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
idk if i’m sick or if it’s allergies (i think it’s the later) but it’s kicking my butt. for the last like 5 days i’ve been going from a sore throat to it now moving up my sinuses. this morning i was jsut so miserable and my head felt like imploding. i took allergy med thing before but now that it’s worn off im back to having horrible pressure along my sinuses. and the pressure behind my eyes is making it hard to write—and to see like i feel like there’s a little blur to things—so im sorry if the next chapter of H&W take a hot minute. i’m already 4k words in but that’s like only the beginning so… save me from my allergies idk
warnings : smut, p in v, feral!frank, possessive!frank, unprotected sex, established relationship, MDNI, praise kink, size difference/kink and idk if im missing anything
a/n : not proofread !! based on this rq (jack abbot fic and other frank fic coming soon i promise)
Frank notices things.
That’s the problem.
Tiny things. Stupid things. The way your breathing changes when you’re nervous. When you switch shampoos. Which floorboard creaks under your left foot versus your right. Nothing gets past him for very long. Which is exactly why hiding the underwear had become weirdly stressful.
In your defense, they’d been funny when Karen showed them to you.
Tiny little black lace things with white lettering stretched across the back: PROPERTY OF A U.S. MARINE
You’d laughed so hard you bought them immediately. Then immediately realized showing them to Frank Castle might actually kill you on the spot.
Because Frank was… Frank.
Intense on a regular Tuesday. So you hid them in the back of your drawer and tried to forget they existed.
Which worked.
Until tonight. You shuffle into the kitchen, wearing one of Frank’s old shirts and absolutely nothing else except the stupid underwear currently stretched over your hips. The door to the apartment opens, and your head snaps over to the sound.
Frank had been gone all day, and all you'd been doing is wandering around the apartment, eating food and watching shows.
Frank shuts the apartment door behind him with a tired exhale, keys jingling softly in his hand. He looks exhausted. Scruffy. Henley stretched tight across his shoulders, sleeves shoved up his forearms, rain still clinging damply to the collar of his jacket. Then he hears you padding into the kitchen. And everything about him changes instantly.
Softens.
“There’s my girl,” he murmurs automatically. You smile without thinking about it, leaning against the counter.
“You were gone forever.”
“Yeah?” Frank drops his duffel near the door and starts toeing his boots off. “Miss me?”
“No,” you say immediately.
“Liar.” He sounds amused already. Comfortable. Safe. And for one stupid second you completely forget what you’re wearing. Frank rounds the corner into the kitchen, shrugging his jacket off one shoulder while he talks.
“Traffic was a nightmare an’ Micro wouldn’t stop—” He stops. Mid sentence. Your stomach drops instantly. Because Frank Castle notices things. And right now his eyes are fixed directly on you. More specifically— On the fact that his old shirt barely covers the black lace stretched over your hips.
Oh no.
Oh no.
You straighten so fast you nearly slam the cabinet shut on your fingers. Frank doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Then very carefully sets his coat down.
“Sweetheart,” he says slowly. You can already hear the grin in his voice. Heat floods your entire body.
“It’s not—”
“The hell am I lookin’ at right now?”
“It was a joke.”
“A joke,” he repeats faintly. You refuse to turn around fully now because you can physically feel his eyes burning holes through the back of the shirt.
“Karen made me buy them.”
“Uh huh.”
“She said it would be funny.”
“Mm.” Frank leans back against the front door slowly. “Think Karen might be the smartest woman alive.”
“Oh my God.” The laugh in his chest is deep and dangerous now.
“C’mere.”
“No.”
“Baby.”
“No, absolutely not.” You hear his boots thud against the floor. Panic. Actual panic. You make it exactly two steps before Frank catches you around the waist from behind, hauling you back against him with a startled squeak.
“Frank!”
“What?” He sounds deeply amused now. “M’just tryin’ t’read.”
“You already read it!”
“Wanna make sure I got it right.” You’re mortified. Frank buries his face briefly against your neck, shoulders shaking once with laughter before he presses a kiss just below your ear.
“You been hidin’ these from me?”
“Yes because I enjoy living.”
“That bad, huh?”
“You’re being weird already.”
“Weird?” He sounds genuinely offended. “Sweetheart, my girl walks around my apartment wearin’ lace underwear claimin’ she belongs t’me an’ I’m supposed t’be normal about it?” Your face burns hotter.
"Technically, it says I belong to a U.S Marine. Maybe this is about Curtis." Frank goes completely silent behind you. Not joking anymore. Not laughing.
Just… silent. Then very slowly, his arms tighten around your waist.
“…Curtis,” he repeats flatly. You bite your lip immediately because there it is. That tone.
“Oh my God, Frank, I’m kidding.”
“Yeah?” His mouth brushes your ear, but there’s a new edge to him now. “Funny joke, sweetheart. Real funny.” You squirm a little in his grip, mostly because you can feel the shift in him physically now. Bigger somehow. Warmer. Possessive in that dangerous quiet way Frank gets.
“You know Curtis is basically my brother.”
“Mhm.”
“He literally gives me life advice.”
“Uh huh.”Frank’s jaw flexes against your temple. “Still don’t wanna hear you wearin’ his Marine underwear.” You burst out laughing.
“They are not his underwear!”
“Then why’s his name comin’ outta your mouth while you got that thing on?”
“Because you’re jealous.” Frank scoffs like you’ve deeply insulted him.
“M’not jealous’a Curtis.”
“You sound jealous.”
“I sound like a man hearin’ his girl say another guy’s name while she’s half naked in his kitchen.” His hand slides lower on your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch.
“And I gotta tell you,” he mutters near your throat, “not my favorite experience.” Heat flashes through you instantly.
“You’re insane.”
“You keep sayin’ that like it’s new information.” You grin despite yourself, leaning back into him just enough to be annoying.
“Well maybe Curtis would appreciate the humor.” Big mistake. Frank’s grip clamps down hard enough to pull a startled squeak from you.
“Alright,” he says calmly. Too calmly. “Now you’re bein’ disrespectful.”
“Oh my God—”
“Nah, sweetheart, don’t ‘oh my God’ me.” He turns you in his arms abruptly until your back hits the counter and he’s crowding into your space completely. “You think I’m gonna stand here listenin’ to you talk about another Marine while you got ‘property of a U.S. Marine’ written across your ass?” You are laughing too hard to be properly intimidated, which only seems to annoy him more.
“There she is,” he mutters darkly when you giggle again. “Thinkin’ this’s funny.”
“It is funny.”
“Mm.” His eyes drag down your body slowly. “Not t’me.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“Baby, I came home exhausted an’ found my girlfriend wearin’ lingerie apparently dedicated t’the Marine Corps. I’m reactin’ appropriately.”
“It’s not lingerie!” Frank just looks at the lace. Then looks back at you.
“…You wanna rethink that statement?” Your face burns hotter. Frank notices instantly, because of course he does. His expression softens for exactly half a second before the possessive streak comes roaring right back. “Lemme ask you somethin’.” His hands settle on either side of your hips. “You buy these thinkin’ about me?” You hesitate just long enough to doom yourself. Frank’s eyes narrow immediately.
“…Sweetheart.”
“I mean— maybe a little?”
“A little.”
“Well Karen showed them to me and I just thought—”
“You thought what?” He steps closer. “Thought your boyfriend might lose his damn mind seein’ you in ‘em?” Your silence is answer enough. Frank actually groans.
“Jesus Christ.”
“What?”
“You knew exactly what you were doin’.” He shakes his head slowly like he’s genuinely overwhelmed. “Walkin’ around my apartment in my shirt wearin’ those little things—”
“You didn’t even notice at first!”
“Sweetheart, I noticed the second you turned around.” His hand slides over the curve of your waist again. “Been tryin’ not t’tackle you into the couch since.” You laugh softly, but it catches when his gaze drops again. Slower this time.Not playful anymore. Possessive. Hungry. Frank exhales once through his nose before looking back up at you.
“C’mere,” he murmurs.
“I’m already here.”
“Closer.”
“There’s literally nowhere else t’go.”
“Smart mouth too,” he mutters, clearly suffering. Then his hands are suddenly under your thighs, hauling you up onto his shoulder like a bag of potatoes
“Frank!”
“What?”He grips onto your thigh. “Tryin’ t’figure out where t’put my name since apparently the Marines are handin’ claims out now.” His hand comes down smacking on your ass cheek as he marches to the bedroom, giving your ass an appreciative squeeze.
You shriek through laughter as he carries you down the hallway upside down, your hair hanging everywhere while Frank’s big hand stays locked around the back of your thigh like you might somehow escape.
“Frank Castle, put me down!”
“Nope.”
“You are so dramatic!”
“You brought Curtis into this.” He smacks your ass again through the lace, less hard this time, more possessive than punishing. “Actions got consequences, sweetheart.”
“You’re acting like I cheated on you with the United States military.” Frank snorts darkly.
“Might honestly be easier t’process.”
“Oh my God.”
“You think m’jokin’?” He shoulders open the bedroom door and tosses you onto the mattress with enough care to prove he absolutely notices every bruise you’ve ever had and enough force to make you bounce once with a squeal. Frank follows immediately. Big body caging yours into the bed, knees nudging between your thighs while he stares down at you like he genuinely cannot believe this is his life right now. His shirt hangs off one shoulder now from all the wrestling around.His hair’s a mess. His jaw rough with scruff. And his eyes— God.
His eyes are locked on the lace peeking beneath the hem of his shirt like he’s seconds away from losing every remaining shred of self-control.
“You think this’s cute?” he asks quietly. Your smile wobbles immediately under the weight of that look.
“…Maybe?” Frank exhales slowly through his nose.
“Sweetheart.” His hand drags up your calf. “I walked in dead tired, ready t’eat leftovers an’ pass out.” Higher. Over your knee. “Now m’lookin’ at my girl laid out in my bed wearin’ panties claimin’ she belongs t’a Marine—”
“Technically—”
“Careful.” His palm slides firmly over your thigh. “You are one Curtis joke away from me losin’ all patience.” That only makes you grin wider.
“You’re sooo jealous.” Frank leans down until his mouth is hovering right over yours.
“Damn right I’m jealous.” Honest. Immediate. “That’s my girl.” His thumb hooks lightly under the waistband at your hip. “Mine t’come home to. Mine t’take care of.” Another inch closer. “Mine t’look this pretty for.” Your breath catches embarrassingly hard.Frank notices instantly. He grins.
"Now. I'm thinking..." His hands drift up your shirt, fingers grazing at your ribs. "We tattoo "Property of Frank" right on your tits." He hums, grinning to himself.
Frank’s grin turns positively wicked at the way your entire face heats up.
“Oh, there it is,” he murmurs, voice rough with amusement. “That look right there. Knew y’weren’t nearly as brave as you were actin’ five minutes ago.”
“Oh my God,” you groan, trying to shove at his shoulders. “You cannot tattoo your name on me.”
“Can’t I?” His hands keep sliding beneath the oversized shirt, palms warm against your bare skin. “Feel like I got a pretty strong legal argument after tonight.”
“You’re insane.”
“Nah.” He dips lower, mouth brushing your jaw. “M’just territorial.” You snort, but it comes out shaky because Frank is looking at you like he wants to crawl under your skin and stay there. His thumb traces lazy circles high on your thigh while the other hand spreads across your stomach possessively.
“Besides,” he says thoughtfully, “might save us from future confusion.”
“There is no confusion.”
“Oh? Coulda fooled me.” His mouth twitches. “Thought maybe my girlfriend was out here secretly enlistin’.”
You laugh again, softer this time. “You’re never letting the Curtis thing go, huh?”
“Absolutely not.” Frank kisses the corner of your mouth once. “Got me all worked up picturin’ you prancin’ around thinkin’ about another Marine.”
“I was not thinking about Curtis!”
“Mhm.”
“I wasn’t!”
“Sweetheart.” He finally kisses you properly this time, slow and deep and still grinning into it a little. “You brought him up three separate times.”
“That was because your face got all—” You wave vaguely near his head. “Broody.”
“Broody,” he repeats flatly.
“Yeah. Like a caveman.” Frank huffs out a laugh against your mouth.
“You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“I’m hilarious actually.”
“You’re trouble.” His nose nudges yours. “An’ you know exactly what you’re doin’ t’me right now.” Your stomach flips hard at the honesty in his voice. Because underneath all the teasing, Frank really does look wrecked over this. Not angry. Not actually jealous of Curtis. Just deeply affected by the sight of you in his clothes and lace and his name—well, almost his name—stretched over your skin.
“You really like them that much?” you ask quietly. Frank just stares at you for a second like the answer should be obvious.
“Sweetheart,” he says finally, rough and sincere, “I like every damn thing you do.” His hand squeezes your hip. “But you wear somethin’ like this waitin’ for me t’come home?” He shakes his head slowly. “That does somethin’ t’a man.” Your chest goes warm and melty all at once. Then his eyes drift downward again. And darken.
“You know what’s really killin’ me?” he murmurs.
“What?”
“The fact that you put these on knowin’ I’d lose my mind.” His fingers hook under the waistband lightly, teasing. “That means somewhere in that pretty little head’a yours, you wanted this reaction.” You bite your lip.
Frank notices immediately. Of course he does.
“Knew it.” he says softly, sounding unbearably smug now.
“Maybe I was curious,” you mumble.
“Curious.” He repeats it like he’s savoring the word. “Baby, you nearly gave me a coronary at the front door.” You laugh into his shoulder when he ducks his head against your neck again, but the sound cuts off into a squeak when his teeth graze lightly beneath your ear.
“Frank—”
“M’thinkin’,” he says casually, kissing down your throat, “next time you decide t’play games with me, you oughta give a man some warning.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“So I can come home faster.” His hand slides down the back of your thigh, hiking your leg higher around his waist. “Nearly broke three traffic laws gettin’ here an’ I didn’t even know I had this waitin’ for me.” He mouths the words against your skin, then bites—delicate, but just shy of gentle. You clench your jaw, breath tripping.
“Frank,” you say, but it’s just your voice—weak, a noise, not even an instruction.
“Yeah?” He kisses lower, hand tracing your thigh to the bare skin beneath the lace. “Gimme a minute.” He takes his time, all that giant energy wound tight, holding you in place with just a grip on your hip and his body heavy over yours. He’s talking himself down. Or maybe amping himself up. You’ve never been able to tell where the line is for Frank, whether the need to possess or protect is stronger. Right now, he looks at you like you’re both a dare and a daredevil’s only lifeline.
“My girl,” he says it like a prayer—to the ceiling, to the gods, to you, and then it’s less a statement than a need. He strips the shirt, your shirt, his shirt, over your head, leaving you in nothing but the lace. His hands run up your ribs, palms hot, reverent. Then he sits back on his knees, just looking down at you like he’s making a memory.
