The Hunter and the Witch ~ Dean Winchester x fem! reader
Description: y/n l/n (aka reader) has known the Winchesters ever since they helped her family start anew, away from a town that hated them for being witches. Or more specifically for y/n being a witch and accidentally causing mayhem. So when Dean comes knocking at her door asking for help she obviously complies, even if it means being stuck on the road with the man she’s secretly in love with.
Or it’s basically just y/n following the adventures of Supernatural
warnings: cannon violence, everything written is fiction and should not be taken seriously
Prologue Playlist Outfits
Other works
Season 1
Chapter 1: The Woman in White
Special: Halloween Drive
Chapter 1~ Continuation
Chapter 2: Wendigo
Chapter 3: Dead In the Water
Chapter 4: Phantom Traveler
Chapter 4.5: Can you Promise Me?
Chapter 5: Bloody Mary
Chapter 6: Skin
Chapter 6.5: You’re not him
Chapter 7: Hook Man
Chapter 7.5: A fool in love
Chapter 8: Home
Chapter 8.5: Reunion
Chapter 9: Asylum
Chapter 10: Scarecrow
Chapter 10.5: Rest
Chapter 11: Faith
Chapter 12: Route 666
Chapter 13: Nightmare
Chapter 13.5: Words mean more at night
Chapter 14: The Benders
Chapter 15: Shadow
Chapter 16: Hell House
Chapter 17: Something Wicked
Chapter 18: Provenance
Chapter 19: Dead Man’s Blood
Chapter 20: Salvation
Chapter 21: Devil’s Trap
Season 2
Chapter 22: In My Time of Dying
Chapter 23: Everybody Loves a Clown
Chapter 24: Bloodlust
Chapter 24.5: Return
Chapter 25: Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things
I just saw the Odyssey. Yes it was peak (see my review on letterboxd #shamelessplug). And it did get my creative juices flowing so the angst continues, you’re welcome.
Okay I have a writing dilemma so i ask you wise people! Whether you’ve read my Frank Castle x Reader mini series, Another Dawn, or not, please feel free to respond.
So for the next chapter a lot kind of happens(?) But particularly I’m essentially debating whether the reader should’ve had a traumatic backstory or not. It’s not gonna be like a key plot point or anything and the way i figured her bringing it up is almost casual—like a not important detail. A not so small, small detail. But here’s where i get iffy with it:
I really don’t want to fall into a situation where it’s like “oh yeah traumatize person falls for other traumatized person” or that being the reason they work well together or the thing that necessarily pushes their relationship. I never really want any of my works to appear that way. And I don’t want it to like be who the reader is yk? She’s more than that, as is the case with the reader in The Hunter & The Witch. And it’s like do ppl even want to read about a reader like that? And I don’t mean it in a mean way but just that maybe it’s so typical and already out there yk?
On the flip side, which is probably also why i’m hesitating, is that the detail is very near and dear to me (for the lack of a better word/phrase). It’d be pretty personal. Which is fine like I wouldn’t reveal it just cause, but her situation would be quite identical to what happened to me.
Anyways pls help because it’s been plaguing me and I genuinely don’t know what to do.
i know it’s been awhile without content so i just want to assure you that “continued” chapter is still being written!!! besides being trapped at work it’s taking extra long cause i want it to be perfect and also it’s a slight cannon divergence so im not using anything to guide me but my thoughts. anyways i just wanted to update you all
summary : frank doesn't like to hear any other names come out your mouth- unless it's his.
warnings : SMUT, MDNI, p in v, size kink, praise kink, asshole!frank (kinda), sub reader (kinda), possesive!frank, hahahaha breeding kink hahahahah
word count : 8.6 k
a/n: not proofread and based on this rq !! (this is lowk so bad im so sorry)
Pissing Frank off is such an easy and enjoyable activity.
The way he gets all red faced, the way his knuckles clench and his jaw ticks as he fights the urge not to snap at you because he hates yelling at you.
It is, quite frankly, adorable.
You discover this on a Tuesday.
By nine in the morning, he's already regretting waking up.
He's making coffee when you wander into the kitchen, still rubbing sleep from your eyes. Without thinking, you wrap your arms around his waist.
"Mornin', Matt." Frank goes completely still.
"…Excuse me?" You blink innocently.
"Oh." A dramatic gasp. "Sorry." You pat his chest. "Morning, Frank." He stares at you for a long moment.
"…Very funny."
"I thought so." At lunch, he's mostly forgotten about it. Mostly. The two of you stop by Curtis's garage to drop something off. Curtis gives you a quick hug goodbye. You wave as he disappears inside. Then you slip your hand into Frank's.
"Curtis, say bye to Frank." You stammer. "I mean- Frank, say bye to Curtis." Frank snorts.
"You done?"
"What?"
"You're smilin'."
"I always smile."
"You got that look."
"What look?"
"The one that says you're about to become my problem." You squeeze his hand. The afternoon brings a trip to the grocery store. You're wheeling the cart, deliberately ramming it into his heels every few feet. He finally turns, grabbing the handle with a sigh.
"Give me that before you break my ankles."
"Whatever you say, Dave." You let go, watching his shoulders tense. He doesn't say anything, just grips the cart so tightly his knuckles are white. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing. Later that evening, you're curled up on the couch, a blanket over your lap as you scroll through your phone. Frank comes in, having just finished a shower, his hair still damp. He leans over the back of the couch, pressing a kiss to your temple.
"Whatcha watchin'?" Without looking up from your phone, you lean into his touch.
"Nothing much, Billy." He straightens up slowly. You can feel the shift in the air, the sudden drop in temperature. You risk a glance up at him. His face is a mask of controlled fury, his eyes dark and fixed on you.
"You think this is funny?" His voice is low, dangerously quiet.
"What? I was distracted." You try for innocent, but the smirk tugging at your lips gives you away. Frank doesn't answer immediately.
He just watches you. Really watches you. His jaw flexes once. Twice.
"You've called me Matt." Silence. "Then Curtis." Another beat. "Then Dave." His eyes never leave yours. "And now Billy." You shrug, still smiling.
"I've had a long day."
"Mhm."
"I'm tired."
"Mhm."
"So maybe I just forgot your name." He lets out a quiet laugh. It isn't amused.
"You forgot my name."
"It happens."
"No." He takes one slow step toward the couch. "It doesn't." You tuck your legs beneath you, still looking entirely too pleased with yourself.
"I've known a lot of men." His eyebrow lifts.
"Yeah?"
"Mhm."
"So maybe I got confused." Another step.
"Confused."
"Mhm." Frank nods once. Slowly. "You know what I've been thinkin' about all day?"
"What?"
"Every damn time you said somebody else's name…" He shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, like he's physically stopping himself from reaching for you. "…I wondered if that was the point." You tilt your head.
"And was it?"
"You wanted me jealous."
"I might've." He studies you.
"You succeeded." That catches you off guard.
"You were?" His laugh is humorless.
"You called me 'Matt' while your arms were around me." Another step.
"You hugged Curtis."
"He hugged me."
"I know."
"You thanked 'Dave' for pushin' a grocery cart." Your smile grows.
"And Billy?" His jaw tightens.
"You let me kiss your forehead…" He looks almost offended. "…and then you called me Billy." You can't help it. You laugh. Frank doesn't. Instead, he rounds the couch. The room suddenly feels much smaller. "Still funny?" You bite your lip.
"…A little." He plants one hand on the back of the couch behind your head.
Not slamming it. Just there. Close.
His other hand slips into your lap, gently lifting your phone away before setting it on the coffee table. All of your attention is on him now.
"All day." His voice has dropped lower. "You've been sayin' other men's names to my face."
"I was teasing."
"I know."
"You know?"
"I know." A beat. "But I still didn't like it." His eyes search yours. "I don't like imaginin' you with anybody else." Your teasing smile softens.
"Frank…"
"You're mine." The words land with the weight of a physical blow, stealing the air from your lungs. The playful tension that had been crackling between you all day curdles into something heavier, something primal. Your smirk is gone, replaced by a sudden, breathless awareness of the man caging you in.
"Frank…" you start, your voice softer now, the apology you hadn't realized you needed to make already forming.
"Shh." He leans in closer, his free hand moving from the back of the couch to cup your jaw. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, a possessive, grounding gesture. "I'm not done." His gaze is intense, burning with a raw, unfiltered emotion that makes your stomach clench. This isn't about the stupid game anymore. This is about the fact that you'd made him feel something he hated, something dark and sharp and ugly.
"You don't get to do that," he murmurs, his lips hovering just inches from yours. "You don't get to make me think about you with someone else. Not even for a second."
"I wasn't," you whisper, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady, solid beat of his heart beneath your palms. "It was just a stupid joke."
"I know." His thumb presses gently, parting your lips. "But my brain doesn't always listen. It just… sees things. Sees you with Curtis. Sees you laughing with Micro. Sees you looking at someone else the way you look at me." His voice cracks, just a little, on the last few words, and it's that tiny crack in his armor that undoes you completely. He's not angry. He's scared. The thought is staggering.
"I only look at you like that, Frank," you breathe, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "There's no one else." He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he closes the remaining distance between you, his mouth crashing down on yours. It's not a gentle kiss. It's a claiming. A punishment and a reassurance all at once. It's deep and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to stake its territory, his hand moving from your jaw to the back of your neck, holding you in place, making sure you can't escape. You melt into him, your body arching against his, a silent surrender. You let him take what he needs, let him erase the day, erase every other name, every other face, until there's only him. Only Frank. When he finally pulls back, you're both breathless. His forehead rests against yours, his breathing ragged.
"Say my name," he commands, his voice a low growl.
"Frank," you whisper, without hesitation.
"Again."
"Frank." He kisses you again, softer this time, but no less possessive. His hands slide down your body, gripping your hips and pulling you flush against him. You can feel his arousal, hard and insistent against your belly.
"You're going to remember who you belong to," he murmurs against your lips. "You're going to scream my name tonight until it's the only one you can remember." His hands drag the blanket off your lap and toss it to the floor. You’re wearing nothing but an old t-shirt and boxers. Frank lifts you up without warning, manhandles you until you’re straddling him, his arms caging you in, his grip bruising on your thighs. He makes you feel small. Even when you’re taunting him, running your mouth, you’re always aware of just how much bigger he is. How dangerous his hands can be. You’d be lying if you said that wasn’t a huge part of the appeal.Frank kisses you like he wants to fuck you with his tongue alone. He’s hot and wet and insistent, mouth opening wider when you try to keep up with him. His hands are busy, kneading the backs of your thighs, shoving you closer, grinding you down against his sweatpants-clad cock.
God, he’s already hard. Course he is. Your own breath stutters in your lungs as Frank rocks his hips up, a slow deliberate grind, all that heat and pressure focused right where you’re already aching for it. He mashes your bodies together, like he’s trying to brute-force your atoms into a single, messy unit. You cling to his shirt as if it’ll keep you afloat, like any second now the undertow of him might swallow you whole. His hands are everywhere, greedy and insistent: kneading your ass, palming over your back, clawing you closer even as there’s literally nowhere else to go.
“Frank—” It comes out half-whine, half-moan, your brain flickering like a dying lightbulb. He bares his teeth in a grin, all wolfish satisfaction, and shoves a hand under the hem of your t-shirt. His fingers splay out hot against the small of your back.
“Yeah, sweetheart?” he murmurs. “Somethin’ you need?” There’s a roughness to it, a cockyness that makes your body fire up with need. Frank shoves the t-shirt up over your ribs, not bothering to take it off. His hands are broad and greedy and everything he does is with total, singular focus—holding your waist, dragging your dick against the heat of him, grinding you down until you see little explosions behind your eyelids. One of his hands slips between your bodies, tracing the shape of you through thin, cotton boxers. His jaw works tight, like he’s biting back the urge to just rip the whole thing away and devour you in one go.
"You really think you want this?" His thumb rubs slow circles over your cock through the fabric. "If I fuck you now, I ain’t stoppin’. Not ‘til you remember only me." Your whole body draws tight as a bowstring. You can’t even summon words; you just nod, desperate and dizzy. Frank just stares you down, heavy-lidded, mouth bruised from kissing and still hungry. His thumb drags a slow line up your spine, making every muscle shudder. You try to look away, but he won't allow it; with a single fist in your hair he angles your head back, exposing your throat. His face softens for a split-second, amused. Then he bares his teeth and takes you apart. His mouth leaves a wet, vicious trail along your jaw, nipping hard enough to sting. Marking, claiming, like a dog with a favorite bone. You try to steady yourself, but there isn't a steady bone left in your body. You can feel his cock, a monster of a thing, bulging against your core. His hands ghost over your breasts and you shudder. Frank’s hand finds your throat in the next instant, thick fingers splaying over your pulse. Not choking, not really, but holding you still, pinning you in the moment. Your cock throbs in your boxers, every heartbeat a jolt in his palm. He licks a rough line behind your ear, teeth scraping your skin, and you gasp, everything in you going pliant and feverish.
He forces you to look dead at him, even as he grinds the sharp bone of his own hips hard against your ass. The friction makes you dizzy, makes you want to sob. You'd been taunting him all day for this. Toying with him, poking the animal until you forgot it might one day snap the leash.
“No more games?” He speaks low and clear, like a threat or a prayer. A noise leaves your throat, nearly a whimper. You want to say his name but your tongue won’t work, not with the way he’s caught you, not with hunger rolling off him like a heatwave. Frank shoves his own sweatpants out of the way with one hand, cock springing free, obscene in your periphery. You steal a glance, and the size of him makes your blood pressure spike—thick, demanding, angry-red and beading at the tip.
“You’re gonna take all of it,” he growls. “Take every goddamn inch. You got it?” His thumb presses under your chin, the grip in your hair unyielding. You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a choked little sound, equal parts awe and terror. You nod, because you can’t do anything else. You barely see it; Frank’s hand dips between your legs, knuckles pushing your boxers aside, two fingers already slick as they sweep through you. He doesn’t start easy. He’s not gentle. He stretches you, wide and demanding, opening you on his hand like he wants you to remember the ache and remember it’s his.
“Such a fuckin’ brat,” he says, like he’s explaining a math problem. His teeth are in your shoulder now, biting down hard enough to warn, to promise bruises tomorrow. “Wanted to get my attention all day. 'S that right?” Your breath is coming in shuddery little gasps. You shiver in his lap, barely able to hold yourself upright on trembling thighs. He gives you no time to answer, just twists his fingers until your whole body seizes up, pleasure and pain in one bright, fanged burst. He grinds his cock against you, the heft of it hot and heavy, like he wants you to feel what you’ve gotten yourself into.
“I should make you say it, but you got me too fuckin’ riled up. Gonna fuck you ‘til you can’t even think about anyone else's name. Gonna fuck you til you forget your own.”
You believe him. You really do.
Frank yanks your hips down, seats himself into your pussy with a single brutal thrust. You swear, near scream; your whole body goes rigid on impact, back arching, mind blanking out to a white-hot buzz. There’s no easing into it, no slow burn. The soft Frank that kisses your hair line and inches you down slowly, asking if you’re okay, has taken a backseat spot this time around. There is a psychic sound in your head, somewhere between a car crash and a cathedral bell. Too full, too soon, too much. Your hands scrabble at his forearms, your nails digging in, and a small, incoherent sob punches out of your chest. He takes it as encouragement. Of course he does. He fucks up into you, hard enough that you hear the slap of his skin over your own blood-rush, hard enough that for a second everything is static. He gives you a second—just one—before his hands wrench you down again, pulling you open. Built for him. That's the thought glittering in your brain, the raw animal possessiveness he's always carried like a scar, now inside you, all the way up, right against your lungs. Every inch, every pink desperate nerve, stretched to the point of snapping.
He doesn't just move—he uses you. Fucking into you like you're his only tether, like there's nowhere else on earth for him to be. His hand fists in your hair again, dragging you down for a kiss that isn't really a kiss, just a brutal mashing of teeth and tongue. He keeps his eyes on you the whole time. Watching. Daring you to look away. You can't. You wouldn't if you could. Every pump rocks your whole body, the friction inside you close to unbearable, the cock splitting you open hotter and harder and more than you should ever be able to take.
"You feel that?" His voice is rough as gravel, chest heaving. "That's me. Only me. Say it." You try, mouth wide, soundless on the first attempt while he fucks you with relentless, punishing rhythm. Your brain is sliding to pieces, overloaded, every pulse and throb between your thighs building into tsunami.
"You—fuck—Frank—" It's a panic, a prayer, a surrender. You clamp down out of reflex, the sound of his answering groan instant and feral. His hand stays at your throat—reminding, not hurting—and you realize you love it. The sense of helplessness, of being owned and ruined and wanted so much it hurts.
"Good girl." He bites the words against your neck, hips rutting in tight, bruising snaps. "Take it. Take all of it. That's what you wanted, right? Wantin' me desperate, wantin' me mean." A sound leaves you that's not human; you don't care. You almost can't breathe, but every time you try to squirm away he drags you back down, impales you, makes you ride out every sharp stretch and relentless stroke. Your clit rubs against the base of him, every thrust hitting the spot that makes you see stars. There's a sick gratification in feeling how desperate, how fucking needy he is for you. You've never felt needed like this. Not by anyone.
Frank lets go of your hair only to grip your jaw, squeezing just enough to make you meet his eyes.
"You like this?" he hisses, spit-slick lips grinning. "How 'bout now? You gonna say someone else's name?" You shake your head, wild and eager. The orgasm builds inside of you at extreme speed, and just when you think it' might tear you apart- Frank stops. You jerk upright like a puppet with strings cut. The pressure, the friction, the delicious pain, it's all gone too soon—leaving your body trembling and your pussy fluttering empty around absolutely nothing. Your vision blurs, soaking your eyes, and a pathetic mewl bubbles in your chest. You can't believe he stopped. You can't believe you ever thought you were in control. Frank's hands slide up under your jaw, thumbs pressing into the hollows of your cheeks. He looks you dead on, pupils blown, lips slick and gritted with restraint, and you know, you know, he's doing it on purpose.
The bastard is grinning.
"You wanna come, baby?" His voice is silk now, mocking you, enjoying every ragged gasp you make. He keeps you perched on his cockhead, barely inside, just enough to make you feel the void, make you beg for it. You try to chase it, grinding down, but he's holding you up, strong as a dock piling, not letting you take what you want. Your whole body throbs, cunt slick and pulsing, insides gone molten with need. Your fingernails score the thick muscle of his shoulders and find no purchase. You're shaking. You're not even pretending not to whine anymore.
"Frank—please—" He kisses you, soft as a secret, and you hate him for it.
"You only come when I say. You wanna remember my name so bad, you can be a good fuckin' girl and ask. Say it." You do, choking on shame and relief—
"Frank, please, please let me—" He thrusts up, slow and mean, filling you in one greedy surge. There's no patience in him now. He's relentless, one hand fisting your hair, the other palming your ass, dragging you down in time with every slam of his hips. You see white, stuttering, every nerve lit and shorting out and crying for more. He fucks you hard, the kind of hard that would embarrass you if you weren't too far gone to care, if you weren't grinding your hips to meet his every thrust, if you weren't moaning, stupid and open-mouthed, into his shoulder. Your thighs start to shake. You can feel the way he splits you open, the way your cunt stretches and aches and hugs everything he gives you. You've never felt so full in your life. You're so close you think you might die. He pulls you down on a savage angle, and suddenly he's pounding your g-spot with every thrust. Your brain rewinds and hiccups. You can't remember your own name, let alone anyone else's. Hands in your hair, voice in your ear, every atom of him inside you: it's all just Frank, Frank, Frank.
Frank's rhythm is merciless, every thrust a reminder and a punishment, driving your insides to raw, delirious peaks. The world narrows to the sound of his pelvis hammering yours, the thick, ragged breaths in your ear, the slap and glide and brutal fullness. You can't even pretend to want it gentle. You want to be ruined. You want to be his. You want to be nothing at all.m Your body is a pulse, a knot, a high wire about to snap. Frank fucks you through the first orgasm like it’s nothing, like every clench and spasm just spurs him on. Your cunt goes electric, muscles locking around him while you sob into his neck, gasping and choking on air and pleasure and the shame of being so easy, so desperate for it. He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t let you coast down. He wants you undone, wants you trembling and pleading and slick all over his lap. The second peak comes on too fast, a static bombshell detonating low in your belly, and you hear yourself scream, just a ragged, wordless cry, your fingernails leaving angry arcs down his back.
Frank's hands are everywhere—one clamped over your mouth so you don't wake the neighbors, the other shoving your hips down, forcing you to take him to the root, like if he could crawl inside your bones he'd do it in a heartbeat. His sweat slicks your thighs. You taste salt and skin and the metal tang of your own blood where you bit your tongue. You’re limp in his arms, spent and shaking, and it’s still not enough for him. He grinds you down until you’re a soaked, shuddering mess, whispers into your hair, low and hoarse:
“That’s it, baby. Just like that. My girl, my fuckin’ good girl—look at you.” His voice is a gentle shock. You crack your eyes open, vision swimming, see him staring up at you like he’s proud, like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted in his life. You sob out a sound that might be his name, might be nothing at all. He grins, wolfish and tender at once.
“C’mon,” he says, “you got more in you. Don’t let me down now.” You shake your head, but your body says otherwise. He knows your tells. He pushes you until you’re riding him, until you’re fucking yourself on his cock, every bounce and grind a fresh humiliation, and you love it, you love it so much it’s like dying. The overstimulation is a live wire, agony and ecstasy in equal parts. Frank slows, changes angle, and suddenly you’re there again, everything going white, body jerking and clenching so hard you feel like you could break in half. He holds you there, trembling and on the verge of collapse, and slows the rhythm until it’s just a deep, rolling grind. You pant into the crook of his neck, hair matted to your forehead with sweat, the taste of him thick in your mouth. Everything inside is raw, edges sanded off by the relentless drag of his cock. The only word left in your head is Frank—Frank who holds you together when you’d rather come apart, Frank who knows exactly how to keep you on the knife’s edge, just this side of sanity.
