Partners
Dean Winchester x female reader
one shot
enemies to lovers, smut
words count: 13,4k
story: You have always hated Dean. He was bossy, too damn confident and insufferable. But you’ll have to deal with him on a hunt. For the worse or for the best.
——————————-
I’ve always been good at what I did. After all, when you find yourself alone with your father following your mother’s sudden death, chasing supernatural creatures since the age of 9 in a completely deranged way, well, you end up pretty prepared for it.
A ghost? A bit of salt and a peaceful walk through a cemetery to burn the bones. A vampire? Dead man’s blood on a blade and it’s done. A shapeshifter? Silver bullets and knives.
I knew what I needed. I knew how to manage. I was capable of handling things. I didn’t have the arrogance to say I was the best, but I did have the arrogance to say I could get by.
I was never usually alone. I was always with my father. He was the one who had led us into this life. I didn’t blame him.
When your wife gets drained of her blood by some vaguely human creature with bright red eyes, you have every reason to want to look into it and decide to fight that kind of monster. I didn’t particularly like this kind of daily life and sometimes I’d stare at the ceiling a little too long, wondering what it would’ve been like to be raised surrounded by chocolate cake and shopping trips instead of holy water and demon traps.
Anyway, whatever. Somebody had to deal with it, and I’d gotten used to the idea.
Most of the time.
Plus, at least I had my father. We had a pretty unusual and strange way of life, but we were a family. He watched my back and tried, without much conviction, to keep me as far away as possible so he wouldn’t feel like an unfit parent and to keep me from ending up drained of my blood by god knows what creature.
But when I turned 19, I decided I could do it without his help.
My father helped from a distance, and even though he’d had a hard time accepting it, he’d eventually conceded that it was pretty convenient not having to assist me or travel with me every time.
Either way, we weren’t going to pretend it was too much to bear for some poor little girl like me. It had been a long time since I was a little girl who believed in unicorns and Prince Charming.
Then again, there was a good chance unicorns actually existed.
Whatever.
So I was a loner.
And I liked it that way. I didn’t need someone underfoot to contradict me or screw up my investigations. I could only stand my father’s cynicism and attitude. I didn’t need anyone else. Especially not to criticize my strategies or give me orders. The advantage of being alone, with my father helping from a distance, was that his advice was optional. If I didn’t agree, I’d mumble a vague “yeah, yeah” that wasn’t particularly convincing and hang up to do things my own way.
I couldn’t stand authoritative people. I couldn’t stand receiving orders or any form of authority over me.
So I was alone.
However, the downside of being alone is getting stuck.
I’d been on a case for three days, three people were already dead, and I hadn’t accomplished anything.
I’d sent all the info to my father, called him, gone through every book I had on hand, done thousands of internet searches. But it hadn’t gotten me anywhere.
And I hated the feeling of failure.
Especially when the deaths kept piling up and I was incapable of doing anything. I felt useless. Almost complicit. I knew for a fact that something abnormal was happening and I wasn’t doing anything to stop it because I had no idea what I was dealing with.
Still, as much as I thought that was the worst that could happen to me, I was wrong.
I realized it the moment I saw Dean Winchester show up at my crime scene.
At first, I wondered if I was hallucinating, if the creature or exhaustion was torturing me with visions of horror. Because as much as I’d seen horrors since early childhood, Dean Winchester had a gift for disgusting me more than anything I encountered in the field.
But the second I saw the blond’s eyes land on me with that particular weariness only I could produce in him, I realized it was real.
He was there.
And I was going to have to deal with him.
Things had just gotten worse. I’d gone from a crappy situation to a horrifyingly crappy situation.
This was not my day.
“Oh, you gotta be kidding me…” Well, I said that without finding the situation the least bit funny. I forced myself to put on a fake smile despite my disappointment, so as not to blow my cover as a professional agent.
“Don’t look so thrilled to see me.”
He shot me a smirk just as fake as mine. It sounded more like a deep urge to flip me off and tell me to go screw myself.
I was almost touched that my feelings were mutual.
“Please tell me you saw the light, came to your senses, and you’re about to turn around and hit the road on those pretty little legs of yours?” He acted flattered, and I already had a headache at the thought of having to hold a conversation with him.
“You think I’ve got pretty little legs? Thanks, I try to-”
“Dean.”
He stopped, looking pleased with himself, no doubt satisfied that he could get under my skin this much just by opening his mouth.
I got that feeling.
It was nice to annoy him, and I always took a wicked pleasure in watching him lose his cool because of me.
But when I was the one he was making lose her cool, it was a lot less fun.
I didn’t like him.
I liked messing with him.
Either way, from the moment we were in the same room, the tension was obvious. Everybody knew we couldn’t stand the sight of each other. I’d already had to deal with him before, on hunts or simply because he knew my father really well and they’d sometimes come visit us with his brother. It had never escaped anyone’s notice that we didn’t exactly hold each other close to our hearts. I could still picture my father’s exasperated face every time I made a comment to the Winchester. Just like I could remember the way Sam would roll his eyes every time his brother shot back with some cutting remark.
I liked Sam. He was more pleasant than his brother and far more likable. Unlike Dean, he didn’t make me want to go deaf and blind.
“I’m working a case.”
Oh no.
I straightened up, trying to look unshakable.
“This is my case. I called it first. You can take off.”
He didn’t look the least bit impressed by my little act. He crossed his arms over his chest with a superior look. I imagined several ways to wipe that smug little smirk off his face, trying to calm myself down.
“Your case? So how’s that going? ‘Cause you’ve done a real bang-up job keeping the dead body count down.”
I was a little offended because he was right. I couldn’t say what irritated me more — the fact that it was true, or the fact that he was the one who was right.
Either way, it sucked to hear.
“I’m working on it, okay? I don’t need you.” That got a mocking laugh out of him. “Sweetheart, you clearly need me.”
I hated him from the bottom of my soul.
Especially the sugary way he said that stupid nickname. He did it knowing full well how deeply it annoyed me. And the worst part was that it worked.
“Shut it. Or you’re gonna be the next dead body.” He looked at me, amused, and raised his hands, pretending to be scared, just to mock me.
I took a deep breath before refocusing on the main issue. It was absolutely out of the question that he pollute my crime scene and my investigation with his angel face and his exasperating sarcasm.
I knew Dean.
He was the bossy, pain-in-the-ass type. Everything I hated. He represented exactly what gave me the itch to commit murder. I would never stand him. I would never be able to stand him. I already couldn’t stand him after only a few minutes, so even less if he ended up on the same case as me.
I was going to go completely insane.
“Where’s your little sidekick?”
He rolled his eyes before replying, “He’s busy. But I’ll be sure to tell him you were worried about him.”
It was my turn to roll my eyes, and I caught myself realizing it was stronger than me.
The more I talked to him, the more my eyes threatened to roll like that in irritation. And watching me do it seemed to provoke the exact same reaction in him. I’d find that funny if I weren’t so tempted by the idea of slapping him.
“Whatever. You can hit the road. Nobody asked for your help here.”
He stepped closer to me, like he was trying to reason with a spoiled kid. I felt like one, and it made me even more irritated with him.
“You need me. Don’t be stupid.”
Deep down, I knew he was right.
Well, it wasn’t that I needed him specifically, I needed help in general. And I was desperate enough that any help was good to take at this point. What’s more, even if he exasperated me and admitting it made me want to throw up, he was good.
He was a good hunter.
He was unbearable.
Bossy.
Impulsive.
But he was good.
Good in the sense of rarely missing his target and always getting the job done.