“Goddamn,” he mutters, half to himself. Runs a hand over his face. “Look at you. You like these, sweetheart?” You nod, a laugh bubbling through you because it’s all so fucking absurd, him looming over you, genuinely lost for words. He’s never lost for words. Frank slips both hands beneath your knees, spreading your legs wide around him. “You wanna see what you do to me?” he asks, voice low and all gravel. He makes you look. Glances down at himself, straining against the fly of his jeans, impossible to miss. Your mouth goes dry. He’s still in his goddamn jeans. Frank leans in, bracing his arms either side of your head, his body never fully on you but pressing, pressing, hot and solid. His lips land on your jaw, a string of kisses trailing down the line of your throat. One hand comes up and grips your chin, making you meet his gaze.
“Should make you apologize,” he murmurs. “But I like this better.” Then he bites your jaw, hard enough that you gasp. He grins again, wolfish and all teeth. “There she is.” He’s not really rough. He’s never rough, not really, but the threat of it—God, it’s right there under his skin. He’s holding back because you want him, but you want all of him. You reach up, grab at his biceps.
“Frank.”
“Yeah, honey?”
“You gonna make me beg?” You mutter. His chest collapses and he breathes out a heavy breath, before he’s tearing his own shirt over his head and fumbling at his zipper. You can’t help it. Watching him strip down, all muscle and tension and scar tissue and long lines mapped in angry pink and raised white, you ache for him. All of him. You reach for his face, thread your fingers through the too-long hair at his crown, and pull him in for a kiss—messy, uneven, neither of you caring about rhythm or finesse, just the raw hunger of two people who’ve worked up an appetite. Frank’s teeth knock against yours; you gasp into his mouth and he swallows every sound. His hips slot into the cradle of yours, denim dragging at your bare thighs, the rough seam scratching just where it makes you wild. You want the friction, want the weight. You grind up into him, whimpering when he groans, and he laughs, low and hot, so openly fond it makes you dizzy.
“Look at you,” he says, even as his mouth tracks hot along your jaw and across your cheek. “Little thing’s gonna eat me alive.” He’s got your wrists in one big hand now, pinned above your head, while the other works at the fly of his jeans with the kind of intent you’d expect from someone disassembling a rifle. You giggle despite the thrum between your legs.
“Frank.” You drag his name out, making it a complaint and a need at once. “C’mon. Hurry up.” His mouth ghosts over your ear, voice gone all smoke and grit:
“You wanna take it that bad, baby?” You nod, and he just about loses it. The rough sound in his throat vibrates all the way through you. He sits back, freeing your wrists, and yanks his jeans and boxers down his thighs. He’s so heavy, thick, already leaking at the tip and bouncing against his stomach when he finally gets himself free. You blink up at him, jaw loose, and he grins like he’s caught you in something dirty, which, okay, he has. Frank fits on the bed over you like it was built for him, like the frame would snap backwards if he ever left it for good. He takes hold of the waistband at your hip and tugs gently, once, then stops. Raises an eyebrow, waiting for your okay. You nod again, breathless with it. He slides the underwear down, slow, savoring every inch of skin he reveals.
“Gonna frame these,” he mutters when they’re off, tossing them over his shoulder. “Maybe hang ‘em up in the fuckin’ living room.” You yelp, half-mortified and half aroused beyond reason. Then he settles between your legs, broad hands bracketing your thighs.
“Spread for me,” he instructs, soft but firm, and you do, like you’d part for him even if the world was ending. Frank’s big hand glides up, palm hot, thumb brushing over your folds. You clamp down on a gasp, arching into the touch—he’s not teasing this time, just wetting his finger, checking how ready you are. And you are. You so fucking are. He hums, pleased—almost proud—at the slick mess he’s worked from you.
“Always so ready for me.” He hums. He dips his fingers inside of you, retreats them wet and slick, and spreads that slickness over his tip. You whine, head dipping back, thighs clenching around his waist as your back arches impatiently. You nudge your hips forward, chasing the stretch that brings you to tears, your own hands coming up to grab at your breasts. Frank notices the way your fingers tighten on your own breasts, the way your back bows, and his gaze goes molten, hungry and impossibly tender all at once. He strokes himself once, twice, and lines up, the head of his cock rubbing slick against your entrance. The pressure makes you gasp—he’s never small but never feels as big as he does when he takes his goddamn time. He leans in, bracketing your head with his arms, caging you in, his nose skimming your jaw.
“Relax, baby,” he rasps. “S’okay. I’ve got you.” The head pushes in, just the first inch, heat and stretch and the mind-numbing promise of more. Your hips twitch involuntarily, trying to chase him, but he just shushes you in that quiet, lethal way, threading a hand through your hair.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs, rolling his hips to press deeper, notching into you a little at a time. “You take me so good. Always do.” He’s right, but Christ, it never gets easier—or better—than the way he fills you: deliberate and slow, like he wants to feel the split-second every time you open up and let him in. You choke on his name—fuck, it’s almost too much, burning through you, but you don’t want to stop. You want the ache. You want his fucking claim written all down your insides. Tears prick at your eyes, and Frank notices that, too, thumb coming up to wipe the corner of your eye before you even realize it’s wet.
“That’s my girl,” he whispers, voice all rough edges. “You got it, baby. C’mon, breathe for me. That’s it.” He bottoms out, hips flush against you, and you freeze—in awe, in relief, in the perfect tension of having all of him, every inch, inside you. Frank is breathing hard above you, holding himself still like he’s barely holding onto control.
“You okay?” he checks, and you nod—or try to nod, but it comes out more of a whimper. “Goddamn,” Frank breathes, “you’re so fuckin’ tight.” He tries to pull out a little, but your legs lock him in place. He laughs in disbelief, shaking his head, sweat beading at his brow.
“Greedy,” he mock-scolds, but his voice sounds so proud you could cry. “Somebody miss me that much, huh?”
“I hate you,” you manage, but it’s weak, almost laughing. He bites your neck, quick and claiming, and pulls out just enough to make your vision blur—then thrusts back in, hard. You see stars. Claw at his shoulders, his arms, anything. He’s huge and deep and the friction is insane, and Frank sets a pace that’s… not brutal, but relentless, like he’s working out all that Marine discipline and rage on your body in the best way possible. His hand tucks behind your knee and pushes, folding you in half so your legs cant go up even higher, the angle obscene and perfect.
“There we go,” he growls. “That’s better, hmm ?” You nod, almost going cross-eyed, a satisfied and pained moan rumbling in your chest. You nod, almost going cross-eyed, a satisfied and pained moan rumbling in your chest. He maneuvers you, never breaking rhythm, never letting you breathe without him filling you, folding your knees over his shoulders and pinning you deeper, tighter, until you’re positive you’ll crack in half and maybe you want to. There’s nothing but him, the press and grind, Frank’s hands gripping your thighs so hard you’ll be wearing fingerprints for days. You can’t find the air to tell him how good it is—how full, how perfect—so you just lie there helpless, whimpering, clinging to the arms that cage you in. He’s not even really fucking you anymore, just rolling his hips, tip grinding against the spot inside you that turns your vision white and nerves to static. He takes your jaw in one hand, thumb rough along your cheek, and yanks your gaze up—
“Right here, sweetheart, eyes on me.” The voice is a command. The look is worshipful, like he’d burn the city to keep you in his bed, making these sounds, shivering underneath him. “Wanna see you,” he says, and the knot in your stomach twists tighter as he drives in, over and over, keeping you right on the precipice and not letting up. It’s not enough. He knows it. He fucks you open until you’re shaking, until the words finally force themselves past your teeth, high and needy,
“Frank, please—“ He groans through gritted teeth, squeezing your jaw with a gentleness that barely masks the tremor in his hand.
“That’s it, baby, know you can take it. Fuck—good girl, you make me so proud.” He’s talking you through it, every filthy word a benediction, tethering you to the world as your back bows, your body coiling with the force of sensation. “You love it, don’t you?” he whispers, softer, railing you through the high while his free hand strokes your thigh, gentle, coaxing, grounding. “Love bein’ split open for me.”
“Yes, yes— Frank, fuck—“ He kisses you sloppily, misses your mouth entirely the first time and you’re both giggling and then gasping and then a long, ragged moan is vibrating your bodies together. You’re clenching down so hard his rhythm stutters.
“Jesus, baby, you’re gonna— that’s it, c’mon.” You whine, back arching, and he pins your thighs closer to his chest before leaning forward slightly, bending your legs forward and deepening the angle and stretch. It nearly knocks what little breath you had left right out of your lungs. The stretch is obscene, like you’re being folded in half and stuffed full all the way to the back of your throat. You see white. Black. Like lightning behind your eyes.
“Shit, that’s good, huh?” Frank’s voice, gone low and frayed, like he can almost feel what you’re feeling. “You love that, baby? Lemme hear you say it.” You can only mewl in response, legs trembling where he’s got you pinned. You try to say
“Frank, God, please,” but it’s all vowels, nothing but begging sounds. He just grins, smug and barely holding onto his own composure. The angle has him punching so deep it’s like you were made just to take this, just for him.
“Can’t even talk, huh?” he says, not so much a taunt as a prayer—a note of awe soaked in filth. “Strong girl, takin’ me like this. Fuck, you’re perfect.” There’s nothing to do but lock your ankles behind his shoulder blades and take it, his cock dragging raw and hot everywhere inside. Your brain fuzzes out, turns down to a tunnel, and all the world is Frank Castle splitting you open and grinding you right up into the heavens.
He lets go of your jaw, bringing that hand down to bracket your hips, and for a second he just holds there, not moving, just pressed in to the hilt. You’re both shuddering in the negative space, struggling to survive the stretch and the pressure and the intimacy of it.
“You okay?” he asks, breath barely more than a scrape. You nod vigorously, wrap your arms around his neck so you can cling even tighter. He starts thrusting again, shallow but relentless, the kind of steady, claiming rhythm that’s all about wringing every sound out of you. Every time he bottoms out, your vision pulses with stars.
“Doin’ so good,” he whispers, “so fuckin’ good for me.”
You bury your face in his neck, whimpering, biting at the sweat on his shoulder because it’s the only thing that might keep you from coming apart completely. Frank laughs raggedly, but you can feel how close he is too. Every muscle strung tight, every thrust more frantic.
“That’s my girl,” he coaxes. “Such a tight fit, holy shit.” His voice almost breaks. “How’m I ever supposed to go back to normal pussy after this, huh?” You snort, delirious, because the only normal you’ve ever known is Frank Castle making you feel like you could take on the world—or beg for mercy. He keeps your thighs stacked high, and the change in leverage wrings a sob from you, your entire body going tense and hot.
“Frank— too much—” you gasp, but he just hushes you.
“Shh. Can take it, I know you can. You’re my good girl, always take it. Remember that last time? How you said it never hurt so fuckin’ good?” He’s right. You can feel every inch, every ridge. You reach for him, grab the back of his neck, haul him down so his chest is flush to yours despite your legs still hanging on his shoulders. It should crush you but it only makes you burn hotter. Frank’s mouth is hot and wet across your shoulder, biting down until you whimper. Then he licks the mark, soothing it, mumbling sweet, molten filth against your skin. “
That’s it, sweetheart. Take it. Make it yours. Fuckin’ mine, all mine.” You drag your nails down his back—he hisses—and clench down, and the look on his face is nothing short of worship. He pistons his hips, no longer in control, chasing both your pleasure and something only he seems to recognize in you. The arch of your back. The break in your voice. He shoves his forearm under your shoulders, props you up and angles for that spot again, and again, and you’re crying—real tears, overwhelmed, ecstatic, unable to process how much you want this, want him, want to belong.
“Frank,” you manage, but it sounds like a sob. He softens at the sound. Slows, grinds instead. Kisses your hairline, then your brow. “You with me?” he asks, frantic and gentle at once. You nod, mess of tears and saliva and sweat, and whisper,
“Please, keep going—don’t stop.”
“That’s my girl,” Frank praises, and you feel the words all the way into your bones. He presses a hand to your stomach, palming the bulge his cock makes inside you. Your eyes go wide, and he notices, the sight making him falter, nearly lose it.
“Jesus, honey—you feel that?” You nod, delirious, and he shakes his head, reverent. “You like the stretch, baby?”
You lose track, right about then, of which one of you is shaking harder. Your thighs have started to ache where he’s holding you pinned, but the ache is nothing compared to the blinding, mindless fullness riding up your center of gravity and ringing every goddamn nerve you’ve got. He watches you closely, like he doesn’t want to miss a thing, and his thumb never leaves your cheek, tracing the wet there before he wipes his own brow and laughs—a jagged, breathless thing.
“You’re a fuckin’ menace,” he chokes out, then shoves himself deeper, if that’s even possible. “Look at that. Stuffed so full you’re gonna be ruined for anyone else.” He seems to like the sound of that, and even though your brain’s fried, the words shoot straight to your core. “You love it, don’t you? Too much cock for a little thing like you.” It’s obscene but you love it, you need it, and he can see it etched across your face—how you nod, how you cling, how you clamp down even tighter. He grunts, involuntary, and you feel a drop of sweat hit your chest where he starts to really work for it. “That’s it. Fuck, that’s it—take it, honey, take all of it.” His body is so big above you, bracing, arms locked and trembling, eyes wild and locked to yours. You can’t blink. You want to see him watching you open for him. He folds you further, legs bent up by your ears, the angle insane, like he wants to see if you’ll crack in half. The stretch is dizzying—you’d beg for mercy if you didn’t want it so much, if the pain and the pleasure didn’t blur so beautifully. Frank holds you down, keeps you right at the edge, lets go of nothing. He drives it in, slow and grinding, almost tender even as the force knocks words out of you.
“That’s my girl, look at you fuckin’ take it. Jesus.” Your breath goes to pieces. You’re beyond words, just fluttering cries and helpless grabs at his sweat-slicked arms—God, his arms, the same ones that have hurt people, protected you, now pinning you like you’re the only fucking thing he wants in the world. He leans down, mouth at your ear, panting:
“You gotta tell me if you want me to stop, baby. You just say it and—” You shake your head, frantic.
“Don’t—don’t stop—please, keep—” And you gasp, entire body clenching up at the new angle, the way his cock catches right there, that spot that makes every atom in you disintegrate. He laughs, but it’s a wounded, worshipful sound. He’s proud, like he’s never going to let you forget just how well you take him. His hands splay over your lower back, anchoring you, and it’s like his entire body is an engine, keeping you together even as he tries to rip you apart.You can barely move, pinned and doubled in half, the mattress arching sweat-slick under your shoulders. He is breathing hard, like he’s had to rip through a concrete wall. Still, the rhythm doesn’t waver: thick, careful thrusts, the slide so tight that every withdrawal almost takes the breath from your lungs. He rolls his hips hard and the pressure spikes—so deep it hurts, in the best fucking way. You aren’t making sounds anymore. It’s just crying out, jaw slack, fingers locked in his hair, greedy, desperate to keep him right there. Frank wipes the snot and tears off your face with brutal gentleness, then kisses the wetness from your cheeks, whispering nonsense as if every syllable is a crucible.