He pets your hair, almost tender, but the next thrust is another deliberate punch deep inside. You find a whine in your throat, a wet, animal noise, and he laughs, the sound rough and sweet all at once. “You like that, huh. Look at you.” He moves you, bounces you slow and mean, the slick sound of it obscene in the open air. His hand drifts up your back, holds you steady at the nape of your neck so you can’t hide from him. He wants to see all of it—every twitch and gasp and flutter, every time your body gives up more than it means to. You try to fight it—clamp your thighs, ride it out, hold onto the last fragments of self—but Frank’s got your number.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, voice all grit and pride, “take it for me, take it all.” You do, because there’s nothing left in you but obedience, nothing but the need to please, to hear the pride in his voice when you fall apart again. He snaps his hips up, and the pressure detonates behind your eyes, another climax ripping through you without mercy. You collapse forward, chest to his, arms shaking, body empty and yet wanting more. He keeps you there, rutting up into you in short, savage bursts, cock still hard and thick inside your cunt. You sob into the hollow above his collarbone, beg a little, maybe say his name, but it all blends into a single sound: need. He waits it out, rides the waves of your aftershocks, then flips you with a single roll of his hips, bracing your shoulders against the couch. Your legs splay open, trembling and useless, and he just stares for a second—like he’s memorizing the mess he’s made.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says, and kneels between your thighs. He lines himself up and drives in again, no warning, no mercy, just the solid, hot weight of him to the hilt. Your body seizes, then melts into the cushions, and he laughs—deep and satisfied, like the world finally makes sense. He fucks you in a slow, dragging rhythm, letting the brutal stretch of every stroke remind you exactly who’s in charge. There’s no end to it, just wave after wave, each one higher than the last. He leans down, palm cradling the side of your face, thumb tracing your slack jaw.
“You with me?” he asks. You must look wrecked, but you nod, dazed and grateful. “Good. Gonna make you come for me again,mama.” He says it soft, like it’s a favor, but you can hear the threat in it too: he doesn’t plan to stop until you’re boneless and emptied and barely a thought left in your head. The couch cushions creak under the force of him. Each thrust sets off a fresh tremor in your thighs, blunt shocks of sensation that make your vision swim. Frank’s thumb scrapes your cheek, smearing spit and sweat, and you realize you’re crying, maybe a little. He notices. Of course he notices. He slows, just for a breath—a single, tender second—then fucks you harder, the pace cruel and perfect.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he pants, watching your face for every twitch and flicker, “want you to make a mess for me. C’mon, show me.” You try to answer, but your body’s abandoned language. All you can do is clutch at his arm, dig your nails in, let the heat and stretch and pressure tunnel through you like a fever. Your cunt contracts around him and he groans, a low, ragged sound of approval. You shatter again before you can brace for it. Your back bows, toes curling, pussy fluttering around his thick cock. Frank hisses and bites your neck, not gentle. You grind up against him, greedy for the friction, the pain, the relentless stretch. You want him to hurt you; you want him to ruin every inch. You want to be so thoroughly claimed that you’ll never joke about another man’s name again. He keeps you pinned, locked to the couch by the weight of his hips and the clamp of his hand on your jaw. His mouth crashes to yours, tongue slicking inside, swallowing every gasp and whimper. He fucks you with a purpose: to erase you and build you back up in his own image.
When he finally slows, the edges of the world have blurred; your thoughts run like water. Frank gathers you up, arms under your knees, and hauls you higher, bracing your back against the armrest. You slide down, helpless, as his cock pops out and then pushes back in, deeper than before. You shriek. He muffles it with his palm.
“Shh. That’s right, honey. You take it for me. All of it.” His voice is so close, the words vibrating in your ribs. Your nipples brush his chest with every thrust, the heat of him soaking through your skin. You’re desperate, completely ruined, and his cock is the only thing holding you together. He pushes your knees up, folding you almost in half, and fucks you straight down, hitting a spot so overwhelming you think you might black out. You can’t even beg anymore. All you can do is sob and let him use you, let him drive you to the next peak and the next, each one burning hotter, brighter, until you’re molten and screaming and trembling everywhere. He seems to savor it, watching you, licking sweat from your jaw while he pistons in and out, every stroke a shockwave through your core. He’s close, but he won’t let himself finish. Not yet. He wants more from you.Frank's hands pry your knees wider, one beefy palm holding your thigh hard to the couch and the other angling your jaw so you have to look right at him, so you can see the scarred terrain of his face as he splits you open.
No room to hide, not from that look. Not from the power in his hips as he drives into you. The world is sweat and skin and bruises blooming under his fingers, and the endless, ragged sound of your own voice—crying, pleading, gone completely out of your control. You've never been this fucked, never been this taken apart. He keeps his eyes locked on yours while he fucks you. There is no pretense in it, no mercy.
"C'mon, baby, gimme one more," he pants, the words grinding out of him like he's hauling each one up from the bottom of a well. "Know you got it in you. Open up, that's it—show me." The angle hits so deep you almost fold in two. Pressure building, pressure breaking, white noise and heat. Your body bucks, tries to curl away, to get a single breath above the drowning tide of sensation, but Frank won't let you. He holds you there, fucks you through it, makes you take every goddamn inch. You hear yourself scream, see his face twist with satisfaction. He loves it. He fucking loves it.
"That's my girl," he growls, voice raw, "look at you, fuckin' perfect. You wanna come again, don't you? Say it. Tell me." He is relentless, the tempo brutal enough to make the couch frame creak. Your whole body is one raw, exposed nerve, and the pleasure borders on pain in a way that makes you sob. You don't even know what you're saying, just babbling his name, babbling anything that might keep him fucking you this good, this hard, forever. He slows, just for a second, like he wants to drag it out, savor every twitch and flutter. Then he slams in, three deep, punishing strokes, and you shatter. You come so hard you think you might pass out, clenching around him so violently your vision goes gray at the edges. Frank hisses, like you've bitten him, and keeps pumping, keeps you racked up high on the edge and then off it again and again.
The world comes back in pieces. You are limp on the cushions, legs thrown over Frank's shoulders, his weight crushing your hips to the couch. His cock still stuffed inside you, still rutting, like he's trying to find the bottom of you and then build a new low. He slides one hand under your back, arching you up, and bends over you until his chest is a wall at your nose, until you can inhale the salt-and-cologne heat of his sweat.
"You wanna be a brat, you better be ready for the consequences," he grunts, biting the words against your lips. "Fuckin' with me all day—" He snaps his hips on the word, sharp enough to make you yelp. "Thinkin' you can get away with it—" Another thrust, another yelp. "This is what happens." Frank goes feral, the tempo turning punishing. He braces your thighs wide, bends you in half, and hammers home with a rhythm that shakes the battered couch and sets every nerve in your body on fire. You're not even aware of your own voice anymore—a high, raw, desperate sound, punctuating every stroke as he fucks you deeper, harder, until the feeling of him is all you know. Your mind whites out at the edges; your skin is electric, slick and tingling and oversensitive. Each thrust rakes over a sweet spot inside until you're convinced you'll split on it, until you're ruined and remade in his image.
He doesn't give you a second to recover. Doesn't care that your legs are jelly, that your body is vibrating with every stutter and snap of his hips. He wants you on the edge, teetering, trembling, bratty little attitude wrung clean out of you. He wants you to never forget who fucks you this open. You can't even look at him—your vision is nothing but sweat and the flat planes of his chest, the bruising press of his hands pinning you down. Frank's face is a blur above you, but you know the look on it: hunger, pride, a little mean, a lot possessive. You love it.
You try to reach for his arm, to anchor yourself to something, but your hands flop uselessly against his forearm. He grunts, leans hard into you, and the new angle makes you want to scream. He's everywhere: in you, on you, under your skin, inside your head. Your own voice is sobbing out his name, a mantra, a plea, the only thing you can say.
"Yeah, that's it," he huffs, voice thick and wet with arousal. "Let everyone hear you, baby. Say it. Say who fucks you this good." He gives you a savage thrust for punctuation and you break, high and needy, the pleasure a punch to the gut.
"Frank—oh, fuck—Frank, Frank—" You're almost crying with it, the mess between your thighs slick and obscene. He loves it. He praises you, filthy, soft, relentless.
"That's my good girl. You take it so good—shit, look at you, takin' every fuckin' inch. This pussy's perfect, made for me." He palms your cheek, forces you to meet his gaze. "You gonna come again for me? Gonna show me how grateful you are?" You nod, whimpering, desperate for it. The heat in your belly is a live wire, every movement a fresh, white-hot spike of pleasure. He slows, just for a moment, grinding deep with a mean little circle of his hips that makes you see stars.
"You like makin' me crazy?" he asks, and you don't even know if it's a question that needs answering. Doesn't matter. You're beyond words, beyond anything but the feeling of his cock splitting you open. He slaps your thigh, a crisp, mean crack, and the sting fans the fire inside you. You clench around him, milking him, and Frank fucks you like the world's gone dark and hot and everything outside this moment's been blown to glass. He wants you split, spent, every sensation spiking until there's only him left in your skull, until if you ever tries to say anyone else's name again your body'll reject it like poison. You're a fucking mess—hair everywhere, tears on your cheeks and spit on your jaw, your voice gone strange and high and sticky from the way he keeps you right there, trembling on the couch, legs crooked up on his shoulders. He can hardly see straight for how much he wants you. It's a sickness, the kind that eats out everything that isn't need. That last orgasm knocked something loose in you, left you blubbering and gasping, and Frank grins like a fucking wolf at the way you clamp around him every time he grinds in deep. He sets a slow rhythm now, dragging it out, letting the stretch and heat build again. He wants you to remember this for a week. He leans in, crowding you, forearms braced on either side of your head. Your whole world's bracketed by his arms and sweat and the sharp, salty tang of sex. You're sobbing, little sounds he used to think meant stop but now he knows mean fuck yes, more, don't you dare stop. He drags his lips along your jaw, nipping and licking, then says it in your ear, quiet and mean:
"This all you got? I thought you were tough." You mewl, tries to squirm away, but he's got you caged. He wants you pinned and wild and shattered. He wants you to never forget his name again. "You like when I fuck you stupid?" he pants, voice breaking on the upstroke, "You like it when I make you cry?" He doesn't expect you to talk. You can't. Your nails dig into his biceps, desperate, searching for something to hold. He fucks you through the shakes, through the endless aftershocks, and the way your body milks him is going to destroy him if he's not careful.
He tries to wait it out. Tries to be good, to make you come again, but you're so hot and tight it's like a goddamn vise—he's never felt anything like it. You're whimpering, helpless, and the sound rips through him.
“Fuck- Say - Shit, mama, say my name.”
“Frank.”
The last of his patience unspools. He slams in deep, stays there, and his vision explodes. He comes hard as he's ever come, the pleasure mean and electric, his hips jerking with every pulse. He's still growling your name—your real name, goddamn it—like if he says it enough times it'll erase every other man who ever looked at you. He collapses on top of you, crushing you a little, and slides a hand up to cup your throat, thumb stroking the pulse point as your bodies cool. His cock stays inside you, fat and spent and still twitching. He feels you shiver as he shifts his weight. He should pull out. He can't. He needs you to know, to feel it for hours.
His cock’s still locked inside you, thick and swollen and leaking, even as every muscle in your body shudders with oversensitive aftershocks. The air’s sharp with ozone and sweat and the raw, animal edge of the two of you. You can feel him softening only a little, but the heat’s still there, the weight of him a constant, insistent throb inside you. He’s made a mess—a slick, hot flood that seeps out around the base of him, pooling out and streaking wet down the backs of your thighs and onto the couch.
You half expect him to pull out,to clean you up and cradle you, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stays buried deep, his body a wall against you, his hand heavy on your thigh, fingers digging in with a need to keep you exactly where you are. Your cunt pulses around him, desperate and hollow and full at the same time, the sensation so sharp it makes your eyes water. You try to shift your hips, to ease yourself off the impalement, but Frank grunts and tightens his grip, holding you still.
“Don’t move,” he mutters, voice rough and shredded. He sounds equal parts threat and plea. “Just—gimme a second.” You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Every nerve sings, every clench sets off a fresh splash of slick between your legs. You’re not sure if you could stand up, even if he let you. Frank’s hand slides up, palm warm on your belly. He flexes his arm and pins you down, like he’s afraid you’ll evaporate if he lets go. He nudges his hips forward, slow and deliberate, forcing another inch inside you. You whimper, the sensation almost too much, but you want it, need it, love that he can’t stop himself even now. You feel the way his cock twitches, a slow, aftershock pulse, the slide of his spend leaking out and then forced back in as he gives a shallow thrust.
He’s not done. Not even close.
He pulls your hips up, finds a new angle, and grinds himself in again. You can feel every vein, every shift, the thick stretch of him carving you open. He moves slow, deeper than before, dragging the oversensitive seam of your cunt until it blurs the pleasure and pain together. Your walls flutter and clamp down, desperate to keep him, and Frank’s hand finds the nape of your neck, holds your face-down in the battered cushions.
“Gonna keep you like this,” he slurs, almost too quiet to hear. “Keep you plugged up, yeah?” His hips stay welded to you, cock still inside, and you can feel him—Frank's come, thick and hot, slowly leaking out and then forced right back in by the lazy clutch of your body and the thick, insistent length he refuses to let go. The mess of it drips from your cunt, sticky and slippery, trickling down your ass and pooling under the curve of your thigh. Frank's hand slides with you, guiding the slick back up, circling the rim of your overstretched hole and then pushing it in again with a gentle, careful thumb. He does it slow. So slow. Like he's pressing a memory into you. He keeps you folded, legs wide, the angle obscene and utterly helpless, and you can't move, can't even twitch. Every time you think he's done, that he's squeezing the very last drop of himself inside you, Frank drags his thumb down again, collects what's escaped, and traces it back up the seam of your pussy, watching it pearl and disappear where the base of his cock splits you open. He groans—quiet, like he's talking to himself—and gives a little grind, just enough to stir everything up, to make your insides ripple and push out another thick rope of spend around his cock. The sensation makes you sob. It’s almost too much, but the way he does it, so careful, so fucking gentle, is nothing like the bruising violence of ten seconds ago. He keeps you impaled, keeps you gaping underneath him, and just... admires his handiwork.
“Look at that,” he says, but his voice has gone soft, gone almost lost. “Made a mess of you.” He sounds almost reverent. He runs his palm up your thigh and presses the flesh until it dimples, like he needs the proof that you’re real. The couch shakes with every little shift he makes, every micro-thrust, every exhausted clench of your cunt milking him for more. You try to blink your way back into reality, but your body’s fried, nerves sparking and shorting out with every new sensation. The room is spinning, the taste of sweat and spit and salt thick in your mouth, but Frank is steady, an anchor in the haze. He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll fall apart if he lets go. You expect him to snap back to the old Frank any second—rough, gruff, never sentimental—but instead he bends low, presses his forehead to yours, and stays there, breathing you in. His breath is hot and sour with effort. He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t even soften all the way. He stays where he is, like if he stops, even for a second, the world will cave in.When he finally pulls out, you whine, instinctive and high, the emptiness a shock after all that relentless fullness. The mess is immediate—warm and thick and slick, his cum painting your thighs, smeared across every inch of you. Frank stares at the sight, breath ragged, chest heaving. There’s a wild pride in his face, his work here, the evidence of how thoroughly he’s ruined you.
But then it hits him what he’s done. That he’s made you cry, that your legs don’t work, that you’re so open and spent and marked by him. He crowds in close, hands gentle now, running down your back, smoothing out the ridges of your spine.
“Shit.” The word is rough and sticky, like his mouth doesn’t want to let go of it. He's never seen anyone look so finished. Not just tired—wrecked, splotched under the eyes, face swollen with tears. The sound in your throat isn't even a whimper, just a shaky, airless wheeze as you try and fail to move your leg, which is still flopped useless over his shoulder. The stark panic that hits him is visceral. He did this. He wrecked you. He spent all day thinking about it, but now that it's real, now that you're slumped under him all glassy and trembling, a cold trickle starts up the spine. He tries to shift back, but you flinch and he sees the fresh tears, the way your thighs clamp shut before he even moves.
“Hey, hey—shit, honey, I gotcha,” he mumbles, voice turned all thick and soft, nothing like the man from thirty seconds ago. His hands move gentle now, thumbs tracing soft circles in all the places he’d used to bruise. You can’t meet his eyes. You just lie there, cheek mashed to a throw pillow, the mess of wet on your face drying sticky and sweet. You blink at a spot on his chest, like if you look anywhere else you might float right out of your body. Frank feels the zip of guilt, a live wire through his sternum. He tries to nudge you upright, to cradle you, but you just curl tighter. He tugs the ruined t-shirt down to cover your chest, suddenly desperate to shield you from even the air.
“C’mere,” he says, voice wobbling in that way you only ever hear when he’s scared. “C’mere, I’m sorry, I’m so fuckin’ sorry—I got carried away, I didn’t mean…” He can’t finish. He’s never seen you look so small. He pulls you into his lap, cradling you with arms that only minutes ago could have ripped you in half. You shiver, clutching at his forearm, nails digging in like you’re afraid he’ll vanish. He pets your hair, wipes the sweat from your brow, and presses his lips to your head. It’s not until you start to breathe again—really breathe, slow and deep and shaky—that he allows himself to speak above a whisper.
“Did I hurt you? Hey, look at me—tell me. Did I hurt you bad?” The panic is naked on his face, no armor left. You try to answer, but the words tangle in your throat. You shake your head, burrow closer, the heat of him grounding you. He waits, silent but vibrating, for the next breath, and the next. Only after a long minute do you force out a croak:
“Just—lot. Lot all at once.” Your laugh is bruised and wet, but it’s there. Frank holds you like you’ll break, palms wide and steady on your back.
“Baby, you gotta tell me if it’s too much,” he says, voice so raw you almost don’t recognize it. "Jealous craze or not , I never wanna fuckin' hurt ya." You shake your head.
"S'exactly what i wanted." Frank's entire face softens. The panic doesn't leave. It just changes shape. He searches your face with frantic, guilty eyes, brushing damp strands of hair away from your forehead over and over, as if he can't stop checking that you're really here.
"You sure?" he asks quietly. You nod against his shoulder.
"'M sure." He exhales, but it's shaky. Not relief. Not completely. His thumb keeps tracing slow circles across your back.
"I lost my head."
"I know."
"I got jealous."
"I know."
"I should've reined it in." You lift your head just enough to look at him.
"Frankie. I did it on purpose. I wanted this to happen." He rolls his eyes.
"I'm aware." He huffs. "Doesn't change the fact I should've been more careful." He lets out a shaky breath, his forehead still pressed to yours. The tension in his shoulders doesn't ease, but something in his eyes does—like he's finally letting himself believe you.
"You're gonna be the death of me," he murmurs, but there's no anger in it. Just a raw, terrifying sort of acceptance. His thumb traces your jawline, then dips lower, brushing against the pulse in your throat. "Making me lose control like that." You manage a weak smile.
"You looked pretty in control to me." That gets a huff of laughter out of him, short and sharp.
"Yeah, well." He shifts slightly, careful not to jostle you too much. "We oughta get you some glasses, mama."
You snort, the sound small and scratchy.
"Glasses?"
"So you can tell the difference between me and every poor bastard whose name you decided to call me today." You let your head fall back against his shoulder.
"I knew exactly who you were."
"Oh, did you?"
"Mhm."
"And yet I spent the whole damn day bein' Billy, Matt, David…" He counts them off on his fingers with exaggerated annoyance. "Think you even threw Foggy in there at one point."
"I might've."
"You absolutely did."A sleepy smile pulls at your lips.
"You were cute when you got jealous." He gives you a look.
"Cute?"
"So cute."
"I was havin' a crisis."
"You were pouting."
"I do not pout."
"You do."
"I brood."
"You pout while brooding." He huffs, but there's no heat behind it.
"You've got a dangerous definition of entertainment."
"I had fun."
"I noticed." His hand slides slowly up your back, warm and steady, never rushing, never asking for anything. Just holding you.
"You still with me?" he asks quietly. You nod against him.
"Mhm."
"Tired?"
"So tired."
"Hungry?"
"Little."
"Thirsty?"
"Yeah." He kisses the top of your head.
"I'll fix both."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
"You always say that."
"'Cause it's true." He shifts carefully, making sure you stay wrapped in the blanket he'd pulled around your shoulders before easing you off his lap just enough to settle you comfortably against the couch cushions. "Don't move." You smile without opening your eyes.
"Bossy."
"Damn right." He disappears into the kitchen for less than a minute before returning with a glass of water.
"Easy," he says, slipping an arm behind your shoulders to help you sit up. "Small sips." You obediently take a drink. He watches until you've swallowed. "Another." You roll your eyes.
"Yes, sir."
"Smartass."
"You love me."
"I do." The answer comes so quickly it steals your smile for a second. He notices.
"What?"
"Nothin'."
"You got that look."
"What look?"
"The one where you're thinkin' too hard." You study him. His hair is still a mess. There's a faint crease between his brows that hasn't disappeared. His breathing is normal again, but every few seconds his eyes flick over you like he's checking you're really okay.
"You still feel guilty." He doesn't answer immediately. Finally, he nods once.
"Little."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
"But I'm gonna anyway." You reach for him.
"C'mere."
He sits back down without hesitation, and you immediately curl into his side again. His arm comes around your shoulders. Instinct. Like it belongs there. You rest your palm against the center of his chest. His heart is finally beating at something close to normal.
"There," you murmur.
"What?"
"That's better." He covers your hand with his.
"You scared me."
"I know."
"I don't like seein' you cry."
"I wasn't crying because I was unhappy."
"I know."
"I was just… overwhelmed."
"I know." He presses a kiss into your hair. "I'm still gonna worry."
"I'd be disappointed if you didn't." That earns a quiet laugh.
haven’t read this yet. will when i get home cause im at work. but genuinely seeing this pop up i actually felt my soul start to levitate. exactly felt like this.
I can’t WAIT to get home. PLS SET ME FREE I HAVE THINGS TO DO
thinking about how dean winchester manhandles you… 🤤
he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it mostly. we’ve all seen how he’s always having to do something with his hands, tapping the steering wheel and the like so it’s only natural he does it with you!
he’s just very tactile and it’s his responsibility to take care of you. you’re drunk and he needs to get you home? he’s slinging you over his shoulder. there’s an attack of something? he’s immediately roughly grabbing you by the waist and pushing you behind him. but even little things too.
if he wants you attention and your back is to him he’s tugging on whatever style your hair is in. he needs to get past you he’s gonna rest his hands on your hips to move you out of the way. if he wants to kiss you he’s pushing your cheeks together with his hand till your lips are pursed in an exaggerated pout.
sometimes you bemoan it! you’ve got finger marks all over your body because your boyfriend apparently never grew out of the pull the plaits of the girl he likes phase but he just shrugs and says “what you can’t handle a little lovetap sweetheart?”
maybe i’ll turn this into a proper fic someday idk
Guess who is seeing Santana and the Doobie Brothers tonight 😛😛😛😛😛😛
And yes i’m wearing my best 70s fit and yes my hair is big. AND im seeing Lynyrd Skynyrd and Foreigner next month and AC/DC and the Pretty Reckless in September. I’m on a generational run 😫😫😫😫
I’m finally writing the parts of the series that literally encouraged and inspired me to write in the first place and I feel like I’m flunking. It’s like it’s perfect in my head, could easily direct it like a movie or an actual episode but transferring it to words??? Apparently the frick not.