My father had spent hours praising the two brothers’ exploits, never failing to emphasize Dean’s natural talent for hunting. He’d been raised in it, and having spent some time around John when I was little, I knew what kind of training he must have gone through. He was way better than me.
Still, I needed help of pretty much any kind, just not Dean’s.
I’d rather get run over by a truck.
Back and forth.
“I don’t need you. Definitely not you.”
My ego was winning out over my reason, and I knew it. I clearly needed his help.
He gave me a disapproving look, and it reminded me exactly why I didn’t want his help in the first place. He had that superior, arrogant edge to him. I felt like an idiot every time he looked at me, and I couldn’t stand it.
“So you’re just gonna let all these people die ‘cause you’re stubborn?”
My comeback came slower than I wanted it to. He’d caught me a little off guard. I hated knowing he had a point.
“I’m gonna handle it myself, and nobody else is gonna die.”
I was about to turn on my heel to end the conversation and spare myself having to confront my own lack of maturity in the face of the situation. But his fingers wrapped firmly around my wrist, making me face him.
I felt a tingle at his touch.
“Your dad sent me. Said you were spinning your wheels and that a little extra help wouldn’t kill you.” I felt a wave of betrayal wash over me, mixed with shock.
My father knew full well that I would rather cut off both my arms than team up with Dean Winchester. I’d spent hours painting the hunter as the literal incarnation of the word “unbearable.”
He also knew perfectly well that the feeling was mutual. I couldn’t even believe Dean had simply obeyed my father. We’d be incapable of working together, and my dear father was smart enough to know that.
Just like he was smart enough to know that if it came from him, I’d force myself to go along with it.
Because if my father thought Dean’s help was necessary, then it was.
As much as I pathetically tried to convince myself that I could still manage without him, the fact that his presence had been my father’s idea told me I had little chance of pulling this off alone.
“Why’d he send you?” The word “you” came out of my mouth like an insult, and he tensed slightly before looking at me with disdain.
I wasn’t sure about the twinge I felt in my chest, but it sounded a little like guilt. I knew I didn’t like him, and I wasn’t pretending otherwise. Still, I felt a little guilty for being so defensive. Especially since he was there to help.
“‘Cause I’m a damn good hunter, and either way, you don’t exactly get to be picky right now.”
I yanked my wrist away from where it still rested in his grip, putting some distance between us, swearing to myself I’d ignore the slight pang his touch — or rather my coldness toward him — caused. He annoyed me. Being close to him was annoying, even suffocating. Especially when he suffocated me with that many annoying truths. The most annoying part was that I was starting to accept the idea of him helping me, and my ego was taking a hit.
I was contradicting myself, and I felt ridiculous.
I had my pride.
I stayed silent, trying to push off, as long as possible, the moment I’d give in. I didn’t get the chance — or the misfortune — to say anything else, though, because an actual agent approached us and called out to me. It was the town sheriff, and I’d already talked to him a few times. I found him adorable.
He was the cliché cop straight out of the movies, a bit of a doughnut-eating goofball. He didn’t have the look of someone who chased down killers, more like someone who’d let a speeding ticket slide as long as you promised to be more careful next time.
“Agent Smith! You gonna introduce me?” He glanced at Dean, and I opened my mouth, bracing myself for the next lie to go along with the fake name I’d given him when I first arrived in town.
But the blond beat me to it. “Agent Dewell. Her partner.” I held back from shooting him a glare at the word “partner.”
I bit the inside of my cheek and put on a smile that sounded way too fake to me but was convincing enough for the sheriff. “Yep. My partner.”
The sheriff shook Dean’s hand solemnly. Dean then started asking him questions, and I cursed myself internally, along with my father.
Surprisingly, I didn’t take it out on Dean too much.
Well, it was really only a matter of time, considering I was going to be stuck with him for several days because of this damn investigation.
I prayed it would all be over soon.
————————
“A vampire?”
“The victims weren’t drained of blood.” My cold tone made him roll his eyes wearily.
His shoes were propped up on the poor table in front of him like he owned the place. He’d made himself comfortable like this wasn’t the strangest situation he could possibly be in.
“Werewolf?”
“The heart wasn’t touched and there’s no animal tracks.”
He nodded thoughtfully.
I stared at the wall of my motel room, studying the old wallpaper in detail. Focusing on the little flowers on the walls helped me deal better with the presence of the Winchester and his exasperating nonchalance. I was having a hard time accepting that I had to work with him. I was saving up a nice sharp speech for my dad for when I got back.
“A shifter?”
My tone came out too sharp. “You think I haven’t already thought of all that? I’m not stupid.”
He straightened up in his chair and looked at me with an annoyed, accusing expression.
“If you’d actually include me a little more and tell me what you know, I wouldn’t have to keep asking you all these questions. Quit acting like a kid.”
I was hurt.
Because once again, he was right. I was acting like a kid. I’d stayed silent ever since we left the crime scene. I’d driven all the way to my motel completely ignoring his presence, telling myself that maybe if I just didn’t acknowledge him he’d go away. I’d kept watching the rearview mirror the whole way, praying to lose the Impala, but he’d followed me the whole way there.
I should’ve known it would take more than that to make Dean give up and get discouraged. He’d followed me to the motel, then settled in and pulled out his laptop, ready to dive in. Watching him, you’d never guess this wasn’t normal.
It irritated me.
I preferred not to think about it too much.
I hadn’t said a single word to him. I didn’t want to give him my attention. I didn’t want to be cooperative.
It was visceral.
Just like that word — kid — that I could feel down to my guts. Coming from him, it carried all the animosity he inspired in me. It made me sound immature and stupid. It was unpleasant to hear.
I found the word ironic.
Of course Dean saw me as some dumb, childish kid.
That wasn’t news.
I tried to think of something cutting to say back. I searched for a moment, but nothing came to me. So I sank back into my pillow, careful not to give him another glance or the slightest sign that he’d gotten to me.
Even though he had.
I’d sooner have my tongue cut off than admit it.
With a kitchen knife.
“My notes are on my nightstand, help yourself.”
I could feel his eyes on me.
I didn’t even acknowledge him, even while giving him those few words. I still kept that distance between us.
It was necessary.
Just like I ignored the fact that he was clear across the room while my notebook was right beside me. All I had to do was reach out, grab it, and toss it to him.
But that wasn’t my problem. I played the part of someone who didn’t see a problem at all.
Truthfully, I just wanted to get on his nerves.
“Seriously?”
And it was working.
I set my laptop on my knees and typed in the name of the town, pretending not to hear him grumbling.
If I had to put up with Dean Winchester, I might as well enjoy the perks — namely, the incredible satisfaction of pushing him to his limit.
He thought I was acting like a kid?
I’d gladly lean into the role.
“Please.”
Him being polite made me glance up in his direction.
I hated him.
Just like I hated the slight tightness in my chest, same as before. That feeling that I was taking it too far. I could feel how much I was overdoing it, and it annoyed me. I shouldn’t care about my own behavior. This was Dean. I shouldn’t be bothered by the fact that he thought I was a kid.
And yet, I still found myself grabbing the notebook and chucking it at him in one sharp motion.
Fuck off.
I dove back into my screen, combing through every website and article that might help with our investigation — my investigation — chasing away the flicker of guilt that had grabbed hold of me. Staring at the letters, reading every article carefully, I nearly forgot Dean was even there.
Nearly.
Until he decided to speak up again.
“Were the victims all the same year?”
“I don’t know, why don’t you just read what’s written down.”
He shot me a dark look.
“Originally, yeah. But today’s victim was a year older.”
I was starting to cooperate with Dean Winchester. I was starting to soften up and actually talk to him instead of acting like a complete bitch.
It was physically painful, but I pushed through.