“S’good, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “you’re doing so fuckin’ good, proud of you, Jesus Christ—” He ruts in like he could leave a blueprint, like you’d split around him and never fully close again. You want that, far more than you should. The ache is in every joint now, the burn so bright it’s almost clean. You want to be fucking ruined. You want to wake up tomorrow with Frank’s handprint on your thigh, the pulse between your legs echoing his name. You want to sob, or scream, or both, but it doesn’t matter because Frank’s got you bracketed so tight to the mattress you can’t do anything except take him—take all of him—and isn’t that what you wanted? Isn’t that exactly it? He’s got your hands pinned above your head, fingers laced so tight your knuckles are going numb, but you can’t stop squeezing back. The angle has you nearly folded double, knees pinned up by your ears, and every thrust sends a hot, bright shock up your spine. The room ripples at the edges. You lose sight of anything but him. The world condenses to sweat and heat and his voice, ground down to a whisky-edged rasp, talking you through the whiteout:
“So good for me,” “That’s it, fuck, that’s it,” “Taking it like no one else ever has.” You’re shivering, burning, unable to remember what it was like not to be stretched around the impossible heft of him or pinned under the fierce, unrelenting weight of his need. You try to make a noise—a complaint, a curse, something—but it comes out as a hiccup, pathetic and hungry, and Frank’s laugh splits open in your ear, wild and beautiful. You taste sweat on your tongue and the peppery, ozone crunch in your lungs as the world narrows, narrows, until the only thing left is him and the burn and your name, again and again, wrecked on his lips:
“That’s right, baby. Let me hear you.” He pumps into you, never faltering, each drag making you splinter and cling harder to his hands. You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, the ache a living, pulsing thing, alive and loud and fuck, it’s so much—too much—and yet. You want more. You want everything. He’s so careful and so fucking brutal all at once, talking you through every inch, every new stretch, watching your face when he rocks in deep and groaning, almost in pain with how good it is. He says your name, sometimes slow and reverent, sometimes a growl behind his teeth. Says you’re a fucking angel. Says you’re going to break him, fuck him up for life. He doesn’t stop, not for one goddamn second. You don’t realize you’re crying until salt stings your lips and Frank is licking it away, tongue darting over your cheek and jaw, then sucking on your neck, marking you up as if he can’t stand the thought of you belonging to anyone but him.
You lose track of time, of what hurts and what feels good, of whether the nails digging into his arms are yours or his. Just this relentless, beautiful stretch that crowds out every thought except the next, the next, the next. Frank finally lets your hands free, and you grab for him, clinging to his shoulder, fingers buried in his hair, yanking him down so you can babble, mouth pressed to his ear:
“Yours—yours—never stop, Frank—” His pace stutters, hips jackhammering forward and then grinding in, and suddenly it’s like the world snaps in two. Pleasure detonates up your spine like gunfire, like someone just set off a flashbang right behind your eyes. Your body wrenches, curls, the muscles in your thighs quaking where he’s got you folded almost in half. You grab at his shoulders, his hair, wild for something to anchor you down, to keep from shaking straight out of your own skin. Frank rides it out, making these shivery little noises between his teeth—half cursing, half worship—while his hands press down on your waist, pinning you to the bed like you might float away if he let up. You don’t even hear yourself come, just the way the world blanks out for a long, impossible second, then snaps back in all color and sweat and the taste of his shoulder between your teeth. You’re still shaking, locked tight around him, when he finally lets up on your thighs and lets them fall. Your knees are jelly, numb and useless. You can’t remember your own name, but it’s there in his mouth, a shaking
“Attagirl, that’s it, fuck—“ as he pulses inside you, hard and greedy and so deep it almost hurts again, new. He clings to you, weight trapping you perfectly, chest pushing you down into the mattress as he spends himself inside, like he’s afraid if he lets go you’ll disappear. His breath is heavy, hot against your hairline; sweat from both of you pools where your bodies meet, your skin stuck to his like glue. The slow, shuddery grind of his last thrusts, more soothing than sex at this point, keep you pinned under the haze until the aftershocks shiver out and your body finally, finally, remembers how to breathe. He holds still. Just for a second. The world is silent except for the wet, needy sound of you breathing. His hands cup your jaw, as if you’re breakable. You try to laugh, but it comes out raw, almost a whimper, and his lips find yours, feather-light this time.
Frank’s whole body softens the second he hears that sound.
That tiny, wrecked little whimper against his mouth.
Immediately, the intensity drains out of him—not gone completely, never gone completely with Frank—but gentled down into something warm and careful and devastatingly tender. He kisses you again, slower this time, lips lingering like he’s apologizing for every rough thrust and thanking you for taking them all at once.
“Hey,” he murmurs quietly. “Hey, c’mere.” You’re already there. Boneless beneath him, shaking in little aftershocks while he brushes damp hair away from your forehead with surprising delicacy for someone built like a tank. His thumb strokes over your cheek again, wiping away tears you hadn’t even realized were still there.
“You with me, sweetheart?” You nod weakly. “Words, baby.”
“M’here,” you mumble. Your voice sounds wrecked. Frank’s expression immediately goes soft around the edges.
“There’s my girl.” He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Did so good for me.” The praise hits embarrassingly hard after everything. Your eyes flutter shut for a second, and Frank notices immediately.
“Tired?”
“A little.”
“Yeah.” He exhales softly, still hovering over you like he’s reluctant to put any real weight down. “I know, baby.” Very carefully, he eases himself off you with a low groan, one hand braced on the mattress while the other stays on your hip the whole time. Protective. Grounding. The second he pulls away, you whine quietly at the sudden emptiness, and Frank actually huffs a tired laugh.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters fondly. “Can’t even make it five seconds without me, huh?” You crack one eye open.
“You literally folded me in half.”
“And you loved it.”
“…Maybe.”
“Knew it.” You try to kick him weakly. Frank catches your ankle immediately, grinning down at you before pressing a kiss to the inside of your calf. Then his expression shifts again when he notices the way your thighs tremble afterward. Instant concern.
“Hey.” His palm smooths up your leg gently. “Too much?”
“No,” you say quickly. “No, s’good.”
“You sure?” You nod. Frank studies your face for another long second anyway, because Frank notices things. Then apparently satisfied, he leans down and presses one more soft kiss to your forehead before climbing off the bed completely. The absence of his body heat is immediate. You make a pathetic noise before you can stop yourself. Frank pauses halfway to the bathroom doorway and looks back at you with the most smug expression you’ve ever seen.
“Oh, now y’want me back.”
“Shut up.”
“That’s what I thought.” You hear water running a second later. Drawers opening. Frank moving around the bathroom with the same quiet heaviness he does everything with. A minute later he comes back carrying a damp washcloth and your favorite oversized sleep shorts tossed over one shoulder. Your chest squeezes stupidly hard at the sight. Because this is Frank too.
Not just rough hands and filthy teasing and possessive growling against your skin. This. The care afterward. The way he always checks. Always notices. He sits beside you on the mattress, expression softer now, and nudges your thigh apart carefully.
“S'cold,” he warns. You hiss when the washcloth touches sensitive skin. Frank immediately slows down. “Sorry, honey.”
“It’s okay.” His jaw tightens a little anyway, like he’s annoyed at himself for not somehow preventing basic friction from existing. You watch him quietly while he cleans you up with absurd gentleness for a man who looks like he fistfights walls recreationally.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs without looking up.
“You’re pretty.” Frank snorts.
“Sweetheart, I look homeless.”
“You look hot.”
“That’s because you got problems.” You laugh tiredly, and the sound makes his mouth twitch. Once he’s done, he tosses the cloth aside and helps pull the shorts carefully up your legs before immediately tugging you into his lap like it’s instinct. Your entire body melts against him. Frank leans back against the headboard with you sprawled bonelessly across his chest, one massive hand rubbing slow circles against your spine underneath one of his old shirts he’d pulled back onto you. For a while, neither of you says anything. Just breathing. His fingers comb lazily through your hair while your cheek rests over his heartbeat. Then:
“…Still thinkin’ about Curtis?” he asks casually. You choke laughing.
“Frank.”
“What?”
“You are unbelievable.”
“M’serious.” He sounds deeply offended. “Need t’know if I gotta fight him now.”
“You are not fighting Curtis because I wore novelty underwear.” Frank hums thoughtfully.
“Maybe just a little fight.”
“You’re insane.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He kisses the top of your head. “Still your favorite Marine though.” You tilt your head back just enough to look at him.
“Debatable.” Frank stares at you for one long second. Then abruptly rolls you beneath him again with a growl while you shriek laughing.
Summary: It’s hard to get to know someone who doesn’t want to be known. And yet, you help this half-stranger when he comes asking for it without any questions.
Warnings: Bickering, minor awkwardness
Word Count: 4k
(Masterlist, Chapter 1)
The jingling of your keys in the door barely registers in your ears, your mind still at work, lost in the sirens, chatter, files, and sneers of your coworkers.
Although your interactions with the police officers you worked with were minimal, today their hatred shone through extra bright. They wanted Frank Castle’s head on a stick, and last night, they could’ve had him. But he was long gone by the time they showed up, and so was Daredevil, who had made the initial 911 call.
Still, when you push open your door, slip out of your shoes, and round the corner towards the living room, you're shocked by his presence.
You half expected him to be long gone by the time you got home. He said he trusted you last night, but the trust to not make a call when someone’s injured, and your adrenaline is running high, is different from trusting that when they’ve had enough time to think over everything, they wouldn’t betray you.
So, you thought he’d be gone, licking his wounds in some hideout. But he’s here still, on your couch, shirtless, and bandaged up. Before you left for work, you set him up with blankets, pillows, the remote, food if he got hungry, water bottles, and pain meds, so that he wouldn’t have to leave the couch and thus be in more pain. But, again, you didn’t think he’d actually stay. (Though the bag hanging in the crook of your arm suggests differently).
You’re glad he’s here, you think to yourself, glad that the cops couldn’t get the satisfaction. You smile to yourself because somehow you’ve made him feel safe enough to stick around; it feels like an accomplishment.
You know he’s already clocked your presence, probably from the moment you had your keys in the door, but he doesn’t say anything, or make a sign of acknowledgment that you’re here other than a barely there glance. Maybe he doesn’t feel like talking, or maybe he isn’t the talking type. That’s okay, you think.
So you drop off your purse and coat in your room before making your way back to him with the things you bought him. Immediately, you notice the lack of a mess on your coffee and side table; the bottles, cups, and plate are all cleaned up. He cleaned up while you were gone. He shouldn’t have gotten up like that, but God, it's sweet. It’s hard to be mad, or even manage a lecture.
He’s watching you quietly, so incredibly stoic, as you unpack the bag of extra bandages, alcohol, and gauze. You wonder what he did all day, but decide not to pry. He probably has a lot on his mind.
“I got you a couple of shirts from the store. But if it’s too painful or uncomfortable to move your arms to put ‘em on, you don’t have to bother with them,” you say, finally breaking the silence as you take the two plain t-shirts out of the bag, one black, the other white.
For a moment, you don’t think he’s gonna say anything. He just stares at you, eyes covered in horrible black and blues. So, you give him an awkward smile and leave the shirts on the table for him, neatly folded.
You only make it a step, with the intention of throwing the bag away, when his gravely voice stops you.
“‘Didn’t have to do that,” he tells you.
You look over your shoulder at him, meeting his gaze, unsure what to say. You didn’t think it was a big deal.
“Why wouldn’t I?” You ask, deciding to voice the question in your mind. You didn’t know how else to say it. Also, if he remained shirtless in his time here, it’d only be so long till you accidentally started ogling him, and then you’d have to die of embarrassment.
Again, he doesn’t say anything. But something in his eyes changes just a fraction, something you don’t know how to read. So, you go back to throwing the bag out and washing up.
Back in the living room, he’s sitting on the edge of the couch, grimacing slightly as he peels off a taped patch of gauze from his chest.
“Let me do that, please,” you interject.
“I got it,” he grumbles, tossing the crumbled, blood-crusted gauze onto the coffee table.
“I’m sure you do, but you shouldn’t have to,” you counter, matching his stubbornness.
He scoffs, shaking his head as he wets his lips. “‘Have at it,” he gives in, holding his hands up in surrender.
“Thanks,” you remark with a hint of annoyance.
So, once more, you fall into the routine of patching him up, though this time it’s cleaning and changing the bandages to avoid infection. Maybe you should become a doctor after all of this, you think to yourself, and then immediately think of how it’s a bad idea.
“…Think I worked your scene today,” you tell him, breaking the silence.
“They didn’t have anyone to do it last night?” he asks, his face turned into a near-permanent scowl.
“No, they have someone for the night shift,” you answer. “They just wanted someone to take another look at it.”
“‘You real good at your job then, huh?”
“I guess,” you whisper. “But the point is—I wanted to say, you’re really strong. Which, I know you know, but I mean more than physically strong, although you are also that, too. I-It’s just that I give you a lot of credit, I mean, you should know that you’re…incredible…yeah.”
His silence is going to kill you today. So you glance up at him to catch his expression, but his jaw is tight, and his eyes are hard. He’s impossible to read.
You really need to learn how to stop rambling.
He scoffs, finally reacting in some way, his lips pull into a snarl, and you’re starting to think it is a normal expression for him to make.
“Got the wrong idea putting me on a pedestal,” he says, voice edged with something sharp, his head now turned away from you.
“Wasn’t trying to put you on a pedestal,” you reason. “I was trying to say that…I don’t know how to say it other than— that scene was crazy, there was so much—and—“
Someone really needs to get you to stop speaking.
“I don’t know how you survived that,” you sigh. “So, for that, in the lack of a better word, it is incredible.”
For the umpteenth time today, he doesn’t respond. You don’t know if you’re messing up, if he isn’t talkative, and yesterday was a fluke, or if something is up with him today. So, again, you fold and let him
have his silence.
The next three days follow in a similar pattern, but he talks more…sort of.
You learn the mundane things like he’s 37, that he grew up in Queens, loves dogs, and takes his coffee black. But no matter how mundane or how few, you were glad for the information just for the sake of trying to know the guy.
So, when he had disappeared out of nowhere, just as you had gotten into the rhythm of living with someone else again, it hurt a lot more than you expected. Of course, you knew he wasn’t going to stay forever, but you thought you’d get some sort of heads-up. He didn’t even leave a note.
For a couple of days, he was there, and then he was just…gone. That’s it. As quick as that. And maybe it stings like alcohol on an open wound because you really thought he had felt comfortable here.
But, at first, you thought Frank might have gone out, but when morning came around, he still wasn’t there. That night, you went to sleep with a knot in your stomach. It would’ve been nice to know if he was alright.
Hell, Matt hadn’t even stopped by when he promised he would. (Though once you caught word that his ex was back in town, it all made sense).
You spent three days using all the resources you had to find Frank, worried someone got to him. But it's nearly impossible to find a man who doesn’t want to be found. So, you gave up.
That was two weeks ago.
You hum along to the ABBA song blaring on your radio, head nodding and hips moving as you half-focus on painting your nails, the sharp chemical smell of nail polish in your nose.
Dropping the cap back into the little container you twirl around your kitchen, creating arcs with your arms, jumping, and singing about. Then, something makes a grumbling noise, and you yelp, picking up an oven mitt and throwing it full speed at the sound. The tall figure steps forward, catching it one-handedly with ease and a pointed look.
