are you trying to hurt my feelings?”
You have to chuckle as you scoot closer, kneel next to him. You let your lips ghost over his shoulder to the back of his neck, where you place a couple of kisses before you whisper in his ear.
“That was amazing. You were amazing. Mind-blowing. Earth-shattering.”
You can feel the goosebumps rippling all over his body as you praise him just before he captures you in another kiss, just as searing hot as the last one, but way less controlled. You feel him brushing a strand of hair behind your ear and then quickly turning you so you're in his arms again.
He gently lowers you on the bed, eyes not leaving yours for a second. He runs his hand over your breast, circles your nipple once, then lets it move further down. You can’t control the way your body twitches under him, and it’s a good thing because Sanji knows exactly what you’re asking for, even if your mouth is refusing to say it.
He dips down, lips trailing down your chest until they find your nipple. He licks a broad stripe over it, making you twitch again, and then takes it into his mouth. Your eyes flutter shut as he starts sucking on one while pinching the other with his fingers, and a little gasp leaves you as he pushes two fingers into the heat you've been desperately pressing up against him.
You’re not entirely sure for how long Sanji keeps working you, at this point, the thing turning you on most are the content, passionate little sounds he’s making while chasing your high. His voice is raspy when he finally drops your nipple from his mouth with a soft plop. You open your eyes to find him looking at you, enamoured with the way you're writhing beneath him.
“I, uh,” he says, voice cracking at the single syllable as he continues to pump his fingers into you. “I’m really sorry but I don’t think I can keep this up for much longer,” he huffs, eyes only shooting down to look between his legs for a second. You can’t see much with the dim light and his body so close to yours, but you’ve felt his hardness poking you. Felt the pre-cum oozing from his tip against your sizzling skin.
You lift your hands, cup his face to look at it for a moment. Study the adoration, the devotion written all over it, brush that rogue strand of hair away only for it to immediately fall back in place.
“Sanji?”
He holds his breath, eyes wide, trying to read your wish before you say it out loud. As he always does.
“Will you come inside me?”
The sound he makes is almost a whimper, and then he’s so fast you’re almost unable to follow his movements. Still on his knees between your thighs, he runs a hand over your ass and down your leg as he gently pushes it up to finally rest it on his shoulder. All air leaves your body when he presses into your wetness, his movement offensively unhurried for someone as consumed by lust as you know him to be. He runs his cheek over your calf, kissing every inch of skin he can reach as he slowly drives into you. His thrusts are deep, powerful, and it takes only a couple of them for you to almost lose yourself again. You can feel him tensing up inside you, and the moment you allow the moan that’s been trying to break free from you to escape you’re both gone. Sanji’s hips stutter as he paints your insides white, his entire body shudders before he collapses onto you, not halting his movement before the tension in your body subsides.
You both lie there for a while, breathing falling into rhythm with each other, quietly enjoying the peace of the moment. Sanji rolls off you, careful not to break your skin to skin contact for a second. Pulls you into his arm before his back even hits the mattress. He gently caresses your shoulder, tracing imaginary lines on your arms.
You're not exactly sure how, but he produces a cigarette from somewhere, lights it on the oil lamp that's standing on the bedside table. He takes a long drag, slowly exhales, letting the smoke curl its way up to the ceiling.
“So,” he says, the cheeky grin already back on his lips. “You hungry for anything else, my queen?”
Tags: MDNI, 18+, smut, mutual pining, sex pollen, Dean getting a BJ. That's it.
A/N: You might have seen this over on ao3 already, thought it's time for it to find it's way here.
There's just nothing else I can think about while listening to this song. It's just Dean getting sucked off. Heavenly.
Life is a mystery
Everyone must stand alone
I hear you call my name
And it feels like home
"Jesus!" You drop the plate you're drying as the man in the tan trenchcoat suddenly appears in front of you.
He looks down, frowns at the pieces of broken porcelain on the floor, before he looks back up at you.
"No, it's me. Castiel."
You stare at him for a second, then sigh.
"I— yes, Cas, I know. How are things?"
The angel nods, the usual stern look on his face.
"I must apologize, but I don't have the time for idle small talk. Is Dean here?"
You raise your eyebrows.
"Still such a charmer," you mumble before replying to his question. "I haven't seen Dean in months. Is he... is he okay?"
Ah, Dean. Dean, Dean. You're a grown woman, but somehow, Dean always makes you a little nervous, even if he's only mentioned. In a good way. In all the good ways, if you're being honest. You're friends, when he's in town you get a drink. He has this way of saying your name that's just a little different from how everybody else says it, it's not wrong or anything, just peculiar. It makes you feel fuzzy.
Sometimes you talk over the phone, he sends you the occasional gif of a happy dog. You reply with a joke about him being just like a puppy, and that's basically it.
He never knew you've been carrying a torch for him for years, and there's no reason for him to ever know. What you have, your friendship, is good, and you're not going to ruin it by confessing to him like a little school girl.