I couldn’t say which was more surprising.
The fact that I was working with Dean, or the fact that I was cooperating with someone who wasn’t my old man.
Either way, it was pretty rare.
Dean’s green eyes lifted, a little surprised that I’d given him information without following it up with a sarcastic remark or an insult. I was surprised myself.
His eyes drifted for a second before he caught himself and went back to typing something on his laptop.
He was starting to pull at my attention a little, and now it was impossible to pretend he wasn’t there. I even found myself wanting to know what he was looking up, because he seemed to have something in mind. I was curious what he could’ve typed into that search bar.
He must’ve noticed me staring, because it pulled a smug smirk out of him.
Jerk.
“The last victim had been held back a year. Which means all our victims were in the same class year.”
He was getting on my nerves.
He hadn’t even been here thirty minutes and he’d already gotten further than I had in three days.
“Go on, say I’m a genius.”
Gross.
“I could’ve found that myself.”
He gave me a mocking little nod that made it clear he thought I was ridiculous.
I wanted to throw something at his face, but at the same time, I felt relieved. I finally had a lead. I finally had something I could work with. If it hadn’t been Dean, I probably would’ve thrown my arms around his neck. But it was still Dean. I knew how to hold myself together when I needed to.
“Were they friends?”
His smile faded a little, giving way to a more serious expression.
“I don’t know.”
I closed my laptop and got up with confidence to grab my jacket, which was draped over the back of the second chair next to Dean. He watched my every move intently, and I caught myself getting caught up in that feeling.
I figured it was just because he annoyed me so much that his stare made me uncomfortable.
And yet, I wasn’t uncomfortable at all.
“What are you doing?”
I threw my jacket over my shoulders, trying not to look like I was seriously considering him my partner in this investigation. I’d already been generous enough, lending him my notebook and sharing what I already knew. I needed him, sure. I was willing to accept his help and put up with his presence to close this case, fine.
But I refused to treat him like my partner.
He was more like a consultant.
I wasn’t about to consider this alliance anything resembling a team.
And I needed to stop feeling guilty about treating him that way. I wasn’t getting soft on Dean Winchester. He wasn’t worth it.
“I’m heading to the library to find the yearbook for our victims’ class.”
I told him exactly what I planned to do so he could catch up if he wanted, but that didn’t mean I was going to wait for him. I made a beeline for the door without so much as a glance back at him.
Even though part of me wanted to.
I had my limits.
————————————
I’d tied my hair back quickly into something I’d feel weird calling a bun. I could feel the wind on the back of my neck and I was a little cold. I wished I’d thought to bring something warmer. Goosebumps ran across my skin and my fingers were clenched around the handle of the gun stuck in my waistband.
Against a spirit, bullets weren’t all that effective, but they slowed them down enough.
Usually, that was enough time to find whatever was keeping them tethered to earth and burn it to get rid of them.
The little abandoned cabin was terrifying. You could tell no one had come here in years, and that wasn’t exactly reassuring. There were old beer bottles in the corners and trash that probably came from the various squatters who’d crashed here temporarily.
Or maybe from the group of high school friends belonging to our victims, hiding out here.
Digging around a little with their old yearbook, we’d found out they used to have a small group of friends.
Dean had suggested going to question one of the girls who was still alive.
The last survivor.
Well, given the killer’s pattern, she might not be for much longer.
Whatever.
The Winchester had put on his best — annoying, if you ask me — smile and his flirty charm act to interrogate her. My ears were still ringing from his obnoxious one-liners and his habit of hitting on anything that breathed.
At least she’d admitted that, like every high school friend group, they’d lost touch even while staying in the same town. She’d explained that they’d cut contact after Tom Geller disappeared, one of their close friends.
Tom Geller.
Disappearance.
Dean and I had both agreed that was probably our best lead.
He connected all our victims.
He’d disappeared.
He was never found.
It was the perfect profile for a vengeful spirit coming back to haunt the people who’d wronged him.
Which still left me wondering why he’d go after his friends. The idea that this Tom guy was settling some kind of score from beyond the grave wouldn’t leave my head, and I was pretty sure his “friends” had to be involved somehow in his disappearance.
So when this Megan, who claimed she didn’t know anything about her friend’s disappearance, mentioned offhand their old hangout spot deep in the woods, I’d jumped at the chance to ask her for more details. And given how evasive her answers were, I figured that place was probably going to give us some useful answers.
Obviously, I’d wanted to head there immediately, but Dean thought we should stay with her since she was in danger.
I didn’t agree.
And I was even less inclined to make an effort for Dean.
So I didn’t say anything, waited a few minutes, pretended I needed the bathroom, and then slipped out the door to go where I was sure I’d find whatever information would move us forward.
I dreaded the Winchester’s reaction a little, but at the same time, that wasn’t my problem.
I was sure of myself.
I wasn’t about to go against my instincts.
Not even for Dean.
Especially for Dean.
Particularly for Dean.
Which was why I was wandering alone in the middle of the woods, inspecting the kind of cabin you’d find in Friday the 13th.
I’d rather choke on my own spit than admit Dean was on my mind, just a little, with every step I took. The deeper I went, the darker it got. I couldn’t see much, and every sound, every creak, every gust of wind hitting the old wooden walls made me tighten my grip on my gun and hold my breath.
I didn’t particularly like Dean, but at least when he was around, I felt safer.
Well, that was ridiculous.
I didn’t need him to feel safe.
But maybe it was slightly more tolerable when he was there.
Tolerable.
Just tolerable.
The floorboards, rotted through with damp and rot, creaked the same way they did under my weight, but farther off. It was a little louder. Louder than the previous creaks. Way too loud.
And it happened again.
I pressed myself against the wall. Well, not too hard, since I couldn’t see the state it was in and I’d have bet it was crawling with spiders and all kinds of little critters. Plus, the walls were in such bad shape I could probably fall right through just by leaning on them a little.
I stood next to the front door. My gun was in my hands now, my finger lightly grazing the trigger. I breathed slowly, trying to actually hear something.
Then the creaking came again.
Once.
Then again.
It was getting closer.
Louder.
Heavier.
Slower.
Footsteps.
The closer they got, the faster my heart raced.
Until I felt the presence right at the doorway. I stared at the ceiling, wondering what mess I’d gotten myself into. I was really an idiot. A partner — well, he wasn’t my partner — but the good thing about having someone to help you was not ending up in situations like this. I cursed myself internally.
I should’ve listened to Dean. I’d never tell him that. But right in that moment, I was thinking it loud and clear.
Then I saw a leg step through the door. I aimed my gun without a second’s hesitation. I wanted to look threatening, but really, I was terrified. Even I didn’t buy it.
And that’s when I realized.
Turning his head, he jumped back, pointing his gun at me with a startled look, before finally lowering it, relieved.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me!”
“You’re the one kidding me — you couldn’t warn me it was you? I just watched my life flash before my eyes for five minutes.”
He holstered his gun, pointing an accusing finger at me.
“No, no, no. You’re the one who took off. Don’t lecture me when you’re the one who got yourself into this mess alone.”
I rolled my eyes to show him how done I was with him, trying to shake off what I’d been thinking a minute ago. A few moments earlier I’d been regretting it bitterly.
But now, I felt better.
“Yeah, well, it’s fine. I’m not in trouble.”
This time the surprise and fear that had been on his face shifted into an almost hurtful irritation. I’d rarely seen him look at me with that much anger.
“You got yourself into trouble. Being here? That’s a shit idea. But you just go and do whatever you want because you’re an impulsive, stupid kid.”
His words weren’t really full of hate. But the calm way he said them stung a lot more than any anger he could’ve thrown at me. Anger stayed surface-level with him. That was just irritation at the situation.