“Frank!” you exclaim, hand over your heart. He’s wearing a black hoodie, his head bowed just a little. “Where do you guys keep coming from?! Is there a hole in my wall?! A lock that’s broken?!”
“You gotta work on your weapon choice,” he answers instead, stepping up to the kitchen counter, letting the oven mitt fall onto it with a pathetic flop.
You scoff, rolling your eyes. He pushes off his hoodie, taking a seat at the counter.
“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting a giant to be standing in my kitchen,” you grumble, leaning over to shut your radio off.
He shakes his head, something akin to a smile tugging on his lips.
“You know I thought you might’ve died or something,” you admit, noting his appearance. At least his two black eyes have faded. “Where have you been? ‘You been okay?”
“I can take care of myself. ‘Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout me like that,” he replies, staring at you like he’s staring through you. God, he’s so hard to read.
“Well, too bad and too late,” you quip. Then softer, shoulders easing, you ask, “But seriously…how are you doing?”
His brows raise. “Not as good as dancing in the kitchen.”
“Oh, shut up,” you laugh, hard and unexpected. But your cheeks burn with the knowledge that someone had been watching you in a private moment of peace. So, you busy yourself with something tangible, moving to the oven where your freshly baked banana bread sits. You cut two slices out, one significantly bigger than the other, just in case he hadn’t eaten in a while. Your nail painting and dance break were really just to wait for the treat to cool off. At least now you’ll have company.
“Got a favor to ask you,” he says.
“Okay,” you nod, plating the two slices.
“…That’s it?” he asks, eyebrow quirked.
“Why do you keep thinking I have an ulterior motive?” You laugh a little, putting the plate with the bigger slice in front of him. “If I did, I wouldn’t be giving you banana bread.”
“Is that the logic now?”
“‘Course it is,” you shrug, handing him a fork. “So, what’s the favor?”
“Some guy in prison I need to talk to,” he explains, eyes sharp and jaw clenched. He stabs his fork into the banana bread, scooping up a piece into his mouth with the kind of calculation you wouldn’t expect anyone to have with food. Then his hard expression falters, something in his shoulders easing. “This is good.”
“Thanks,” you quip, trying and failing to bite back a smile. “But if you’re suggesting turning yourself in, then I have to say that’s stupid.”
“Yeah?” he muses, tongue in cheek.
“Yeah. They want you dead. That’s it. Doesn’t matter if you have the greatest lawyer in the city; you’re fighting the death penalty. ‘Best they can do, if they can, is a mental hospital.”
“I ain’t crazy,” he snaps, voice grainy and sharp around the edges.
“I know that. You know that,” you admit, picking at your own slice of bread. “But there’s little chance you can convince 12 peers of that. The evidence is stacked against you. It’ll be about perception, which is damn hard to change.”
“I need in that prison,” he grunts, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
You shake your head. “That’s a death sentence in itself; you’ll be outnumbered. You’ll have both guards and prisoners on you.”
“I can handle myself,” he grumbles, knuckles turning white around the fork. “Now, can you get me in or not?”
You scoff, letting your fork fall to your plate with a clatter. You barely know this guy, and just as you’re trying to make friends, he’s asking for the impossible.
“You’re funny if you think I’m gonna send you to your death,” you remark.
i’m “That sure sounds like you can,” he challenges, capturing your gaze. He holds you there, locked into his dark eyes.
“I can’t, I’m sorry. But if you give me the name of this guy, I can see if I can pull some strings,” you offer, steeling yourself against his hard gaze.
“This guy won’t talk, not that easy,” he continues to push. “It’s gotta be me.”
“Why? So you can kill him?” You challenge right back.
“Something like that,” he admits, low and dangerous.
“‘Something like that,’” you echo. “Frank, this is a suicide mission. What good is this information if you die in there!”
“You can get me in there,” he realizes, eyes sharpening into something calculated.
“I can’t,” you reiterate, crossing your arms against your chest. “I’m not a magician. I don’t have powers.”
He stands suddenly, cutlery clattering, chair screeching against the floor. He rests both hands flat against the countertop as if to prove he’s not a threat to you. Though you aren’t scared to begin with.
“Sweetheart, you do this for me, and I won’t come ‘round here no more. Won’t bother you again,” he bargains. Even with a whole counter between you, he looms, his shoulders too broad, his height practically intimidating.
You try to hold your own against his gaze, chin held high, trying to not to let him win this. But the little term he uses throws you off guard, unprepared— the rug swept out from beneath you. If it was intentional, you have no idea, but it makes your cheeks feel warm and makes your mind go a little silly with a bubble of giddiness.
“You aren’t a bother to me,” you admit quietly, breaking eye contact to look off to the side. And anyway, he hadn’t even been around you enough to even entertain the concept of irritation.
“Then if you got a way in, you gotta help me,” he pushes, softer this time.
“Frank, this is really a bad idea,” you press.
He rounds the counter quickly, boots heavy against the floor. He’s closer now, looming over you, one hand still flat against the counter, the other hanging at his side. You knew he was tall, of course you did, but when he’s this close, it feels like his height has tripled. And you can smell something warm and dark coming off of him, gunpowder and something else.
“Please,” he begs, low, eyes locked on yours.
The rise and fall of your chests are nearly in sync, though he seems much more dramatic with a chest as broad as his. Still, his sincerity and his willingness to beg even at the cost of his ego (though you don’t know if he cares about egos) cracks your resolve.
“I thought you might’ve been dead the last two weeks. I don’t want to worry about that again,” you say softly. “I…I don’t want you to die, not like that. Not in there.”
“You care a lot about a person you don’t really know,” he answers, adopting a similar, soft tone. As soft as he can get.
“Can’t help it,” you murmur, heart, stammering in your chest. “‘Was starting to see you as a friend.”
“And now?” he pushes, eyes clearly studying your face, head ducked just a little.
“Still a friend,” you half-lie. It’s not your fault he’s also really hot, even though you know you shouldn’t be thinking like that. You wouldn’t say it was exactly a crush you had on him, but it also wasn’t not a crush…
“Which is why I’m reluctant to help you with a suicide mission,” you add.
“I know what I’m getting into,” he nods, jaw flexing.
“I don’t think you do,” you counter.
“You don’t get to say that,” he grunts. “You don’t know me.”
“Maybe,” you whisper, toying with the options in your head. If you don’t help, he’ll do something even more stupid and reckless. He won’t stop until he gets what he wants, you’re sure of that.
“Fuck, fine,” you curse, giving in and turning away from him before he can argue anything further. You brush your hair out of your face, even though there wasn’t any to begin with, attempting to flatten it back, hands resting, cupped, against the back of your neck.
“I can’t guarantee anything, but I have two people I can call,” you say, turning to face him again. “I think I can get you some protection from one and the other can get an, uh, meeting… of sorts to set you up with your guy.”
This time, his expression is unreadable. But he’s still, so very still as his jaw and fists clench, like he’s calculating something or maybe he’s made up his mind. You can’t tell.
“What’s that gonna cost you?” he asks, low and careful.
Your face scrunches up with confusion as you pick up your phone from the counter. “What?”
“I said, what’s that gonna cost you?” he repeats with more bite.
“Don’t worry about it. All you gotta worry about is being careful if this works,” you say, scrolling through your contacts, the glow of the phone illuminating your face.
“If this is gonna put you out, then you can forget about it,” he says.
“What happened to ‘I need this?’” You ask, looking up from your phone.
“I didn’t say it like that.”
“You basically did.”
He scoffs, shaking his head. “I don’t wanna involve you in this any more than you are, this shit is dangerous.”
“I got involved the moment you were dropped off here, bleeding out,” you point out, catching the way something passes along his features. “Actually, it goes further back, but…you know.”
You turn your attention back to your phone, pulling up the contact labeled “Jay.” You’ll be asking for a lot. You’re not even sure if he’ll do it. Hell, he might.
But before you can press the call button, your wrist is seized, not hard but firm enough to grab your attention.
“You made a face,” he points out. “So I won’t ask again. What is this gonna cost you?”
You swallow, eyes trailing up from where his hand wraps completely around your wrist, warm and a little rough, up to his face.
“A long conversation with an old Professor,” you fork over, his gaze hypnotic, keeping you in place and making truth spill from your lips like a serum. “And…probably a date with this one guy.”
“‘This one guy,’” he echoes, eyes tracking over your face. “So you don’t like him ‘nough to want to go out with him.”
“Frank,” you sigh, something in your heart twisting. “This clearly matters to you. And even though I think it’s dangerous, and maybe a little stupid, you need this for a reason, and I don’t think it’s for a dumb one either. You don’t seem the type. So, one annoying date is worth it. Doesn’t even matter in the grand scheme of things.”
“Worth it for who?” he challenges, still holding you there beneath his gaze, wrist in hand. “For me?”
He almost sounds surprised, eyes a little wide.
“Does it matter?” I ask.
“‘Does if it means you’ll be doing somethin’ you don’t want to,” he answers, simply, plainly. Almost matter-of-factly.
“You're sweet,” you confess before you can really think it through. You mean it, of course, but you don’t want to scare him away either. “But seriously, it’s okay. Plus, I can probably keep making excuses to push it back forever.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, each word enunciated carefully.
“Yes,” you mimic his tone, cracking a smile at your own antics. “Now, who’s this guy I’m asking for?”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer; instead, he sits there in the following silence, searching your eyes, taking apart and noting each speck of color and the dilation of your pupils. He’s picking you apart, deciding if there’s truth there or if you’re doing it just for his sake.
When he lets go of your wrist, he doesn’t just drop your it or let it hang limply; he lets go like the breeze, soft, gentle, and barely there.
“‘Names Dutton,” he reveals.
“That’s a stupid name,” you murmur, waking your phone's screen back up. Your sly remark doesn’t go unnoticed by him; in fact, it makes him laugh through his nose.
You take the victory.
“Eat your banana bread, take more if you want, I’m gonna go make some calls,” you tell him, gesturing back over to his seat.
He backs off, hands held in a little surrender, and his head bowed an inch.
You move past him, hitting “call” on the contact you never thought you’d engage with again, moving into the privacy of your room to pace and bribe.
You don’t know how much time has passed when you finally step out of your room. It felt like being stuck in a liminal space, where time paused and stretched. Regardless, your voice feels a little tired, and you have notes scribbled down on a sticky note.
The moment you stepped out of the room, his eyes were on you, searching you for tell. He’s still in the kitchen, waiting patiently, his plate practically licked clean. It makes your heart swell a little.
“Okay, call this number when you want to set up a time, don’t gotta say much or who you are, just give him a 12-hour notice,” you say, handing over the post-it.
His fingers brush yours as he takes it, looking down at the small paper. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
“No problem,” you smile, softly. “Just please be safe. If you die in there, I’m going to haunt the fuck out of you.”
“Don’t think that’s how it works,” he answers, looking up from the sticky note to meet your gaze, a little smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
“You get what I mean,” you shake your head, eyes narrowing.
“You know, you talk real big for someone so…” he drawls, jutting his chin at you.
“So what?” you laugh.
He looks you up and down, quick and strategic. Then he wets his lips as he considers his answer, but all it does is make your stomach flutter.
“Nice,” he settles on.
“I’m not nice,” you shake your head, moving around him to return to the treat you had to leave behind.
“No? Then what do you call this?” He challenges, holding up the small paper that looks extra small in his large hand. “And giving me something to eat the moment I got here.”
“Well…you know…” You mumble, prodding your slice of bread with your fork.
“Nice,” he answers for me, head tilted to catch my gaze. “Nothin’ wrong with it.”
“Now who’s sounding caring and nice?” you tease, smiling brightly.
“Yeah…” he mutters, looking off to the side, hand running down his jaw.
You laugh, the sound filling the room with the kind of warmth that no food or oven could bring.
“You want more bread? Coffee?” You offer as your laughter dies out.
He shakes his head. “No, I’m alright… I should…go anyway.”
“Right,” you exhale, a tinge of disappointment lingering in the syllable. Still, you stand a little taller, nodding as if you understand his decision. “Um…I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
He stands, giving you a quiet nod of recognition. Enough has been said…apparently.
“Thank you,” he says again, pocketing the sticky note.
“Yeah,” you nod. “Be safe.”
He nods again, the air different between the two of you. Awkward. That’s what it is. But he’s pulling up his hoodie and seeing himself off, leaving through the front door, unlike his unusual entrances.
You sigh the moment the door clicks shut, deflating against the counter. The silence blankets you, swallowing the space up as you stare at his empty plate and the seat he had just occupied.
I got to see Dog Day Afternoon today! Yk the play with Jon Bernthal? I like going to plays/musicals anyways but I definitely went just for him LOL. Anyways it was really great and funny. BUT unfortunately Jon and Ebon did not go to stage door for signings 😔😔 which i’m like kinda bummed about cause me and my friend were really looking forward to it (😛😫) but it’s okay cause the play was great! He ate so hard!
And then on my train ride home there was some guy who really looked like Joe Keery if Joe Keery had a shorter and maybe thinner face, so now it kinda feels like a fever dream.
The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f! reader
Description: When a prison is haunted by a vengeful spirit, the Winchesters have to go deep undercover as prisoners to get answers, leaving reader behind in the process.
Warnings: Cannon violence, smut begins and ends with the “**" if you want to skip, semi-public sex, flirting, PDA, making out, not perfect.
Word Count: 5.5k
Folsom Prison Blues
(Masterlist, Prev Ch., Outfits)
“This is a horrible idea,” I exclaim for the umpteenth time. But my concerns are muffled by the press of his lips against mine, his big hands holding my face so gently as he presses me against the side of the Impala.
“Mhm,” he hums, content on devouring my worries away. And it works…almost.
“Is this hunt really worth all this trouble?” I ask between kisses, because every time I pull away just a little, he’s following after me. “They’ll realize who you are, connect you with both skinwalker cases, and then you’ll be totally screwed.”
“‘S just the job, baby,” he answers, kissing over my jaw and down my neck. “‘Just gotta follow the plan.”
“I don’t like the plan,” I tell him, nudging his head away from my neck so I can look at him.
He wants to purposely get caught by the cops so that he and Sam can infiltrate a detention center, all to get rid of a ghost haunting the place. But because it’s a male-only prison, I can’t come. All I can do is periodically show up as a psychologist, pretending to examine them to help with the court case against them. See? It’s a horrible plan! Oh, and did I mention this was all because an old friend of John’s called in a favor? Yeah. Double stupid.
He gives my cheeks a little squeeze, green eyes locked on my lips. “I know,” he admits, kissing me. His tongue slips into my mouth, lapping and dominating. He groans into my mouth like it’s the last time he’ll get to taste me. The sound and the feel of him make my knees feel weak, my mind clouding over.
“‘Gonna miss you,” he pants against my mouth.
“Don’t go,” I whisper, fingers curling into his shirt. But I know he can’t just let this go, he isn’t the kind of person to give up, especially when he’s set his sight on something already. And, he’s a good person, so of course he’s going to help.