Castiel scratches his chin.
"We're not sure actually. We were on a case and Dean got hit by a spell. He seemed fine at first, but then he suddenly just took off," Castiel sighs.
He opens the door to the cabinet where you keep your pots and pans, checking for Dean, seemingly oblivious to the fact that a man his size would not fit into such a small space.
"Cas, Dean's not here, and he's not hiding in my laundry basket either."
Castiel looks over to the door that leads to your basement.
"Did you check?"
You roll your eyes, then go get a broom and the dustpan.
"Why do you even think he would come to me?" You try to sound casual, not that it's very necessary with the way inflections go over the angel's head anyway.
"The spell will compel Dean to do things,” he says in his gravelly voice. "Certain... carnal things. And Sam has the theory that it could only be reversed by someone who..."
Castiel is interrupted by his phone buzzing. He fishes it out of his pocket, looks at the screen. Turns it around by 180°, twice. Then he looks back up at you and simply says, "I have to go."
You barely have time to process, and then he's gone, as sudden as he came.
You stand there, dumbfounded. You look around, knowing you're not going to find Castiel, you know how angels travel. You shake your head, and then you start sweeping up the shards on the floor and decide to move on with your day.
When you call my name
It's like a little prayer
I'm down on my knees
I want to take you there
In the midnight hour
I can feel your power
Just like a prayer
You know I'll take you there
You stretch, cookie crumbles falling from your blanket. You look at your empty glass of wine, then at the clock. 11:17pm. As Netflix asks if you're still watching you grimace, reach for the remote and hit yes, then pause.
Yes, you are still watching, even if your thoughts keep drifting off to the strange visit Cas paid you this afternoon. And to Dean. You wonder what kind of trouble he's gotten himself into this time. If it's another stab wound, or maybe something actually serious. And you wonder why Castiel would come looking for him here, of all places.
You glance at your phone, fingers itching to text Dean, to find out what's going on. But you've decided to try not to meddle too much in all things Winchester. They'll be alright. They always are. Or never. Depending on who you ask.
You slide off the sofa to get yourself another glass of wine in the kitchen. As you shuffle over to the counter, where, in great foresight, you left the bottle of Pinot Noir, your eyes wander to the kitchen window. You squint as you pour your glass, and then, refill in hand, wander over to have a closer look at the car you spotted across the street. A car that you know all too well, with its sleek black paint job and angry looking radiator grill.
You leave the house in your slippers, wrapping the thin jacket you're wearing around your body against the night's chill. Dean just gives you a side eye as you rap at the window.
"You know, if you want to be a stalker you should probably get a less conspicuous car."
He rolls down the window. Just a little bit. As if he wasn't sure he should be talking to you.
"Uh, hey," he slowly says, still not fully turning to you. You raise your eyebrows at his strange behavior, then just go for the handle and open his door. And Dean? Dean's confused, seems stunned, like he doesn't know what he's supposed to do, which is very unlike him.
"Come on, what are you waiting for? I'm freezing my ass off out here," you say, as you try to hook him with a charming little smile. It works.
I hear your voice
It's like an angel sighing
I have no choice
I hear your voice
Feels like flying
I close my eyes
Oh God, I think I'm falling
Out of the sky
I close my eyes
Heaven, help me
You almost have to push him inside. You're not sure why, but Dean's behaving like a goddamn mule. Even more than he usually does. When he's finally standing in your living room he looks around, scratches the back of his neck.
You've never seen him like this, so awkward, like he doesn't belong even though he's crashed at your place on multiple occasions and not even once had a problem walking around in his birthday suit when coming out of the shower.
You leave him standing there for a moment to go fetch him something to drink from the kitchen. Maybe a little bit of booze will loosen him up.
"Whiskey or beer?" You ask, glancing back at him weirdly planted next to your high table.
"Oh it's a whiskey kind of day," he sighs. Then, finally he moves, just a little, but it's progress. You pour him a glass of Jack, neat, as you know he prefers it, pick up your own glass of Pinot that's still waiting for you in front of the kitchen window and get back to the living room.
You manage to sit Dean down on your couch, shove the drink into his hand and sit close next to him. He flinches a little when your knee touches his thigh, but relaxes immediately as he takes a long sip from his glass. You've got a feeling he's faking it a little, though.
The small talk goes slow, you tell him about the wraith you ganked last week and the spirit that haunted the sauna of an uppity golf club upstate, but Dean refuses to tell you what he was hunting just before he appeared in your street. He doesn't even budge when you confront him about Cas showing up, looking for him.
But, ultimately, he seems to be getting a little more relaxed with every sip of whiskey. His torso slowly sinks into the cushions, he starts actually replying to your monologue. A cheeky smile appears on his lips now and then, and, somehow, his hand keeps brushing against different parts of your body.