Instead of it being cool i feel like it’s cringy and it’s just not articulating the way i want it to :(
Im gonna crash out as I continue to write it I think because it’s really important for this to be perfect
summary: based on this request!!
you might've thought that dean was the one, but then you meet someone else. someone completely perfect, which is what the love spell tells you anyway. but dean isn't going to let you go so easily.
tags/warnings: reader gets a hickey while under a love spell so not very consensual, love spell in general (cheating), references to sex, drinking, swearing, spn-level violence, being mean to dean 💔, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns used
wc: 9.2k
a/n: if anyone asks then no this has NOT been in my drafts since november !! had a busy ass college year so writing this mostly happened in boring lectures & the last couple weeks now that it's summer. kinda hate it rip but if i have to open this doc one more time i'm gonna set myself on fire (also first time writing a long dean fic kinda nervous 🫣)
masterlist
You can smell flowers. The scent is fresh and calming in a way that, if you were to close your eyes, you could feel your heartbeat soothe itself into a steady thrum. It reminds you of the summer's peak, when petals bloom in every corner and the air possesses a sweet tinge that caresses your face.
None of this is bad. In fact, with the putrid smells that typically come alongside hunting, it's a vast improvement. But you're confused. Because summer has been over for three months and you're currently sitting in a skeevy dive bar that should reek of sweat.
All of your other senses are tuned into what's expected: mindless music blasts from some tinny speakers in the corners, fighting a losing battle against the laughter of drunken patrons. The humidity prompts a thin layer of sweat to dampen the back of your neck, and a scuffed brown stain lingers on the cheap plastic of your table, too close for comfort no matter how far you nudge away.
Everything is there, that usual familiarity.
But something about the scent is bugging you. Not only is there a lack of women around your table, but it doesn't have the artificial tang of perfume anyway. There are no sugary-looking drinks, or floral decorations, just that untraceable sweetness and a warmth easing your tense muscles.
"You spacing out on me, sweetheart?"
You don't remember letting your eyes shut, but at Dean's grating voice they fly open, not needing long to adjust to the wan light. You've never thought of your boyfriend's voice as grating before, but now it's the only adjective to come to mind as he stares across at you with a small smile.
He's nursing his beer between hands that still sport bloody knuckles. You'd tried convincing him to stop at a motel for a proper clean-up, but he'd been desperate to get out and unwind after the gruelling hunt. You'd been forced to settle for some wipes and a sad attempt at polishing away the worst of the damage, ignoring Dean's comments about mothering him.
You're still painfully aware of the blood and mud amalgamation clinging to your boots, your hairline crusted with dirt that you've since forgotten the origin of. Subconsciously, your hand goes to your hair at that thought, and it's then that you spot the streaks of blood on the underside of your arm, which must have been missed during the clean-up.
God, would it have really killed him to let you have five minutes in a shower?
"'Course not," you answer, the words infused with a bitterness that wasn't intended. "I'm having the time of my life." You nod at the table. "That stain is shaped like Idaho, isn't that cool?"
Dean humours you, tilting his head as he squints at the table. "... Kinda looks like that cop who tried to bust us at the morgue yesterday." He snaps his fingers in recognition, an amused smile building at his attempt. "Yeah, look, there's the beard that made him look like Chewbacca with a bad razor -"
By the time Dean stops himself, you've already tuned him out. His words are more the reverberations of an echo, not quite reaching you directly, and are unable to compete with the smell for your attention.
"Hey, seriously. You good?"
The words sway in front of you, just strong enough to break through and act as a reminder to school your expression. You glance at Dean, whose eyes are now sharp, whittled by concern.
"I'm fine."
He's quiet for a beat, tongue sweeping over his bottom lip the way it does when he's thinking something through. Being under his attention like this usually makes you feel special; Dean doesn't half-ass things, and when you're the opposite end of his gaze, you know you're the only thing on his mind. But now you just want to shove him away and yell for good measure, hoping that a loud enough volume will break through that steel focus. You just said you're fine, what is his problem? Your eyes flit around the place, hoping for an escape.
"Hungry?" he asks. "I mean... this place won't be winning any awards, but I did smell a -"
Your head whips around so fast that your neck twinges painfully. Barely even acknowledging it, your wide eyes remain trained on Dean. His mouth is still open even though the words have died on his tongue, and he looks back at you as if your head just flew right off.
"What did you smell?" you demand, finally glad to have some confirmation that you're not crazy.
His bewildered expression carves even more deeply into his face at your urgency. "Uh, nachos?"
"Oh." The disappointment fizzles in your chest, completely drowning any semblance of hope. "Yeah, sounds great. Hey, I'm gonna head to the bathroom," you hold up your stained arm, "to, uh..."
The words are still jumping from your tongue as you stand from your seat and head towards the bathroom, giving Dean no chance to reply. You don't know if it's the fact you're finally getting away from him, or whether sitting down was just allowing an antsiness to fester, but something about this decision immediately strikes as alleviating.
You shove past dancing bodies, swaying slightly in time with the music. The song isn't even good, and though you'd usually deem it headache-inducing, its reverberations rattle that notion around in your head until it's something unrecognisable. The steps you take are easier, like you're on some pre-determined path paved by weightlessness and light.
"Well, hi there."
The voice jumps out from the surrounding din, a glue that stops you right in your tracks. It's deep and velvety, and it sends tingles down your spine that are so intense your fists clench.
Mouth opening on autopilot, knowing that it's supposed to form the words not interested, your throat seems to have missed the memo. The rest of your body too - your traitorous feet slide in the direction of the stranger.
He perches on a bar stool, enough near the edge that he might as well be standing. Dimples poke through as his smile widens, and he looks bashfully down through his glasses for a moment like he doesn't realise how breathtaking he is. Even so, you just caught the twinkling blue shade of his eyes, reminding you of the freshest summer day.
"Sorry," he says through a small laugh, "I'm never usually this forward. I just saw you coming and... well, I would've beaten myself up if I didn't even take the chance to say hi." His lip catches between his teeth, attempting to hold back the smile he's doing a horrible job at containing.
You blink twice, then swallow hard in an attempt to make your voice start working again. When it finally does, it's a little too breathless for your liking. "I'm glad you did."
He brightens at that, a flower in bloom. You don't know how someone who looks like that can be so surprised, but his cheeks redden so earnestly that you don't care.
"Yeah?"
You nod, only realising after three desperate bobs that it's too eager. Leaning against the bar by his stool, you attempt to feign nonchalance. "Yeah."
"God, I've been thinking about if I should," he admits sheepishly, glancing away for a moment. Then he leans in like he's telling you a secret. "I saw you with that guy over at your table and didn't know if I should test my luck."
"The guy at... oh - Dean?" The mention makes you look back in the direction you came from, but the place is so crowded and the bar is enough around the corner that you're out of each other's sight. "Well, I mean, he's my boyfriend..." You blink a few times, the words tasting sour on your tongue as they taint the air between you.
But he waves a hand, his thick eyebrows drawing together in thought. "Look, I'm not trying to be judgemental. But I saw him, and I know his type. Running around, stringing people along for the thrill. You know, the bullshit player type. I don't want that to happen to you. I'm sure you're a smart girl, but guys like that know what they're doing. It's not your fault."
You've heard those words before, plenty of times from men who talk themselves up so big. Who think that empty promises of a future are way more than what Dean can give you. Dean, who can make you laugh like no one else. Dean, who has literally gone to hell and back to keep you safe. Dean, who wants to spend forever with you, however that might look.
Those excuses land hollow now in the face of this man. No part of you wants to deny his vow or defend your boyfriend, especially not when he reaches out, fingertips ghosting your cheek as he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. Sparks ignite at the contact, travelling down to become fireworks in your stomach. You lean into it without thinking. Were you really thinking of arguing that Dean has good jokes?
"But hey, I know leaving someone can be hard. I'm sure he got his hooks in deep - I saw the leather jacket." His thumb ghosts against your jaw and you think his touch is the only reason you're still standing. "So there's no rush for that. I can play the long game."
His hand leaves your face, but he might aswell have chopped off one of your limbs for the sense of loss it incites. A strangled noise crawls its way out of your throat, and he releases that breathy laugh again, plucking a small slip of paper from his pocket.
"My number," he says, gently taking your hand to cradle it between his. He places the paper on your palm, then curls your fingers right over it, his large warm hand now encompassing your fist. "But don't tell, okay? Best it doesn't get messy. Like I said, I want things to be easy for you. Straightforward, you know, safe. It can be our secret."
You simply nod, something leaving your mouth that could be a word or just a dreamy sigh. He releases your hand, thumb brushing over the fluttering pulse of your wrist, and you pull your sleeves back down to keep it hidden.
Our secret.
--
Dean rises from his seat as soon as you get back to the table. For a brief second, worry flushes in your chest and forces your heart into a wild thump; had he seen you with the man? Had he overheard? Is he going to drag you away and burn the number, depriving you of happiness forever? You shove the paper into your pocket as quickly and discretely as possible, ready to fight if the situation comes to it. But then he flashes you a small smile and your nerves settle.
"Cleaned up?"
"Yeah, yeah, all good," you murmur, fighting the urge to turn around, take a few steps back and crane your head just right...
"C'mon, let's go find a motel," he says, already shrugging his jacket on - you remember the man mentioning it, and though you usually love how it looks on Dean, now you think it's just silly. Not the right colour, too long at the sleeves. One of the button holes is ripped too wide, a gaping mouth that's shocked at your change of feelings. "I'm ready to crash."
You shoot him a look, then glance at the empty glass on the table; you'd only been here long enough for one drink. "What happened to 'we're gonna stay out and drink until our blood is made of booze'?"
He points a finger at you when your voice lowers in imitation. "Okay, first, that was more Batman. And we can do that tomorrow. This week we've had a total of - what, five hours' sleep?"
"You're complaining about being tired?" If you hadn't met the beautiful man at the bar, this would be the most defining part of your evening. "Did you get swapped out with a Shifter or something? Because to be honest, I'm really not in the mood to have to kill you."
"What, I can't want to catch a few beauty hours? Besides," he says, draping an arm around your shoulders and steering you towards the door, "you, me, and a crappy bed with mattress springs poking into our backs sounds great right now, huh?"
A small part of you agrees - other than the mattress springs - but it's so deep down that the smile you muster up is weak. What really emerges is one simple thought that compresses all the others: you do want to share a bed with someone tonight, but it's not Dean.
--
Dean doesn't get his full wish; the bed isn't actually that crappy, at least in comparison to the usual motels. And the springs aren't even stabbing you. Really the room is above average for your standards, but tonight your sorrowful eyes dim everything around you. The fridge is big and actually working, but it's an eyesore of scratched paint. There are nightstands on either side of the bed for once, but you stub your toe on the corner and don't end up using the drawer in protest. The air conditioning works, but its buzzing hum grinds your nerves until you're clenching your teeth.
You know one thing that would make this room better. The only thing. Strong arms, tuggable hair, glasses that could fog up if you...
Dean dispels your thoughts when he tosses you his old Led Zeppelin shirt. You love sleeping in it, which he's well aware of, and while this offering would normally make you melt, now you just stiffen. The usual soft cotton scratches your hands, and you wonder when it was last washed. But Dean blinks at you from across the bed with those soft dewy eyes and you add it to the pyjama pile with a small sigh.
He crosses the room as you begin to pull off your jacket, but his hands smooth over yours and halt the movement. You're reminded of earlier, when the man's hand had touched yours, and can't help the comparison: his was warmer, his grip more solid. Still, you can't bring yourself to say anything.
Dean tugs you in further, first pressing a soft kiss to your temple and then your cheek. This tends to happen after a long hunt of what-ifs and close calls, in the soft darkness of a motel room. In between the four walls is when you can finally trade knives for toothbrushes, shouts for soft yawns. But today it's hollow - not cold, just an absence of anything. When his lips find yours, you let the muscle memory take over and kiss him back, but really you're wondering how much softer the man's lips would be.
Dean pulls away but doesn't go far, forehead pressed to yours. His eyes remain closed as he whispers, "You sure you're okay?"
You hum some kind of yes, because even if you'd rather be somewhere else right now, the knowledge that soon you will be is enough to keep you going. Today you'd met the one, that perfect someone for you. Even if it's going to take a bit of time, you now know the person you're going to spend the rest of your life with. There are just some obstacles to get through first.
He sighs, warm breath fanning against your lips. "If you're still mad that I cleared the place alone, I -"
"I'm not." You had been, right up until you'd sulkily trudged into the bar. Dean had promised he'd wait for you before going into the abandoned barn where you'd staked out some vamps. But by the time you arrived, you'd been met with clashes of metal, blood splattering, and Dean fighting three of them alone. "You said you were sorry."
"Are you mad at me for something else, then?"
"Should I be?"
He pulls back a little to look at you, and you see his eyebrows furrow. "No? But you usually give me crap for way longer. This... water under the bridge thing is scarier than when you yell."
You snort. "What, do you want me to yell?"
"Well..." He tips his head in contemplation, hands travelling down to rest on your waist. "It is kinda hot. And I mean... I definitely don't mind what sometimes comes after -"
As his fingers dip under your waistband, you shove him off. It happens too harshly, you can see it in his eyes - the flash of hurt, not at being denied, but of having you flinch back so hard.
So you try and make your voice overly dramatic, pretending it was all a joke and flashing him a sly grin that your facial muscles don't want any part in. "Hey, I was promised sleep, Winchester, not you pawing around."
The stung look doesn't evaporate; it melts right into him, no longer visible but now just simmering beneath. He raises his arms and says, "Message received, sweetheart. Want me to sleep on the floor too, or do I still get to share the bed?"
You roll your eyes with a smile, finally slipping your jacket off. "I'll think about it."
"It's like I'm a dog," he muses, flopping onto the bed. "Promise I don't shed."
"No, but you do snore."
"Okay, that only happens when I -"
He cuts off so suddenly that your gaze snaps to him like a beacon. One of your arms is swallowed by your shirt as you're halfway through an attempt to pull it off. Dean's staring at the other like he really is a dog who doesn't understand what's happening.
"You've, uh," he clears his throat, "got some blood on your arm still."
"Huh?" You glance down. "Oh." You quickly get your shirt off and reach for your bag to get some wipes, pulling Dean's shirt on when you're clean. "There." Then you groan, gazing longingly at the bed. "I should probably shower..."
"I thought you went to get cleaned up at the bar?"
"Huh?"
Dean sits up a little, and you realise he's gone slightly rigid. "When you went to the bathroom in the bar. Said you went to clean that off."
The lie slaps you in the face. You aren't so steady on your feet but allow a moment to compose yourself when you turn away and toss the wipe in the bin. "Yeah, I did. But it was - so busy, y'know? A bunch of girls were doing their makeup by the sinks and the stalls were full, so I just left."
"Oh."
Before he can raise any other questions, you straighten up. Clap your hands together, as loud as thunder in the room. "Okay, I really am gonna shower. Think I've got some dirt and... stuff..."
"Right."
You get to the bathroom as quickly as possible without looking like you're running away. The click of the lock prompts a shaky breath to leave your mouth, and you take a moment to breathe before turning on the shower. Everything is okay, you tell yourself. There is no possible way for Dean to know what happened.
You get into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the dirt, both physical and mental. It's not like you're a complete asshole: you know stringing Dean along is horrible, but figuring out how to break it off is impossible. The two of you have only been in a relationship for about eight months, though the build-up had lasted for a lot longer. Just springing it on him out of nowhere would be a huge slap in the face, especially when this decision only settled for you today. He'd need an explanation - and then what? Telling him about the man would be unfair. You know enough about Dean's self-esteem issues and don't want to make it worse. It's not that Dean isn't right. He's just not right for you. But he wouldn't understand that.
Tomorrow, you promise yourself, you'll think of a plan. For now, you just want to go to sleep and have that charming smile infiltrate your dreams.
Before you go back into the room, back to Dean, you type the man's number into your phone and flush the slip of paper down the toilet.
--
For once sleep doesn't kick you out, instead gently nudging you into the embrace of consciousness. Warmth envelops your whole body, a small buzz humming beneath your skin as you ride the high of your dreams. There's nothing but pure bliss for a single moment, until it sinks in that the arms around your body do not belong to the right person. Suddenly the room is too hot, and the breath on the back of your neck churns your stomach uncomfortably.
As though he's perfectly in tune with you, Dean stirs, arms tightening around you while he places soft kisses on your neck.
"Morning," he says hoarsely.
You only manage a grimace, grateful that he can't see. Does his voice always sound like that when he wakes up? It's so gravelly, grinding against your ears like nails on a chalkboard. You feel the urge to force a glass of water down his throat.
"Was thinking after breakfast we could go to that bookstore you saw yesterday. Before we head out of town."
You shift in Dean's grip, an attempt to break free without shoving him off. But he seems to mistake your aim; usually this kind of movement means you're turning around to face him, so now he tugs you closer with a sleepy smile.
"Thought you said all bookstores just sell the same thing anyway," you murmur, eyes latched on a piece of his hair that won't follow the others. Anything to avoid looking into his face, which is always soft during the mornings you don't have a case. Part of you aches to tell him, spit it out right now: I'm breaking up with you.
However, before the words can leave your tongue, Dean's thumb ghosts over your lip and pushes them back in. "And I stand by that. But you wanna check it out."
It takes a moment to even remember what you'd been talking about. When it hits, you nod. "Alright." The thought of visiting the bookstore is still a nice one, but now it's propped up by a new agenda; that gives you a little extra time to stay in this town. A few hours, if you can really push it.
That should give you plenty of time to break up with Dean.
--
Desperation builds in your body all morning. It hasn't even been twelve hours since you left the man at the bar, but it hits like some kind of withdrawal. You need to see him again soon. The only option for now, however, is texting, and it's all up to you. He hadn't asked for your number, just given you his, which really confirms your presumption that he's extremely considerate. What if he had texted you while you were with Dean? That would have just caused too much drama. Here, you have the control.
Which means it's up to you to find a good moment. And soon. Because you've only been awake for about twenty minutes and already your fingers keep twitching towards your phone.
The opportunity comes when you arrive at the diner. You tuck yourself into the booth while Dean goes off to order, then immediately dig out your phone and find the contact. But your finger hovers for a moment. You try to think of shiny words, though each one burns bright for only a second before it plummets into muck. It's vital that you get this right, give him what he deserves.
Foot tapping against the ground, you glance at Dean. There isn't any more time to waste. Swallowing your ambition, you settle with a simple hi, followed by your name.
Besides, basic is good, right? It means you can build to something and don't have to worry about coming on too strong. But oh god, what if he thinks you're uninterested? Or boring?
The thoughts start to spiral, but before you can panic too much, a response comes through. He really is perfect for you, already knowing exactly what you need.
Unknown: Hi yourself. Glad you texted.
You can't help the grin that stretches your lips. He's perfect and he's glad to talk to you. How did you get so lucky?
You: So, if we're doing this, do I at least get to know your name?
Unknown: What, you don't like a mystery?
You: Tempting. But I'd like to know the name of the guy I can't stop thinking about.
Unknown: Well, I guess one day my name is the only word you'll be able to remember. It's only fair.
You hold your breath as the typing symbol appears for a few seconds.
Unknown: I'm Tyler.
"Tyler," you whisper, thumb hovering over the message. The two syllables taste sweet on your tongue, a refreshing drink after a long day. Does this guy have any flaws?
You: When can I see you again, Tyler?
"Someone's cheery. Not to rain on your parade, but they were out of orange juice. And there was only one slice of pie. Leftover, I think, but hey. Pie's pie."
Your head snaps up at Dean's presence, thumbs subconsciously moving to cover as much of your phone's screen as possible. The words barely register and you wave them off with a tepid, "It's fine." Tyler could probably bring you orange juice if you asked. Would probably bake you a fresh pie every morning without complaint.
For a stupid second you want to text him right now. Have Tyler barge in through those doors and save the day, showing Dean just what you're missing out on by being with him. He'd understand... right? But you don't want to risk it, and shut off the phone, placing it face-down on the table as Dean slides the plates in front of you.
The pancakes are rubber in your mouth, but you force yourself to act like this is a regular morning. Not the most defining day of your life.
"Sam called," Dean says after a moment. "Said he has a lead on something pretty close by. He's only about two hours out, so I figured we'd wait for him and jump on the case together."
That means longer here, which is perfectly fine with you. You perk up at the thought, but tense when your phone buzzes on the table. To Dean it's nothing, but your eyes snap to it immediately. You clench your hands into fists so that you can't reach out for it.
"You good with that?" Dean asks.
"Huh?" you ask, glancing back at him. "Oh yeah, no problem."
Dean leans back in the seat, eyes watching you for a moment. Then he goes back to his food. He takes the slice of pie and slices it with his fork, sliding the bigger piece over to you.
"Thanks, but I'm kinda full," you say, pushing it back towards him. Even the pancakes have been too much to get through; the nausea has been building since the moment you woke up - or, really, the moment you left the bar last night.
Your phone buzzes again.
Dean glances at it this time, but he doesn't say anything. Not about that, at least.
"You feeling okay? We can stop by the store and get some -"
"No, I'm okay. Just an off day, you know?"
"Right..." He idly prods at the pie with his fork. "You wanna sit the next hunt out? I can drop you off at the motel."
Another buzz.
"Who's that?" Dean asks this time. He says it while taking a drink of coffee, and his mouth being full almost makes him sound nonchalant. Almost.
You rattle off the first name of a friend you can think of. "She got a new boyfriend. Just giving me the updates."
Dean nods. "He get your approval?"
"Yeah," you sigh. "He seems... perfect."
He raises an eyebrow. "Woah, do I need to be worried? Should I send him some threatening messages from an anonymous number? Maybe a picture of what's in Baby's trunk?" The way he asks is tinged with humour, but you know him well enough to hear the note of genuine caution that seeps out, even if he doesn't.
You reach across to grab his hand; to stomach it, you imagine it belongs to someone else. Remember how Tyler's had felt last night, how he'd looked at you like you were the only thing to make sense. Even the memory of his voice is enough to raise goosebumps on your skin. "C'mon, you think I'm a homewrecker? I'd never steal a friend's boyfriend."
He looks down at your hands. "Y'know, I think you're supposed to say that you've already got a boyfriend."
Too busy replaying the conversation from the bar, Dean's comment is lost on you. "Huh?"
"Yeah, y'know, that homewrecking thing is... what do they call it? In those chick flicks you watch?" He ponders for a second, chewing on a piece of bacon. "Oh yeah, the girl code crap or whatever. But there's, uh... boyfriend code too."
"Boyfriend code?" you snort.
"Yeah. The being stuck with me part, remember?"
"How could I forget?" The line, while familiar, sounds foreign to your ears; usually it's coated in fondness, wrapped up in endearment so thick that you would cringe if you weren't so happy at being stuck with him. Now it leaves your mouth having picked up a tinge of bitterness along the way. Once again you're struck with the urge to tell him you're breaking up.
"Don't make me feel too special. I might get an ego."