Maybe he knows I know this too, because he nudges his nose against mine, and murmurs, “I’ll be safe, ‘promise.”
“‘Better be,” I say, flattening my hand against his chest to remember the thump of his heart. “…Please.”
“Mhm, for you,” he hums, head tilting just so to catch my lips again, sucking hard on my bottom lip until my breath stutters.
“Okay, that’s enough goodbyes!” Sam exclaims from the other end of the car. “Let’s get this over with before I change my mind.”
Dean grumbles, stealing one, two, three more pecks before pulling away enough to shrug his brown leather jacket off, pulling it around my shoulders.
“Please, change your mind, Sam,” I quip, looking his way.
“I’m not the one who needs conv—“
“Nope!” Dean cuts him off. “We stick to the plan. Take care of Baby, stay safe, and we’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
He tugs his jacket around me closely, kissing my forehead. And before I can say one last thing about how horrible this all is, he beats me to it, murmuring:
“Made you a promise, ‘gonna keep it.”
My heels click rhythmically against the vinyl floors, two manila folders clenched tightly in my hand. I stand tall, shoulders straight, keeping up a level of confidence in hopes the prison guards surrounding me can’t see through the facade.
The guard in front of me comes to a stop, his keys clicking together as he unlocks the door. He pulls it open, stepping aside to let me in. It's a simple room, one exit, no windows, a single metal table, and two metal chairs. But Dean is already there, casually sitting back, looking annoyingly good in an orange jumpsuit of all things. Something in his eyes changes when he sees me, his smile widening even though he knew I would be coming to see him.
“Can we take those cuffs off?” I ask the guard, nodding towards his confined wrists.
“Sorry, ma’am, no can do,” the guard answers.
“My assessment is best done when my client isn’t being treated like an animal,” I counter calmly.
“Rules are rules. It’s for your own safety,” he says with finality, giving me a slow one-over. “Knock on the door when you’re done.”
Then just like that, he’s gone, shutting the door in my face. So, I try to collect myself, shoving down the bubbling anger festering beneath my skin. Feeling a burning gaze, I turn slowly to face him
“Dean…” I grumble, glaring at him.
“Baby…” he drawls, copying me. But there’s not even a hint of fear in his eyes; in fact, he’s amused. His eyes rake down my body, his tongue peaking out of his mouth to wet his lips.
“Uh-uh, no ‘baby’ in here,” I correct, stepping closer to him, heels echoing against the floor.
He chuckles, leaning as far back in his chair as he can, his smile widening. “Mm, yes ma’am.”
I cringe at the word coming out of his mouth. I don’t think he’s ever called me ‘ma’am.’ It doesn’t even seem right coming from him.
“I heard you got sent to solitary because of a fight. ‘Saw the video,” I tell him, giving him a knowing look.
“Were you impressed?”
Kind of… Yes. I mean, he got the upper hand and control of a guy bigger than him, and he hadn’t even gotten a scratch on him. It was also pretty hot, but if I tell him any of this, his ego will explode. So, I give him an unamused look, tongue rolling over my front teeth, as I perch up on the edge of the table.
“You were,” he teases, smiling wildly. He stretches his wrists to the full extent the restraints will allow, his knuckles ghosting over my outer thigh. And his attempt at a simple touch breaks me—it makes me, momentarily, forget why I should be mad.
“‘Missed you,” I mumble, looking over at him with the intention to memorize this new look and setting.
“There she is,” he whispers, his smug smile softening.
“Oh, shut up,” I laugh, standing from the edge of the table. “We have to talk.”
“Anything you want, baby,” he drawls. “Sorry, I mean ‘ma’am.’”
“Mm, I don’t like ‘ma’am,’” I tell him, taking the seat across from him.
“Alright, sweetheart,” he tries next, smiling, clearly pleased with himself. “Gotta warn you, you can’t come ‘round anymore after this.”
“Excuse me?” I question, eyebrow quirking. That was not a part of the plan.
“Change of plans. Henriksen is in town,” he reveals, leaning in close. “He’s lookin’ for you, ‘figures since we’re here you must be too.”
Detective Henriksen, the same man who was waiting for us outside the bank in Milwaukee. He wants our heads.
“You're joking,” I mutter, face falling. I knew this was a bad idea.
He shakes his head.
“Then we’re pulling the plug on this ‘operation,’” I decide. “I mean, now we’re totally screwed, like before maybe we were 75% screwed, but now it’s at 100%. It’ll be impossible to get you and Sam out.”
“No. We stick to the plan,” he counters, voice as firm and sharp as his eyes. He speaks with finality.
“Dean.”
“Sweetheart,” he challenges, something sparkling in his eyes.
“I’m not gonna leave you here. I can’t stop coming ‘round when I know you’re in a place like this,” I argue, leaning against the table’s edge, closing some of the distance between us. But his eyes drop right to my chest. “I know you feel obligated to help because your Dad’s friend asked, but now I’m really starting to think this isn’t worth the trouble.”
“You know, you’re really cute when you're mad,” he mumbles, eyes dragging back up to my face.
“Dean,” I groan. “Can you please pay attention?”
“I am paying attention,” he counters, foot nudging mine beneath the table.
“No, you’re not, you haven’t stopped checking me out since I walked into this room.”
“What?” he smiles. “Can’t admire my girl? ‘Gonna add it to my charges? ‘S not my fault you look so good.”
God, he’s so lucky he’s hot.
“‘Not my fault I need you,” he adds quietly, eyes darkening. His fingers brush mine, stretched out just to reach. “C’mere.”
My resolve is horribly weak. So weak. I stand, rounding the table to be close to him, heels dragging against the floor. He leans back in the chair, eyes locked on my every move. I stand close to him, leaning against the table, mere inches from him.
“You’re in cuffs,” I point out, eyes dragging over his biceps straining against the sleeves of his jumpsuit down to his wrists.
“That’s okay.”
“We’re supposed to be acting like we don’t know each other. Someone might see.”
“No cameras in here.”
Of course, he already checked.
“You’re supposed to be telling me what you’ve found out.”
“Mhm,” he hums, wrists jerking against his cuffs suddenly.
“Thought you said the cuffs were okay,” I tease him, fingers skimming along his jaw. I allow myself that simple touch, feeling the prickly stubble of not being allowed a razor. He leans into my touch, pupils blown so wide I can hardly see the green of his irises.
“Changed my mind. You have magic,” he groans, fingers flexing. “Just got to take ‘em off for me. ‘Put ‘em back on later.”
Molten heat immediately shoots down south, all logical thinking going with it. Even the little voice in the back of my head warning me that this is a bad idea has been silenced.
I nod, fingers dragging down his forearm, then stopping at his wrists, feeling the cool metal of his cuffs. He’s breathing hard, but controlled, like a rubber band ready to snap.
A simple tap makes the cuffs fall away, rattling against the table. Immediately, he’s shooting up, chair scraping against the floor. In one smooth motion, his hands are on me, lifting me onto the table with enough force to make the table sway. He crowds me in, legs pushed apart with large hands so that he can stand between them, pencil skirt riding up. His lips smash against mine, kissing with a hunger you’d expect if we hadn’t seen each other in years, but it’s only been a day.
** He grunts loudly, hand tangling in my hair while the other drags me closer to the edge of the table, hips pressing into mine. My breath hitches, which only seems to spur him on, gripping at my skirt tightly, nudging it up as his lips become less rough and more thorough. My head spins, cloudy with the feel of him.
“So pretty,” he pants against my lips, grinding his hips slowly against mine, pulling a breathy moan from my lips.
“Lay back,” he orders, the gravel of his voice leaving me no choice but to listen.
The table is cool even through my blouse. His lips travel down my jaw, nipping at my neck while he unbuttons my shirt, pulling at the panels of the blouse until my bra is exposed. In a swift motion, he lifts my thighs to his hips, bringing his own closer, grinding slowly against me in a circle. Then his hands are on my breasts, pushing them up from their confines, and his mouth follows, sucking and biting on the swell of them. I whine, back arching into him, nails running through his short hair.
He grunts, the sound deep in the back of his throat. His hands slide back down to my thighs, pushing my skirt the rest of the way up to my hips. It’s hardly a skirt now. His fingers curl around my panties, shimming them down with ease, then making them disappear into the pocket of his jumpsuit, the sight igniting me in a different way.
He adjusts my legs again, tossing them over his shoulder, heels clacking against each other.
“Gonna say this once. Get it out of the way,” he murmurs, lips against my ankle. “Haven’t found out much, yet. Guy I fought died in the solitary cell across from me.”
My eyes widen, my brain somersaulting to catch up with the information while separating the feeling in my lower gut. That guy died way too close to Dean. Hell, the spirit could’ve chosen him instead. But it didn’t. Why?
I try to sit up, caught up on the implications of his information, but he pushes me back, holding me down with a hand against my abdomen.
“Uh-Uh,” he hums. “‘Gave you what you came here for. Now, I’m gonna enjoy what we really came here for.”
Any counterpoint dies on my tongue when his head ducks all the way down, licking a stripe through my folds, then sucking hard on my clit, toying with it in his mouth. My mind goes blank and fuzzy, thighs squeezing around his head, which only makes him groan. I have to bite back my moans, but little sounds still make their way through. The fluorescent lights blur, hips rocking against his face.
“‘Got 10 minutes left, ma’am!” The guard's voice bellows from outside the door.
My soul soars back to my body, freezing me in place, breath bated with the full expectation that he was going to be sauntering in. I press my head back against the table, watching the door from upside down.
“Good thing I only need 5,” Dean says, pulling my attention back to him and his grin from in between my thighs.
Gently, he lets my legs slip from his shoulders. Then, he’s pulling at the buttons of his jumpsuit, slipping his arms out of the sleeves so the top portion hangs down by his hips. Muscle and skin on display, my brain further short-circuits, a silly little smile curling its way onto my lips. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen him like this; he never stops being hot.
He pushes his waistband down just enough to set himself free, his dick slapping against his abdomen. Then he’s crowding in close again, lips smashing against mine, hand tangled in my hair, keeping me in place and pulling my head back against the table. Slowly, he pushes himself in, my every nerve electrified to life. My lips part in a gaping, breathy whine, the stretch more than I’m used to with the lack of preparation. But he's right there whispering sweet nothings into my ear.
“‘Give you more if I had more time,” he says, peppering kisses across my cheeks and the bridge of my nose.
“‘S enough,” I exhale, trying to press him deeper without digging my heels into his back.
Still, he gets the memo, pushing the rest home until there’s nothing left to give. I squirm, breath lodged in my chest, pain prickling along my skin. Then, to make it worse, his thumb finds my clit, rubbing tight circles against her before I can even get used to the sensation of him being inside. Electric shocks stretch up my body, making me clamp down around him, and my thighs shake.
making my legs twitch with little electric shocks.
“There she is,” Dean groans. He grunts as he pulls out slowly, “‘Feel so good.”
Then he’s slamming back in, hand quickly pressed over my mouth to muffle the loud moan I forget to keep in check. My back arches off the table, my every nerve and my very soul feeling like it may launch from the confines of my body.
“Dean,” I whimper, eyes nearly rolling back. But his pace never falters between rough, sharp thrusts of his hips and the never-ending toying of my clit, the bundle of nerves begging for mercy.
But, God, does the pain blur away to sheer hot pleasure—euphoria that’s too much for one being to handle. Tears prickle at my eyes, my lips a never-ending source of moans muffled between my teeth and his hand.
“Feel that?” he pants, giving another snap of his hips, his hand dragging away from my mouth to press down on my stomach, feeling himself through me. I bite my lip harshly, trying my best to muffle the moans and whines that rip from my chest. “‘S ‘cause I can’t be away from you for even a day.”
He hikes my thighs up higher around his waist, then gives up altogether, tossing them over his shoulders again. The new angle has stars exploding behind my eyes, his tip hitting that sweet spot deep inside. He drills into me, the scent of sweat and his musk filling my nose, his teeth grazing my neck.
“Like that, please!” I beg, nails biting into his back.
“I got you, baby,” he whispers, crashing his lips back onto mine.
His thumb presses down on my clit, mean, and hard before quickly rubbing circles in the other direction. Perhaps embarrassingly quick, my vision explodes with white ecstasy, my cries of pleasure muffled by his lips. The high never seems to end, light and sound bending together, the aftershocks stretched and punctuated with every snap of his hips, drawing it out further until my toes curl in the confines of their heels, and a choked sob gets lodged in my chest.
It all seems to catch up to him, his hips stuttering while further praise pours from his lips like sugar water. His hips still into a slow grind, ropes of his warmth shooting through me.
For a moment, the only sound between us is our combined panting, and for just a second, we aren’t in some room in a prison, but elsewhere, somewhere that’s just for us.
Then, slowly, he’s pulling out, peppering kisses down my jaw in a silent apology for making me inhale a sharp breath. He lowers my legs back down with the kind of reverence preserved for precious things.
** “So what’s the verdict, Doc?” he utters, gently brushing my sweaty hair back.
I burst out laughing, completely taken aback by the sudden questioning. Still, it makes him smile, eyes crinkling.
“Likely insane, but definitely not guilty,” I play along.
“Uh-huh,” he hums, unconvinced. “‘Think the only insane part is how quick you came.”
“Dean!” I exclaim, hitting his arm.
But he just laughs, carefully helping me up to a sitting position.
“What? That’s a new record,” he claims, eyes sparkling with mischief even as he gently tugs my skirt down into place.
“Yeah, cause you like…cheated,” I reason, cheeks burning.
“Cheated?” he echoes, tucking himself away and putting his jumpsuit back in place. “Baby, that was all organic.”
“Organic?” I laugh.
“You know what I mean,” he grumbles, deft fingers working on buttoning up my blouse again.
“No, I don’t think I do,” I tease him, shaking my head.
Completing the last button, he shuts me up with a gentle, tension-melting kiss. But when he breaks away first, his eyes are hard, mind already made up on something—his mind already elsewhere.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper, trying to read that expression.
“‘Moment you leave, you gotta change license plates and motels,” he orders, quickly buttoning up his jumpsuit. And for a moment, it’s hard to compute why he’s saying all of this, then it hits all at once. “Wear a wig if you have to, but don’t come back here. Don’t come back for us, we’ll find you.”
“Tha—“
“I’m not messing around,” he cuts me off, gaze so sharp I feel it down to my bones. “You hear me? You gotta promise me.”
“I can’t promise you that,” I admit, especially when I know I’ll probably break it.
He glances at the door over my shoulder, then his hands are on my hips, lifting me off the table and onto my shaky feet.
“I’m not asking you,” he answers, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth.
“And I’m telling you all I can promise is that I’ll be careful,” I counter, meeting his sharp gaze head-on.
A breathy chuckle passes his curving lips. Still, he pulls away from me, dragging his seat back to the table, plopping down, and resting his hands on the tabletop.
I pick the discarded cuffs up from the table, adjusting them around his wrists again. It feels so wrong to do him like this, especially when he’s so silent in his frustration.
I turn to him, cradling his face, wiping away the lipstick smeared against his mouth. In doing so, the tension in his jaw loosens, and something in his shoulders drops.