Steadily, you're getting your old groove back, the friendly bantering that's an integral part of your relationship. Something's different though, you can't exactly put your finger on it, but the way Dean's looking at you, it's just... a little more intense than usual. One could almost mistake his look for the one he gives those girls, those who wiggle their tits at him, bite their lips when he makes a suggestive remark.
You know something's really up when his hand rests on your thigh, way higher than you'd normally let anyone touch without buying you dinner first. But it's Dean, so you let him. You're both still laughing at a story about a series of grave desecrations in Illinois that he just told, and you're tipsy, and he's flashing his pearly whites at you, and the fine lines on the corners of his intensely green eyes make him look so handsome, and you feel his hand on your thigh gripping you tight, and the other arm sneaking around your side, up your back, pulling you in.
And then he's on top of you, hot lips crashing into yours as he presses you into the sofa. You almost spill the rest of your wine as you lose your balance, swept up in Dean's fiery embrace, but somehow manage to keep the glass straight as he eats up your face.
He groans, and he's all over you, big, strong, virile. He smells like heaven. It's just like you've always imagined. Intense. Passionate. His tongue on yours is hot, wet, demanding. He tastes like raw, unfiltered pleasure. Unlike anyone you've ever tasted before. You're not sure how long the kiss lasts, but you're violently yanked back to reality when he suddenly pulls back.
You're lying there, on your back, eyes wide and blinking up at him. You still feel the ghost of his kiss on your lips, and all you want to do is pull him back in for more. But you don't get the chance, because the second Dean realizes what he just did he pushes himself back up and stumbles away from you. He's so quick on his feet that you barely have time to register the shame written across his face.
He mumbles an apology as he reaches for his jacket, already on his way out.
Dean's quick. But so are you.
When you call my name
It's like a little prayer
I'm down on my knees
I want to take you there
In the midnight hour
I can feel your power
Just like a prayer
You know I'll take you there
Your hand grabs his wrist firmly. You both know that if he wanted, he could easily pull himself free. But he doesn't.
"Dean!" You just stare at him, holding on to him. Skin on skin hot, tingly. You search his handsome, freckled face, with the dreamy eyes and the plush lips, puffy from feasting on you.
He opens his mouth, evidently trying to find words that seem to be eluding him. He tilts his head, eyes pleading for you to let him go.
But you're not gonna let him get away with this one.
"What's going on, Dean?"
You continue holding his gaze as seconds tick by like hours, and then he cracks. Exhales, his shoulders sink a little. He's shy when he starts talking.
"That case we were on… there was this witch who was messing with a bunch of people in her neighborhood, creating all sorts of confusion, and we got her, but…" his voice trails off, he looks down at his feet.
"She hit me with a spell, and we weren't sure what it was at first, but now it's making me… want to do… things," he mumbles, and the blush creeping up his face doesn't stop at his cheeks. You furrow your brows, think back to what Cas said earlier this afternoon. About the carnal things Dean would want to do. You clear your throat.
"What, you mean like," and you desperately hope you sound as casual as someone who's not just getting the best news they've ever gotten, "is this some kind of fuck or die situation? Where you'll need to stick your dick into every viable female you come across?"
Dean almost looks a little offended at your words.
"What? No," and the little change in timbre at his words tells you that he's about to relativize his no. It's one of the things you've learned about Dean in all the time you spent together.
"I don't… I don't want to fuck every viable female. I just…" He swallows. So do you. It takes him ages to get the next sentence out.
"I don't know what's going to happen if I… well, if I don't. But Rowena says that I'll need to, uh, be with someone that I, well, like."
His eyes are still glued to the floor. Your mouth drops open as you process. You're not gonna pretend you don't know that Dean's not talking about liking someone as in "I'll send them a Christmas card."
"Are you saying you're here because…" You try to find the right words, words that are not going to make him wince again. And you're trying to be cool. Not to jump to conclusions. Even though it's hard. Very hard.
"You came to me because you need to be with someone you have feelings for?"
Dean nods, shakes his head, inhales and tries to turn around on you again.
"I'm sorry. This is stupid. I shouldn't have come here," he mumbles as he tries to get away from you, half-heartedly.
You yank him back, making him stumble. And you take the opportunity of his head being just a little easier to reach and firmly press your lips against his. Dean catches himself, you break the kiss as he straightens up.
He looks at you. You've seen him happy, angry, distressed. Relaxed and in pain. But you've never seen him like this. This look on his face, a mix of fear and hope, is new to you. It tells you he needs you. He wants you.
You pull yourself close to him.
"I'll help you."
Like a child
You whisper softly to me
You're in control
Just like a child
Now I'm dancing
It's like a dream
No end and no beginning
You're here with me
It's like a dream
Let the choir sing
Dean's breathing is heavy.
His eyebrows twitch, the slightest confusion written across his beautiful face. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. He waits for you to speak. To be sure he's really not misinterpreting anything.