He finishes his food not long after. As you leave, Dean's longer legs take him ahead, and you dawdle just long enough for a quick check of your messages. The few from Tyler are sweet, even though you'd been worried about having to leave in the middle of a conversation. You read his words, lip between your teeth and cheeks warming.
You don't look up in time to see Dean notice.
--
"No, really, I'll be fine. It's just, uh... cramps."
Dean remains far away from the motel's open door, now empty of Sam, who had gotten sick of waiting for his brother and went out to the car. He's been staring down at you for what may have been hours, though at least his hand is no longer attached to your forehead and checking for a fever. His touch had nearly turned your fake sickness into something real.
"Seriously," you persist. "I've got painkillers and just wanna catch a few hours, okay, nurse?"
He glances at the door, not even reacting to the nurse comment. "You sure you don't want me to stay? It's just a quick interview, Sam's got it covered." He lights up as an idea strikes him. "We could get ice cream and watch one of your favourite -"
"Dean," you cut him off, unable to care that your tone is so sharp it pops him like a bubble. "I'm okay. But Sam's probably already withered and died, he's been waiting forever. Just go, okay?"
He stares at you for a moment, forcing an unnatural smile. "Yeah. Okay." Another beat of hesitation as he glances at his feet. "Oh, hey, I never gave you Sam's new number after his phone broke on that hunt. Where's your phone? I'll add it, just in case."
You still for a second, pretty sure that all text messages have been cleared from your lock screen. But what if a new one has popped up? Or your phone opens onto your text messages, revealing Tyler in all of his romantic glory? "It's dead. Just, uh... text it to me on your way there. I'll get the charger in a minute."
"Right." He nods once, and you brace yourself for the forehead kiss that usually comes when he leaves, but it doesn't happen. You breathe a sigh of relief, louder than you'd intended. "I'll see you later then."
Dean finally starts to leave, but right before he shuts the door behind him and leaves your earshot, your phone buzzes.
--
The drink in your hand is more like swallowing fireworks when you down a mouthful. Your throat protests, forcing a violent cough that can still be heard when you cover your mouth. It dies down into a laugh when you look up and see that Tyler is grinning at you, teeth on full display.
"Told you it doesn't go down without a fight."
You scrub your lips, hoping to remove as much of the taste as possible. "That stuff could power a city."
"I like the feeling," he shrugs, taking the glass back from you and placing it on the bar's counter. His finger traces the rim, and you can't help but think your lips had been right there. You wish they were under his touch instead of the glass. "Makes me realise I'm alive, y'know?"
You don't really, but nod anyway, resting your chin in your hand. He sounds so poetic, so... wise. He should write a book or something.
"But hey, how about we get you something that won't send you to the hospital. Don't want the night to end yet, huh?" He studies you for a moment, then flags down the bartender and orders something you've seen written on signs but never bothered to try. Afterwards, he turns to you with a shy smile. "How'd I do?"
The excitement sparkling in his eyes is something you can't bear to see leave so soon. So you nod and say, "That's one of my favourites."
"Yeah?" he asks.
Words have been difficult to grasp tonight anyway, but when his fingers brush your neck, adjusting the thin chain of your necklace, all you can manage is some disjointed noise of affirmation. While a small part of you curls up in embarrassment, the rest of you can't seem to care; even after only a day with Tyler, it's obvious your bond transcends words.
"This is pretty," he says, though his dimples have disappeared now. You want to ghost a finger over the corner of his mouth, bring them back. "Where'd you get it?"
You glance down, unable to remember what the necklace even is. The sight of the pendant makes your stomach drop. "Oh, um..." You don't want to tell him the truth, don't want to risk causing him any kind of offence. But lying is so much worse. He deserves honesty, respect. "Dean got it for me. A while back." When his fingers retreat, you blurt, "I'm sorry, I put it on this morning. It's habit, I wasn't thinking -"
"It's alright," he affirms. "I told you I'm willing to be patient, remember? But on the topic... have you given any thought to how you're going to do it?"
You wish the chain was longer, or that you'd chosen an outfit with a higher neckline. The necklace burns now, resting in view, too close to your heart. "I'm a little stuck on that part," you admit. "I want to do it as soon as possible, but I don't want to be horrible about it either. Besides, Dean is... stubborn. He won't let me walk away so easy."
"He sounds like a real piece of work."
"He's..." The right word evades your mind as it blindly reaches out. Dean is definitely a lot of things and straightforward is not one of them. But even now, with your love for him taken and given to Tyler, you can't help but disagree with his description. "He just really cares." A small smile twitches your lips. "Like... any time he's awake before me and puts the light on for something, he'll cover my eyes with the blanket first. And he always makes sure I have cake on my birthday, no matter where we are. And one time when we were caught in a rainstorm -"
"Hey." Tyler's hand encompasses yours, a look on his face like he just downed the entirety of his drink. "Don't dwell on the happy stuff." He gets off his stool and steps towards you, right between your legs. "That'll just make you guilty when you cut it off. And you deserve easy."
"Right. Sorry."
"That's okay," he murmurs, lips skimming against your cheek.
When you make a small noise, they travel down farther, along your neck. It's a different sensation from what you're used to; they trail a different path than... what's his name? It's completely ripped from your mind as Tyler decides on a random point to work with his mouth. He sucks and nips, runs his tongue along what now must be a mark.
When he pulls back, he stares at his work with a gleam in his eye, his thumb replacing his lips. "You're beautiful."
Now you can't even manage a sound.
"I'm going to go to the restroom, okay? I'll be back." He leans in closer then. "Or... you can meet me out back in a few minutes."
"Oh," you sigh, gaze following him as he retreats with a wink, your stomach flipping wildly.
For a moment all you can do is breathe, attempt to calm the racing of your heart that can't be healthy. Are you really ready for this right now? But then you shake your head. Of course you are. It's Tyler. He wouldn't start anything if he didn't think it was right. And it's obvious you need him.
You smooth your hands down over your outfit, wishing you had brought your perfume. Do you look okay? Surely he would have said something if you didn't... Still, when you spot a mirror on the far wall, grimy but substantial, you hurry across the bar.
"Sorry -" you mutter, pushing past bodies, "excuse me -"
Your own name jumps out at you from the din, and you briefly wonder if Tyler is already back and looking for you. You turn, ready to apologise and explain why you're not outside, but the eyes you find aren't blue.
"Dean?"
There's no time to say more than his name; he steps forward, hands cupping your face, gentle as always but more firm than usual. The look on his face is wild, and his chest heaves like he's been running a marathon.
"What the hell?" he says desperately, eyes scanning your body the way he does after a hunt. "Are you okay? You weren't picking up your phone and I thought -"
"Hey, I'm okay." Your hands go to his wrists, wanting to pull his hands off you. But you don't yet, just let him have this small moment, even if you're unsure what's causing it. "I thought you were interviewing someone, what's going on?"
"I thought you were sick." He makes an odd movement then, half moving forward but half pulling back. "What the hell are you doing at a bar? And why weren't you answering -"
"I am sick," you interrupt, mind already reeling from his rapid questioning. "Was. I took a nap and then felt fine, so I thought I'd head out and... you know... see if I can get any local information that could help with the case."
You don't have to push Dean's hands off of your face after all; he slowly lowers them himself. "You don't even know what the case is."
"Hey, I'm a professional. I can pick up on weird stuff. And I heard some of it earlier, from you and Sam. Um... six bodies and... blood loss?" You avert your eyes from Dean for the first time since he showed up. God, is Tyler waiting for you out the back? What if he's standing in the cold, hoping for you to show up? Thinking you're not interested? His broken heart would tear your own.
"Where's your phone?"
"Huh? Oh, dead, remember? I... lost the charger."
"Dead?" His tone shifts into something you're not used to. Sharper, weighed down by concern but also something acerbic. "Really? Because I checked on mine. And it says yours is here."
Your wandering eyes jump back to him. "You put a tracker on my phone?"
"We both did."
Oh. That's right - after that one hunt when demons had split you up, you'd decided to take advantage of tracking apps and save yourselves that stress again. "Well, there's like 3% left, so it's on. But I couldn't use it."
Dean closes his eyes, takes a breath. "What's been going on with you? You've been acting - What are you looking for?" he demands, once your eyes leave him again. "This is serious, alright, six women have turned up dead in a five mile radius of this town and -"
He's staring at something over your shoulder, and your stomach drops. You fight the urge to turn around, knowing that it must be Tyler. Oh god, your time is up. This is it, this is the moment. But... that doesn't even make sense. Dean has never seen Tyler before.
It's then that you realise he's not looking over your shoulder at all, but at your neck. His hand raises, hovering over the skin like he's afraid touching it will burn. And you remember the lips that had been there only minutes ago.
Something cracks in Dean's expression, his arm falling back to his side. You've never seen that look in his eyes before, and you watch in fascination as they dim. The light takes any vibrancy with it and leaves behind a murky green. "Is that -?"
You frown, refusing to cover the symbol of Tyler's love. "What, you don't remember giving it to -"
"Don't." The firm clench of his jaw isn't enough to stop his tone from wavering.
"What?"
"Don't lie to me."
The words punch a sigh out of you. This is it, you realise. You've truly reached the end of the road now, and there's no going back. Even though you're staring at Dean's distraught and fallen face, you picture Tyler's instead. The perfect face that's waiting for you right now, maybe wondering what he's done wrong since you haven't met him outside. You use that, gather all the contempt for Dean that's festering as he keeps you from him.
"Fine. You want the truth?"
"Yes."
You square your shoulders. "We're done."
Dean doesn't step back, but his body involuntarily jolts. It's hard to tell if he asks "What?" so softly that you can't hear, or whether the most he can manage is mouthing the word.
"I'm breaking up with you," you press on. So much for figuring out the best way, but maybe this is good. Quick and efficient. "I can't do this anymore."
This time he moves towards you. But now that the words are finally out in the open, freeing you from this caging secret, you don't allow him close, and push his chest. He stares down at your hand like it's a foreign object, like nothing is making sense at the moment.
"Stay away," you say. "I'm serious."
His voice catches as he says your name, but you push him again. It catches the attention of an older man to your right. He's a few inches shorter than Dean but holds himself with certainty as he pushes himself between you two.
"Hey, man, quit bothering her."
"Woah, hey -" Dean starts, trying to catch your gaze. His phone rings then, shrill like a scream.
His eyes don't leave you as he reaches into his pocket, but you take advantage of the distraction and the man still standing between you, and run for the exit.
--
Tyler is leaning against a wall when you find him, hands in his pockets while a small stone gets kicked around by his boot. The reflection of the lone streetlight in his glasses hides his eyes from you, but his entire body straightens when your footsteps break his trance. He lifts his arms, open and ready for you to run straight into.
"I'm sorry," you say into the warmth of his chest. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to keep you waiting."
"It's okay, baby." His fingers fan against the back of your head, pressing you hard into his body. It's a little too strong, but who are you to complain about his muscles? Instead you focus on the steady beating of his heart. "You're here now. Did something happen?"
"Dean, he, uh..." Tyler tenses against you, a brick wall, and you force your head up to look at him. "But don't worry, I finally ended things. It's all okay now."
"He's here?"
"Yes, inside. But -"
Tyler curses under his breath, and you hate the strain of his shoulders, the crease that's formed on his forehead. "Alright," he says, almost pushing you out of his embrace and grabbing your hand instead. He begins to tug you along. "Alright, good job. But let's get out of here, okay? Don't want you getting hurt."
"Dean wouldn't hurt -" Your voice fades when you round a corner. While there's no laughter bubbling in your chest, the irony of the sight isn't lost on you: your ex is standing there, shoulders drawn, holding a gun.
Tyler stops dead in his tracks, shifting so that he's slightly behind you.
"Dean!" You're the first one to find your voice after a moment of ringing silence. "What the hell are you doing? Put the gun down!"
"Sweetheart," he says slowly. If his voice had been dark before, it was nothing compared to how it comes out now: rumbling so deep that your hands tremble. Nevertheless, you notice that it, like the gun, isn't trained on you. "Step away from him."
"Listen, man," Tyler cuts in, his own voice having risen a pitch, "we can just talk -"
"You shut your damn mouth."
"Dean," you try again, his eyes catching yours the second you speak. "Look, I'm sorry things had to end that way, okay? I didn't want to do it like that, believe me. But you were in the way of -"
"It's alright, sweetheart. It's a love spell, okay? I'll get it broken. But you need to step away from him."
You glance up at Tyler, whose chest is now pressed to your back. A love spell? You wouldn't expect Dean to describe it in such a cheesy way, but you suppose he's not wrong. Tyler has certainly charmed you.
He doesn't return your gaze but instead laughs, the reverberations of it shooting through your body. "A love spell? What are you even talking about?"
"Let's see... Six murdered girls. Missing hearts, high levels of oxytocin. Ringing any bells?"
"No! The fuck even is oxytocin?" Tyler's voice leaves him in a shout. "Man, none of this makes sense, you're pulling a gun on me and accusing me of -"
"You know, it confused me at first," Dean cuts in. "Missing hearts, that's usually werewolves. But the lunar cycle didn't add up. And the oxytocin, that's sirens. But Sam just called, told me he found a couple of hex bags back in our motel room." He shakes his head slowly. "Gotta tell you, I never liked witches."
"Witches?" Tyler scoffs. "What are you on?"
Dean doesn't waste another second, surging forward. But Tyler is quicker. Understanding is lost on you in the shuffle; there's a shift, Tyler's arm circles around your waist, and something cold presses into your neck.
"One more step and her blood paints the ground."
You watch as Dean stops so suddenly that he stumbles slightly.
"Tyler..." you murmur. You can't see the knife against your throat from this angle, but the feeling is practically familiar from your line of work. This entire switch has you struggling to think. You've ended things with Dean, and now all you have to do is get away so that you and Tyler can be together. "What are you doing?"
"Don't you touch her," Dean spits.
"Why not? She likes it." Tyler leans down low, his lips tickling your ear. "Isn't that right, baby?"
You aren't quite sure if you nod or simply lean into his touch.
"You let her go or I swear to god -"
"Swear to god, huh? You should know, Dean, regular bullets aren't gonna cut it."
For the first time, Dean manages a smile, though it's cold. Not the expression that lights up his face when he flashes it at you. "These ain't regular bullets, pal."
You can feel Tyler go rigid, not quite sure whether to believe him. "You know, I don't get your problem. She's happy with me. Isn't that what you want? For her to be happy?"
"Right," Dean says, and even from this distance you can see the way his fingers tighten against his gun, "I'm sure all the girls you drug are just peachy when you slit their throats."
"Drug? Please, I give them a nudge. I give my girls happiness," Tyler insists. "So much happiness that they get drunk on it. They feel more in their time with me than they do their whole lives. And I end it quick. It doesn't cancel out what they feel before. Why do you think I pick the miserable ones?" When Dean cocks his head, Tyler smiles. "Yes, Dean, miserable. Out of all the women in that bar - the rejects, the whores, the ones who bite off more than they can chew. I chose her. None of my girls are ever in happy relationships."
"Call her yours one more time -"
"And you'll swear to god?"
"Tyler, I don't like this," you murmur. The blade has been pressing tighter into your skin, demanding all of your attention. The words they're exchanging are lost to your ears, and everything has narrowed down to the silver in his hand. "Let's just go."
"Sorry, baby, it looks like Dean has other plans." Tyler pushes the knife even harder against your skin, burning where it begins to draw blood. The warmth of it drips down your heaving chest. "Didn't get my fun with you yet, but it's alright. Plenty of whores in the sea." He removes the knife, but only so he can raise it up.
Before he can swing it down into your chest, however, Dean's desperate shout splits the air. "Alright, alright!" He holds his hands up. "Hey, I'm the one you wanna hurt here, right? Not her. Let her go, you've got me. I'm the problem, stopping you from being together. You kill me, and the two of you can live your happily ever after, apple pie life."
Tyler's hand freezes, still waiting up there at the beginning of its path. "Put your gun on the ground."
Dean does.
"Hm..." Tyler's hand now grazes your neck, soft but sore when it nears the wound. "What do you think, baby? Tell him you don't love him, then I'll put him out of his misery. And we can finally have some fun."
You tear your gaze from the knife to look at Dean, who's staring right back at you with anguished eyes. You're sure your mouth is full of cotton when you open it. "I..." You draw on all of the contempt you've gathered for him since yesterday, his loud breathing and scratchy shirt, how his lips move differently against your neck... "I don't..."
"It's okay, sweetheart," Dean promises, his eyes raw but full of truth.
How he's overprotective to the point it drives you crazy, and would jump in front of any gun rather than see you hurt. Like he's doing now. Giving up his life so that Tyler doesn't have to hurt you instead.
The noise that breaks free from your throat is angry, and you whirl, knocking the knife from Tyler's hand. "Sort this out yourselves," you hiss, pressing your hands to either side of your throbbing head.
Quicker than you can comprehend, Dean dives for his gun. It's aimed at Tyler before he can make a single move, and with a loud crack, a bullet is lodged in his thigh. Dean stalks forward as Tyler collapses with a grunt. He grabs the man's shirt with one hand, then draws back his other, fist landing against his face again and again. Tyler's glasses are what shatter first, but they're soon followed by two teeth.
When Tyler is nothing more than a heaving lump on the ground, Dean grabs his gun again, this time landing a shot right in his chest.
The bang from the gun rings in your own head. Your hands, which haven't moved from it, press even harder against your skull. The world both tilts and flips, and you take a shaky step in whatever direction you can manage. The ground almost rises to meet you, but before it can, you crash into something solid and warm.
"Hey, hey, hey, I've got you." Dean's voice reaches you, stripped raw. It's as though you've been hearing it through a faulty speaker the past day. But now, even in your haze, it's as clear as ever, full of warmth and safety and everything good.
"Head hurts," you whisper, vaguely noticing the cold ground beneath your knees. But the rest of you is warm, cradled into his chest. You bury your head in the crook of his arm, hoping to drive out the stabbing pain in your temples.
"I know. I know, I've got you. It's all over now." His hold tightens around you, blocking out everything else.
It takes a few minutes of remaining hidden in Dean, and his soft words of reassurance whispered into your head, but finally you emerge. The pain has subsided a little, just enough to gather your bearings and open your eyes.
Dean looks wrecked, especially with how close his face is to yours. His own eyes are red, making the green stand out like a beacon. His lips are parted, stuck around words he isn't quite sure of.
You swallow hard, also not so certain. Your hand, still trembling, rises to cup his cheek. He melts into the touch like it's his saving grace. "Didn't say it."
"What?" he asks quietly, his own hand resting against yours. Unlike Tyler's touch, it's not commanding, just simply there. Feeling.
"Didn't say that I don't love you."
He laughs, but it's more of an exhale. "Yeah, and it nearly got your stubborn ass killed."
Your hand draws back from his face and he lets you, waiting while you adjust yourself. It now travels to your neck, where you remember the hickey that sits fresh and blaring. It feels like a parasite and your nails dig into the skin, trying to dig it out. "God, he -"
"I know," Dean says softly. He gently pries your hand from the damage, covering the mark with his own hand. "I'm sorry. I should've noticed sooner, I knew something was up with you but -"
"I'm sorry," you push back. "I'm sorry, I'm so -"
"Hey, none of that." His tone isn't angry, just firm. "None of that was you. That asshole drugged you, sweeheart. You don't apologise for that. Ever." He holds your gaze, drilling the words into you with his eyes alone. "Let's get you out of here, okay?"
You nod but don't move to stand, instead wrapping your arms around him. Dean holds you just as tight, his hand rubbing circles into your back. You know he won't break the embrace until you do, won't say anything unless you do. He just waits for your call, steady and solid and real.
The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f! reader
Description: A Djinn gives Dean everything he’s ever wanted, but at what cost?
Warnings: Cannon violence, angst, fluff, more angst, dirty talk and thoughts, suggestive content that fades to black, more angst, mentions of suicide and attempt, Dean is completely and pathetically in love.
Note: D/N = Daughter's name. And h/t= hair type/ texture. Ex: curly, straight, etc.
Word Count: 17.5k
What Is and What Should Never Be
(Masterlist, Prev Chapter, Outfit)
He wakes with a startle, sweat clinging to his chest and dripping down his temple. The room feels both too small and too big, too stuffy, too sticky. But this isn’t his room…it isn’t even a motel room. It’s big, cozy, lived in, and the sheets beneath his clenched fists are too soft.
His eyes shift around the space, landing on the form next to him—his one familiar. The moonlight dances on your bare back, glowing around you as if you were a star yourself. You stir, turning to face him. The blanket slips as you lean up, the breath taken from his lungs.
“Dean?” You whisper, eyes still heavy with sleepiness. Still, your eyes hold him with such care, trying to figure out his worry.
“You're here?” he whispers back, eyes jumping around your face. You shouldn’t be here. Wherever “here” is.
“Where else would I be?” You answer, sitting up fully to match him, pressing the blanket to your nude form. “Did you have a nightmare?”
God, your voice is so soft and lovely, it almost makes him forget he should be scared. He doesn’t know where he is, but you’re here, which must mean someplace good. But is it really you? It looks like you, sounds like you, but you weren’t with him, so how could it really be you?
“I-I…I was chasing after a Djinn, it attacked me,” he admits, wide eyes searching yours for truth. “You weren’t there, you were back at the motel with Sam, ‘told me not to go but I did it any—“
“Hey, hey, hey,” you whisper, cradling his face in your hands, holding him like he was fragile. “What Djinn? What are you talking about, baby?”
“The Djinn, th-the wishes,” he utters, melting into your palms.
“Oh,” you murmur, thumb brushing over his cheeks, hands soft. “You must’ve been having a nightmare.”
“No, it wasn’t a—“ he laughs, breathless and fake, pulling your hands away from his face even though it kills him to do so. He’d never reject your touch, or your affection ever, not when it’s all he craves every minute of every day, but right now, he can’t figure out what’s real and what’s not, so he can’t accept the reward that is your love.
But then the moonlight breaking through the curtains catches on the ring on your finger, breaking into a thousand more little moonlights. His breath stutters, loud and all too noticeable. Something churns in his heart, eyes zeroing in on the engagement ring and matching wedding band on your ring finger. His gut twists, something rising in his throat. There’s a ring on his finger too, he realizes, and it’s not the one he usually wears. It’s different. It's on the right finger. It’s…
“We’re married…?” he exhales, choking on the words. His hands shake as they hold your wrists tight, worried you’d slip right through. His heart slams against his rib cage, his chest rising and falling too fast with a breath he can’t catch or keep.
This couldn’t be his world. You weren’t engaged, let alone married, in his world. He knows that, he would remember that because he’s only ever pictured it so many times. He couldn’t ever allow himself that; he shouldn’t have even allowed himself to love you freely—it puts you in so much danger, but that night he had to tell you. And, God, he hasn’t regretted it since. But this? No, this didn’t make sense.