But this was different.
He was composed. Like he was stating a fact. He was just saying what he thought.
I was hurt.
Kid.
Impulsive.
Stupid.
Whatever. I already knew that was how he saw me.
I wasn’t going to let myself get hurt by something I already knew. That would be stupid.
“I told you what I was planning to do.”
He narrowed his eyes slightly, and I could tell he was trying to figure me out. The sarcastic laugh that slipped past his lips told me that no matter how hard he tried to read me, he was out of his depth.
It came back again.
That pang.
That feeling of regret.
Of having gone too far.
I felt almost guilty again.
The disappointment in his eyes hurt a little too much and I hated myself for it. It shouldn’t affect me like that.
“You know, I really did try to help you and work with you. But you just keep making things complicated, and—”
“Dean, I—”
“No. I get it, you hate me, you’ve made that pretty clear. It’s not a problem. I don’t like you either. It’s just — that’s not a reason to throw yourself at death like some kind of suicidal idiot.”
The way he said it caught me off guard.
I’d wanted him to get angrier. To yell at me, call me a stupid kid. That would’ve been easier than a speech that reasonable. This — this actually made me feel like a kid.
The word “hate” echoed bitterly in my head. It had always been obvious. I didn’t like Dean Winchester because he was insufferable, and I had my reasons for finding him insufferable. And like he’d just said, it went both ways. He’d said it with sincerity.
He didn’t like me.
I didn’t like him.
Right?
I shouldn’t think any further than that.
I never had. I’d decided I hated him and never tried to argue with that unspoken agreement I’d made with myself.
I hated Dean Winchester.
That was it. That was just how it was.
“I’m sorry.”
I surprised myself with my own words. I think it was the first time I’d spoken to him without any contempt or sarcasm. I think it might’ve even been the first time I was that sincere.
I really was sorry.
And not just for what I’d just done.
My answer made him raise an eyebrow, and he kept staring at me, trying to figure out what was going on in my head. His eyes didn’t dare look away from me, probably afraid of missing whatever expression would give him the last piece of the puzzle that was me. Because I’d given him plenty of pieces, but my “sorry” didn’t match any of the others. It didn’t fit anywhere. It was in total contradiction with everything else. So much so that he doubted my sincerity. He looked at me like I was about to hit him with some sarcastic comeback any second.
I probably would have. I probably should have. I probably would’ve flashed my most vicious smile and thrown out the most mocking, condescending remark I had in stock.
Why hadn’t I?
His jaw tightened and his tone got a little less sharp, more hesitant. He didn’t really know how to talk to me anymore. I didn’t even know how I wanted him to talk to me. I felt stupid.
He was still, in spite of everything, the cold, bossy Dean Winchester, though I could see a crack from the contradiction I’d just stirred up in him.
“You know what’s worse than having to work with you? Burying you. Because you’re a real pain in my ass alive, but you’d be an even bigger pain dead. So next time, you hold off on going on solo suicide missions.”
I couldn’t tell if that was sweet or just deeply annoyed at me.
I opened my mouth like an idiot, but a sound cut through
and this time, it couldn’t be Dean or the wind. It was more than that.
It caught his attention. He stared into the void for a second while I was still hanging on his last words. I wondered if the sound had even registered with me at all. I was still too caught up in what he’d just said to focus on that damn noise.
He gave me a nod without breaking the silence I found myself unable to break.
I let the situation settle in as an excuse for the answer I hadn’t given him. I let that creak cut off the words I’d lost the moment he’d started saying anything at all. I had nothing to say to him. Nothing to answer. I was almost angry at him because I was rarely at a loss for words.
But this time, I was.
I followed him quietly, without arguing.
I’d gone mute.
For the first time since I’d known him, Dean had actually shut me up, and he didn’t even realize it.
————————————
“I can’t believe you ate shit like that. I’ve rarely seen someone sprawl out that hard.”
I could feel him holding back a real laugh, and even glaring at him the way I was, it was true that I really wanted to laugh with him. The more he brought up my ridiculous fall, the more my stern facade cracked to make way for a genuine smile.
“I didn’t eat shit, I just…” I paused to think of the right word, and Dean watched me, amused. The corners of his eyes were still slightly crinkled from laughing so hard, and I could tell exactly from the way he was looking at me that he was waiting to mock my dumb comment even more. “Tripped. I just tripped.”
He nodded and narrowed his eyes with a look of mock conviction.
“Right. Tripped.”
The fact that he repeated my exact word made me realize just how ridiculous I sounded, which earned a small laugh I tried my best to stifle.
I replayed the pathetic moment when I’d slipped on the rotting floor of that damn cabin.
Tom Geller’s spirit had had a field day sending my gun flying across the room. I’d run to grab it back, but the floorboards had other plans. Thank God Dean was there to watch my back. He’d drawn the ghost’s attention, which gave me the chance to go looking for whatever was keeping our dear friend among us. I’d quickly found a loose floorboard, and with a little force, I’d uncovered the missing man’s bones. It wasn’t pretty. I’ll spare you the details.
Before I struck the match to end the whole thing, I’d felt sick to my stomach. Tom was far from the villain in this story. He didn’t deserve to end up burned like that. I wished he could’ve found peace, that we’d never had to do something like this.
But what I wanted didn’t change my actual situation, and Dean’s shouts in the distance made me set fire to what was left of him.
Then, since the cabin was made of wood, we’d hurried to get out before we got caught in the blaze. Dean had stayed quiet for a while, watching the flames swallow what remained of the building. I knew he was thinking the same thing I was. It was unfair. By burning what kept him here, we’d also burned the one thing that could’ve pulled his disappearance out of the silence.
But it had all gone up in ashes.
Tom Geller would forever be the boy who vanished.
Anyway, we’d done our job. I still had that bad taste in my mouth, sure, but I’d done what needed doing.
We’d both done it.
So when the smoke got too thick and the regret sank in deep enough that it stopped just scratching the surface, Dean headed back to his car, and I did the same.
Maybe the most ridiculous part of the whole situation was that we each had our own car. Realizing that made me feel like such a kid. Exactly the kid Dean had accused me of being.
And thinking back to the way he’d asked me not to go get myself killed like an idiot, I resented that kid.
I finally embraced the guilt that had been born since his arrival. The guilt that whispered I’d been acting like a fool.
A guilt that had me waiting for the Impala in the motel parking lot after realizing I’d gotten there before him. I leaned against my Jeep like it was totally normal for me to be waiting on Dean Winchester, when an hour earlier I’d ditched him to do things my own way. I was a walking contradiction, and I couldn’t even have told you what I was doing.
Dean must have sensed it. I couldn’t be sure, since he didn’t say anything, but there was no way he hadn’t noticed how confusing my behavior was.
Just like his.
Instead of teasing me about my suspicious presence outside the motel—clearly there because I’d chosen to wait for him—he acted like it was nothing. He just parked the Impala next to my car, got out casual as anything without throwing a sharp comment my way, and asked if I’d called my dad.
It felt almost… familiar.
He talked about my dad like we’d always talked about that kind of thing so naturally.
I nearly forgot I hated him. And the more I laughed with him about my humiliating fall, the more I kept forgetting.
“Anyway, for someone who screwed up, I think I handled it pretty well.”
I kept the friendly tone that had settled over our conversation.
The look he gave me was nothing like the one full of reproach he’d given me after finding me. The whole mood was different. Different enough that the disappointment had evaporated.
“It was still a shit idea.”
I stuck my key in my door lock and opened it, revealing my room, which I was honestly starting to miss.
Dean was still standing in front of me.