"What do you need?"
He nervously shifts from one foot to another. He bites his lip, runs his hand over his face, and you're not entirely sure if he's oblivious to what that makes you feel or if he's starting to put on a show. In any case it looks more than sinful.
"You… you want to help me?"
You nod.
This is it. The moment that will change everything. Forever. For better or worse. The tension between the two of you is thick, and you know Dean can sense it, too. Somehow, it feels like you're both frozen in time, unsure of what is going to happen next.
"We shouldn't, like, have sex, right?"
You tilt your head at his question. It melts your heart how shy he is, Dean freaking Winchester, looking at you like a deer in headlights.
"Tell me what you need."
Your voice is barely above a whisper. You're a confident woman. Sexually and otherwise. But the way this man is standing in front of you, the pleading look in his eyes, it takes you to a whole new level. Dean, who you know to be stoic, strong, self sufficient, suddenly putting his cards on the table like this. Needing you. Because you're what he wants.
"Maybe you could..." He looks at you, carefully watching your reaction, then nods down. Then you finally let go of his wrist, and you get down on your knees.
Dean's looking down at your form, kneeling in front of him. Unbelieving. You watch him closely as your hands wander to the button on his jeans, nimble fingers opening it, unzipping the fly. Then your gaze wanders down, because as nice as Dean's face is to look at, what you're about to uncover might be even better.
You start prying his jeans down, and while it's still clothed, the erection underneath is everything you want and more. Straining against the scarlet fabric of his briefs. Throbbing.
You want to take it slow, commit this moment to your memory, every single second of it, but you can't. You're hungry. So, so hungry. It's like you're acting on pure instinct now. You hook your finger into his waistband, and you pull his boxers down. And again, you feel like you're frozen in time, like this is a still of a movie you're watching, an out-of-body experience.
You watch yourself tying up your hair. You're on your knees, Dean Winchester standing in front of you, jeans bunched around his ankles. And right in front of your face, so close you only have to stick out your tongue to touch it, his cock. It makes your mouth water, just from looking at it. You run a hand down his hip, let it rest on his thigh. And then you do it. Stick out your tongue. Dean twitches as it lands on his tip, the short moment making him groan.
You let the tip of your tongue wander over his slit. Dean drops his head back as a low groan falls from his lips, his hand shoots out to steady himself on the doorframe. You close your eyes, relishing his taste on your tongue, savoring every inch of skin.
You lick a long, wet stripe along the lower side of his cock with your tongue flattened, then another with the tip, following the meander of a vein slightly to the left.
When Dean groans again, you decide to stop playing, even if you're having the time of your life, and suck his head into your mouth.
You glance up, see the relief washing over his handsome face as you finally envelop him. His hips buck against you, but you can feel him trying to still himself, trying not to force himself onto you. When you take him in deep, your nails digging into the skin of his thigh, his head shoots forward. He stares down at you, unbelieving, big eyes dark with lust as he balls the hand on the doorframe into a fist.
Quiet curses escape him as you bob your head back and forth, increasing the intensity you're pleasuring him with. When his hand finds your hair, fingers raking over your scalp, you're the one who moans, the sound of it muffled by his length in your mouth. He fists your hair, but it's such a tender gesture it just makes you want to give him more. Dean's not guiding you. He just wants to be close to you.
You're not sure for how long you keep going like this. You don't mind. It's the best way you can imagine spending a chilly night like this.
When his hands both wander to your jaw, cupping your face, he tilts your head up as far as it goes without making you drop his dick out of your mouth. You force your eyes open, blink up at him, so close to unraveling under your touch. He gently holds you, brushes his thumb over your cheek as you concentrate on your breathing, taking him in deep again.
You're full of him. Your mind, your body, all of you. He is everything that matters, his pleasure the only thing that counts. The noises he's making, the little sighs, the deep groans, they have your heart beating out of your chest. You close your eyes again, concentrate on how he feels on your tongue, sucking, licking.
You keep a steady rhythm, tuning out the entire world around you, and when you feel the slightest change in pressure of his fingertips on the back of your neck, you know he's there.
You suck him in one more time and he meets you, thrusting into you, holding your head in place as he finally spills himself into you, his face twisted in bliss. Still shuddering, his thumb ghosting over your cheek, he says your name. That way, like he does. Dropping it from his lips like a prayer, worship, and absolution, all at the same time.
When you call my name
It's like a little prayer
I'm down on my knees
I want to take you there
In the midnight hour
I can feel your power
Just like a prayer
You know I'll take you there
Summary: When Dean comes back from Hell, you quickly realize that his subconscious remembers more than his waking mouth admits.
AN: Requested by Ashley Klann on Patreon! I’ve written a “back from Hell” piece before with an Omegaverse twist, called Make it Right. But here’s a more canon-rooted drabble. 💜
Request: After Dean comes back from hell, he has nightmares and a breakdown. The reader is there to comfort him and just holds him, and he ends up letting all pent-up feelings out.