“Yeah…that must’ve been some dream,” you laugh softly, eyebrows furrowed just so.
Your laugh is the same melodic tune, your eyes are the same color, and have the same sparkle. Your skin is the right color, and all your beauty marks are in place. You are fundamentally you. So, maybe it was all a dream. No, a nightmare. A horrible nightmare.
He surges forward, crashing his lips against yours, hands tangling in your hair, trying to prove to himself this is real. You taste the same.
It’s you. It’s you. It’s you.
You giggle into his mouth, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him in closer. He nudges you onto your back, following you always. None of this makes sense, but you’re his constant, his truth, his touchstone. You wouldn’t lie to him or hurt him. You’d never deceive him, let alone like this.
So he kisses you and kisses you and kisses you, trying to believe this truth—this reality. This has to be the right one.
He pulls away slowly, lips barely leaving yours. But something stirs in the corner of his eye, his head snapping towards the sight of the little device on the nightstand. On the little screen, televised in black and white, is a baby fussing about in a crib.
He freezes, almost collapsing the full weight of his body into you. All the air gets sucked out of the room, his ears ringing. He jolts up, staggering back, eyes burning and chest twisting. This didn’t make sense. You weren’t pregnant. He would know. He would remember you being pregnant, and he’d remember nine months and the birth of a whole being.
“Oh, I got it,” you say, shifting up.
“No, no,” he waves you off, his own voice sounding so far away in his ears. “I got it.”
He stumbles into the boxers he finds on the floor, staggering out of the room and down the hall, feet knowing where to go despite his mind struggling to catch up. Each step is unstable, unsteady, like the hall that seems to turn in a fun-house. One too many times, he nearly slams into the walls, photographs rattling.
His vision blurs, ears still ringing loudly when he opens the door three rooms down. He steps forward, slowly approaching the crib, knees threatening to give in. Inside, the baby wiggles, kicking her little arms and legs, a little smile appearing on her slobbery lips. A smile for him.
His lips part in a silent sob, eyes zeroing in on the little girl, tears already streaking down his cheeks. She looks so much like the two of you, with the same eye shape as you, but his color. She has his dirty blonde hair but your texture, his nose, but she undeniably has your smile.
His knees go weak again, forcing him to cling to the side of the crib. It’s like a stab to the heart because dreams aren’t so detailed—they're never this perfect.
Yet, he leans in, ever so gently picking up the little girl like she’ll break or disappear if his touch is too firm. Maybe she will.
But she’s light in his hands, and real, so goddamn real because she’s warm, and solid as he holds her carefully to his chest.
Even though his legs feel like stone, he forces himself into the comfortable chair in the corner of the room in case his legs give up altogether.
A good breath never comes as he sits there, rubbing the baby's back, her chubby cheek resting against his shoulder. He can’t wrap his brain around this. How did he have a kid? How could he deserve that? How could she be so small?
“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, tears rolling down his face. His lips press against her head, eyes shutting. “God, you’re so perfect. But this can’t be re—“
He swallows down the sob, chest rumbling with the choke. He’s been shot, stabbed, thrown around, imprisoned, beaten up, been on death's door twice, but none of that—not an ounce of it- can compare to the feeling of knowing this may not be real. He can’t have this. It’s not for him to have. And yet this little girl is in his arms, breathing softly, clinging to him, so how can that not be real?
Let this be real.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he exhales, looking down at the little girl. His little girl. It doesn’t matter how many times he repeats it in his head; he can’t grasp the idea of having something so good. “I hope this version of me is everything you’ll need.”
Gently, he brushes her cheek; in turn, she squeals, her little hand latching onto his finger. All at once, his heart shatters in his chest, overcome with a fullness he’s never felt before.
“‘M not quite sure where I am,” he admits to her softly. “‘M not meant to be here. But I’ll…um, I promise I’ll take care of you. ‘Promise.”
“Look at my two favorite people,” you say softly, appearing in the doorway.
You’re glowing, he thinks, standing there in a baby blue nightgown you must’ve thrown on before coming to find them, and wearing a softened expression, looking at him and the baby with so much love he can feel it from here.
“‘Guessing she didn’t need a diaper change or a bottle?” you ask, stepping into the room.
He shakes his head, unable to take his eyes off of you. You look so…peaceful. He wants you to be at peace.
“‘Maybe she was just lonely, or had a bad dream too,” you decide, standing next to the couch. Immediately, his arm wraps around your waist, crowding you into him until you’re sitting in his lap. His two girls.
You cradle his face in your hands, gently wiping away his tears and kissing where they’ve fallen.
“What’s wrong, Dean?”
He shakes his head again, turning his head to kiss your palm. “‘S nothing, she’s just…I can’t believe she’s real,” he admits, choking on his words.
“After nine months of crazy hormones and pain, I hope she is,” you smile, laughing a little.
And you’re so sweet he can’t help but laugh too, breathless and in disbelief. Then you turn your sweet gaze to the baby resting on his shoulder, her big eyes watching the two of you like maybe she secretly understands what’s going on.
“You hear that?” you coo at her, saying her name. Immediately, the syllable(s) play over in his head, chanting and forming the word. “Your daddy really loves you.”
“I do,” he nods easily, the words needing no thought. “I love both my girls.”
He means it. With every nerve in his body, he means it. He wasn’t sure it was possible to love someone so quickly—within moments, but you can, and he has. And it scares the crap out of him because this isn’t his world, and this isn’t his life. He doesn’t get to have this, or even want it, but it’s so easy to fall into it. To really mean every single goddamn word, even if he only met this baby a couple of minutes ago.
“I love you too,” you tell him, smiling so sweetly and giving him that look you always do that makes him feel like he’s worthy of you—of this.
“And if she knew how to talk, she’d also be saying it,” you add just as quickly.
“Yeah?” he laughs. But he can hear the sincerity in your voice. You’re convinced he’s loved.
“Mhm,” you hum. “I mean, look at her. She’s so content.”
His eyes drop down to her, and already her eyes are shut. Whatever had woken her up hadn’t mattered now. She fell right back to sleep. In his arms. She was comfortable enough with him to fall asleep in his arms. God, he can’t think or function; it’s like someone is squeezing at his heart.
“Mm, yeah, she is,” he murmurs.
“You can put her back in the crib if you want. You should probably head back to sleep too, gonna be tired for work,” you offer, fingers gently scratching the back of his scalp.
“Work?” he echoes, melting into your touch and the soft cushions of the couch.
“Mhm, you know, fixing cars and other things that happen at a mechanic.”
“Right,” he chuckles, you even speak the same way. In this life, he has a job like a normal person. A mechanic. Normal. “I’m gonna call off tomorrow, rather spend the day with you two.”
“You sure?” you ask.
“‘Course I am.”
“Maybe that’s a good idea ‘cause we have to be over at your mom's place for dinn—“
His face drops, pales, his heart dropping out of its cage. He’s stopped listening to what you’re saying—can’t even hear it over the sound of the ringing and the beat of his heart.
“My mom's a…”
“Oh, Dean, don’t tell me you forgot your mom's birthday.”
She's alive here. His mom is alive. He gets to have you, a baby, a house, a normal job, and his mom is alive.
There’s a spike of energy in his veins, every nerve screaming at him to get up and go. He needs to know if this is true. He needs to see it for himself. He can feel the tapping like anxiety in the back of his head, the speed of his heart hammering against his chest, and even the need to bounce his leg. He has to get up, has to do something with this energy before it kills him. And he does… almost.
If this were any other time, he’d shoot up from the sofa, run right out the door, and speed his way through the streets until he was at his childhood home. But things are different, because now he has his sweet wife in his lap and his little daughter in his arms. He has something good and irreplaceable. He can’t mess this up, can’t let you down, won’t scare you.
“Why don’t you go back to bed, sweetheart. I’ll be there in a minute,” he says, shaking his head, words forming even though his mind is elsewhere—in the memory of a fire eating up his house and his future.
“Okay,” you answer softly, but he knows you’re not convinced. He knows that you think something is off because you’re giving him that look, and he knows every one of your looks; he has them catalogued in his mind. But you’ll give him this, give him space because it’s what he wants, even if he’s acting weird, because you’re so goddamn good to him in a way he can’t deserve, and yet you do anyway.
You lean over to place a light kiss on your daughter's head, and then you kiss his forehead, his cheeks, and then his lips, your lips soft and everything he dreams about. Then you get up from his lap, giving his bicep a little squeeze as you go, wisps of blue tule and satin following you as you leave him in that room.
For a moment, all he can do is sit there in silence, staring blankly ahead, one hand resting on his daughter's back and the other hanging limply on the arm of the couch.
His mom is alive.
He’s dreamed about the idea more than he’d ever like to admit, but for it to be real? To have grown up with a mom? To have gotten everything he wanted? No, that can’t be.
So, carefully, he gets up, smothering his need to leave. Then, just as gently, he places D/N back into her crib, hand resting against her chest just to feel the way she breathes steadily. She’s real. Somehow.
Eventually, he steps away, fists clenching at his side because to walk away, even just to the hallway, feels like leaving her forever. But he puts one foot in front of the other, carefully shutting the door behind him, because the alternative is running as fast as he can.
This time, he looks at the pictures on the walls that he had ignored the first time around as he moves down the hallway. There’s a photo from your prom night, you're wearing the same dress, looking just as gorgeous as you did that night, but this is a photo taken in front of the stairs, which he recognizes as your childhood home in Kansas. That never happened. He surprised you at the place, and the only pictures you got from that night were from the photo booth.
His eyes move to the next photo, his breath is punched right from his lungs because it’s a photo of you and him on your wedding day. You’re breathtaking, practically glowing and beaming in your white dress, the pick something uniquely you. And you’re given him that look, standing in front of him beneath an arch, except he’s giving you the same look. He’s never seen that look captured before, but he looks…happy, really fucking happy.
Something churns in his heart, overtaken by something like greed to consume every aspect of this life.
You’re pregnant in the next photo, cradling your stomach. And if he thought you were glowing before, you’re something entirely different here. You’re perfect, and you’re smiling so goddamn brightly.
There’s a couple that are just you two, one that’s candid, you sitting on his lap, laughing at something he said. Then another photo that’s him and Sam in tuxedos, arm around his shoulder—it looks like the same suit from the wedding photo.
He has to pull himself away from the wall of photos, or else he’ll spend hours here trying to memorize them—memorialize them. So, he looks around some more, moving downstairs until he finds his phone lying around. Quickly, he scrolls through his contacts, staring at “Mom” for too long before he finally gets the courage to call.
The ringing feels like it goes on forever; he’s never been more aware of the sound—of the waiting. But then it ends, and there’s shuffling on the other line, a voice he long forgot saying:
“Dean? It’s late, is everything alright? Are Y/N and the baby alright?”
He collapses against the couch, trying to conceptualize this. His mom is alive. His mom.
“Th-they’re fine,” he says, choking on another sob, tears streaming down his cheeks again like they never left. This is more than he’s cried in a lifetime, and yet he can’t bring himself to care or be ashamed.
“Dean, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” Mary continues to spill. His mom.
He swallows down his tears, trying to steady his voice. “I just needed to hear from you,” he explains. “Everything’s alright.”
“You’re still coming tomorrow, right?” she asks.
“Yeah, mom, yeah, we’ll be there,” he nods, knuckles white around the phone. “I, uh, sorry if I woke you I—
“It’s alright,” she cuts him off. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
He presses his hand to his mouth, trying to keep himself together.
“I’m okay. I’m…I’ll see you tomorrow,” he manages to get out. “I-I love you.”
“I love you too, Dean. Now get some sleep, okay?”
He nods even though she can’t see it.
“Okay,” he sighs. “Goodnight.”
Then he’s hanging up before the tears start again. How long has he gone without hearing her voice? Too long, long enough to have forgotten it. It was the first thing to go; no one ever tells you that when you lose someone. And it’s been forever since he heard her say she loved him. She’s been gone for a long time.
Phone falling to the carpeted floor, his head hangs in his hands, fingers digging into his head until it hurts. But the pain makes this real. It’s real. He isn’t dreaming.
There's screaming in his head and his heart. He wants to punch something or break it. Why isn’t he allowed this? Because this can’t be real, it’s too perfect, it’s too much of everything he’s ever wanted. It’s not fair, and so some inanimate object has to pay the price. But if he broke something, you’d look at him with a smidge of disappointment and far too much understanding than he deserves. He’d rather you yell. He can handle anger.
He shakes there on the couch, emotions imploding across his every nerve ending and neuron. And because he can’t handle this weight, because he’s tired, angry, and drowning in resentment, he drags himself to his feet, upstairs, and into the bedroom where you’re waiting. He doesn’t have to say a word as he crawls into bed; you don’t need or expect that from him, you just accept him into your arms. He holds onto you tightly, fistfuls of your nightgown clenched in his hands. He buries his head into your neck, and, knowing he doesn’t want to talk, you let him stay, gently running your nails along his scalp, your other hand stroking his back. You don't push or press him; you just accept him as he is.
So as he falls asleep in your embrace, he wonders how long he can stay here for—how long can he have this?
Sunshine explodes across the bedroom, shining warm rays onto his back. The sounds of birds chirping hum just below the blaring of an alarm clock. He reaches out with a groan, slapping the thing off. But when he peeks his aching eyes open, you aren’t there, which is weird because you very rarely wake up before an alarm, and you never escape his embrace without waking him up in the process.
He sits up, wiping the sleep from his eyes, his head buzzing and aching too. D/N isn’t in her crib, he sees on the little device, which means she probably woke you up. Damn it, he should’ve woken with you, too.
Ruffling his hair, he gets up, picking sweatpants and a shirt from his dresser to put on quickly before going looking for you two. The floor is chill beneath his feet as he wanders down the stairs, following the scent of something sweet and savory to the kitchen.
A million things are going on at once with you standing in the center of it, your back is to him, but it’s clear you’re holding the baby in one arm while the other messes with the coffee machine. Meanwhile, there are floating objects around the room: one station working on mixing something in a big bowl on the counter, the other holding a spatula to flip the bacon, and the last one lifting the lid of a waffle maker. You’re still a witch in this world—you’re still you. And you look completely in your zone, but it’s all overwhelming and clearly not something you should have to do by yourself.
“‘Mornin’, sweetheart. What’s all this?” he asks, trying to warn you about his presence before he sneaks up on you and wraps his arms around your waist.
“Tryna make breakfast,” you answer.
“Shoulda woken me,” he says, placing kisses on your neck. “Wanna help you. Let me help you, baby.”
You melt into him like he knew you would, all the chaos around you settling down, everything still.
He cradles your face the moment you turn in his hold, lips lingering at your forehead before he turns his attention to your baby. His heart softens again, gently brushing the strands of hair on her head. D/N wiggles in your arms, reacting and reaching for him.
“Want me to take her?” he offers. All you have to do is tell him what you need, and he’ll do it. Simple as that.
“Well, she needs to eat, but I haven’t gotten a chance to pump yet, and there isn’t a bottle ready, and—“
“Hey, hey,” he cuts you off, cradling your face again, getting you to look at him. “Breathe, angel.”
You are overwhelmed, and for some reason, you didn’t wake him up to help, though that is so you to try and do everything yourself, like you gotta prove something to him.
“You sit your pretty ass down, do what you gotta do, and I’ll finish up breakfast,” he directs, sternly.
“But I was tryna surprise you with—“
“And you did,” he reassures, heart melting in his chest. You’re so goddamn sweet. “‘Don’t mind taking over, wanna help you, baby. You have something more important to handle.”
He can see your brain working, eyes flickering over his face as you try to come up with another good excuse. But you can’t find one, or you give in to his help, either way, you nod and press a simple kiss to his lips. Except he doesn’t let you walk away just yet, he holds you there, stealing one long, lingering kiss, feeling your warm skin beneath his palms. He’d go on forever if he could, but a little hit to his stomach says otherwise. He pulls away slowly, looking down at the source, his daughter's foot.
“‘That on purpose?” he asks her, holding back a laugh. “‘You impatient?”
“‘Takes her food as seriously as you do,” you tease, smiling at him. “You gotta watch your back now, she’s gonna beat you up.”
“Bet she will,” he laughs. “Better feed her before I become a casualty.”
Now, that makes you laugh, hard, sweet, and contagious. He lives for that laugh.
You move out of his hold, throwing a little look over your shoulder at him when you feel his eyes lingering. But you don’t go far, you just move to sit at the dining table, adjusting your nightgown and the baby to begin feeding her. He can’t help but stare for a moment too long. The sun is coming through the curtain, spreading rays of light across your face, making your eyes sparkle a certain way. Every time he thinks you can’t get any more beautiful than you already are, you prove him wrong. And you look rather calm too, your shoulders at ease, and your spine relaxed.
You catch him staring, warmth creeping up your cheeks, smiling a little bashful for the mere reason of not understanding why he’s giving you that look when he’s seen you like this several times. But what he doesn’t realize is that his face and posture are all soft too, eyes a little wide, and lips parted just so. He’s in awe. That’s all.
“Dean, the bacon is gonna burn,” you warn him through soft laughter. Even now, you’re not mad or irritated with him, you’re just…happy. See? That’s just one reason you’re too good for him.
“Yeah, yeah,” he nods, brain catching up to speed. Hesitatingly, he pulls his eyes away from you, trying instead to fall into the rhythm of finishing breakfast.
Surprisingly, he finds himself rather good at it, though maybe it’s because it’s for you. He manages between flipping the bacon, getting the coffee pot on, and changing out the waffles with the kind of focus and accuracy he usually puts into cleaning his guns or fighting with them. He knows you’re watching him, and he basks in it, throwing you a wink and a smirk. This feels natural, he thinks, like it was always meant to be this way. Maybe it could be.
By the time he’s finished preparing everything, his daughter is done feeding, milk dribbling down her chin, and her eyes a little droopy. He’s like a hawk with the way he’s watching you two, and how immediately he sweeps in to take her from you, throwing a dishrag over his shoulder to begin burping the baby. He’s good at this, too, remembers how he used to do it with Sam all those years ago. But it’s a little different now because he’s taller, older, and this is his kid. And as much as this was a way to help you, it was also a painfully obvious excuse to have D/N in his arms again. He felt greedy with the need to have her close, this proof of what he could have—that he can be good enough for this…for her.
The floorboard creeks beneath your soft footfall, making him turn in time to watch you pour some coffee into a mug, then bring it to him. Your fingers brush as you hand it off to him, and you’re giving him that look again. He’s starting to think that’s just your constant state of being when you don’t have to worry over monsters and death. You’re safe. He’d like to keep you safe forever.
“What’s that look for?” he gives in, raising the mug to his lips, eyes dancing with mischief behind it.
“Nothin’,” you smile softly. “You’re just really cute, and sweet…and perfect.”
He scoffs a laugh, placing the mug down on the counter behind him, but his cheeks are dusted with the faintest pink.
“You keep lookin’ at me like that ‘n talkin’ like that, we’re gonna have another one of these on the way,” Dean teases, easily, giving the baby in his arm a little bounce for emphasis.
He basks in the way different emotions flicker over your face in the matter of a single second. He smiles as you laugh nervously, muttering his name, and hitting his chest with about as much strength as a pillow. He grabs onto your wrist, pinning your hand to his chest, pulling you in, and forcing you to stay close. But he meets you halfway, nose bumping yours before he peppers kisses along the bridge of your nose. It makes you laugh again, and God, it really is the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. Your free hand snakes around his shoulder, finding the nape of his neck to guide him to your lips. Immediately, he gives in, angling his body so that you’re all his without disturbing your daughter. You melt into him, his tongue tracing your mouth like it’s the only taste he’s certain of. And it is.
********
“Well, I don’t think I’ve seen you in my class before,” the Professor says, lounging back in his leather chair.
After breakfast, Dean had come straight here to see him. He told you he wanted to check up on the guys at the garage, make sure they would be good without him for the day. He hated lying to your face, especially about something like this, and it hurt even more to know that you trusted him enough to accept his lie as fact. But he needed to be 100% certain this wasn’t a dream.
“You kiddin’ me?” he scoffs, lying coming easily. “I love your lectures. You-you make learning fun.”
The professor laughs, taking the bait.
“So, what can I do for you?” he asks.
“What can you tell me about Djinns?” Dean asks, leaning forward.
“Well, a lot of Muslims believed the Djinn are very real,” he explains, standing from his chair to pull a thick book off one of his shelves. “And they’re mentioned in the Koran—“
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, I know,” Dean cuts him off. “Get to the wish part.”
“What about it?” the professor gives in, the book dropping to the table with a loud thud.
“Do you think they could really do it?”
“Um…uh, no. No, I don't think they can ‘really do it.’” He says, looking at Dean like he’s grown another head or two. “You understand these are mythic creatures, right?”
“Yeah, I know. I-I know. I know. But, uh…I mean, in the stories,” Dean stammers. “You know, say you had a wish. But you never even said it out loud. Like that, uh…that a loved one never died. Or that, uh, something awful never happened.”
“Supposedly, yes,” he gives in with a sigh. “I mean, they have godlike power. They can alter reality however they want. Past. Present. Future.”
Dean nods slowly, eyes a little wide, the cogs in his head turning. This isn't a dream, but a second chance. It’s an alternate timeline, like you would say, where his Mom didn’t die, which means he grew up normally. He didn’t live out of motel rooms, didn’t raise Sammy by himself, he didn’t starve, he wasn’t scared, and he never learned to shoot a gun. Your Dad was still friends with his, you still moved into town, he still met you, and fell in love with you. And because he wasn’t afraid, he married you, and you had a kid together some months ago.
“Why would the Djinn do it?” he asks, shaking his head. Why give him what he wants? “What, self-defense? Or maybe it’s not really evil.”
“…Son?” the professor says carefully.
“Hm?”
“‘You been drinking?” he asks slowly.
“No,” he answers, standing up. “Not at all.”
********
There’s a newfound pep in his step as he leaves campus grounds. Hell, he nearly skips his way to the Impala, which he had been glad to see he still has here, too. Baby is different, though; there’s no weapon box in the trunk, just a spare tire, a car jack, a rag, and a half-drunk water bottle. But there’s also a car seat in the back seat, which is all the more proof to him that he cannot mess up his second chance.
“Hell of a responsibility now, Baby,” he says to the car, running his hand along the sleek exterior as he fetches his keys from his pocket.
But something makes him pause, the hair at the back of his neck standing up. So he turns back towards the school building, catching the gaze of a sickly pale girl in a long white skirt, shirt, and shoes. He smiles awkwardly, waving at her. But she doesn’t wave back or react in any way; she just stares, almost like she’s seeing through him. And even though he has to act like a normal person this time around, it’s impossible to ignore the alarm going off in his head. Maybe the girl needed help, or maybe she was just lost.