He’d gotten a room at the same motel, claiming it would be way more practical. That idea had made me want to grab my stuff and go somewhere else as fast as humanly possible. But now, somehow, the idea didn’t bother me as much.
“A shit idea that closed the case.”
I leaned against the doorframe, trying to look proud, but the victory was slowly starting to taste like defeat the more I thought about Tom and his disappearance.
The genuine smile I’d been wearing was starting to feel more and more fake.
Dean was standing pretty far back. He was keeping a distance that didn’t feel suffocating — if anything, it felt like he was giving this normal conversation room to exist. Maybe he was scared he’d wreck it if he pushed too hard.
I was scared that if I pushed too hard, I’d wreck it.
Why the hell would I be scared of something that stupid?
“It’s true. We did our job. Don’t overthink it.”
I looked up, surprised, and I thought I caught the reflection of my own regrets echoed on his face. I read the same hesitation there. The same restraint.
It didn’t really feel like a win.
But what surprised me wasn’t that he felt the same way.
It was the comforting tone he’d used to say it.
I didn’t picture myself opening up about something like this to Dean, but the warmth I felt from realizing I wasn’t alone in my thinking pushed me to do it anyway.
“Yeah, but was it really fair? I mean, I don’t want any of those people dead. But if he was getting revenge on the people who made him disappear… maybe it was better this way. It was more just.”
My voice was low.
I couldn’t believe I’d actually said something like that out loud, especially to Dean Winchester.
I was ashamed of what I was thinking. I was starting to be ashamed I’d actually said it out loud. I was ashamed of dwelling on this twisted thought that maybe we should’ve let him finish what he was doing.
I was ashamed.
But my shame eased when I saw no judgment on Dean’s face.
“Maybe it was more just. But that spirit wasn’t really Tom. It was an entity eaten alive by vengeance and regret. We couldn’t let it keep wandering. We had to stop it. That’s what’s just.”
My eyes couldn’t tear themselves away from the Winchester. He stared at the ground, lost in thought. I had the feeling he was reciting something he told himself to feel better. I caught a flicker of doubt in it, which he quickly chased away as he lifted his green eyes to meet mine.
My mouth went dry because I already dreaded his reaction to what my lips were dying to say.
It was stupid.
But I wanted to say it anyway. I felt like I’d catch fire on the spot if I didn’t try.
“You want to come in? I’ve got beers in the mini fridge.”
I watched him hesitate to answer just as much as I’d hesitated to ask.
Because it was insane.
When he’d first shown up, I’d had to force myself not to throw him out, and now I was inviting him in of my own free will.
It was confusing, for both of us.
Just as confusing as his answer.
“Not gonna say no to a free beer.”
His usual confidence — the one I claimed to find unbearably annoying — was nowhere to be found. He stood in front of the door for a moment before finally deciding to come in.
He was probably expecting me to change my mind, or tell him it was all a hidden camera prank.
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t weighed the pros and cons a thousand times in my head before finally stepping fully out of the doorway to let him through. I used to find him walking through every door into every room I’d ever been in painfully, like his mere presence was some kind of personal insult.
But this — this was different.
I closed the door behind him, sincerely asking myself whether it was just the fact that the case was over that was making me this bold, or whether something had actually changed.
He sat down in the same chair he’d sat in earlier that day. I rushed over to the mini fridge to grab two beers, trying to mask my uncertainty. I handed him one, fighting to make it look completely casual, then settled into the second chair across from him.
I was dying to look at him, to try to figure out if he was just as thrown by the absurdity of the moment as I was, but I caught myself. To keep myself from talking, I cracked open my can and took a long sip.
“So you don’t regret it, huh?”
I looked up in his direction, both relieved he’d broken the silence and terrified he’d actually opened his mouth.
Like I said. Walking contradiction.
“Regret what?”
I had a pretty good idea what he meant, but I wanted to make sure I wasn’t wrong.
Because even though the disappointment had faded, I knew he still held it against me. Some part of him had to. The way he’d looked at me back in that cabin made it pretty clear he’d spent the whole drive cursing my name. He didn’t just forget that. It was still there. Somewhere.
And bringing it up again stirred something ugly in me.
Like he was about to call me a dumb kid all over again.
Same as always.
“Regret running off.”
There was a hint of a smirk in his voice.
I couldn’t tell if he actually wanted to have this conversation or if he was just filling the silence that had been threatening to swallow us on the way back.
“I don’t regret leaving.”
I could still feel his eyes on me. It burned, in a way that was almost nice.
“Maybe I regret you didn’t follow.”
One small step for mankind. Huge step for me.
This time it was my lips that burned. Not from the beer — there wasn’t nearly enough alcohol in it for that. It was honesty, catching in my throat. Same as his eyes, which, if they kept staring like that, were gonna leave a mark.
“Maybe I regret not listening to you.”
The maybe was doing a lot of work. Like it let us both off the hook for saying the actual thing. Didn’t change what the words meant, though. It was just a way to stall. Softer. Less terrifying.
But as hard as it was to say the truth, it was nice to hear it.
He regretted not listening to me?
Seriously?
“You should’ve listened to me.”
It came out sounding more like a jab than a real “I told you so.” Still — got my attention.
I was pretty satisfied watching that classic Winchester smirk creep across his face. Amused and cocky, both at once.
“Yeah? Should I have?”
There was an edge of challenge in it I couldn’t miss. Gave me a little shiver.
“You should always listen to me.”
I looked away, realizing too late I couldn’t hold his stare for long. Never could. He wasn’t an exception.
If anything, it was the opposite.
“Considering you tell me to fuck off most of the time, I’m gonna go ahead and not take that too literally.”
That pulled a real laugh out of me.
A laugh that relaxed me enough to sink a little more comfortably into my chair.
As much as I liked to blame him for a hundred things and pin every flaw in the world on him, Dean was funny, and I couldn't take that away from him. That was probably the most annoying thing about him, actually.
His comebacks always landed.
I'd throw something great at him, but he had this gift for always knowing exactly what to fire back, in the most sarcastic, irritating way possible.
Sometimes I had to bite back a smile at what he said, because I was the one he was aiming at.
But tonight, I wasn't holding it back.
"Well, you definitely should."
That earned me his middle finger, proudly raised, which only tugged the corner of my mouth up further.
The awkwardness I'd been dreading when I invited him in had completely dissolved. There was nothing uncomfortable about it. It felt almost natural. We were doing what we always did, minus the devouring animosity that usually possessed our bickering. We were still ourselves. That instinctive wariness that tied us together was still there. Just wearing a different face, one that surprised me.
If someone had told me this morning, I would've had a hard time believing it.
Me, sharing a beer with Dean Winchester without trying to kill him, after wrapping up a hunt with him as a team. Because — yeah, I hated admitting it — but for a few seconds, in that rundown, abandoned cabin, we'd been a team. We'd worked together, whether I was ready to accept that or not. He'd watched my back. We'd split up the work. All of it to end that thing together.
Together.
Weird word, isn't it?
"Why do you hate me?"
The bottle that had been halfway to my lips froze mid-motion. I turned my head toward him, caught off guard.
I hadn't seen that question coming at all.
He wasn't being aggressive, or mocking. He was sincere again. I was almost getting used to his sincerity.
Almost.
Because I doubted I could manage the same right now. The question was way too delicate to answer, and it stirred up a memory I'd fought hard to bury deep. I'd spent a long time trying to convince myself that wasn't where it all started, and yet it was the only thing that came to mind the second he asked.
Which was exactly why I couldn't answer.
"Too soon, huh? Guess I should've waited a few more beers before asking."
He was still laughing about it.