Posted on Patreon: May 15, 2026
Word Count: 1.3K
Tags & Warnings: Set around mid-season 4 (when Sam was traipsing around with Ruby). Established relationship, angst, feels, hurt/comfort to the max
Dean might’ve been able to shrug off ghost sickness. He might’ve been able to look you and Sam in the eyes, with his third beer in hand, and claim he didn’t remember anything about his four months in Hell.
But what he just couldn’t do was make you believe it. Not a month ago, not last week, not tonight.
He climbed into the dingy motel bed, slow and groaning. You could see the exhaustion in the darkness under his eyes, and in the dull green of his irises. You saw the evidence of his lack of sleep pulling at his limbs, because he hadn’t truly rested since he got “topside.”
Since he showed up at your apartment with Bobby in tow, scaring the shit out of you with his half-cocked smile before he proved he wasn’t a shapeshifter or a demon.
The way Dean held you then had been so strong and fragile at the same time; you felt the shake in his arms, the tension embedded in his frame, even while he was burying his face in your hair. You’d blinked hot tears that clung to your lashes, cupped his face between your hands and kissed him just as hard and desperate.
He was alive, so you were alive. That was what that day felt like for you: coming back to life.
But this was a different kind of living.
When you slid into bed beside him, he didn’t reach for you. He didn’t welcome you against his side or wrap his arm around you. He didn’t even pretend to meet your eyes, let alone kiss you goodnight. He just mumbled the empty word, like he already knew it wouldn’t be one.
Sam was still out by himself. He was doing that more often lately, ducking out and taking the car or walking into town by himself. His excuses were always valid on the surface, like getting breakfast at the diner early, or doing some research at a café, or getting an early morning run in before you or Dean rolled out of bed. Still, you had half a mind to call bullshit.
Dean had stopped trying, even though he’d noticed too, sometimes with lips pursing, jaw clenching.
Tonight, he didn’t seem to care about his brother’s nighttime habits or your soft frown as he turned onto his side, away from you.
“You okay?” you asked, despite knowing what it would get you.
“‘M fine,” he said. “Just tired.”
You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. You wished he wouldn’t bury it all so deep. You wished he would let you help him. But Dean had always carried layers behind that stupid devil-may-care attitude, behind that cocky grin on just the right side of charming, and the old leather that draped his shoulders like a second skin of bravado.
You’d noticed that his father’s jacket was still folded up somewhere in the trunk of the Impala. Dean hadn’t been wearing it since he got back.
You couldn’t help but think that mattered, even as you laid a hand on his shoulder and pressed a soft kiss near his neck.
“’Kay, goodnight,” you said.
You felt slightly raised flesh under the thin fabric of his shirt, and you realized then that you were accidentally touching the handprint burned into his skin—the mark of Castiel, the angel who rescued him.
You quickly let your hand slip away, feeling the tension in Dean’s body.
Your heart clenched, and you had to blink the sting out of your eyes when you turned onto your side and tried to get comfortable.
The first jolt stirred the mattress, then tugged at your subconscious.
The second one, and his painful groan, made your lashes flutter. Your eyes slid open as you fought through the dregs of sleep, but his fingers clawing against your arm finally yanked you out of it.
You sucked in a confused, pained hiss, looking over at Dean. You realized that he hadn’t meant to hurt you. He had a desperate grip twisting in the sheets, his brows tightly knitted, jaw clenching so hard you could almost hear his teeth grinding. But the sounds that were escaping his barely parted lips were too heartbreaking, like a wounded animal unwilling to let their whimpers escape, afraid for something worse to follow.
“Dean,” you rasped, reaching for his shoulder cautiously. You were wary of him trying to knock your hand away, or worse, but he just flinched harder.
It did manage to wake him up though.
His eyes flew open with a sharp intake of breath, following by more labored ones as he struggled to take you in, to realize where he was.
He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. He dragged a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes.
“Dean?” you prompted gently. You were slow in the way you slid closer, smoothing a comforting hand up his arm.
He looked over at you, tired of lying, but still unwilling to answer you.
But in that moment, you knew the truth. You knew what he was hiding, deep and dark behind his eyes when they met yours.
He couldn’t hold it for long though. His own self-loathing won out. Even just having you beside him with love and concern in your eyes was too much for him to handle.
He sat up in bed and swung his legs over the edge, but that was where he hesitated. He either lacked the strength to get up and leave you, or he was just that shaken. His eyes closed and an uneasy sigh fell from his lips, making his shoulders sag.
You crawled over to his side of the bed and bent a knee underneath you as you sat just behind him, just barely keeping yourself from touching him. You didn’t want to smother him, but you wouldn’t leave him alone either.
“You do remember everything, don’t you,” you said. The heartbreak was in your throat, but you thought it might help him to say it out loud.