“I love you,” I tell him quietly.
“I love you too, that’s why I’m trying to keep you saf—“
“I know,” I whisper. “I know, that’s why I’m gonna be careful. Won’t come back tomorrow, okay? But the day after that ‘m checking on you two, whether you like it or not.”
“Fine,” he grumbles.
So, I lean down and press a kiss to his forehead, then his cheek, and because I can’t help myself, his lips.
“Be safe, please,” I murmur, reluctantly pulling away from him.
I gather up my useless manila folders just as the door behind me opens, the guard's presence a heavy looming thing.
“Let’s go,” the guard directs, leaving room for me to pass by him.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up, hyperaware of his every look, of the camera just outside the door. He’s lingering by the door, staring back at Dean, and for a moment, I think he sees right through what happened. But Dean just smiles snuggly, shrugging.
“Hard questions,” Dean chuckles.
The guard scoffs, rolling his eyes. But clearly it was enough to throw him off, or maybe he just doesn’t care. Though if he could see the essence trickling down my thigh, it’d likely be a different story.
“Someone will be back for you in a minute,” he tells Dean, shutting the door behind him. And just like that, he’s shut away again, nothing more than another number printed onto a jumpsuit.
I wander out of the local thrift shop, bag in hand. My newfound freedom has left little else to do. I tried to keep low, staying in my motel room, but that inevitably got boring when the one thing on my mind is how the Winchesters are doing. So, I had to get out.
After a little more than a year on the road with non-stop hunts, it almost feels odd to have a day where there’s nothing to do, nothing to chase. At least, I’m not chasing anything this time, which may be significantly worse. I hate not knowing what’s going on or how they’re holding up. I went to a cafe, then a bookstore, then a sandwich place, and I just finished up in a thrift store, which luckily killed a lot of time. I got new mixtapes, a cute shirt, a band-tee for Dean, and a book for Sam out of it. Still, there’s this lingering emptiness hanging around me in the shape of the brothers. The silence without them is deafening. I hate it.
It’s weird to have wanted this—a time where I’m not hunting, a time to be normal, because I don’t want to hunt forever, but now I have this day of peace, and I’m at anything but peace.
I continue down the street, pulling my sunglasses onto my face as an all-black Nissan pulls around the corner. Maybe it’s a normal car, or maybe it’s the Fed’s. I don’t want to take the chance.
My pulse jumps beneath my skin, but I hold my head up high, adjusting the collar of Dean’s leather jacket around me. I don’t want to give them any excuse to look my way. Let them pass by, whoever they are.
And they do.
“Every time I tell you to be safe in here, you do the exact opposite!” I exclaim, phone pressed to my ear, looking at Dean through the glass between us. There’s a bruise beneath his eye, covering his whole cheek—he got into another fight. I just hadn’t seen the footage of this one. But I heard another inmate died last night. I worry about him being in here when I’m away, and when I come back, he gives me the exact reason why I should worry.
“‘Had to do it for the hunt. ‘It was warranted,” he reasons, a phone pressed to his ear too.
“Yeah, cause ‘warranted’ is enough to excuse your death,” I remark, giving him an unamused look.
“I didn’t die,” he corrects.
“You could’ve!”
“‘Speaking of which, I need you to find everything you can on a nurse named Glockner,” he continues anyway, speaking a mile a minute. “She was here in the 70s. I need everything, baby, how she died and where she’s buried.”
“‘Speaking of which?’” I echo, too caught up on that detail to care about anything else. “What the hell happened?”
His features harden, jaw flexing. He won’t tell me. He either doesn’t deem it important enough, doesn’t want to worry me, or doesn’t want to deal with my nagging. I don’t know which one it is, but I do know that I will be finding out all the details, even if I have to go through Sam later.
Oftentimes, I wish he’d get it through his beautiful, thick skull that he matters—that he isn’t disposable or dispensable, that he isn’t a punching bag. That people actually care about his well-being. I need to get him to see that.
“Y/N,” he pleads quietly into the phone, clutching it tightly. Whatever he was feeling or thinking softens in his eyes.
I nod, slowly, before I can even register it, my body deciding before my mind can catch up.
“Okay. Okay, give me an hour at most,” I give in, though perhaps it was as inevitable as the day's end.
“There she is,” he smiles.
********
The crisp smell of old and new books fills my senses as I stand between the rows of bookshelves. There’s an incense burning somewhere in the store, too, which is vaguely unsafe but oddly fitting considering the situation. I was in this store just yesterday, except this time I’m not trying to kill time or look for a new book.
The bell above the door dings, boots scuffing along the wooden floors. I keep my eyes forward, absentmindedly drifting my fingertip over the spines of the books. Then, the books across from me suddenly push a part, framing the long face of an older man.
We eye each other silently, making quiet assessments. He has neatly kept, shaggy, brown hair, an unruly lock curling at his forehead like he’s Clark Kent, though he surely looks more like Alfred with his upturned nose.
“Are you…?” I ask quietly, breaking the silence.
He gives a single nod.
Deacon, aka the whole reason why we’re here. John’s old friend.
“You must be his girl,” he concludes. Deacon doesn’t say his name; he doesn’t have to, he knows enough. Though I wonder how much he knows.
Sam and Dean wouldn’t have told him what I am; they aren’t like that—they aren’t dumb or careless. But apparently, there’s been word that the Winchesters are hanging around some witch, so is he in on the gossip? How much does he know of the supernatural world, other than that something is killing the inmates at his prison? Does he care outside of that? Maybe not.
I nod, taking the folded piece of paper out of my pocket. It’s the information Dean asked for: that nurse, Glockner, died during an inmate uprising. She got caught in the middle of it, and unfortunately, the prisoners had dragged her to a cell in solitary and beaten her to death. Though the exact cause of death was labeled as cerebral edema, or brain swelling as a result of excess liquid in the brain's tissue. It’s what almost got Dean not that long ago. Hell, I can’t even exactly blame the girl for remaining angry in death. Still, she needs to be stopped.
I slip the paper through the gap between the books, my hands barely brushing as he takes it from me, tucking it into his coat pocket. He’ll probably read it before it gets to them.
“You’ll get that to him?” I ask.
“Park 500 feet from the west gate. 7 pm,” he answers instead. I guess that’s enough of an answer. I guess Dean changed his mind on how we’d meet back up again. For that, I’m glad.
“…Thank you,” I try to say, but he’s already walking away as swiftly as he came. Not a man of many words, I guess. Though there is no time for small talk.
********
I drum my fingers rapidly against the steering wheel, sitting in suffocating, stuffy silence. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears with every glance I take towards the detention center. Nothing yet. No movement, and it’s 7:05.
Did I miss them somehow? Did everything go wrong? Did Deacon betray us all? Betray them?
There are too many variables, too many unknowns. I hate it. I really have to stop letting them do stupid things like this alone.
I sigh, loud, knee bouncing. I’m too antsy. I look away from the prison; it’s only making things worse. But then my eyes wander, anyway, to the clothes folded neatly beside me on the seat bench, and that’s so much worse.
Then, something catches in the corner of my eye, my head snapping up.
With a solid thump, the Winchesters land heavy on their feet over the tall fence, escaping the detention center with the kind of ease only they can muster.
I feel the stress physically leave my shoulders, my body deflating against the seat. They rush over, their faces practically lighting up.
“Oh, man, are you a sight for sore eyes,” Dean drawls, running his hand over the shiny exterior of the Impala. Hell, I’m so glad they aren’t dead or stuck being locked up, I don't even care that he's saying that to his car instead of me.
The passenger and back door open, and I lean over, beaming up at them as they throw off their grey prison jackets and slip into their normal ones.
“You made it!” I smile.
“‘Course we did, I almost wish I could see Henriksen’s face,” Dean replies, getting into the passenger seat beside him, and throwing Sam’s clothes pile at him to catch.
“Really?” Sam remarks, unamused. He catches his clothes and a lone shoe, getting into the back seat. “‘Cause I’d be happy if I never saw him again. I mean, we’re not really out of the woods yet.”
Then, nearly on cue, a loud alarm blares from the prison, a bright red light flashing above the nearest door.
“Shit, you jinxed us,” I curse, quickly shifting the car into gear.
********
Walking along a cemetery, shovels and a duffel bag in hand, moonlight breaking through the trees, is oddly the most normal I’ve felt in days.
“We've got to move it,” Sam warns. “If Henriksen figures it out or gets to Deacon to—“
“Deacon won’t tell,” Dean cuts him off.
“He might not have a choice. He can go to jail,” Sam argues.
“Well, if he does tell, they’ll be heading off to the wrong place,” I tell them.
They both stop in their tracks, which I only realize after I’ve already made it an additional six feet.
“What?” they utter in unison.
“You gave him the wrong cemetery?” Sam asks.
“Yeah…duh. I don’t know that guy, wasn’t gonna risk getting betrayed,” I explain, looking between the two of them. “And if we went through with his side of the deal, then he was sending you my way anyway, so it wouldn’t matter if he told you the wrong place because I had the right place.”
Their eyes kind of widen somewhere between impressed and scared or worried.
“What?” I ask, looking between them again.
I watch Dean’s eyebrows quirk, lips pursed in consideration, then his face softens into a lazy little smirk.
“Somehow you just got hotter,” he drawls.
*******
An hour or more surely goes by as we dig up her grave, sweat clinging to our skin, muscles burning. But again, I oddly feel normal, though I guess that happens when this is all you do. What an odd life we live.
The time and work pass quickly in the form of their tales on the inside. Apparently, Dean was oddly fitting in, even gaining a lot of cigarettes through numerous card games, which was essentially their currency. I’m not sure if I should be proud or not. But it allowed them to get information, in one instance, particularly from a prisoner who was always stuck cleaning up.
And Sam said the food was horrible, while Dean said it was great, though it’s hard to trust his word when he’ll pretty much eat anything without complaint.
By the time the corpse is up in flames, there’s still no sign of the cops or the Feds. So either the wrong location worked, or they’re lost anyway. Regardless, I’m glad, because I have no interest in being more on the run than we already are.
“You thought we were screwed before,” Sam accuses suddenly.
“Yeah, I know,” he admits, the orange flames shining along his face. “We went deep this time.”
“‘Deep,’ Dean?” Sam echoes, scoffing at the end. “We should go to Yemen.”
“Oh, I’m not sure I’m ready to go that deep,” he chuckles, shaking his head.
“What the hell are you two talking about? Is this prison talk?”
It’s not that I hate school, because I love education and learning…a lot. I like knowing things. HOWEVER it is very annoying when I’m on a writing streak and actually have ideas, no writers block, lowkey cooking, and the urge to get it all down but have TWO FINALS TO DO.
Like I finally finished my research paper, but i’m working on a five paged paper for my Lit class and i haven’t even started working on my Sci paper. And then i have my final tests coming up. Literally the other day in the library i was supposed to be working on my paper but because i was on google docs anyways i was like hmmm let me open my other tab and then i got distracted and spent an hour writing for the next chapter instead 😔😔
The Hunter and The Witch~Dean Winchester x f!reader
Summary: Still in California, they make their way to L.A. to investigate a haunted film set.
Warnings: Cannon violence, mentions of suicide (?), flirting, PDA, leaning into the silliness
Word Count: 6.3k
Hollywood Babylon
(Masterlist, Prev Ch, Outfit)
“Warner Brother’s studio first opened in 1927,” the tour guide explains. “The lot has been in continuous operation for eight decades.”
The golf cart rolls forward smoothly, slowly passing by giant warehouses and people pushing giant props around. I practically bounce in my seat, taking in every new detail.
“Hey,” Dean whispers, drawing my attention. “Did you know this was where they filmed ‘Creepshow?’”
He’s been beaming too. He might be more excited about this than I am. It’s adorable.
“Really?” I ask, enjoying his spew of fun facts.
“Uh-huh,” he nods enthusiastically.
“You want a picture?” I offer, holding up my little camera. I know it's very tourist-y of me, but this is too cool to pass up the opportunity.
He nods, adjusting his sunglasses and the way he’s sitting, arm draped along the back of the seat, facing me. I hold the camera up, focusing it on his charming smile and the dorky way he does a thumb up. He’s so cute.
“Now, to the right, here is Stars Hollow,” the tour guide continues. “It’s the setting for the television series, Gilmore Girls. And if we’re lucky, we might even catch one of the show’s stars.”
Sam turns around from the row in front of us. “Can we go?” he asks, deadpanning.
“No, no, no, let's stay,” I plead. I mean, we never get to do anything cool like this.
But Sam rolls his eyes and hops out of the cart anyway, giving us a knowing look and a groan. So, with a lot of reluctance, we leave the slow-moving cart too.
“That was pretty lame of you, Sam,” I remark, side-eying him as we walk around the lot.
“Just tryna keep us focused,” he sighs, unamused. We’re annoying him, but what did he think was going to happen when he took two film nerds to a huge film set!
“Okay, well, did you know this studio is responsible for making the first full-length feature film with synchronized dialogue?” I ask, beaming up at him.
“No, I did–”
“Check it out, it’s Matt Damon!” Dean exclaims suddenly, elbowing his brother.
I follow his gaze to a white guy with short, dirty blonde hair. He kinda does look like Matt Damon.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s not Matt Damon,” Sam answers.
“No, it is,” he insists.
“Well, Matt Damon just picked up a broom and started sweeping,” Sam remarks.
“Yeah, well, he’s probably researching a role or something,” he reasons.
“Ehh, I don’t think so,” he admits. “Hey, this way, I think Stage 9 is over here.”
He pauses in front of a sign, gesturing down a side “road.”
“Come on, man, let’s keep going this way,” Dean pleads.
“No, come on, we’ve gotta work,” Sam reasons, earning a sigh in turn, “Dude, you wanted to come to LA!”
“Yeah, for a vacation,” he answers. “I mean, swimming pools and movie stars! Not to work.”
“I second the swimming pool, we should get a motel with a pool,” I interject, helpfully.
“This seem like swimming pool weather to you?” Sam counters. “I mean, it’s practically Canadian!”
“Dude, it’s shorts weather!” I exclaim. “With just a nice little breeze.”
“Well, I just figured that, you know, after everything that happened with…Madison, you could use a little R-and-R, that’s all,” Dean reasons, moving on from the weather.
“Well, maybe I wanna work, Dean,” he counters. “Maybe it keeps my mind off things.”
And just like that, he wins. How could either of us say anything now?
“Okay, okay, alright,” Dean gives in. “So, this crew guy-what did he, he died on set?”
“Yeah, uh, rumors spreading like wildfire online,” Sam explains, leading the way towards Studio 9. “They’re saying the set’s haunted.”
“Like Poltergeist?” Dean asks.
“Could be a poltergeist,” he considers.
“No, no, no. Like the movie Poltergeist,” Dean corrects. But Sam just shakes his head with a confused look. “You know nothing of your cultural heritage, do you? It was rumored that the set of Poltergeist was cursed. They used real human bones as props. And, like, at least three of the actors died in it.”
“Well, yeah, it might be something like that,” he replies.