Talking about it like it was some fond memory, while I was completely losing my mind over his damn question.
"I don't hate you."
That was true. And yet he answered with a slightly mocking laugh.
"Please. Spare me the speech. You do." He took a sip from his can. "I'm not mad about it. I'm just curious."
I could tell he was.
Just like I could tell that, deep down, I didn't hate him. Not as much as I liked people to believe.
I pretended to hate him.
It was easier that way, probably.
"I'm serious. I don't hate you."
He set his drink down on the table, like proof he was paying attention. He'd said he was curious before — now he seemed even more so.
His attention was suffocating.
I wasn't exactly confident about the direction I was heading in.
"Sure seems like it."
That was the reaction I'd expected, but I held back from saying so.
Right now, I hated this whole situation. He was calm, composed, confident. Like always.
And I was struggling to keep it from showing that I was losing my footing.
In every sense of the word.
I didn't know what to say anymore, getting lost in my own head, torturing myself over his stupid, ridiculous question. But I was losing more than my footing. I was losing the wall I'd spent years building. The wall that had proudly flown its contempt for the Winchester.
"It's because I act like I hate you."
The more I talked, the more intrigued he got.
I could feel it in the weight of his stare, growing heavier by the second.
"Why?"
And there it was. The million-dollar question.
I wanted to grab my drink and drown my answer in beer, except it was empty. Realizing that, I stood up, taking the excuse like a blessing. I went to grab another can from the mini fridge, trying to justify the lack of an answer with the act itself. Like walking a few feet to refill my drink could somehow stop the conversation from continuing.
I grabbed him a can too, and setting it down in front of him on the table, I finally forced myself to say something.
I had the feeling he could've waited even longer without saying a word, because he genuinely wanted to know. He wasn't trying to push me. He was just curious.
Just curious.
And I was being ridiculous.
"I pretend to hate you because you hate me."
He shook his head firmly.
"You started hating me first. I never hated you."
I.
Never.
Hated.
You.
I couldn't figure out why he'd lie. Like he'd said, it was just curiosity. We were telling the truth, whether it hurt or not, whether it was pleasant or not. So he had no reason to lie. I didn't need a pretty lie to boost my ego and protect it from getting bruised.
And I didn't see a trace of a lie in his eyes.
He looked sincere.
But he couldn't be. I knew what I'd heard that day. I knew what came after. I knew he hated me.
"You never liked me."
He looked offended by that, which almost made me mad.
"That's not true. You started throwing your cheap shots at me. I just threw them back."
I took a deep breath and went back to staring at that same wallpaper I'd amused myself studying earlier in the day. Those flowers were old and pretty tacky, but I found something comforting in them now.
"The first time we met — you remember?"
He nodded, though he didn't seem to know what I was getting at.
"I was seventeen. My dad wanted me hunting with people other than him. So he called you and your brother. I was almost the same age as Sam, give or take a year, so he figured I'd bond with him or whatever." I felt myself lingering on the details, like I was stalling before getting to the real point. I caught myself, feeling his confusion grow. "Anyway. My dad asked you to take me with you."
I paused, and without meaning to, my eyes lifted to meet his, which killed my urge to keep going.
I was ashamed.
"I remember. I said yes."
He said it like he was encouraging me to keep going. Showing me he was listening closely, trying to understand — and that was probably exactly what made me not want to tell him.
He was paying attention.
Maybe if he'd seemed a little more drunk, a little less likely to remember, the knot in my stomach wouldn't have formed.
"That's right. You said yes." A pause. "But when you went back to your car with Sam to grab whatever it was, I heard you. I was by the window, and you said I was a kid, a burden that would only slow you down."
I tried to hold eye contact like it didn't matter to me.
It did.
I remembered how for months, the words "kid" and "burden" echoed in my head every time I was out in the field. I couldn't shake the way he'd said them. I remembered the exact sound of his voice, the exact way he'd pronounced it.
The part I'd conveniently left out was the embarrassing little crush I'd had on him the second I saw him, which had made his words sting even worse. On top of being written off like that, it was by a guy I had a stupid crush on.
Lucky for me, the crush disappeared as fast as it showed up, right after that.
Just an insignificant detail.
Dean didn't give me a shocked look, no flicker of guilty realization.
He remembered.
He was quiet.
Unreadable.
"Your dad said you were sick and you never came. You faked it ?"
I nodded.
He studied me for a moment without showing any emotion. I hadn't expected anything from him. Definitely not an apology. He'd been right. I was a kid, and I probably would've slowed them down. In a way, because of him, I'd pushed myself to get better, to shed that image that had stuck to me. I didn't want to be seen as useless anymore.
Still, I'd kept acting like a kid anyway.
More than once.
"All that to say — I never hated you to begin with. You were the one who didn't like me."
Now that I'd told him that memory that belonged to him, I felt lighter. The unpleasant part was over, I hadn't died, it hadn't been that hard after all.
I was almost relieved.
"You had a crush on me."
I let out a laugh that hid behind sarcasm but was more nervous than anything else.
"Definitely not."
A confident smile spread across his lips in the most annoying way possible. He had that classic Dean, incorrigible-flirt look, the one that had made me roll my eyes more times than I could count whenever I'd had the misfortune of witnessing it.
The worst part was, he was right.
How the hell had he arrived at that conclusion when I'd tried so hard not to be obvious?
"Totally did. That's why you took it so hard."
I shook my head. I tried to play it cool, to seem just as confident as him, but on my end it was all bluff.
"Ask me why I didn't like you at first."
I couldn't read his expression.
He seemed amused, but it wasn't just that — it was way more complicated than that. Now I was the curious one. I was also lost. I didn't get what that had to do with his theory that I'd had a crush on him.
Maybe it didn't.
Maybe he was just trying to change the subject.
That would work for me.
"What?"
"Ask me. Come on."
I hesitated for a second.
"Why didn't you like me at first?"
I replayed his sentence from earlier in my head.
I never hated you.
Never.
I had to fight to push it out of my mind and focus on what he was about to say.
"I never disliked you."
I didn't say anything. He seemed to have something on his mind, and for once I didn't want to cut him off. I wanted to know exactly what he had to say.
"Actually, after your dad asked me to take you with us on that hunt, my brother made a comment, said it didn't surprise him I'd said yes, given how I'd been checking you out. Those were his exact words."
I didn't know if he was keeping his eyes on me the whole time I talked because of that same overwhelming feeling, but if he was, I understood.
I was so hung on his words that I couldn't look away from him either.
"And since I'm a certified dick, I shot back that it wasn't true, because you were a kid and a burden. But that part of the conversation, you already heard."
My heart skipped a beat.
That was the second time Dean Winchester had taken away my ability to speak. Twice in two days.
That was a record.
"He was right."
I looked at him. He looked at me.
It was heavy.
I understood perfectly what he meant. But I felt like I wasn't supposed to understand that.
I couldn't let myself understand that.
"What?"
I'd barely managed to get anything audible out. Probably because of those green eyes that wouldn't stop staring at me so intensely.
"Sam was right."
Even hearing it a second time, I still felt that same disbelief.
Dean had had a crush on me?
That was ridiculous.
Or maybe it was the years of animosity we'd fed that were ridiculous. It felt deeply stupid. Pretty ironic, that the guy I'd forced myself to hate for years was now telling me that, in the end, he'd never hated me — worse, he'd had a crush on me.
If this was a dream, I wanted to wake up. This was going way too far.
"Well, imagine if I hadn't heard you that day. Who knows, maybe we'd never have spent all that time hating each other for nothing."
I let out a laugh to go with what I'd just said. I wanted to sound cool about all of this. Like it didn't mean anything, like I wasn't sitting here regretting the whole misunderstanding. Like the crush I thought I'd buried years ago hadn't just resurfaced.