Dean shook his head slowly, but this time, it wasn’t a denial. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, but he still forced himself to speak, his voice thick and rasping.
“Not just…what happened to me,” he said, his voice coarse with fatigue and pain. “What I did.”
Your brows furrowed in confusion. You didn’t understand, but he couldn’t bring himself to explain it to you—why he hadn’t been able to let you in. Why he couldn’t allow himself to touch you with his hands. Every time he looked at them, they were drenched in blood.
And when he tried to look at you, the words died in his throat. It felt selfish to try.
His lips trembled. His shoulders heaved. He covered his face as his eyes burned, and the first sob shuddered through him.
You didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter. Not tonight. Once the first tear drew down your cheek, you couldn’t let yourself do anything else but hold him from behind. Your lips pressed to his shoulder, and you held onto him as tightly as you dared.
He held you back, his hand clasping over your arm to keep you there. It gave you the encouragement you needed to slide closer, your hand cupping his cheek and stroking your thumb across his chin. His glassy eyes met yours.
“I love you,” you reminded him. “That doesn’t change.”
Again, Dean shook his head. “You don’t know. You don’t know what I…”
“Right now, I don’t need to know,” you said.
Just then, he was desperate to believe you.
He bowed into your kiss, desperate for your warmth too.
One touch couldn’t make him forget. It wouldn’t heal him either.
All you could do was stay.
AN: My heart gets ripped out every time I watch that ep where he tells Sam about his experience in Hell. 🥲💔 But let me know what you thought of this hurt/comfort snack!
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Summary: Cast down from Heaven with your Grace locked away and your memories fractured, you wake up alone and very much human – until you cross paths with the Winchesters. As the three of you search for answers that Heaven doesn’t seem to want to give, you’re forced to navigate the world without your divinity and face the fact that some truths may have been buried to protect you. Or others.
Tags/Warnings: Mystery, Canon-divergent, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, angel learning human shenanigans, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men
A/N: Apologies, folks! I know I said I was gonna have this up before the weekend was over but then I ended up rewriting this thing like three times before I settled on it. It's so hard to bring everything to a close in a satisfying way. It's so crazy to me to think that I've finished another series. I've spent 20 weeks on this thing (technically longer when you account for planning and yapping about it before I started writing). I managed to stick to my weekly uploads despite everything. And you, my lovely readers, my love to you all. All your comments and kudos and you guys coming back week after week? I couldn't ask for anything more! 💜💜💜
Ashes of Grace Masterlist
The absence of your Grace felt different at night. During the day, it was easier to ignore.
There were distractions in the daylight. Research spread across the war room table. Sam reading quietly beside you in the library while he mindlessly tapped his foot. Dean dragging you out on pointless drives around the various Kansas roads just because the sunset looked good from behind the windshield of the Impala. Grocery stores and gas stations and diners and all the tiny, wonderfully mundane things that filled a human life.
But at night? At night, the world became quiet enough for you to feel the echo of what was missing.
You stood barefoot in the kitchen, staring at the flickering bulb above the dinner table while the rest of the bunker slept around you. Once, you would’ve been able to hear Heaven. Hear the choirs of your siblings. Feel their presence and know that they were near. Could feel the vastness humming just beyond existence. But now, there was only silence. Human silence. Heavy and finite.
The first few weeks after Seraphiel’s death and your celestial tampering to have Heaven lose your name, had been terrifying. You kept expecting someone to realize what you had done and come for you. Kept waiting for the universe to correct itself. Kept waiting for Heaven to come dragging you back into the shape you were supposed to occupy. Sam had called it anxiety. The constant fear that a heavenly army was doing to descend from the sky and enact righteous punishment for your actions.
You pressed your hand to your sternum and turned your eye inwards, towards the place where the faintest trace of your Grace remained. A fading ember buried beneath layers of humanity. Sometimes it flickered when you were emotional enough. Sometimes when you grew frustrated with the mechanics of human inventions. Sometimes when Dean kissed you like he was trying to memorize your existence.
But it wasn’t enough to be anything. Not enough to take back your celestial mantle. You couldn’t heal. Couldn’t do miracles. Couldn’t smite. The stars no longer spoke to you. You missed your wings. The thought hit you hard enough that your breath caught. For one weak moment, the remaining fragment of your Grace stirred in response to the ache, and light shimmered faintly behind you. You turned to look.
For the briefest second, you caught sight of your winged shadow cast against the far wall. Translucent. Flickering. Broken at the edges like smoke. Your throat went tight. Despite everything, it was still you. You remembered what it felt like to fly. Not the mechanics of it but the freedom. The feeling of stretching across creation itself. You remembered what it felt like to exist without hunger or exhaustion or fear. Remembered what it felt like to carry eternity inside your ribs. The memories should’ve comforted you. Instead, grief rolled through you so abruptly that you nearly doubled over from it. You weren’t sure if the noise that escaped you was a laugh or a sob.