So, without much thought, he steps forward, walking into traffic as if she were pulling him forward. The screeching of a car too close to his body stops him in his tracks. He looks at the car that almost hit him, holding up his hand, ignoring the honking and the angry person behind the wheel. But when he turns his attention across the street again, the sick girl is gone.
He shakes his head, turning on his heels to return to his car. The girl left, or he was seeing things, it doesn’t matter, not anymore, because he had something important waiting for him at home.
********
There’s a smell of cinnamon in the air when he gets home, pleasant, welcoming, and reminding him of when he’d visit you up in Maine. Though this time around you probably don’t have that house, he figures as he drops his keys on the little table at the door and kicks off his boots.
He follows the scent and the little hum of music further into the house, shouting:
“I’m home, sweetheart!”
“We’re in here!” you yell back, your voice not caring nearly a fraction of his volume. It’s endearing.
He finds you in the living room, a record player spinning in the corner, sitting on the rug with D/N in front of you on a blanket. She’s on her stomach, elevated by a pillow, little head lifted, and little hand clenched around toy keys.
“Hi,” you greet him with a bright smile. You’ve changed out of your pajamas and into a pretty shirt and jeans. You even changed the baby into the smallest overalls he’s ever seen in his life and a little yellow shirt. “How’d everything go?”
“Great,” he smiles back, rounding the couch to come join you on the floor, sitting next to you on the other side of D/N. His gaze shifts to his kid, laughing at the way she almost violently rattles the plastic keys around in time to the Beatles vinyl you have on.
“What’s mama got you doin’?” he asks her. She babbles in turn, smiling at him, drool dribbling down her chin. She’s perfect.
“Oh, she’s having fun,” you shake your head.
“Mhm,” he hums, satisfied, stretching his arm out against the edge of the couch so he can toy with your hair, finger wrapping around a strand like a coil.
“Oh! Your mom called when you were gone,” you say suddenly, turning to face him with a sparkle in your eye.
“She did?” he asks, perking up, hand shifting so his palm brushes your cheek.
“Mhm. She asked if we wanted to come over for an early lunch today, ‘wants to spend some time with D/N before Sam and Jess come ‘round for dinner…”
Jess is alive too. God, he really can’t mess this up, especially for Sam.
“…I said yes, but that I’d double check with you in case somethin’ came up at the garage,” you continue. “That okay?”
“‘Course ‘s okay,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your soft skin, feeling the way you melt into his touch. You’re so pretty, he can’t wrap his head around it, in fact if you told him your eyes were made from stolen constellations, he’d believe you—can see the proof right in front of him.
“Awesome sauce,” you smile, making him chuckle. He loves every little thing that comes out of your mouth, especially when you say something stupid, dorky, and odd like that. “‘Can leave whenever you want, half-hour, hour, ‘more, ‘less, doesn’t matter.”
That was your way of saying you didn’t want to be the one to make the decision; he knows you too well not to catch that. And he wants to see his mom really damn badly, so the choice is easy.
“‘Can head out now, hm?” he answers. “You grab what you need, I’ll stay with her.”
You nod. “Just gotta load some stuff into the car.”
“Uh-uh, I got that,” he corrects, brows furrowing. He didn’t want you to lift a finger if you didn’t have to. “Tell me what you need, I've got it.”
You laugh, shaking your head like you do when he’s being stubborn. “Can I at least bring them downstairs?” you tease, leaning forward to tap his nose.
“If that’s what you wanna do,” he smirks, eyes dipping to your lips. You nod. “You can do whatever you want, baby. Always.”
You kiss his palm quickly before jumping to your feet. You step over him, he squeezes your ass as you go, you throw him a look, he shrugs, and you laugh, going on your way. This is good, it’s so fucking good that he’ll make himself worthy of it.
He gets up too, turning the record player off and putting your vinyl away, tucking it away in the shelves like the others. All the while, he glances over his shoulder at D/N every couple of seconds to make sure she hasn’t disappeared in the time his back has been turned. She doesn't, of course, because nothing is out to get him here.
Carefully, he picks her up, holding her in the air above him, watching her gurgle and smile. She’s a smiley baby, must get that from you.
“You’re gonna see your grandma today,” he tells her, cradling her so they can talk, bouncing her gently. “That’s weird to say…nice to say, but weird. ‘Don’t know if you’ve met her before, but it’ll be like seein’ her for the first time for me too. Don’t gotta be scared though, you’ll like her. You’ll like your Uncle Sammy too, ‘less you’re ’fraid of heights.”
He knows she probably doesn’t understand a word he’s saying, but he’d like to think she can, and if she has even a fraction of your intelligence, then maybe she does.
His ears perk up at the sound of your familiar footsteps descending the stairs, so he shifts D/N, holding her to his shoulder. He meets you at the bottom of the steps, noting the baby bag on the floor, the dress shoes and heels in the crooks of your fingers, and the nice clothes folded over your arm.
“For later,” you explain unnecessarily, shrugging to emphasize the clothing. He knows how your brain works, so of course, you have things like this already picked out and planned.
“You’re so damn cute,” he mutters, eyes all soft and fond for you.
“I didn’t do anything!” you laugh, heat creeping up your neck.
“C’mere,” he says, gesturing you over with two fingers. Except he meets you more than half way, leaning in to kiss you, arm wrapping around your waist. It lasts shorter than he would’ve liked it to, though he’d kiss and touch you forever if you allowed him to.
Dean takes both pairs of shoes from you, stepping back to let you off the staircase and to slip his boots back on. Then he’s doubling back to grab the baby bag, balancing it all in one hand so he can hold his daughter safely in the other. You open the door for him, eyes dropping to the muscles straining beneath his shirt. You’re not very slick with it, but he doesn’t mind. He trudges out the door with his chest puffed out, enjoying this challenge of opening the car door with limited hands.
He’s working on buckling the little one in with hands far gentler than they have to be, when you come out of the house, opening the car door opposite him to hang up the garments in your arm. You close the door when you’re done, rounding the car, hand unnecessarily touching his back before you get into the passenger seat. He smiles to himself, eyes trailing after you as he finishes up and gets into the driver's seat.
The car starts with its familiar rumble, and you’re already putting a tape into the deck like you’ve done a hundred times before. He rolls the windows down, hand finding yours, fingers interlacing as he pulls off.
********
He can hear his heart in his ears, palms sweating regardless of how many times he wipes them on his jeans. He’s been staring at the house, his childhood house, for the last 75 seconds. Yes, he accidentally started counting when he told himself that he had 30 seconds to get himself together. And there you are, waiting for him patiently, even though you have no idea why he’s acting all weird.
“You okay?” you ask softly, head tilted just so in an attempt to catch his eyes.
He makes the mistake of meeting your gaze, because when you’re looking at him like that, it makes it really damn hard to lie to you. He already knew you were his weak spot, but the hours preceding last night have only made it more evident to him.
“Yeah, I’m—I-It’s…,” he stammers. What lie could he possibly come up with that’d be convincing enough? What if he told you the truth, that this isn’t the timeline he was used to, that in the original one, his mom died when he was a kid in the most horrific way conceivable, that he hadn’t seen her in about 20 years? Would you look at him like he’s crazy? Send him away? Or, would you see through the madness and know he’s telling the truth?
“‘Feels like I haven’t been ‘round here in years,” he admits, falling into your e/c eyes.
“Oh,” you exhale thoughtfully, a little crease forming between your eyebrows. You find his hand, fingers brushing over his knuckles. “I guess time has been going by pretty quickly. But, maybe…now is better than never…?”
You’re right, and he told himself he wouldn’t mess this chance up, which includes seeing his mom.
“Yeah,” he nods, jaw flexing. “Yeah.”
“Okay,” you murmur. You're waiting for him to make the first move, you’re trying to go at his pace, trying to make sure he’s comfortable. He sees all the little things you do for him, and it makes him love you more, if that’s even possible. So he lifts your hand, pressing his lips to your knuckles, right over your wedding band.
He won’t screw this up. He won’t.
He gets out of the car first, busying himself with detaching the car seat so he can take the whole carrier inside, especially since D/N is completely unconscious. You’re by his side again in seconds, baby bag at your arm, hand lightly touching his arm to silently check up on him.
With the thump of the car door still in his ears, he forces himself to put one foot in front of the other, getting closer and closer to the front door. His vision spins, heart pounding in his chest, something crawls and scratches at his skin, pleading something he can’t understand.
He’s not sure who knocked or rang the bell; he doesn’t even remember putting the carrier down because the door is pulling open, and his vision is zeroing in like his soul just got shot back into his body. Something cracks in his chest at the sight of his mother, his so-very-alive mother. His eyes jump around her face, restoring the memory of her, tracing in the spaces, filling in the gaps. It all breaks in his throat, choking on a sound he’s okay with admitting is a cry for his mom. She stumbles back as he launches at her, holding her so tightly that she laughs a little awkwardly, but holds him just the same.
“Hello to you, too,” Mary jokes. “What’s gotten into you, Dean?”
That thing is clawing at his chest again, and it hurts just as much as he feels happy.
“‘M just happy to see you,” he admits, swallowing roughly, and jaw clenching tightly as he pulls away. He has to look down at her. She’s shorter than him; it’s never been that way before. But she’s real, and alive, and looking at him a little strangely, but he can deal with that. “You’re beautiful.”
“What?” Mary smiles, shaking her head.
Dean clears his throat, sniffing as he stands a little taller. “Thanks for having us over early,” he says.
“Of course!” she laughs, stepping aside. “Come in, come in. I wanna see my grandbaby.”
Right. He picks the carrier back up, bringing it inside, but not before he catches the way you and Mary hug, sharing compliments and smiles. That’s new, too, because you never got to meet her; she died before you moved. But not here. Here she’s alive. He always thought you’d like her, and it seems he was right.
He puts the carrier down on the dining room table, noting the way D/N slowly blinks. She must’ve woken up from all the commotion, or the lack of movement from no longer being in the car. Regardless, she’s awake now, though barely, and it’s adorable.
“Hey there, darlin’,” he murmurs, fingers carefully working at the buckles of the car seat.
“Look how big she’s gotten!” Mary exclaims somewhere over his shoulder. “What, is she three months old now?”
“Yeah, actually, right on the money,” you answer, tone doused in surprised amusement.
She nudges Dean out of the way, and he goes willingly. She smiles brightly as she coos at the baby, then carefully gathers her in her arms. He can’t help but smile proudly, arms crossed against his chest, trying to take a mental picture of this scene. His mom is getting to hold his daughter. Never in his life did he ever conceive that sentence to be remotely possible; he never even bothered to think about it.
You come to his side, rubbing soothing circles into his back. He relaxes his arms, draping one across your shoulders, head tilting to catch your expression as you had done for him.
“Hey,” he whispers. You’re smiling too, but it’s not quite meeting your eyes in its usual intensity, and your eyes look a little far away.
“Hi,” you whisper back, meeting his eyes.
“What’s goin’ on in that pretty head?”
“I’m happy D/N has your mom,” you admit, but again, he can see something beneath it. He always can.
“You thinkin’ of your mom?” he asks softly, brushing your hair out of ur face. You nod, a little frown pulling at your pretty lips. Now he can’t help but frown with you, because in this life, things haven’t changed for you. Your mom still died, and your dad was still an asshole. He got to have his wish, but you didn’t get a chance at yours.
“Hey,” you whisper, brow furrowed, pinching his chin between your fingers. “Don’t start feeling sad for me, it’s okay, really. I’m okay.”
“‘S not okay,” he grumbles, shaking his head.
“Be happy,” you tell him, failing miserably at being serious. But it gets him to crack a smile and roll his eyes.
“Look at what I found,” Mary announces, coming back into the room (though he didn’t know she had left it) with the baby in one arm and a very small pile of clothes in the other.
“I was going through some old stuff, and I found a couple of Dean’s baby clothes,” she continues.
“Mary, you know it’s your birthday, right?” you ask, joining her at the table.
“Yeah,” she answers the same way someone would say ‘so?’ “And I know they’re technically ‘boy’ clothes, but I think some of them can pass anyway.”
“No, these are so cute, don’t worry,” you gush, gasping at the sight of a shirt with a cartoonish monkey on it. “I’m tryna imagine a baby Dean wearing these.”
“I will look for photos,” Mary declares, effortlessly balancing holding a conversation and bouncing D/N on her lap.
Then she’s glancing over at him, saying, “Dean, come sit down.”
He snaps to attention. He hadn’t even realized he was just standing silently, too focused on the sight in front of him. But he listens anyway, collapsing into the seat next to you.
“Alright, you two settle in, I’ll make you some sandwiches,” she announces suddenly.
“No, no, it’s okay, Mom, I can do it, you keep talking,” he tries to interrupt. But she stands her ground, shaking her head like it’s not even a question.
“You’ve been taking care of a baby, okay? You both need to relax,” she reasons, handing said kid over to him.
He nods, giving up on the argument quickly. It was okay to lose this one.
“But it’s your birthday,” you try to remind her again.
“And it’s already lovely,” she smiles, whisking herself away from the room before anyone can argue anything else.
********
Cutlery clashes and clinks together, with the soft mumble of chatter in the background. Everyone is dressed up, even Sam, who sits across from him. It’s the first time he’s seen him since he got his wish, and he looks happy, really damn happy. He’s wearing a nice button-up, and his hair is gelled back like he does when they’re trying to look professional for a hunt. Except this isn’t a hunt, they’re at a nice restaurant, and Sam is smiling his boyish, almost shy, smile, and Jess is beside him, wearing a beaming smile of her own, blonde curls cascading down her shoulders. This is good. It’s everything.
You’re sitting next to Dean, his hand on your bare thigh, thumb tucked beneath the hem of your dress. If you hadn’t gotten changed at his Mom’s, you probably wouldn’t have made it to this dinner, because the moment you stepped out of the bathroom in that pretty dark brown halter dress, he was practically drooling. You looked extra good tonight, that was for certain. You had even worn some blue jewelry to match his shirt, which you had picked out for him along with his tie.
Then, at your side is D/N, who is also dressed up, wearing a brown dress with little pink polka dots. Though she’s hidden in her carrier, visor down to help her sleep, on the chair next to you. He doesn’t know how she’s sleeping through this, other than that the milk she had just before leaving for dinner really must’ve hit her.
Again, this is perfect. It’s so perfect that he can barely care that he was just served a plate of asparagus tied together so that it can stand up straight. That’s it. That’s all that’s on the plate to eat besides some other vegetable circling the asparagus.
“Wow, that…looks awesome,” he remarks anyway, because how can he not when it’s just a plate of vegetables? Still, he gets away with it because it makes the table—his family laugh.
“Alright. To mom,” Sam cheers, holding up a glass of wine, and everyone else follows in raising their glasses. “Happy birthday.”
“Happy birthday,” you and Jessica say in sync, then laugh over the jinx.
“Thank you,” Mary smiles, glasses clinking together.
“To mom,” he echoes softly, taking a drink.
“We can get you something on the way home,” you whisper to him, taking his attention away from the couple kissing in front of him.
His eyes drag down your frame and then back up, smirking lazily. He can’t get over how good you look. If this weren’t a fancy restaurant, and this weren’t a family dinner, he would’ve had you spread out on this table ten minutes ago.
“Oh God, yes,” he nods, eyes dipping to your lips. “You read my mind.”
“Call me Houdini,” you joke. “‘Long as a milkshake is involved.”
“‘Course it is,” he chuckles. “But I ain’t callin’ you that.”
The hand on your thigh moves to cup your jaw, his lips meeting yours in a deep kiss he wishes could go on for much longer. But you pull away with a teasing smile, thumb pressing to the corner of his lips to wipe away what he imagines is lip gloss, or whatever pretty thing you have on your lips.
“Alright, Jess and I actually have another surprise for Mom’s birthday,” Sam announces, making your hand fall from Dean’s mouth and his own to return to your thigh. “Ah…you wanna tell ‘em?”
“They’re your family,” Jessica says, shaking her head, smiling big.
“Alright.”
“What? Tell me, what?” Mary asks, looking between the couple.
Sam holds up Jessica’s left hand, the light catching the diamond on her finger. An engagement ring.
“Oh, my God! That’s so wonderful!” Mary beams, standing to hug Jessica.
You get up too, rounding the table to hug Sam in a squeal of “congratulations,” and a joke about “they grow up so fast.” Then Mary and you switch who you hug and congratulate, smiles and laughter shared.
“I just wish your Dad was here,” Mary remarks, hugging Sam.
“Yeah, me too,” he responds as they pull away.
“Jessica, let me see that ring!” Mary exclaims, moving back to her side.
“Oh my gosh, yes!” You exclaim. The three of you gush over the ring, Jessica playfully modeling it.
“Congratulations, Sammy,” Dean says softly
“Thanks.”
“I’m really glad you’re happy,” he adds. He is. God, he is. This is all he’s ever wanted for his brother: to be happy and to have the life he deserves.
But Sam is looking at him with pure confusion, almost as if he hadn’t expected his brother to be happy for him, which is weird. But he doesn’t have time to question the look because just over Sam’s shoulder, standing at the outskirts of all the tables, is that girl from before. Except this time her pristine white clothes are tarnished by a thin layer of dirt and weird black spots. He couldn’t be seeing things. One time could be seeing things, but twice? That can’t be a coincidence. So he barrels forward, accidentally hitting into Sam in the process, but he continues forward, weaving through the tables and dodging waiters. But when he makes it to the end, she’s gone. Again.
His fists tighten at his sides, a frustrated sigh trapped in his chest. He shakes his head, turning back to his family, all of them sharing the same confused look, staring at him like he’s messed up—because he has messed up. He’s falling into old patterns when his shining new chance is right there. He has to let go of it. There’s no other choice; he cannot mess this up.
********
Laughter spills into the foreway, the door closing softly behind them. There’s a lot of laughter around, it’s nearly a constant sound, and that’s new too because it’s comfortable laughter. He feels almost high on it, that is, until Sam says something.
“So, Dean, what was, uh…what was all that back at the restaurant?” Sam asks. It’s an innocent question, one born from worry and curiosity. He’d ask the same question if roles were reversed. But it means lying again, it means acknowledging that something is wrong in a world where everything is right.
“I-I thought I saw someone,” he explains, truthfully. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Well, I had a lovely birthday, thank you,” Mary smiles, holding her shawl closer to her body. “Good night.”
“Good night,” you and Jessica say one after the other. But you use D/N’s little hand to wave goodbye, too. You hadn’t bothered with the carrier this time, instead holding the sleepy baby in your arms.
“Night, Mom,” Sam adds as she retreats, then he turns to the rest of them, hands in his pockets. “Yeah, well, I’m beat. Ready to turn in?”
“Sure,” Jessica nods.
“Alright. Good night, guys,” Sam nods.
“Wait a second. Wait a second,” Dean stammers. “Come on, it’s not even nine o’clock yet. Let’s uh…let’s have a drink or something.”
“Yeah, maybe another time,” Sam answers, lips pulled into a tight-lipped smile.
“Come on, man. Look at us, huh? We both have beautiful women on our arms. You’re engaged. Let’s celebrate,” he bargains.
Sam stares at him, just stares.
“Uh…sorry, could you guys excuse us?” he asks, looking at Jessica and you. “I just want to talk to my brother for a sec.”
“Yeah, sure,” you answer, letting Jessica pull you away.
“Come here,” Sam says the moment the two of you leave. He walks to the other side of the living room, creating more space as if he’s afraid someone will somehow overhear.
“What?” Dean responds, following him anyway.
“What’s gotten into you?” Sam asks, looking between his eyes like it will help him see into his soul.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this whole warm, fuzzy, ecstasy-trip thing,” Sam explains, hands waving around.
“I’m just happy for you, Sammy,” Dean answers softly, truthfully. Why was that so weird? So different?
“Yeah, right,” he scoffs. “That’s another thing. Since when do you call me Sammy?”
When hasn’t he called him Sammy? Why is he looking at him like he insulted him and his future bloodline?
“Dean, come on,” he continues in the following silence. “We don’t talk outside of holidays.”
“We don’t?” he utters, eyes wide. “Well, we should. I mean, you’re my brother.”
“‘You’re my brother’?” he echoes, looking at him like he grew another head.
“…Yeah,” Dean laughs nervously.
“You know, that’s what you said when you snaked my ATM card, or when you bailed on my graduation,” he spits.
“Well, hey man, I’m sorry about all that,” he says, taking a step closer to him. But he backs up, hands raised in surrender.
“No, that—look, that’s alright, man. I-I just…You know I’m not asking you to change,” Sam stammers. “I-I just, uh…I don’t know, I…guess we just don’t have anything in common, you know?”
That hits him like a bucket of ice water. Or getting punched in the gut. Or getting stabbed between the ribs. And to make it worse, Sam shakes his head and begins to walk away, done with this disaster of a conversation.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Yes, we do,” Dean says, stepping in his way. “Yes, we do.”
“What?”
“Hunting.”
“Hunting? I’ve never been hunting in my life, Dean.”
Shit. That life didn’t exist here, at least not for him.
“Yeah, well, then we should go sometime,” he reasons weakly, scrambling for anything to make this right. “I…I think you’d be great at it.”
Sam shakes his head with a sigh, moving around him to leave again. But this time, he stops in the archway, sighing deeply before he turns back.
“Get some rest,” Sam says softly. “Get your wife and your kid home.”
Then, he’s gone.
********
The conversation plays in his head the whole way home, and no matter how he puts it, he can’t make sense of it. He worked over it while waiting for his burger and your milkshake, on the drive home, then again while the two of you fed, changed, and put D/N to bed.
And, of course, now as he sits slumped on the couch, his head hanging in his hands like the night before, eyebrows furrowed.
What went wrong with Sam? Why weren’t they close? Who cares if they didn’t have a ton in common? They’re brothers! They have blood in common! And why the fuck would he miss his graduation? Why did this version of him do that?
He’s an idiot and an asshole, that’s why. Of course it is. In every lifetime, he’s a screw-up; he’s just got to accept that. Still, he glances at you, watching you take off your heels beside him.
“Was I an asshole growin’ up?” he asks outright.
“Whoa. What?” you laugh, eyes jumping to his, heels hitting the floor in a thump.
“‘M serious,” he hums, searching your eyes for truth.
“You were never an asshole to me if that’s what you mean…sorry, I’m confused, where is this coming from?”
Of course, he wasn’t an asshole to you; there’s no universe or timeline he’d be capable of it. In fact, that one time he hurt your feelings when you were twelve still haunts the fuck out of him. He’s probably going to hell just for that moment alone—deserves it too.
“I mean with Sammy…we don’t talk,” he clarifies.
You turn to him fully, legs curled beneath you.
“Oh…yeah. Um…I think you just had very different goals and ambitions growing up, which didn’t really allow you to spend time together,” you answer softly as if to lessen the blow. “And…being the youngest sibling can be lonely, I think that’s easy to overlook.”
“Hm,” he hums in thought. Sure, he was a screw-up, but that doesn’t mean he can’t make things right. That’s what this whole opportunity is, isn’t it?