“Okay, so who was this guy?” I ask.
“Frank Jaffey,” he answers.
“He got a death certificate or a coroner’s report or anything?” Dean asks.
“Well, no. But it’s LA, you know? It might not even be his real name.”
“Like in Scream 3,” I say.
“Yeah, sure…” Sam answers. “But the girl who found him said she saw something—a vanishing figure.”
“What’s the girl's name?” Dean asks.
“Uh, Tara Benchley, I think,” he replies.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Tara Benchley?” Dean spews, stopping in his tracks. “From ‘Fear dot Com’ and ‘Ghost Ship,’ Tara Benchley? Dude, why didn’t you say so?”
For the first time today, I have no idea what he’s referencing. I’ve never heard of those films before.
“Is she your celebrity crush?” I ask with mild amusement.
“What? No,” he scoffs.
“But you’re suddenly on board?” Sam presses.
“Oh, I just—I mean, I’m a fan of her work. It’s very good,” he explains, standing a little taller.
********
Eventually, we find our way to the studio, wandering into the large warehouse. There are all kinds of people walking around with clipboards and walkie-talkies. And by the set, cameras surrounding it, are two men speaking, one of them far more familiar than the other.
“Oh my God, it’s McG,” I blurt, staring at the tall man from afar. He’s less ginger in person than the cameras make him look online.
“Who?” Sam asks.
“He’s a director!” I explain. “He made the Charlie’s Angels movie!”
“Uh, excuse me, green shirt guy?” A man next to McG yells in our direction. There’s a clipboard in his hand, too, his shaggy hair held back with his headset. Finding no one else in green, Dean points to himself in confusion, looking around again to make sure. “Yeah, you. Come here.”
Dean gives us a wide-eyed look before shuffling towards the guy.
“Can you get me a smoothie from Kraft?” the man asks loud enough for us to hear from a distance.
“You want a what from who?” Dean utters.
“You are a P.A., right?” he scoffs. “This is what you do, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, yeah…he uh…one smoothie coming right up,” Sam interjects, quickly pulling his brother away from the conversation.
“Wait, you, girl,” the man says, snapping and pointing at me.
Wait, me?
“Where are you going?” he asks. “You’re Allie’s replacement, aren’t you?”
“What?” I deadpan.
“Ugh, please don’t tell me they sent another idiot,” he mutters to himself. “Look, Allie got scared off, you’re her replacement, you’re playing Kendra. We’ll shoot your replacement scenes another time. For now, we’re gonna continue where we left off. Alright?”
“Wait, but I’m—“
“They already got you dressed, great, now go look over the script or something, we’re starting at the cabin scene,” he continues, giving me a final once-over before brushing me off with a wave of his hand.
“What the hell just happened?” I utter the second we’re out of hearing, my jaw now permanently dropped.
“You just got cast,” Dean grins.
“But I’ve never acted before. What am I going to do?” I whisper-shout, looking between them with wide eyes.
“Get to reading,” Sam laughs hard.
“No, stop enjoying this,” I lecture. “Help me. Help. Please.”
“Sorry, sweetheart, we have smoothies to get,” Dean answers, enjoying this just as much as his brother, if not more. Betrayed by the people you love. “We’ll be back, trust me, we aren’t gonna miss it.”
“No, no, no, no, no, please, please, please, please,” I spew, total dread filling my chest.
But, they’re already walking away, leaving me to struggle for their own amusement. I can even see the way their heads duck down and their shoulders wrack in fits of laughter.
I hate them.
They’re actually the worst.
********
I stand stiffly on set, eyes focused on the ‘X’ taped beneath my feet to mark where I’m meant to stand. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I shouldn’t do this.
My heart beats wildly in my chest, blood pumping so loud in my ears that everything else is muffled. But the stage lights feel too bright, and all the cameras around are like horrible voids.
The actors around me talk amongst themselves; they're so comfortable in this environment, I almost envy them.
I try to remind myself to breathe, to loosen up my muscles, because really, I have acted before. I act every time we pose as someone for a hunt. It’s not that different when you think about it, right? Right?
My eyes wander past the various cameras, landing on a familiar figure weaving through the crew members. His back is towards me, but I know that it’s him. He places down a tray of smoothies onto a far table, twisting around smoothly to go on his way. Through all the people and all the equipment, his eyes find mine, shining through like little gems. He smiles widely, holding two thumbs up, making a little smile break onto my lips. I want to be mad that he didn’t try to save me from doing this, but he looks so genuine that it’s hard to stay upset.
Maybe this won’t be so bad. I mean, who hasn’t wanted to be in a movie? And it’s a horror movie!
“Quiet, please!” someone shouts, making everyone snap into place, rigid and ready.
Dean gives me one last emphasized thumbs up before disappearing into the crowd, going God knows where.
“On the bell!”
My heart speeds back up, thumping full of dread. But I see Dean’s ecstatic face in my mind, and it eases something in me.
“Alright! Hold the noise, we’re rolling!” Someone else shouts, then on cue, the warehouse lights go off, leaving only the stage lights on.
I play the lines over and over again in my head, hoping I spent enough time with them to not embarrass myself further.
“Why don’t we take it from, ‘come on, it’ll be fun,” McG yells, which is great because that means I don’t have to say anything. “And, action!”
A brunette holds up a big book, standing in front of us. Apparently, this is Tara, who is playing Wendy.
“Come on, it’ll be fun,” she teases, eyes dropping to the book.
She begins to read, but instead she’s just stammering through the Latin words. My best worried expression turns to pure confusion as she continues. I’m fluent in Latin, and yet I have no idea what she’s trying to say. She’s stumbling over the words, half mumbling them, and all I can really pick up is something about a pig, which could be the poorly written Latin or the fault of her misspeaking.
“Maybe we’ll finish this up tomorrow,” McG says from behind the camera, putting us (mostly me) out of our misery.
“Oh my God, I hate you so much right now!” Tara whines, breaking character.
“Cut!” McG yells, finally allowing the crew to laugh at her breakdown. No wonder why they say Hollywood is toxic.
Still, I use the opportunity to shuffle away and be grateful that we hadn’t shot long enough that I would’ve had to act.
I move to stand where I last saw Dean, only having to wait a minute or two before he emerges again, tucking a little box-shaped object into his pocket.
“What’d you get up to?” I ask as he nears.
“Checkin’ for EMF,” he answers, gaze wandering off to the table of food not five feet away from us. “Nothing there though.”
“Maybe that’s for the best. We should get out of here,” I say, watching him conspicuously shuffle towards the food.
“Nope, haven’t gotten to see you act yet,” he muses, picking up a little paper plate and filling it up with small sandwiches.
“It should stay that way. I feel like I’m being hazed,” I remark.
He laughs, hard, eyes sparkling with mischief and endearment, while he brings one of the sandwiches to his mouth.
“Fuck, that’s good,” he mutters through a mouthful of food. “You hungry, sweetheart? You should try this.”
“No thanks,” I say. “I think I’m filled with too much leftover anxiety to be hungry.” But I’m glad he’s enjoying it.
“‘S that bad?” he chuckles through another bite of food.
“I just don’t exude confidence like you do, Dean,” I half-shrug.
“You should, you’re really fucking sexy,” he answers so naturally as if it were an absolute fact.
I bite back a smile and a scoff of laughter. Still, it catches his attention like he expected it, gaze drawn to me.
“If you think you aren’t sexy, we’re gonna have a real problem,” he states, eyes sharpened, and brow quirked just so.
“Hey, you find anything?” Sam asks, popping out of nowhere.
“Nah, there’s no EMF anywhere,” Dean repeats himself.
“Great,” he mumbles. “So, what do you think?”
“Well, I think being a P.A. sucks,” Dean remarks, helpfully. “But the food these people get? Are you kidding me? I mean, look at these things. They’re like miniature Philly cheesesteak sandwiches. They’re delicious.”
He holds one up to Sam, adamant on sharing.
“Maybe later,” Sam says.
“Sandwiches aside, did you find anything while you were gone?” I ask, assuming that’s what he got up to since he didn’t arrive at the same time as Dean did.
“Well, Frank Jeffrey was just filling in for the day. Nobody here knew him or where he lived or anything,” he answers.
“That’s helpful,” I remark.
“‘Found out about as much as I did,” Dean adds.
“No, not quite. I—“
A guy with black hair and glasses interjects with a friendly “Hey, guys.”
“Oh, hey,” Dean responds.
“Sorry,” the man mumbles, squeezing himself in to grab a plate and a sandwich.
“That’s alright,” Dean says, watching the guy walk around with a proud smile. “They’re wonderful!” he shouts after the guy.
“Listen, I did dig up some stuff about Stage 9’s history,” Sam continues, where he left off. “Four people died messily here over the past eighty years. Two suicides and two fatal accidents.”
“Gosh,” I gape. “I’m guessing that means a lot of vengeful spirit material, then.”
“Yeah, we’ve just gotta narrow it down more,” Sam confirms.
“I’ll get right on that,” Dean announces, his attention trailing off onto Tara, who walks by. He follows after her, swiftly stealing a sheet of paper from a passing worker before approaching her.
An uneasy feeling settles into my gut, jealousy gnawing ugly bites into my organs. I trust Dean, I mean, he did just finish calling me sexy, and he once told me that he thought my speaking Latin was hot, and that’s something Tara cannot do. Not to be mean, that is. Besides, when do any of us get the chance to meet an actor we like?
“I’m surprised you’re not saying anything,” Sam remarks from beside me.
“What?” I scoff, trying to play it off. “I-I’m cool, this is fine.”
“Yeah, okay,” he whispers.
But there’s nothing to worry about because Dean returns almost exactly a minute later, paper still in hand. And, he looks irritated, which is actually maybe not a good sign.
“That was quick,” I point out.
“Yeah, well, Frank Jeffery isn’t Frank Jeffery,” he reveals. “He’s Gerard St. James, an actor, who I’m pretty damn sure isn’t dead.”
“What, so he faked it?” Sam asks in disbelief.
“Only one way to find out,” I say.
“Actually, you’re still needed on set,” Dean reveals, holding up the paper for me to see. It’s a call sheet. Great.
“Not this again,” I grumble.
“You’ll do well, just remember you get to be in a horror movie,” he says like it’s easy, stepping close enough to cup my face and press a lingering kiss to my forehead. “I’ll come pick you up later,” he adds, helping himself to a proper kiss.
Take that, Tara.
********
Hours go by in a whirlwind of refilming scenes I had to make up and then continuing with new ones. Between each take, I crammed the script like it was my life, all in hopes of not embarrassing myself.
Dean did keep me updated on what was going on, texting me often. That Geard guy is alive; his death had been faked in order to gain publicity for the movie. Which is very out of touch and horrible if you ask me, but maybe that’s show business. Still, it was nice to hear from Dean and all his silly little messages, like the photo he sent of a star with my name in the middle of it, drawn on a napkin. He said it was my own Hollywood Star, the sweet dork he is.
Now, I’m on set again, set up in the same “abandoned house” I started in. Admittedly, this has all been pretty damn fun.
“When we read from that book, we must have brought them back,” Torrance, who plays Mitch, acts. “Back from hell.”
“None of this makes any sense!” I exclaim as scripted. Luckily, none of this storyline is that far off from what I experience daily.
“It doesn’t matter. We’re not going anywhere until we find Wendy and her sister. Got it?” He retorts. “Good. Now let’s get busy.”
“Cut!” McG yells from behind the camera. “Very nice.”
“No good for sound,” a man holding a boom mike says. “I’m getting some kind of feedback.”
I sigh in tandem with just about everyone else on set. We all want to go home. In fact, I’d like to see my friends again instead of being put through whatever dream/nightmare this is.
“Another costly sound delay!” Someone mocks. “Alright, we’re going again for sound, people!”
“Thank you!” The sound guy chirps, adjusting his headphones.
But, we still wind up at a standstill while we wait for McG to conclude his conversation with the guy who recruited Dean, who I learned was called Brad, and some other guy.
“So, what other films have you been in?” Torrance asks, breaking the silence amongst our waiting.
“Oh, I haven’t. This is my big break. ‘Always wanted to be in a horror movie, though,” I admit, truthfully. “What about you?”
“My first film too,” he nods. “I was a background character in two shows, though.”
“Congrats, then,” I reply.
“Yeah, you too…so—“
“Alright!” McG announces. “We’re gonna add in a couple of lines. Kendra, after you say ‘None of this makes sense,’ say, ‘If they were in Hell, how could they hear our chanting?’ And Mitch, you’ll answer, ‘They must have super hearing!’ Then, continue with your lines like normal.”
That’s a whole lot of telling instead of showing, but alright.
“Sounds good!” Torrance answers for both of us.
“Great!” McG claps. “Let’s start. Places! Quiet on set! And, 3…2…1 and action!”
“When we read from that book, we must have brought them back. Back from Hell,” Torrance repeats in almost the exact same inclination.
“None of this makes any sense!” I exclaim, again. “If they were in Hell, how could they hear our chanting?”
“They must have super-hearing!” Torrance replies, but instead it just sounds stupid and out of place.
Then, there’s a loud crash from above us, something breaking through the ceiling. A horrific scream rips from my throat at the sight of what came through: Brad’s hanging body. His body spins on the rope from the force, his neck left bent at a horrible angle.
By morning, it’s like nothing happened. The ceiling is patched up, the body is gone, and the set is clean. The only indication that something occurred is the whispers spread among the cast and crew. Though I’d like to add a sleepless night. The hours I had the opportunity to sleep were filled with the image of his body dropping again and again. I see messed-up things all the time, but it hasn’t made me immune to the bizarre and horrible.
Speaking of messed up, we’ve continued right where we left off, talking about books, and hearing the chanting from hell. Now, Tara’s character is entering the scene, finally adding something different to this Groundhog Day of filming.
“Wendy?” Torrance, as Mitch, gasps.
“Oh, Mitch! God, you’re alive!” She gushes, hugging him tightly.
“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” he smirks.
“Rumble, rumble rumble!” McG narrates from behind the camera. Actually, I laughed the first time he did it, which made us have to restart, so this time I forced myself to keep a straight face.
“Salt,” Tara announces, pulling away from the embrace. “Okay, we need salt. I read in that book that it keeps ghosts away.”
“Kendra, Logan, you guys check the back,” Torrance orders, prompting us to nod in determination and walk off-screen.
I use the opportunity to walk around the camera crew, heading to where I saw Dean last. Luckily, he chose to play his P.A. role again, allowing him to be back on set.
“Um…uh, yeah, cut. Cut!” The director shouts.
“That’s a cut!” Dean mimics in all seriousness, though it makes finding him that much easier.
Seeming to sense me before I say or do anything, he turns in time with my arrival, letting his half-eaten taquito fall onto his plate so he can push his headset off one ear.
“There’s my movie star,” he drawls, smirking devilishly as he eyes me up slowly.
“You’ve seen me do like one scene,” I laugh, standing close to him.
“And?”
“And…that’s hardly ‘star’ material.”
“Says you,” he remarks in a little grumble, handing his plate off to the nearest crew member walking by to rest his hands on my hips. “My girl is gonna be in a movie.”