Actually — had it ever really been buried?
Because, as they say, there's a thin line between love and hate. And God knows how much I loved pretending the heat he made me feel came from some all-consuming hatred.
But I had. I'd laughed like it erased everything else.
"I probably would've ended up like all those one-night stands you never call back. I'd still have ended up hating you."
I wanted to convince myself that some part of me still hated him a little.
This was Dean.
I was supposed to hate him.
I didn't have a reason to anymore, but I'd conditioned myself. He was supposed to be unbearable. He had to be unbearable.
Because it was true. I would've probably ended up in his bed, only to end up with a broken heart, because he was clearly not boyfriend material. It would've ended badly. Because maybe Dean had a little crush on me, but I knew exactly what kind of crush guys like him had. He wanted to sleep with you and never hear about it again.
Nothing more.
It would never have been enough.
"No. It wouldn't have gone like that."
His jaw tightened, and behind his sarcastic smile I caught a flicker of something hurt.
I had to be imagining it.
"Of course it would have." I took the last swig of my beer and finished the can, like it could put an end to this conversation, which was starting to make me overheat. I set it down on the table and got up from my chair, heading back toward the little fridge. I didn't smoke, but I was so tense I almost wanted a cigarette. I wanted something to take the edge off.
That was probably why I was falling back on the beer.
His chair creaked behind me.
My mouth was dry.
I definitely needed something to drink.
When I turned around, he was standing right in front of me. His stance made him even more intimidating. I felt even more stupid and embarrassed by everything spinning through my head.
He needed to leave.
"It would've been different."
I moved past him, forcing myself not to dwell too much on my arm brushing his. I couldn't have said whether it was on purpose or not. But either way, the spot where my arm had grazed his was still humming from that tiny contact. I could still feel it, like it had lodged itself under my skin.
I cracked open my beer and took a sip. I didn't sit back down. I stayed standing, like an idiot. I was sick of sitting in that stupid chair. Still, I kept my left hand resting weakly on the little table to steady myself. I needed something to hold onto so I didn't buckle under the tension I felt everywhere, in every part of my body.
It was overwhelming.
"Don't waste your breath. Why would it have been different? Don't try to buy yourself a clean conscience by pretending something like that."
He stepped toward me abruptly, and it was even more suffocating.
I needed another drink.
He was close.
Way too close.
"You're different."
I didn't dare look at him. I just managed a sarcastic little smile and murmured an unconvincing "Sure."
I felt him tense up and take a step closer.
"If you were like the others, you'd have left my head the second you turned me down."
That comment made me lift my eyes to him. He was so close I barely had to tilt my head up to look at him properly.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
My voice might have come out a little too high-pitched, or a little too fast, whatever. The point was the same — my falsely indifferent front was cracking.
I felt him choosing his words carefully.
"Nothing. Forget it."
He sounded final, like he was ordering me to drop it.
Bossy as ever.
Still that superior attitude.
Still Dean Winchester.
I let out a rough sound that was too ugly to count as a laugh.
For a second I thought he was going to admit that meant he still thought about it. That yeah, the crush had been real, and it was still there somewhere. That he'd also hidden that feeling behind sarcasm and sharp comebacks this whole time, because that was easier than admitting the truth.
But no.
"You're unbearable."
"And you're a kid."
Ouch.
I should've seen that coming. I should've expected it. After all, this morning's version of me would never have expected any better from him. I'd let my guard down like an idiot.
My mistake.
"Fuck you."
I was so frustrated and pissed at him that I stepped forward without thinking.
That made it worse.
Now I was mad at myself.
I could smell his stupid cologne mixed with the leather of that ridiculous jacket he always wore. He was ridiculous. His smell was ridiculous.
This whole thing was ridiculous.
But the most ridiculous part was the movement of my eyes, which had stayed locked on his up until now. It was quick. Almost nothing. They dropped to his lips for one measly second.
Just one second.
But that was enough for him to notice.
I was busy cursing myself internally when he leaned in and kissed me.
I didn't move at first. I was caught off guard. I could still taste the anger on the edge of my lips. But his mouth wiped away all of it, leaving room for everything I'd buried away for years. I let myself kiss him back.
And the frustration flew away.
Or turned into something even stronger, something that made me kiss him like my life depended on it.
I couldn't even breathe anymore. I was just as overwhelmed by this kiss as I was by all the verbal sparring that had paced our every interaction. It was the same.
Choppy.
Frustrated.
Passionate.
I couldn't think straight. Everything was hazy and messy. Like his hair, tangling under my fingers. I had to force myself to pull away from him. I needed to get a grip. I was out of breath, I could feel my lips stolen by his and my cheeks burning.
I tried not to kiss him again, holding myself back; it was hard, painful.
He was right in front of me, looking just as undone. The sight of him made me forget the reason why I was forbidding myself from doing it again. I forgot everything else.
His eyes burned my skin with wanting, and I realized I was just as starved for him. He had just awakened something I felt like I couldn't contain.
Something I’d kept bottled up.
His hand slid up to my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheek with a tenderness I never would have guessed he had in him. He was a far cry from the tough, formidable hunter. My stomach did a pleasant flip.
He didn't say a word.
Then again, I didn't say anything either.
Every time we spoke, it ended in some stupid misunderstanding or hurtful words. But right now, we didn't need words. The way he looked at me was worth more than any ridiculous speech he could have come up with. Just like the look in my eyes must have contradicted every single time
I’d claimed I hated his guts.
I didn't hate him.
I craved him.
Without really knowing if it was a good idea or what would be the death of me, I grabbed the hem of his shirt.
My hand slipped underneath to stroke his skin with a gentleness that went against every hateful thing I’d thrown his way for years.
And as I did, I realized this was way more honest than my nasty remarks. His lips brushed mine, agonizingly close.
He was teasing me on purpose, and it was driving me crazy. I tried in vain to close the gap, which earned me a smirk. I found him annoying. Because I found myself annoying.
Because it was having an annoying effect on me.
Maybe that was the whole damn point of this whole story: I was annoyed by what I felt for him, and I pretended he was the one inspiring all this frustration when it was really directed at myself.
Pathetic.
"Still find me insufferable, huh?" His deep voice vibrated through my whole body.
I lied, poorly. "Yeah, you’re fucking insufferable."
A low chuckle escaped his throat, and he tilted his head, brushing against my neck.
The contact was minimal.
He was doing it on purpose again.
He was slow.
Distant.
Yet so close I was starting to lose my mind. Because even being this close wasn't enough.
I wanted more.
I needed more.
"You're a fucking brat, aren't you?" He murmured it against my skin, sending an uncontrolled shiver down my spine. His hot breath burned every inch it touched. "I want you to fucking beg me."
I had to choke back a sharp gasp.
He lifted me up, setting me on the table. He trapped me between his arms, and I couldn't move. His hands lingered on my waist. Then, with one fluid motion, he pulled off my shirt.
I thought he was finally going to give me what I wanted, but I was wrong. He kept going lower and lower. His mouth traced a tortuous path down my body, but always with that agonizing restraint. Then he came to a cruel stop between my breasts. He looked at me with that same challenging smirk.
"I know you want it. So go ahead."
I’d already given in enough to all this. I shouldn't even be here. I definitely shouldn't be sitting in just my bra in front of him.
It was completely insane.
Just like it would be insane for me to beg. "I don't beg."
He lowered his head slightly, making me catch my breath.
"Not yet."
Then he went lower. Cruelly lower. It was downright hot. I wanted him. I didn't say it out loud, but inside, I was begging him to do something.