“Feathers?” Dean’s voice came rough with sleep behind you. You turned fully to look at him and found him standing in the doorway in sweatpants and an old Led Zeppelin shirt, hair sticking up in every direction. He looked ridiculous and human. And yours. His expression softened the second he saw your face. “Oh, Feathers…” You looked away from him and sniffled.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Yeah, well, kinda hard not to notice when you vanish from bed at two in the morning.”
You glanced over your shoulder again, and the whisper wings behind you was gone. Dean walked towards you, stopping just in front of you. His eyes drifted to where your shadow rested against the wall, and he understood in a heartbeat. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He didn’t need to. Instead, he wrapped a hand around the back of your neck and pulled you into him, pressing his forehead to yours, the way someone might check for a fever or proof of life. His other hand settled at your hip, grounding you. You didn’t realize how tightly you were holding yourself until that moment when something in your chest finally loosened.
“I gave up eternity,” you said after a moment. You swallowed hard, searching for the words that would fit the feeling between your ribs. “There are days I still feel it,” you admitted. “The absence. Sometimes I think there’s a part of me that will always ache for what I was.” Dean was quiet for a moment. Then,
“Yeah,” he said. “Probably.” You looked at him, only partially startled by the honesty. There was no easy reassurance waiting for you. No insistence that humanity erased the loss. Dean understood loss too well to lie about it, and his brand of bluntness was oddly refreshing. “You lost a whole universe, Feathers.” The nickname made warmth bloom in your chest, bittersweet in all the right kind of ways. “You don’t have to pretend that it doesn't hurt.”
It did.
But knowing the truth of it didn’t make it hurt any less. You wished it did. You leaned into him, your forehead still pressed against his, and let yourself breathe. The silence between you wasn’t empty. It was the kind of quiet that only existed when someone was willing to stand in the middle of the kitchen with you and not say a word. Dean’s thumb traced a slow, absent arc against the back of your neck.
“Sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice,” you whispered, a confession. Dean pulled back slightly, studying your face. His hand remained on your neck, warm and steady.
“You didn’t make a choice,” he said after a moment. You blinked at him, confused. “You weren’t really given much of an option. They sent you down here thinking you’d come running back to Heaven once you saw how bad us mud monkeys are.” His hand slid from your neck to your shoulder, and he squeezed you gently. “But you stayed anyway. Even when it hurt. Even when you realized what you would have to lose.” His voice softened. “That’s not a choice. That’s who you are.”
The words settled into you differently than you thought they would. They weren’t a comfort, exactly. But they rang true regardless. You looked down at your hands, turning them over in the dim light of the kitchen. Human hands. Capable of breaking and healing and holding.
“I think that I was always going to end up here,” you said. Dean squeezed your shoulder again, a silent encouragement. “Even before Seraphiel sent me here. Even when I was an angel.” You closed your eyes, feeling the truth of your words settle into your bones. “I was always going to love humans. The capacity was always there.” Dean cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized was there or had fallen. His touch was gentle and reverent.
“I think you were always more human than you gave yourself credit for,” Dean said, his voice low and rough. He stroked your cheek. “Maybe you were always supposed to become… this.” You leaned into his touch, letting the warmth of his palm sink into you.
“This…” you repeated. “This human who still doesn’t understand social cues?” Dean’s lips quirked up into the half-smile you had come to adore.
“Yes, this human. The one who makes coffee just to smell it. The one who thinks bad movies are an art form. The one who keeps eating my cereal and putting the empty box back.” You let out a soft laugh, the sound surprising you with its lightness.
“It seems rude to just throw it away without telling you.” Dean’s smile widened.
“It’s rude when I grab the box and find out it’s already empty.” The tone in his voice was light. He paused, studying your face. “You doing okay, though?”
You considered his question, taking an extra second to really think about it. In that moment, with only the faint ashes of Grace left inside you, you realized that the ache would probably never leave. There were always going to be nights where you missed your wings so fiercely that it hollowed you out. You were always going to have moments where you caught yourself instinctively reaching for power that no longer existed. You were doomed to grieve the angel you used to be for the rest of your human life.
But humans lived beside grief every day. They loved beside it. Laughed beside it. Chose each other beside it. And maybe that was the whole point. Humans weren’t meant to erase pain or outrun loss. But it was a matter of deciding that something was worth hurting for.
“Yes,” you said. “Thought I’m not sure I understand why. Nothing has changed.”
“Sometimes just saying it out loud helps.” He shrugged, thumb still tracing patterns along your jaw. “Getting it out of your head and into the air where someone else can help you carry it.” You nodded, understanding slowly dawning. That was what set humans apart from angels. Not the pain or the loss, but the fact that you could share it. The fact that you weren’t expected to carry everything all by yourself.