“I can fix things with Sam,” he declares, eyes hardening with determination. “I can make it up to him.”
“Yeah,” you smile proudly, cupping his cheek. “There’s always time.”
“You know, I don’t know what the hell you see in me, but I’m glad you do,” he admits.
“What?” you laugh. But he’s tugging at your wrist so that your arm drapes around his neck, and he’s pulling you in closer with a hand at your waist. Your laugh dying off into a little exhale, your breaths mixing, noses brushing.
“Don’t think I tell you ‘nough how much I love you,” he murmurs, squeezing and kneading your side. “How much I appreciate you…need you…want you.”
“Don’t have to say it, I know you do,” you whisper, eyes stuck on his lips.
He hums, giving in to the need to taste you. Your mouth is still cold from your milkshake, the chill somehow only making him more needy. He kisses you like he’s got something to prove, sucking on your bottom lip, then exploring the cavern of your mouth with his tongue.
His hand skims down your body, landing on your thigh, his fingertips pressing into the fat. Your skin ignites everywhere he touches, your breath hitching as he pulls you onto his lap, knees pressed into the sofa. His hands wander up, slipping beneath the hem of your dress, to the globes of your ass. His chest vibrates with the hum, almost growl, sound he makes, finding the lack of coverage your panties are giving your smooth skin. He squeezes appreciatively, using the leverage to rock your hips forward.
You gasp a pathetic little whine into his mouth, making him smile like the devil.
“Dean,” you exhale, fingers curling into his button-up.
“Love when you say m’ name like that,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “Don’t gotta beg for me now, hm? Gonna give you what you want. Gonn’ treat my wife good.”
You nod, pupils blown wide, hips pressing into his all on your own. You kiss him hard, teeth just knocking into his, but he doesn’t mind, in fact, it makes his hips rise off the couch, and his hold to tighten. He groans into your mouth, one hand dropping back down to your thigh to support you when he suddenly stands.
He’s a man on a mission, beelining it to the stairs, lips at your neck, teeth grazing the delicate skin. It isn’t hard to carry you up the stairs; he can carry you just fine, but it is hard when you’re pressed against him, your perfume right in his nose, and those soft little sounds in his ears. Still, he forces himself up the stairs because the alternative is taking you on the stairs.
Soon, he walks into your shared bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. He places you on the soft bed, dragging your dress up, his hand skimming down your left leg. His head follows, kissing up your leg, ankle to thigh, as he places it on his shoulder. He pushes your other leg further apart, making room for his broad shoulders. Your head lolls back as his teeth sink gently into your inner thigh, his tongue immediately moving to soothe the buzz.
“Ain’t got no business callin’ these panties,” he drawls, eyeing the material. The one thing in his way. His face pushes in closer, teasing you with kisses close by. There’s already a wet patch there, clinging to the material, the sight making him harder if that’s possible.
You pat at his shoulders until you get his attention, eyes flicking up to yours beneath the fan of his pretty eyelashes.
“Please, ‘just wanna feel you,” you beg.
“Impatient,” he teases, green eyes gleaming.
Somehow, you’ve grabbed hold of his tie, giving it a tug that makes his breath hitch as he’s brought up to you, arms bracketing either side of you. He chuckles at your desperation, at your dirty trick.
“Didn’t I say I was gonn’ treat you good?” he asks, cupping your jaw in one hand, making sure you’re looking him in the eyes as you nod.
“Just wanna fuck my wife,” he mutters, pressing his leg between yours, thigh pressed in close to your core. “Want you to cum on my fingers ‘n my tongue first, then you can have my dick as much as you want. ‘Make you cum until that pretty mind of yours turns to mush, hm? ‘That sound good, baby? Or ‘you still wanna be impatient?”
The rush of water fills his ears, hitting the glass cup with a loud swish. His mind is elsewhere, back upstairs with you, and not here filling up a glass of water. He might’ve been a little too good on his word, because he’s pretty sure you’re going to be knocked out for the next sixteen hours.
Once he had his fill, making you cum five times, you had almost immediately fallen asleep. Your eyelids were heavy, and your bones made of soup as he cleaned you up and made you drink a glass of water. With your head on his chest, he would’ve fallen asleep too if he hadn’t been so damn thirsty. So, reluctantly, he pulled away from you, kissing your forehead and murmuring he’d be right back even though he was certain you were already asleep.
Pajama pants hanging low on his hips, he chugs the water, head tilted back. Then, something shifts quickly in the corner of his eyes. He straightens up, nearly choking on the water as he slams the glass down, turning around swiftly. A white blur moves towards the stairs, the hair on the back of his neck standing up.
His legs move faster than his brain, heart slamming against his chest at the mere idea that whatever is haunting him will hurt you or D/N. He takes the stairs two at a time, launching himself up the wooden steps, the blur of white settling into view of that girl he keeps seeing.
And she’s faster than him.
He makes it to the second-floor landing only to see the spirit walk through the door of his daughter's room. His heart drops out of his body, face paling. He runs, slamming open the door with enough force to make it rattle on its hinges.
His chest rises and falls quickly, eyes scanning the room. But there’s nothing there, not even a chill in the air. He steps further into the room, eyes lingering on D/N, still asleep, watching her chest rise and fall softly. Alive. She’s alive.
Still, he won’t risk it. Not if it means his daughter being in danger. He promised he would protect her, and he will. He’ll spend every last breath protecting her if that’s what he needs to do.
Heart pounding in his ears, muffling the sound of his heavy breaths, he creeps to the closet door, hand finding the small knob. He swallows roughly, every neuron in his brain telling him this is a bad idea, but still, he pulls the door aside swiftly.
He stumbles back at the sight, ghostly dead women hanging from the closet rod, tight ropes around their wrists.
Floorboards creak behind him. He whips around, coming face to face with a woman with a bullet wound in the center of her forehead. Her mouth moves, but no sound comes out; she flickers there, saying nothing, and yet D/N wakes, wailing loudly. The spirit disappears.
Wide-eyed, her cry loud in his ears, he turns back to the closet, finding nothing. He shuts the door with more force than he means to, the sound only making D/N cry harder.
Sweat clinging to his skin, he moves to the crib, shushing the kid as he picks her up. He holds her to his chest, bouncing slightly, hand rubbing at her back.
“Nothin’ gonn’ hurt you,” he whispers. “I got you.”
Still, she continues to cry, and he can’t blame her. So, he takes her with him, heading back downstairs to not wake you, and to get far away from that room. It claws at his chest, eating at him, the knowledge that he caused this.
“Won’t let anythin’ happen to you. ‘Promise,” he continues to whisper until her cries fizzle out. His shoulder wet from her little tears, though he couldn’t complain one bit, but he could feel guilty. And he does.
He keeps her with him, sitting her on his lap as he pulls up his laptop, securing her with one big hand as the other types through several search tabs, each with a different article pulled up, headlines reading:
“Indianapolis. Sun, December 5th 2005- ‘FLIGHT 424 CRASHES, 108 DEAD,” Tragedy shocks the nation as emergency crews continue to search rubble.
‘Nine Children Comatose,” Mystery illness baffles doctors at Dane County Hospital.
‘Parents mutilated in bed,’ Brutal double homicide in quiet residential area causes shock.
‘GIRL DROWNS IN HOTEL POOL,’ Mother devastated after discovering daughter drowned.”
He leans back in the chair, hand rubbing down his jaw as he shakes his head. He stopped these. He stopped all of these, you all did: Sam, Dean, you. None of these should’ve happened. Those people should be alive. But they aren’t, and it did, because in this life, he isn’t a hunter. He never took those cases; you never saved those people. And he’s paying the price. His daughter is paying the price.
He shuts the laptop, picks D/N up, going back upstairs. He brings her back to her room, cradled in his arms, safe and sound.
“‘M gonna make this right,” he tells her, looking into her soft green eyes. “I’ll figure this out, I promise.”
“Gotta go away for a little bit to make this right,” he continues, voice breaking. “‘Promise I’ll be safe, gonna come back home. But you’re gonna have to be good for your Mom while I’m gone, okay?”
Her simple innocence, her eyes filled with trust and perhaps love, breaks him further, because he’s lying right to her sweet face. He won’t be coming back.
“‘M sorry,” he whispers, a stray tear slipping down his cheek. “‘M sorry I can’t be what you need, sweet girl. I…I really wanted to be. I—“
He swallows down the knot in his throat. He never imagined it ending like this. He never imagined having to say goodbye, even though he should’ve, because just this once, he really believed he could have it all.
Unable to form the right words when none of them could ever make this right, he rocks her slowly, humming Zeppelin's ‘Rain Song' until she drifts off to sleep.
He was a fool to think he deserved this life.
He stares at the words carved into stone until they begin to lose sense:
“John E. Winchester (1954-2006)
Loving Husband & Father
Remembered Forever”
His tears dried sometime on the drive over, solidifying under his hardened expression. Numb. That’s what it really is.
“All of them,” he says at his father's grave, the moon shining above him. “Everyone that you saved, everyone Sammy, Y/N, and I saved. They’re all dead. And there’s this woman who’s haunting me. I don’t know why. I don’t know what the connection is, not yet anyway. But it’s like my old life is…is coming after me or something like it—like it doesn’t want me to be happy.”
He shakes his head. “‘Course I know what you’d say. Well, not the you that played softball but… ‘So go hunt the Djinn. He put you here, it can put you back. Your happiness for all those people’s lives, no contest. Right?’ But why? Why is it my job to save these people? Why do I have to be some kind of hero?”
His facade cracks.
“What about us, huh? What, Mom’s not supposed to live her life? Sammy’s not supposed to get married? I don’t get to raise my kid—my daughter? Why do we have to sacrifice everything, Dad? It’s…”
Finally, tears spill over, his lips quivering in the silence. The sky cracks above him, rumbling like it feels his pain too. Like it knows sacrifice.
“Yeah…” he finishes, sighing, wiping the tears from his cheeks.
Unfair? Wrong? It’s all those things. But if he lets himself sit with that truth, then he’ll get selfish and stay. He wishes he could be selfish.
Unfair is right, but this is his life, and nothing has ever been fair or easy. That’s his burden.
********
It’s dark and quiet in the house, a storm raging on outside, rain pelting the windows. The glass doors of the china cabinet open, and a box is on the floor. Stealing from his Mom. He knows it's wrong, feels it too.
Still, he stays crouched on the floor, quietly rummaging through the box when he feels someone behind him. This time, he knows it’s not a ghost; it’s solid, tall, and familiar. He just knows.
He stands up and turns as a baseball bat comes swinging down on him. He catches it with one hand, using the momentum to push back, his leg sweeping the figure off its feet. They go barreling down, his arm pressed down into the man’s chest.
“That was so easy, I’m embarrassed for you,” Dean breathes, smiling down at his brother.
“Dean? What the hell are you doing here?” Sam exclaims.
Dean gets up, holding out a hand to help Sam up. Surprisingly, he takes it, helping him to his feet, the night sky just outside the window illuminating his face in dim lighting.
“I was looking for a beer,” he answers.
“In the china cabinet?” Sam counters, moving to switch on the living room light. It exposes the truth, though his lie didn’t help either.
“That’s Mom’s silver,” Sam gestures towards the box on the floor.
“Sam.”
“What, you…you broke into the house to steal Mom’s silver?”
“It’s not what it looks like,” he defends weakly. “Okay, I didn’t have a choice.”
“Oh, really? Why? What’s so damn important you gotta steal from your own mother?” Sam retorts.
“You want the truth?”
“Yeah, yeah, I do.”
Dean shrugs. “I owe somebody money.”
“Who?”
“A bookie. I lost big on a game, I gotta bring him the cash tonight,” he lies. Let Sam keep thinking he’s a screw-up, it’s closer to the truth anyway.
“I can’t believe we’re even related,” he murmurs. “You know you can’t be doing stupid things like this anymore, you have a wife and baby to take care of.”
“I know,” Dean answers solemnly. “Sam, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly.
“I’m sorry that we don’t get along. And I wish to hell I could stay and fix it,” he admits. “But I gotta do this. People’s lives depend on it.”
He turns around, taking a knife from the box. A silver knife. It’s what he came for. He could’ve gone home and found one, but he was sure that if he went back, he wouldn’t be able to leave again. And if you caught him, he wouldn’t be able to lie or say goodbye.
“What are you talking about, Dean?”
“Nothing. Forget it,” he says. “Just uh…hey, tell Mom I love her.”
Dean keeps his eyes forward, purposely trying to avoid seeing his brother frown. He needs to keep moving, one foot in front of the other, make it to the door, leave, and do what needs to be done. That’s what he keeps telling himself.
“Dean,” Sam calls out.
He pauses less than a foot in front of the door, head hanging low.
“I’ll see you, Sammy,” he says, risking looking over his shoulder.
He walks out the door, that thing clawing at his chest again. Keep moving.
The rain trickles down, cold and unforgiving. He crosses the street to the Impala, taking one last look at the house, trying to hold it in his memory. Remember it like this, like today, when it was filled with laughter, love, family, and hope. It hadn’t been that way since he was a kid. He shakes his head, getting into the car.
The engine starts with its familiar rumble, and yet he sits there, staring at the steering wheel. He can still back out. He can make it up to Sam. He can go home and crawl into bed as if nothing happened. There’s still time. That’s what you said.
The passenger door opens suddenly, Sam getting in, making him snap to attention.
“Get out of the car,” he orders.
“I’m going with you,” Sam declares.
“You’re just gonna slow me down.”
“Tough.”
“This is dangerous, and you could get hurt,” he counters.
“Yeah, and so could you, Dean.”
“Sam—“
“Look, whatever stupid thing you’re about to do, you’re not doing it alone. And that’s that,” Sam says firmly.
“I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?”
Sam sighs, shaking his head. “Because you’re still my brother.”
“Bitch,” Dean smiles.
“W-What are you calling me a bitch for?”
“You’re supposed to say ‘jerk,’” he corrects.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
********
“What’s in the bag?” Sam sighs, looking at the brown paper bag sitting between them on the car bench.
“Nothin’,” he shrugs.
“‘Nothin’?” Sam echoes.
“Yeah, nothin’.”
“Fine,” he grumbles, snatching the bag.
“You don’t wanna do that,” Dean warns.
“Oh, really?” He reaches into the bag, pulling out a large container of…blood. “What the hell is this?”
“Blood,” Dean answers.
“Yeah, I can see that it’s blood, Dean!” he exclaims. “What the hell is it doing in here?”
“You don’t really wanna know,” he warns again.
“No, I-I do really wanna know. I really, really, do,” Sam stammers.
“Yeah, well, you’re gonna find out sooner or later,” he murmurs. “I needed a silver knife dipped in lamb’s blood.”
“You needed a silver knife dipped in lamb’s blood?” Sam repeats, slowing down each word like it’ll help make sense of it. “Why?!”
“Because there’s this creature. A Djinn. And I have to hunt it,” he explains.
“Okay, um…stop the car,” Sam says, shaking his head.
“I know how it sounds.”
“Great. Just…stop the car,” he orders.
“It’s the truth, Sam,” Dean exclaims. “Alright, there are things out there in the dark. There—there are bad things. There are nightmare things. And people have to be saved, and if we don’t save them, then nobody will.”
“Look, I wanna help you, alright. I-I really, really do,” Sam answers as calmly as he can manage. “But you’re having some kind of psychotic breakdown, so I just—“
“I wish,” he grumbles.
Sam picks up his phone, clicking the buttons rapidly when Dean rolls down the window, snatching the device and tossing it right out into the night, rolling his window up again.
“What the hell was that, Dean?!” Sam yells. “That was my phone!”
“I’m not going to a rubber room, Sammy. And we got work to do,” he answers.
“What?” he exclaims. “I was just trying to help you out, Dean. I don’t—I don’t want you to get yourself hurt.”
“What? You protect me?” Dean scoffs.
“Yeah!”
“That’s hilarious,” Dean laughs.
“No, it isn’t!” Sam claims. “Most of all, Y/N is going to murder me if anything happens to you! Actually, she’ll kill you too!”
That makes him smirk. You always look adorable when you worry over him.
“Why don’t you just sit tight and try not to get us both killed?” Dean shakes his head, straightening his shoulders. He hits the radio, turning the volume all the way up.
********
Grimy, abandoned factories tower over the Impala. This is where it all started; it’s where he got his wish.
Dean shines his flashlight over Sam, who had fallen asleep some time back. He wakes with a start, getting up quickly.
“Where are we?” he asks.
“Well, we’re not in Kansas anymore,” Dean laughs, the sound ultimately dying out when it’s apparent Sam doesn’t find it amusing. “Illinois.”
“And you think something’s in there?” Sam asks, looking out the windshield.
“I know it is.”
********
It’s dark and musty in the factory; in fact, he’s sure there’s gotta be mold growing somewhere. Still, they creep around as silently as they can, flashlights leading the way.
“See? There’s nothing here, Dean,” Sam whispers, following after him.
Dean ignores him, continuing down the hallway. He didn’t get further than this last time. This is where he got attacked.
“Look, Y/N’s gotta be worried sick about you, Dean,” Sam pleads. “Come on, let-let’s just go.”
Then, there’s a grumbling sound from somewhere deep inside.
“Shh!” Dean hushes, throwing a hand back in some sort of signal.
They listen carefully, picking up on a creak, another groan, and metal scraping against metal.
“What the hell is that?” Sam whispers.
“Stay behind me and keep your mouth shut,” Dean orders.
They continue down the hallway, entering a large room. But people are hanging from the ceiling, wrists bound, treated like butcher meat. It’s the people he saw in the closet. They’re all dead, bodies pale and lifeless, their forearms covered in black and blues. Hanging beside one of the bodies is an empty blood bag, the kind you’d see to donate blood.
“What the hell?” Sam exclaims.
Dean looks further down the mass of corpses, finding a white figure hanging much lower than the others. It’s her. They get closer, her head is hanging low, her blue eyes barely open, her wrists tied above her head. There’s a needle in her arm, pulling blood straight out of her and into a blood bag already filled more than halfway.
“It’s her,” Dean realizes. The woman who had been haunting him. Following him? This whole time, she had been asking for help.
“Dean, what’s going on?” Sam asks.
“Shh!” he warns, grabbing his arm. He pulls him away quickly, ducking behind a bunch of crates as a tall bald man with sigil-like tattoos all over his head, the rest of his body covered by a thick brown coat, comes out from behind some wall in the far back of the room.
It approaches the woman from behind, eyeing her like prey.
“Where’s my dad?” she starts sobbing, voice raw. “I won’t tell…” She sees the Djinn, eyes widening, feet scurrying for purchase on the ground. “Don’t. Where’s my dad?”
“Sleep,” the Djinn says, stroking her cheek, a blue light flowing from its hand. “Sleep…Sleep.”
Her head lolls forward, body relaxing, but her eyes stay open, looking dull and far away. The Djinn presses its face against her arm just above the needle, breathing in deeply. Its fingers scurry up the tube connecting the needle and the blood bag. It pulls a straw out of its coat pocket, carefully puncturing the top of the bag like a juice box, drinking the blood bag up.
Sam gags at the sight. Dean turns to him, eyes wide, grabbing and dragging him away again before the Djinn could find them. Carefully, he moves to the back of the room, creating distance between where the creature looks and lurks for them. Finally, they duck into the space beneath some old stairs.
Only moments later does the Djinn come their way, walking up the very steps they hide beneath, each step creaking.
“This is real? You’re not crazy?” Sam exclaims in a whisper-shout the moment they hear a door close upstairs.
“She didn’t know where she was,” Dean thinks aloud, ignoring his brother. “She thought she was with her father.”
He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t acknowledge Sam’s wide-eyed look, nor does he give a warning. Instead, he goes back to the woman, eyes set forward, Sam following behind.
They stand in front of her again, her body motionless.
“What if that’s what the Djinn does? It doesn’t grant you a wish, it just makes you think it has,” Dean realizes slowly.
“Look, man, that thing could come back, alright?” Sam warns, stepping in front of him.
He shakes his head, ignoring him again, moving past him.
It had been too good to be true. Of course, he wouldn’t just be gifted a second chance; he’s not that lucky.
“Dean, please,” Sam begs.
Something closes around his throat, his vision twirling as he chokes on a breath he cannot catch.
“What if I’m like her?” he asks, breathing hard. “What if I’m tied up in here somewhere? What if all of this is in my head?”
What if he never did get to marry you? What if his daughter wasn’t real?
“I mean, it could, you know, maybe it gives us some kind of supernatural acid, and then just feeds on us slowly,” he continues.
“No. Dean, that doesn’t make sense, okay?” Sam reasons, eyes wide.
“What if that’s why she keeps appearing to me? She’s not a spirit. It’s—it’s like more and more I’m catching flashes of reality. You know, like I’m in here somewhere, and I’m—I’m catatonic, and I’m taking all this stuff in, but I—but I can’t snap out of it,” he rambles.
“Yeah, okay. Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re right. I was wrong. You’re not crazy, but we—we need to get out of here. Fast,” Sam urges, grabbing his arm to pull him along.
He pulls back, stumbling, shaking his head.
“I don’t think you’re real,” he whispers. None of this was real. It felt real, so very real. But it couldn’t be. His mind made it all up. He was living a fantasy he dreamed of often, but that’s all it’s ever been—a dream.
“Dude, you feel that?” Sam asks, grabbing his arms. “You feel this? It’s real. This is not an acid trip. I’m real, and that thing is gonna come down here and kill us for real. Now, please—“
“There’s one way to be sure,” Dean nods, pulling out the silver knife from his waistband.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sam stammers, backing off with his hands raised in surrender. “What are you doing?”
“It’s an old wives’ tale,” he explains, looking down at the knife. “If you’re about to die in a dream, you wake up.”
“No, no, no, no, no, no,” Sam exclaims. “That’s crazy, alright?”
He swallows roughly, looking at Sam. “Maybe.”
Sam starts towards him carefully. “You’re gonna kill yourself—“ Dean holds out the knife in warning, his hand raised to tell him to stop. “Okay.”
“Or I’m gonna wake up. One or the other,” Dean figures, knuckles turning white around the handle.
“Okay. This isn’t a dream, alright? I’m here with you, now,” Sam says firmly. “And you’re about to kill yourself, Dean.”
“No, I’m pretty sure. Like 90% sure,” he reasons. “I’m sure enough.”
And if he’s somehow very wrong, he’ll never see you again, never get the chance to even say goodbye. But if he doesn’t and he isn’t wrong…well, he’ll never get to say goodbye to the real you. The thought of you crying over him hurts more than any blade could. So, he turns the knife on himself, both hands on the handle, the sharp tip mere inches from his heart. He exhales, silently counting down in his head.
3…
2–
“Wait!” Sam shouts.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he sees his mom, wearing the white nightgown she wore on the night she died. And appearing behind Sam is you, cradling D/N in your arms. His knees almost give out.