Anything to stop this painful anticipation.
But it only got worse.
His fingers found the button of my jeans. He took his sweet time undoing it, lowering my zipper with an insufferably slow motion. In a matter of seconds, I was down to my underwear. Left at the mercy of his eyes, intensely corrupted by desire, and his teasing hands. But he didn't do anything. He just knelt down. His thumb traced delicate circles on the inside of my thigh.
I was fucking burning up.
"Why don't you take me to the bed and do something?"
I was miserably desperate, trying to mask it behind a fake tone of annoyance.
"You want the bed? Beg me."
This time, his lips made contact with my skin.
Finally.
But it was brief.
Just a single touch.
It was torture.
"I hate you."
He did it again, saying in a low voice,
"Sure. But that doesn't change anything. If you want me to fuck you properly in this bed, fucking beg for it."
His fingers lingered on the fabric of my panties, and I had to swallow hard, anticipating the moment he would finally take them off. When he did, I let out a quiet "Fuck" that only made his smirk widen.
"Almost there, sweetheart. I know you have it in you."
His fingers parted my legs slightly, and my head fell back. I felt him stand up, and I cursed him.
He was teasing me, and it was working exactly the way he wanted. I shot him a glaring look, but not for long, because his thumb found my clit, ripping an unexpected moan from my throat.
"Come on, baby. Beg me. Beg me to fucking taste you like you deserve to be."
His words crashed into the shell of my ear while his finger started a slow rhythm. I bit my lip, holding back another moan. And then, I couldn't hold anything back anymore.
"Okay. Please. Dean. Please. Do something, I..." My voice broke for a second as he picked up the pace slightly.
"I?"
"I beg you, Dean. Please."
He stopped to carry me over to the bed without a shred of hesitation.
My back hit the mattress gently, as if his teasing attitude had given way to something more certain, yet more delicate. He hovered over me, pulling off his shirt before settling between my legs. His face was so close that his mere presence had me right on the edge. He hooked his arms under my legs to hold me firmly in place. I could feel his breath. My fingers tangled in the sheets, trying to grip onto something.
"You seem pretty needy for a girl who pretends to hate me so damn much."
Then his lips finally landed right where I wanted them most.
It was every bit as good as I’d imagined.
I’d had time to anticipate it, to wonder what it would feel like. I had been aching for this sensation. But what my brain had dared to picture didn't hold a candle to reality.
It was hot.
Wet.
Mind-blowing.
My vision went blurry. But it didn't really matter, because I couldn't help but close my eyes. My breathing was ragged, matching the unbearable strokes of his tongue, which now held absolute control over my entire body. I was a fucking mess.
I could feel it.
"Does every guy you hate make you wet like this, doll?"
The more he talked, the worse it got. I couldn't even think about responding.
I unraveled under him, crying out his name like a ridiculous prayer. I sounded pathetic. But I didn't give a damn.
He slid slowly back up to my mouth, kissing me chastely, letting me taste myself still lingering on his lips.
It was driving me insane.
"I don't hate you." It was breathless.
Begging.
For someone who had fought so hard not to sound pleading and desperate, it was a royal failure.
"I know you don't."
Even in a moment like this, he stayed true to his confident, commanding self. It was what I loved to tell myself I couldn't stand, but right now, it turned me on more than it had ever annoyed me.
My hips rolled forward, rubbing obscenely against his straining jeans. He was damn hard.
"How could you hate a guy who can make you fall apart just with his tongue, huh?"
The comment made me swallow hard, and the relief he had just given me only made me want more. I was insatiable.
He was making me crazy.
"Right. I don't hate you," I repeated like a fucking vow. "I want you." I had to catch my breath. "Now."
I felt him tense up.
His green eyes searched my face with a certain admiration.
"Whatever you want."
My hands searched for his belt buckle. I undone it quickly, then opened his jeans, which he helped me push down without further delay. His boxers came off with them, and I had to take a breath at the sight of his dick. He was thick, long, and desperately hard.
"Condom."
I shook my head frantically.
"I'm on the pill and I'm clean."
He studied me for a second.
"You sure?"
I nodded with a slight smile that twitched with intoxicating anticipation.
"Yeah. Why? Should I worry?"
That pulled an amused smirk from him.
"No. I'm clean."
I trusted him. I wasn't afraid. Truth be told, I wanted him too much to actually care, and that was exactly the problem.
"Okay. Then I beg you, Dean. Do it. I need you now."
He let out a heavy breath. His eyes locked onto mine, and then I finally felt him push inside. My breath caught for a second before starting up again, even more ragged and desperate for air.
He was slow, giving me time to adjust.
But mostly, he was looking to hit the exact spot that would make my eyes roll back. He was gentle but precise. Every time a thrust wrung a moan out of me, he hit that spot again just to hear it. It was intoxicating. I could feel every sensation, but I couldn't feel my legs. Just like I hadn't noticed my hands desperately clawing at his back.
That drew a growl from him.
He kept going slowly, letting his lips linger on my neck, then on the corner of my mouth, until his tongue met mine again, swallowing the helpless moans he was pulling out of me.
Then, finally, he hit the perfect spot. He picked up the pace frantically, and I could feel him trying to keep his grip on his control, but the begging gasps escaping him proved he was giving in, just as I was on the verge of breaking. His hand found my breast. He tried to be gentle, but the frenzy of chasing the end made his movements a little rough, which was even more unbearable in the most delicious way.
When his hand slid down to my clit, it was only a matter of seconds before his name was lost against his lips as I was swept away by a second orgasm.
I felt him on the edge of finishing too, and after a few hard thrusts through it all, he let himself get carried away by his own release.
He stayed hovering over me, breathless for a moment, before rolling over to the side, still riding the high of the pleasure he’d just felt.
We both lay there silent in the night and the intimacy of the bedroom, staring at the ceiling like two idiots.
It wasn't until a moment later that I started to realize what I’d just done. I had just slept with Dean Winchester.
The guy I had pretended to hate.
And it was fantastic.
But the words from earlier came flooding back. My own words. My own thoughts. The ones that were certain I’d just be another one-night stand he’d forget to call back. He was right next to me, but I was starting to feel cold. It went way beyond the absence of his warmth.
I was scared.
Because I wanted more than a one-night stand. I wanted him. Just like I’d wanted him the first time I saw him.
And I was terrified I’d just condemned myself to live through this single night for the rest of my life.
I pulled the comforter up a bit higher, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't sound pathetic and humiliating. But nothing came to mind. So I kept staring at the ceiling.
Eventually, it started making me sick, so I rolled onto my side, turning my back to him, forcing myself to stare at those damn flowers on the wallpaper again.
"I meant it."
My heart skipped a beat. "What?"
I felt him shift closer behind me until my back was pressed against his chest. His arm wrapped around my waist, and he buried his face in my neck.
I relaxed slightly.
"This is different. I promise you."
The promise echoed through the room. It held the same sincerity that had ruled our conversation a little earlier. It was reassuring. It was a far cry from the lies and sarcasm I’d been hitting him with relentlessly since day one.
"It's different because I have craved this for years. While you hated me, I was fucking craving your skin like I need air."
I needed a moment to process his words. I never would have dared to dream of something like that.
He was craving me.
Just like I craved him.
"I never hated you."
I felt him smile against my shoulder.
"Well, even if you did, it wouldn't matter." He kissed the back of my neck and added, "I kinda like it when you're a brat, anyway."
That coaxed a genuine little laugh out of me. I rolled my eyes as if he could see me. Or maybe it was more meant for myself. I was mocking myself and the lie that had followed me for too many years.
I sure didn't hate Dean.
But I hated this lie.