“Humanity is much more complex than Heaven gives you credit for.” Dean’s smile grew warmer, and he pulled you into a hug. You went easily, resting your forehead against his chest and listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.
“It’s definitely different from divinity. But different isn’t always worse,” he murmured against your hair.
“No,” you agreed.” Just unfamiliar.” You stood like that for a while, wrapped in each other in the quiet kitchen. The loss of your wings and Grace and celestial nature didn’t disappear, but in Dean’s arms, it felt less like an ending.
“Come back to bed,” he whispered, his breath warm. “You’re shivering.” You hadn’t noticed the chill until he mentioned it. You nodded against his chest, pressing closer to him for a moment before pulling away.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” you said again, though the apology didn’t feel necessary.
Dean’s hand found yours, fingers lacing together as he led you back towards your shared room. The hallway stretched before you, your bare feet padding against the cold concrete floor. The hallways always felt like they were longer at night, the shadows pooling in the corners like spilled ink. Dean’s hand was warm around yours, his thumb tracing small circles against the back of your hand as you walked.
“Hey,” he said softly as you reached your bedroom door. “You good?” You looked up at him, studying the way the light caught the planes of his face. The stubble along his jaw. The gentle concern in his eyes. After everything, he still asked. Still cared enough to check in.
“I’m okay now,” you said. Then added, “I think I am.”
Dean’s mouth quirked up at one corner. He reached past you to push the door open, and you followed him inside. The bedroom was dark except for the light shining in from the hallway that spilled across the rumpled sheets of his bed. Your bed. Your shared space. The place where you had learned to be human in the most intimate ways.
“You know,” Dean said, his voice low as he closed the door behind you, “I don’t think I ever asked you before.” You turned to face him in the darkness, confused.
“Didn’t ask me what?”
“I never asked if you were sure that you wanted to stay.” He moved closer, his hand finding your hip. “You never actually said it out loud.” You knit your brows together and tilted your head slightly.
“I thought it was obvious.”
“I mean… yeah, you’re here, but you know what they say about assuming.”
“What do they say about that?”
“You make an ass out of– you know what, never mind. I’d just like to hear you say it.” The gravity settled around you both like a blanket. You reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the stubble beneath your fingertips.
“I want to stay,” you said, deliberate and certain. “With you. With Sam. In this bunker. In this human body.” You smiled up at him even though he likely couldn’t see you. “I want to wake up in the morning and burn toast. I want to argue about which movie to watch. I want to learn how to change a lightbulb.” Your voice went soft as you cradled his face in both of your hands. “I want to stay with you, Dean Winchester.”
He pulled you to him, his arms wrapping around you with a fierceness that made your breath catch and dragged you down onto the messy bed with him. You yelped in surprise, and he quieted you with a kiss that found your nose before the second one met your lips.
“Just checking.” Another kiss. “I just needed to hear it.”
You leaned into his touch, feeling the calluses on his palms against your sides. The physicality of everything grounded you. The warmth of his hands. The scent of him that had become so familiar. The steady rhythm of his breathing that matched yours.
“I’m here,” you whispered. “I’m staying.”
He rolled so you were laying on top of him in the dark, your legs tangling with his as you found your balance against his chest. His hands moved up your back, tracing the ridges of your spine through the sleep shirt.
“You’re not alone in this.” You nuzzled your nose against his. The grief that had gripped you moments ago in the kitchen softened, replaced by something more tender. Something that felt akin to belonging.
“I know,” you whispered. “I think it’s still going to hurt sometimes.”
“Good,” Dean said. “Pain doesn’t make you weak, Feathers. It just proves that your heart is real.”
You hummed softly, kissing him in the darkness. Dean answered immediately, one hand sliding into your hair while the other settled against the curve of your waist. The kiss lingered, unhurried and familiar. There was no urgency to it. No desperation. Just certainty in an existence that was full of ambiguity. You pressed closer to him until there wasn’t space for anything else between you. The steady beat of your hearts pressed to each others’ chests. Human. Finite.
Real.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as he rolled onto his side, guiding you with him. The mattress dipped beneath your combined weight, sheets tangling with your legs as the world narrowed to warmth and soft breathing and the feeling of being held. The ache in your chest was still there. It probably always would be. You’d miss your wings. You’d miss the stars. You’d miss the impossible vastness of what you had once been. But as Dean’s hand slid up your back, the grief no longer felt like an open wound. It felt like it was just another piece in the grand shape that was you.
His thumb brushed across your cheek. You kissed him again. And again. Each kiss seemed to pull you further and further away from the memory of heaven and deeper into the life you had chosen for yourself. Tomorrow would bring research and hunts and coffee and arguments and all the small pieces that made up a life. But tonight, there was only this. Dean’s arms around you. The warmth of shared breaths. The promise of morning. You let yourself sink into it. And when his lips found yours again, the rest of the world faded away.
You had been made of light, once. Of starlight and song and holy fire.
But now, you were made of so much more.
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