“Why’d you have to keep digging?” Sam asks.
He tears his gaze away from you, looking back at his mother.
“Why couldn’t you have left well enough alone?” Sam continues, Jessica, appearing on the other side of him. “You were happy.”
Mary steps in front of him, wearing the kindest smile as she says, "Put the knife down, honey.”
“You’re not real,” Dean whispers, tears welling up in his eyes. “None of it is.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Mary answers. “It’s still better than anything you had.”
“What?”
“It’s everything you want. We’re a family again,” Mary reasons. “Let’s go home.”
“I’ll die,” he shakes his head, voice breaking. “The Djinn ‘ll…drain the life out of me in a couple of days.”
“But in here, with us, it’ll feel like years. Like a lifetime,” she promises.
His eyes snap to Sam because he can’t look at you, and he nods, smiling encouragement. He could live off dreams.
“No more pain, or fear,” she continues, cradling his cheek, thumb running back and forth in soothing circles. “Just love and comfort. And safety. Dean, stay with us.” She cups his other cheek, his body giving in, leaning into her touch like a dog looking for warmth. “Get some rest.”
“You don’t have to worry about Sam anymore,” Jessica adds, her arm around Sam’s waist. “You get to watch him live a full life.”
Mary steps away, letting you come up to him. Again, his knees nearly give up. You’re wearing that blue nightgown from last night, and D/N is awake in your arms, hands stretching up towards him.
“We can have a real future together,” you say, cupping his cheek with your free hand. “We can watch her grow up, safe. Maybe even have another one.”
He wants to collapse into you, tuck his face into your neck, and apologize for everything. All he's ever wanted is right in front of him. He could have it. He looks at D/N, her little hands still reaching as if her hold alone could keep him there. Maybe it could. She isn’t real, he has to remind himself. So he looks back at you, your eyes filled with endearment.
But you? The real you? You’d never ask this of him. You'd never risk his life for happiness. You’d take the pain yourself before ever giving him this ultimatum. That’s why this isn’t real. That’s how he’s sure. And even more sure that he can’t stay, because the real you is out there, and you love him more than any fantasy he can conjure.
He steps away, your hand falling from his cheek. He holds this image in his mind, his family together. For about two days, it had been real, and maybe that’s all he deserved.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers one last time.
He plunges the knife deep into his heart, the pain scattering into a numbing burn, blood pouring from his lips.
“Dean! Dean!” Sam shouts.
Dean hangs there, wrists bound high above him, head hanging low, his eyes open but far, far away. He’s motionless, and that scares you just about as much as the amount of blood in the bag connected to him.
You go to his side, stretching up to take the needle out of his arm, pressing down immediately, hand glowing purple with the effort to heal him.
“I-It’s not working!” you cry. “Sam!”
“Oh God, come on,” Sam mutters, shaking his brother. “Hey. Wake up. Wake up, damn it!”
Dean grunts softly, your eyes snapping up to his face. His eyes begin to focus, shaping the blurbs of color into Sam.
“Hey,” Sam exhales. “Hey.”
Dean grunts. “Auntie Em, there’s no place like home.”
“You’re not funny,” you accuse.
He lulls his head to the side to see you. You’re still stretching yourself to try to help him. He smirks faintly, despite the sight of tears rolling down your cheeks.
“I thought you were…” You can’t say it.
“Thought we lost you for a second,” Sam finishes for you both.
“You almost did,” he admits.
“Sam, get him down, please,” you order the youngest Winchester quickly. And despite the pain…everywhere, he chuckles softly, because you’re adorable like this; frazzled and worried for him. You care for him, and although he doesn’t know how he got lucky enough to have someone like you worry over someone like him, he’s just glad you do.
Sam listens to you without any sassy remarks, reaching up to begin cutting through the rope. Dean winces, and you adjust your hands immediately, bringing them down to hover around his waist.
“Hey, hey,” Dean says suddenly, looking over Sam’s shoulder to the shadows where blue eyes glow.
He doesn’t even get his full warning out before you’re aware. The change in you is immediate; he can see it in the way your head snaps in the direction of the Djinn, your fear hardening into something vicious. But most of all, he can feel it, the air charged and crackling with invisible energy, much like that night you tried to fight the yellow-eyed demon possessing his father.
You don’t even move or throw your hand out, but the Djinn goes flying back before it can reach Sam anyway. You move away from them, stepping towards the creature with a scary kind of calmness. You’re angry. More than that. You’re furious, and you very rarely get like that. Never like this.
Tendrils of purple smoke curl away from you, a silver knife dripping blood appearing in your hand. You don’t flinch when the Djinn gets up, nor when it raises its glowing hand at you. But you freeze, stuck in its hold, and yet, even from here, you look anything but scared.
“Hurry up!” Dean urges his brother anyway.
The ground begins to rumble, and little pebbles and debris on the floor are rattling and jumping. The Djinn steps closer to you, raising a hand to your forehead. But you vanish, appearing behind him in the same breath, knife plunging through its chest. Its glowing eyes fade out, head rolling forward. You rip the knife out, letting its body collapse to the floor.
All at once, the air loses its charge, the ground quieting, as you run back over to him, tossing the knife off to the side. You help Sam lower Dean to his feet, holding half his weight. He looks worse somehow, far too pale and weak.
“You need to get to a hospital,” you say.
“No, no, there’s a—there’s a girl over there, she might still be alive,” he warns, wincing as he gestures off to his left. You share a look with Sam, nodding. You accept all of Dean’s weight, letting Sam go to find this girl. You rest your hand on his chest, eyes jumping across his features, trying to gauge his pain and how you can help.
“She’s still alive!” Sam calls out from the other side of the room. Dean sighs, shoulders slumping. He saved her. It was all worth it.
Warmth spreads along his chest, making him look up to find your worried eyes. You stop healing him like you got caught red-handed, your eyes reverting to e/c. He stares at you, silently, and in you he can see the daughter you could’ve had—the daughter he held in his arms. She had been real in some way, and maybe it was best that it was somewhere in his mind because she was safest there, far away from an unfair life.
Dean sits on the edge of his hotel bed, flipping through a magazine he isn’t really reading, because he’s taking glances at you. You’ve been silent since he briefly told you and Sam about his Djinn fantasy, lost somewhere in your mind like he is. Sam is on the phone, but you’re just sitting there at the small table, reading your spell book. Except you’ve been stuck on the same page for the last couple of minutes, so he’s sure you’re not actually reading it. His eyes drop down to your left hand, staring a hole into your ring finger where your wedding ring had been.
“That was the hospital,” Sam says suddenly, pulling him away from his thoughts. “‘Girls been stabilized. Good chance she’s gonna pull through.”
“That’s good,” Dean answers. You and Sam had tried to get him to go and stay at the hospital, too, but he refused. So, he didn’t have the heart to complain when you made him something to drink and mumbled something about it helping, or when you insisted on healing him as much as you could to ease his pain.
“Yeah…how ‘bout you?” Sam asks carefully. “You alright?”
He clears his throat, sitting up straighter. “Yeah, I’m alright…You should have seen it. Sam. Our lives. You were such a wussy.”
And really fucking happy.
Sam laughs, “So we didn’t get along then, huh?”
“Nah.”
“Yeah…I thought it was supposed to be this perfect fantasy,” Sam says, sitting at the edge of his bed.
“It wasn’t. It was just a wish,” Dean clarifies. “I wished for Mom to live. That Mom never died, so we never went hunting, and you and me just never uh…you know.”
“Yeah, well, I’m glad we do,” Sam admits. “And I’m glad you dug yourself out, Dean. Most people wouldn’t’ve had the strength, ‘would have just stayed.”
He almost did. He could’ve had everything.
“Yeah…lucky me,” he replies. “I gotta tell you though, man. You know, you had Jess. Mom had a grandkid, I had a—“
“Yeah, but…Dean…it wasn’t real,” Sam reminds him with a furrow between his brow.
“I know…But I wanted to stay,” he admits, that thing clawing at his chest and churning within. “I wanted to stay so bad. I mean, ever since Dad…all I can think about is how much this job’s cost us.” He swallows roughly, feeling your gaze on him despite your silence. “We’ve lost so much. We’ve…sacrificed so much.”
“But people are alive because of you,” Sam reasons, earning a scoff. “It's worth it, Dean. It is. It's not fair, and…you know, it hurts like hell, but…it’s worth it.”
‘Worth it,’ his ass. But he keeps that to himself, looking down at the carpet.
A beat goes by in silence, eventually broken by you. You get up without a word, going right out the door before anyone can say a thing. Still, he stares after you. For once, he couldn’t read you, couldn’t guess what you were thinking.
Sam looks at him, looks at the door, and then back at him as if waiting for a reaction.
“She’s probably still scared,” Sam reasons. “She really thought you were gone. I thought she might rip a hole in the universe trying to find you.”
His heart churns, eyes unable to look away from the door. He doesn’t say anything either as he gets up and follows after you.
It isn’t hard to find you, he knew where you would go. You’re sitting on the curb just outside the room, arms around your legs. So, he sits right beside you, comfortable to sit in silence, just so you know you weren’t alone.
You watch dusk break on the horizon, a bird chirping somewhere in the distance.
“…I’m sorry that you went through that,” you finally say.
He’s quick to look at you, staring at the side of your head, almost surprised (though glad) that you talked.
“Occupational hazard,” he shrugs, looking forward again.
This time, you look at him, seeing right through his tough guy facade like you always do.
“It's more than that,” you say. “That was psychological torture, among other things.”
He doesn’t say anything. He has no quip or joke to hide behind. Out here, sitting beside you, he doesn’t feel like he can hide. And maybe for the first time ever, he doesn’t want to.
“It felt…so real,” he admits quietly, after some time. “I mean, I was—I was holding her. She was real.”
“Mm,” you hum, looking at the ground. Your nails dig into your palm, something already tightening around your throat. “So we were…?”
Married? Parents? It's a loaded question, because beneath it all, you’re asking him if that’s what he’s been secretly wanting.
“Yeah…” he says slowly, the weight hanging over you both.
You look up from the ground, turning to him fully. “Tell me about her,” you say suddenly.
He shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s a—“
“Why?” you ask. “Maybe it’ll make you feel a little better…take some weight off of your mind.”
He looks at you then, turning to match your position.
“You’ll get sad.”
“Yeah…probably, yeah,” you admit.
But he knows you, and that “probably” is a “definitely.”
“But I…” you continue, softly, failing to hold his gaze. “I want to mourn her with you, if that’s…okay…”
Neither of you will say there’s nothing to mourn because it wasn’t real. You won’t even acknowledge that point, even though Sam had brought it up before. Neither of you has the guts. Neither of you wants to.
“She was…perfect,” he sighs, giving in. “She had these, uh, green eyes, well…green for a baby, you know? And this h/t dirty blonde hair. She had the chubbiest damn cheeks I ever saw, ‘she smiled a lot too. Like you, ‘had your smile actually.”
He can see the softness in your eyes, giving way to tears, your lips pulled into a trembling frown. You’re picturing her, picturing what could be. And maybe it means there’s some part of you that wants it too.
“She liked the Beatles and Zepplin,” he continues.
“‘Course she did,” you laugh, wiping away any tears that crept down your cheeks.
He laughs too, trying and failing to fight his own burning tears. You were right, it is mourning. Sam doesn’t get it, doesn’t have to.
“I know she was only a couple months old, but I swear she was gonna grow up to be a good kid,” he continues to ramble, watching the fondness in your eyes grow. “She was always just so…happy. And I don't know who came up with the name ‘D/N,’ but it fit her.”
“She sounds…”
“Lovely.”
“Perfect.”
You say at the same time.
“I was gonna say perfect, but I didn’t want to copy you,” you laugh, wiping away what seems to be never-ending tears. Your cheeks feel sticky and a little sore from all the wiping.
He wraps an arm around your shoulder, bringing you into his side. “She was perfect, baby.”
You're silent for a second, staring out into the parking lot again. If you think hard enough, you can almost see her, or at least a version of her.
Then, softly, he says:
“Well…maybe in another life.”
He’s trying to be strong. You see that. You look down at your lap, fingers toying with the hem of your shirt.
“Maybe in this life,” you say softly, glancing back at him. “If you’d like that some day.”
He freezes, back stiffening, eyes widening. Is this another dream? Is he still stuck in that warehouse?
“I…I know it’ll never be as perfect, and it’ll be hard, but… I don’t want to live this life forever, Dean. Someday I want to…I want a life with you.”
The air is stolen from his lungs, punched out, floating away.
“You mean that?” he mumbles. You nod.
Time. There’s always time. He knows it wasn’t the real you that said it, but it sure as hell is something you’d say. Although, you’d probably quote some song to him too, say something like: "It's never over.” Or quote some book he’s never heard of. Or say something sweet like you just did. Regardless, it makes him feel brave.
“Good, cause no matter what’s in the cards, I’m going to marry you someday,” he declares, finding your hand. Your breath hitches. “You’re it for me, baby, you’ve always been it. Nothin’ else matters.”
Your lips tremble, teary eyes looking at him like he offered you the moon and the stars. You wrap your arms around his neck, bringing him into you. He holds you just as tightly, hands shaking. You’ll have time.
(Next Chapter)
A/N: So...how are we feeling? Did you cry? Cause I've read this too many times to know what feelings it arises, even though I cried like six times writing this.
next chapter of H&W is already 8k words and i’m maybe less than halfway done…and it’s all like angst and fluff so you’re welcome and also maybe be scared? who knows.
Boyfriend!Frank Castle x Pink loving!girlfriend!Reader
SUMMARY: Frank leaves you alone for one day with your normal hair colour, so why the hell did he just walk in with you having cotton candy for hair?
Ingredients: 18+ MDNI, no use of y/n, pet names instead (sweetheart, baby, sweet girl), mentions of a shootout but only briefly, fluff, making out scene, kisses, Frank goes into shock for a moment, reader really loves pink guys, original hair colour is not brought up as (obvi) everyone's hair is different colours, Frank acts a little lovesick at the beginning and the end, so he is a little ooc (I'm sorry), Mentions of injuries (bruises & cuts) so normal Frank additions, not proof read
Calories: 1.7k
Chef's Note: Oh sweet sweet anon... keep the orders coming. I enjoyed writing this one very much as well. <3 Sort of the theme song for this ngl. It was on repeat for me while writing this.
Find the request here!!
Frank threw his jacket over his shoulders as he mutters something about pricks on the street or... whatever. You weren't really listening as you stood in the bathroom holding the box of hair dye in your hand. The pink shone back at you with a hum of, "You're going to look super cute!".
But there was one small issue, you hadn't told Frank about your idea yet. He isn't controlling ones matter of looks, just behaviours if they become dangerous. Not that you ever did anything against those, you didn't stay out late after partying, you called him if you needed a lift, hell, you even got a list of bars and clubs from him that he said were dangerous. So... this will be fine. Yeah. He won't, freak.
"Sweetheart, I'm off." You quickly hid the dye as Frank peeked his head into the bathroom. His eyebrow already raised in slight suspicion. However, it didn't take long for his eyes to slowly go down, following the lilac towel then your legs. But he cleared his throat and pulled his eyes back up to your face. "You be good, 'kay? F' me."
You snorted and gave him, well, the 'really??' look. What the hell did he even mean by, "Be good for him"? Last you checked, you didn't need to be good for anyone but yourself, but maybe that was just the sass in you wanting to snap back.
"I'll think about it. What time will you be home?" You shuffle over to him and wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. His hands immediately getting a hold of your waist and pulling you into him, there was no hesitation like he usually had. Which was, a nice feeling.
"Probably so late tha' you don't need to stay up waitin' for me, yeah? You go t' sleep as soon as ya' finish dinner." He titled his head to the side slightly, he was closer to your face now, you could feel his breath fan your lips. It made your eyes flutter ever so slightly, your lips parted along with them, Frank taking that as the perfect opportunity to move in and kiss you. His lips were rough and broken as his hands slid around you, his arms now keeping a tight hold. "Baby..."
He spoke in between breaths and kisses, Frank really didn't know where this mood came from, but today just seemed... different when in your presence. You were just so addictive today.
"Yeah Frankie?" He placed one final, long kiss onto your lips before pulling away with a soft pop, a slight string of saliva following suit before it then broke.
"I love ya'. S'much." You felt a smile grow on your face as you pecked his cheek. You liked to take these vulnerable moments with him to the absolute maximum. But this morning, simplicity was enough.
"I love you too Frank. Now go on... out to, work." He huffed out a breath before reluctantly letting you go, standing in the doorway for a little while longer. He put his hands into his jacket pockets and took that little while longer to just stare at you before finally leaving. Muttering something you couldn't quite catch, but you knew it was about you. "Bye Frankiee~"
"Bye sweet girl." You then heard the front door shut, this meant your plans were now a go. Get changed, have breakfast then immediately get to your hair. Even if he was going to be home extra late (apparently) tonight, you wanted it done as quickly as possible.
You stood in front of the bathroom mirror once more, gloves now on your hands as you mixed the dye up. The bathroom softly echoed with your shower playlist coming through your phone that sat on the edge of the basin, it mixed with the knocking of the brush whenever you accidentally hit the edge. You felt a buzz of excitement as the pink slowly came together, your hair was finally going to pop. You'd wanted to get it done professionally but that was, well, very expensive. Even though you worked and Frank would sometimes take some money from here and there, it was still never enough. But this will do. Even if it was barely showing or you did it properly and have pretty pink hair afterwards, you tried your best. That's all that mattered. In total, it took you 4 hours, you don't really remember why it did, as you were quite distracted about the news report about a shootout a few moments ago. Turns out Frank wasn't involved in that one, as there was way too many survivors...
Once your hair has been fully covered in pink and allowed it to settle for an half an hour, you rinsed it out until the water ran clear into the bathtub below you. You then quickly grabbed the treatment the box came with and applied it, needing to wait at least two minutes before you then needed to rinse that out. But this was finally it, your hair was pink, looking like a type of cotton candy that never left a humans head after a crazy wind ridden right at a carnival. But in the end, you couldn't stop looking in all the mirrors in the house as you did chores. You just loved the pink on you! It made you feel... pretty. Like you finally felt pretty in your own way. Yes, plenty of other people on Earth had pink hair, but there was just something about it finally being on your head.
It was way past midnight by the time Frank actually came home. He was caked in blood, had a large purple smudge around both of his eyes and his lip was shattered. He hated coming into your apartment like this. Your safe space filled with pastel colours and love and safety and affection. Sometimes he just felt like some dark tornado that came in and destroyed everything. Without it even realising the damage it did to such beauty. But tonight, Frank kept that tornado inside him, no need for it now. He maneuvers his way through the darkness to the bathroom, turning on the overhead lights that flicker to life. Shit, he's gotta fix those. In case they explode. He can't have you dying from an exploding light bulb. Let alone dying at all.
He stripped himself off of all the bloodied clothes down to just his boxers. Throwing the rest onto the floor in front of the laundry basket that held your untouched, completely cleansed of blood clothing. That's the stark difference here. It'll forever be the difference, yet you both still mix perfectly. He'll never understand it, but he lives with it. Frank's hands then gripped the sides of the basin tightly as he looked at the bruises and cuts.
He swears if he sighs too hard blood will splatter from his mouth, and he doesn't need to dirty your mirror like that. Or was it, the both of yours mirror? He wasn't sure about that yet either. But he quickly filled the sink with water before dipping his head down into it. 5 seconds, then he pulled it back out. Then 5 seconds back in, back out.
He repeated this for another 4 rounds before pulling the plug, his large hands grabbing the fluffy pink hand towel to dry his face and hands. That's when he noticed something on the side of the sink, a spot of... pink.
"The fuck...?" He leaned closer, finding more small splatters of pink all over. His brows furrowed slightly before he just sighed and stood back up straight. He wouldn't be surprised if you had just come in here to wash off some of your paint brushes while the dishes soaked in the sink. Yeah, that makes sense. Nothing major happened, and last he checked you didn't bleed pink.
Okay, with how much you loved it he wouldn't be shocked if you found a way to do that, but in scientific means, you definitely couldn't— His mind rambling stopped almost immediately as he stepped one foot into the bedroom. You were still awake in bed, your earphones in as you were typing on your laptop. Now, in a normal situation, he’d be a little upset that you were still awake doing, from what he could see of the screen, company emails. But in this moment, that wasn't what had made him pause.
Your hair… was pink. You now practically blended in with everything in your bedroom. He left you alone… for one day. That explains the pink splatters on the sink, it explains your out of nowhere gidiness when you were awake this morning and constantly glancing at the bathroom. Did he miss a conversation? No, no. You didn't tell him, let alone warm him you would trasform into… what? Bubblegum? Cotton candy?
“Uh…” Your eyes glanced to the side and they immediately lit up at him. You ripped your earphones out and practically bounced out of bed.
“Hi Frankie. You okay? That's some nasty bruises…” You gently grabbed the sides of his head and overlooked the injuries while his own eye contact was very locked in on your hair. “Do you need an ice pack—”
“Why didn't you say anythin’ about… the new look?” The room went silent besides the city below. You blinked, he stared, you pursed your lips, his eyebrows furrowed.
“Uhh… because I wanted it, to be a surprise? What, do you not like it?” Frank’s eyes widened and quickly shook his head.
“Nononono, it looks good. Very good. Just uh, wasn't expentin’ it. T’ walk in, on you with, well…” His hands went around his head in a spinning motion. You could only laugh at him, it was just, it was silly. Silly Frank didn't exist, until, right now.
“Well I’m glad my,” You copied his own action. “Is good enough for your liking. Now, my question, do you need an ice pack?”
The night ended with him stuffing his face into your hair and holding you tightly around the waist. He’s now wondering if you will forever keep the pink hair or go for other colours. Or just go back to your original. He wouldn't mind, and he especially won't mind the surprises of hair either.
This is my first ever Frank Castle fic. Please, let me know how it is! Did I miss something? Have I written him wrong in one place?
I GIVE NO PERMISSION FOR MY WORKS TO BE REPOSTED ONTO OTHER SITES AND GIVE NO PERMISSION FOR THIS TO BE PUT THROUGH OR USED IN AI.
is this play about me??? No cause genuinely dying my hair pink, though darker than depicted here, was so so fun and makes me feel so pretty. Genuinely the pink and my curls??? That’s my final form right there okay? it’s just so fun!!! And yes my bathtub is constantly a casualty, and also my scarf for my hair and also my pillow case and somehow my actual pillow…
This is just a very pink moment in my life that is likely permanent. Everything is pink, everyone knows that everything needs to be pink. And it’s perfect. It’s also fun that pink hair is how people recognize me now/spot me from afar
next chapter of H&W is already 8k words and i’m maybe less than halfway done…and it’s all like angst and fluff so you’re welcome and also maybe be scared? who knows.