“A possibly haunted movie,” I add, giving in to his sugary words and proximity.
“Still counts,” he decides.
“I-I-I just can’t wrap my head around the dialogue, you know?” Tara says loudly, unintentionally cutting into our conversation. “Salt? Doesn’t that sound silly? I mean, why would a ghost be afraid of salt?”
“Little does she know,” Dean chuckles, voice low in my ear.
“Okay…Marty?” McG calls out.
“Yo,” Marty, a long-faced man with thick, greying hair, answers, stepping forward.
“What do you think?” McG asks.
“Not married to salt, what do you want? ‘We still sticking with condiments?”
“It just sounds different, not better. What else would a ghost be scared of?” McG continues.
“Sigil—“
“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” someone groans from beside me, cutting off my own mumbled response. He’s the same guy who interjected our conversation with his sandwich taking.
“What would a ghost be scared of? Maybe, uh, maybe shotguns,” Marty suggests.
“Okay, that makes even less sense than salt,” McG remarks.
“These people are idiots,” the sandwich guy spits, walking off with a huff of annoyance.
It’s been an interesting two days.
“Walter’s a little testy for a P.A., huh?” Dean muses, watching the man go with a thoughtful look.
“Can’t blame him, there’s constantly so much going on at once, it’s overwhelming,” I reason.
“Hey, how’s it going in here?” Sam asks from behind me, returning from whatever he was up to. Thus forcing me to step out of Dean's grasp to hold a conversation like a normal person.
“It is going really well, man,” Dean grins, adjusting to my movements so that his arm wraps around my waist. “‘Directors really liking Y/N’s work, heard him talking ‘bout ‘being a natural’ and a ‘scream queen.’”
“He does? He was?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he exhales like it’s obvious. “I was eavesdropping."
“Guys, you know when I ask how it’s going in here, I’m talking about the case, right?” Sam interjects. “We don’t really work here.”
“Speak for yourself, I’ve literally had to stay late, learn the script, and I get paid tomorrow,” I retort. “All thanks to you two for thinking you were funny, may I add.”
“Fine, you might be actually, accidentally, working,” he corrects with a grumble. “But I thought you hated being a P.A., Dean.”
“I don’t know, it’s not so bad. I kind of feel like part of the team, you know?” Dean admits, shuffling his feet.
“No,” Sam deadpans. “Anyways, listen, I conned my way into the morgue.”
“And?” Dean asks.
“News reports were right, Brad's a doornail, no question,” he answers.
“I told you!” I exclaim. “You can’t fake the sound of a neck snapping like that.”
“Copy that,” Dean mutters. “I’m sorry, what?”
“They faked it in front of someone before; we had to be sure,” Sam explains, looking at me.
“Fake what?” Dean asks, looking between us.
“Brad’s death. Y/N was right. The reports were right,” Sam answers.
“They are aware.”
“Who’s aware?” Sam asks.
“It’s his headset,” I answer for him.
“I’m sorry, what were you saying?” Dean says again.
“Uh…The newspaper’s right, Brad’s a doornail, no question about it,” Sam repeats for the umpteenth time.
“I guess it’s a good thing we didn’t skip town,” Dean remarks, finally paying attention. “Oh, come here. I want you to hear something,” he adds. “Copy that. On my way.”
Sam gives me an annoyed and knowing look, expecting me to be on his side. But I just shrugged and let Dean lead us away.
“Hey, Dave,” Dean greets a man holding a boom mic. “Can you play ‘em that thing you were playing me earlier?”
“Sure,” Dave answers, bringing us over to a laptop. He clicks a couple of things and offers up a pair of headphones, Sam and I taking an earbud each.
The audio starts normal, crisp even, as it plays the scene from last night, but not even halfway through, there’s a weird staticky noise. It continues to grow distorted, and I know there was nothing going on last night that would’ve caused this externally, so what the hell is going on here?
********
The A.C. hums quietly in the background, the door to the trailer thumping shut behind the youngest Winchester. It’s my first time in this trailer that’s technically mine, or, well, the girl who was playing Kendra before me.
After we listened to the audio, Dean did another EMF sweep, this time getting results. So, the next logical step was to investigate the crime scene, but because that had been cleaned up, the closest thing was a recording of last night.
“Where’d you get that DVD?” Sam asks as Dean inserts it into the machine and turns the TV on.
“They’re called dailies. I got it from Cindy,” Dean explains. “She’s kind of got this on-and-off thing with Drew. He dubbed me an extra copy.”
“They’re ‘on’ right now, if you were wondering,” I mutter to Sam, sitting next to him on the couch.
“I wasn’t.”
“Oh.”
“Alright,” Dean says, grabbing the remote, pressing play, and collapsing down beside me, arm thrown around the back of the couch.
The scene from last night plays from the beginning, my cheeks growing warm from seeing myself act, my voice playing back at me. Then, of course, comes Brad’s crashing entrance, making me flinch all over again, just this time, the screaming is left to my past self.
“Again,” Sam orders.
Dean nods, rewinding the footage to just before the fall. Again, the ceiling breaks, and Brad comes crashing in, the snap of his neck evident before the screaming.
“Wait, go back, go back,” Sam directs. “Right after. Right aft-yeah. Wait. There.”
Dean has it paused on the right frame, revealing an entirely different set than the one used last night. And standing off in the corner is a ghostly woman wearing a silk robe and painted lips.
“How the…it’s like it’s filmed over,” I mumble.
“It’s like ‘Three Men and a Baby’ all over again,” Dean remarks. “Selleck Danson, Guttenberg, and…I don’t know who played the baby.”
“What are you talking about?” Sam asks, confused as ever.
“There’s a scene in the movie where people say that the camera caught a ghost on film,” he explains. “Apparently, in the background of one of the scenes, there was this boy that nobody remembers from set. Spirit photography.”
“Well, I’ve seen her before,” Sam declares, staring at the screen intensely.
“You have?” I ask.
********
I shuffle my way off set, trying to be inconspicuous so I don’t get swept away again.
Sam had left before to figure out how he recognized the spirit, which had taken enough time for filming to start up again. Now, I’m breaking away, meeting the Winchesters in our agreed spot.
“There she is,” Dean grins widely, lounging in a folding chair, man-spreading to the max. And, of course, his headset is still in place.
“Hi, sorry,” I exhale, stepping closer to the table he and Sam are occupying.
Dean beckons me with a small gesture of his hand, immediately pulling me down to sit on his thigh when I’m close enough. My legs are between his spread ones, his arm at my back. He ignores the side look Sam gives us, shrugging and saying:
“What? There’s no other chair,” like it’s the most obvious explanation in the world.
“…Anyways, you’re just in time,” Sam nods, unfolding a piece of paper from his pocket.
“Yeah, go for Ozzy,” Dean suddenly says. The headset…again. “No, I don’t have a 20 on Tara, I think she’s 10-100.”
“Oh, I got eyes on Y/N,” he says next, hand slipping up the hem of my shirt, his thumb rubbing back and forth against the skin of my back. “Okay, copy that. Alright, what were you saying?”
Sam sighs, shaking his head. “Elise Drummond, starlet back in the thirties. ‘Had an affair with a studio exec. He uses her up, does her, leaves her destitute, so Elise hangs herself from Stage 9’s rafters, right into a scene they’re shooting.”
“Just like our man, Brad,” Dean nods. “So, what, she’s got it in for the studio brass?”
“Possibly. I mean, it’s a motive,” Sam answers. “And Brad’s death matches hers exactly.”
“We’re digging tonight, aren’t we?” Dean remarks.
“Maybe not. Why did this only happen now? I mean, this studio isn’t exactly new. What could’ve triggered this?” I say, rattling off my train of thought, something itching at the back of my mind.
“You have something?” Dean asks, gaze boring into my expression.
“I don’t know…” I mumble, trying to detect what’s bothering me. “One sec.”
I leave Dean's lap and warmth to round the set, beelining it to the first script I see. I snatch the packet off of one of the fancy movie chairs, flicking through the pages with a scene in mind. Finding it, I skim through the passage of Latin, making alarm bells go off in my head.
“Should’ve seen it before,” I mutter as I return to the Winchesters. I place the packet down, finger pointing to the passage of text. “In this scene, Tara’s character is accidentally summoning the demons, or whatever, for the movie. But this is an actual summoning spell. At first, I thought it was Latin because she was butchering it so badly, but it's not. It's Enochian. I just…I didn’t realize it before because I was trying not to vomit everywhere.”
“Well, what the hell is that doing in a Hollywood movie?” Sam asks, looking up from the script.
A little awkwardly, we wander into the doorway of the writer, Marty’s, office. He’s lounging back in his chair, talking on the phone with an edge of annoyance. Then his eyes jump to us in the doorway, giving us a strange look as he hangs up on whoever he was talking to.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” The long-faced man asks. “Are you having problems on set? With the script?”
“Oh, um, no,” I shake my head.
“Sorry, we—we couldn’t help ourselves. We just had to tell you that we also read the script,” Sam jumps in, gesturing towards him and Dean.
“And?” Marty presses, unamused.
“Yeah,” he nods. “It’s, uh, it’s awesome.”
“Awesome,” Dean nods.
“I know it’s pretty rockin’, right?” Marty smiles, leaning in as if he were absorbing the praise. “I’m glad you guys liked it.”
“Yeah, yeah, we especially liked the, uh, Enochian summoning rituals,” I pile on.
“Yup, great attention to detail,” Sam adds.
His smile falters. “Attention to detail is usually all me, but I didn’t write that Latin crap. No, man, that’s Walter. Walter Dixon, the original writer. You like that garbage?”
What’s this dude got against Latin?
“Wait, ‘Walter the P.A.’ Walter?” Dean asks.
“No, he’s not a P.A.,” Marty clarifies. “He’s got a clause in his contract that allows him to come on set.”
“But he wrote the invocations?” Dean continues.
“He wrote a whack-job screenplay. There’s no pace, there’s no love interest, it’s all wackadoo exposition,” Marty corrects, holding up a finger. “I had to cut, like, ninety percent of it to make it readable, the other ten percent to make it good.”
********
“You know, this is pretty good,” I say, turning to the next page of Walter’s screenplay. They changed a lot of what he wrote, including the original name “Lord of the Dead.”
“They should’ve kept it,” Dean adds.
“Yeah, and it reads like a how-to manual of conjugation, like a textbook on how to summon ghosts and get them to do whatever you want,” Sam points out.
“Like kill people,” Dean finishes for him.
“Yep. So, let’s say somewhere down the line, Walter learned some pretty black magic,” Sam continues.
“And let’s say he’s pissed at these people for wrecking his movie,” Dean topples on.
“Hell of a motive,” I say.
“One worth checking out,” Dean concludes. “You think Walter’s gonna be home?”
“No, he’s probably still on set,” I answer.
“Why? It’s late, and filming is over,” Sam points out.
“Exactly. It’s the perfect time to kill someone else. I mean, you really think he’s going to stop at one person? And who is still alive that ruined his script?”
“Martin,” Sam exhales.
“Look, if I’m wrong, I’m wrong. But I think we should get the guns and check the sets,” I suggest. “Plus, I’m never wrong.”
********
After checking the abandoned building set, I thought I may have actually been wrong. But when we enter the warehouse with the forest set, the shouting coming from around the corner tells me all I need to know.
“Walter, please! Walter, help me!” Martin screams as a ghostly male figure drags him by his collar towards an industrial fan. “He—“
A loud bang booms through the large space, the calculated shot hitting the ghost square in the chest, making it vanish in a puff of smoke. Dean steps forward, lowering the gun just enough.
“You are one hell of a P.A.,” Martin remarks, scrambling to sit up.
“Yeah, I know,” Dean answers.
“What are you—“
“The jig is up, Walter,” I cut him off, taking careful steps towards him.
He scurries up the stairs of the rafter, Sam immediately jumping in front of me and climbing up after him.
“Raising these spirits from the dead? Making them murder for you? That’s playing with fire,” Sam tells him.
“You don’t understand,” he utters.
“You know what? You’re right, I don’t understand,” Sam admits.
“Just…wait, look,” Walter stammers. “You put your heart and soul into something, years of hard work. It’s years, and then they take it! And they crap all over it! And then—and then they want you to smile and say, ‘thank you.’”
“Walter, listen. It’s just a movie. That’s it,” Sam urges.
Walter scoffs, and I have to agree. I even take offense to that; a movie is never just a movie.
“Look…I’ve nothing against you, man. Or either of you!” he gestures towards Dean and me. “You’re not a part of this. Just please, please, leave. But Martin’s gotta stay.”
“Hey, man, we got nothin’ against you either,” I admit, holding my hands up in surrender. “But you can’t just kill people. We can’t let you do that.”
“Not that we like him either, or anything,” Dean mutters. “It’s just a matter of principle.”
“Then I’m sorry, too,” Walter responds. He raises his arm, and clutched within his hand is a talisman, circular with some sort of ‘x’ or ‘t’ inside of it.
But before he can begin chanting, lips forming the first letter, the talisman vanishes, appearing in my hand. Having no clever quip to say, I give him a knowing, pointed look as I recite the words to set the spirits free from control.
“What the–” he mutters, scrambling further up the rafter with wide eyes.
I frown, knowing what’s to come, because their freedom means his death. Regardless of being under no one’s control, they will want revenge for what he made them do. There is no stopping that. I turn my back just as an invisible force drags him down, his guttural screams filling the air.
My cheeks burn as a round of applause breaks out amongst the crew members. It’s the last day of filming. Or, at least it is for me. I have no idea what kind of scenes they may or may not reshoot with the other cast members, but that’s no longer my problem.
I bow my head in a sheepish ‘thank you,’ then trudge my way off set.
“Now that that humiliation ritual, and bucket list number, is over,” I say, standing in front of the Winchesters. “I have a bikini that is in desperate need of exposure.”
I watch the way my words process in Dean’s mind, his jaw going slack, eyebrows rising, the cogs in his brain turning, and a smile spreading on his lips as his eyes lazily dip down my figure.
Then, he’s turning to his brother, saying: “You heard the woman.”
Satisfied, I turn on my heels, leading the way out.
“God, I love this town,” Dean mutters.
(Next Chapter)
A/N: In a couple hours I’m gonna be presenting my research paper in front of a whole bunch of people at school, like a whole department. I might die so wish me luck.
Description: Cannon Divergence. What if Daredevil had a change of heart, not letting Frank give himself up. Instead, he takes him to you.
Warnings: Description of injuries, unintentional suggestive wording(?) A bit of a shorter one but it is the “pilot.” Reader is depicted with having hair long enough to put up in a clip. Let me know if I missed any
(Masterlist)
Word Count: 2.1k
The sound of the floorboards creaking, a loud thump, and a bang pull you from your deep sleep. You stumble out of bed, nearly tripping over twisted sheets as you grab the nearest weapon: a candle.
You try to calm your breath as you creep into the living room, cool air licking at your bare arms and legs. “Weapon” raised you brace for a fight, only to stop short at the sight of a man in a devil's costume and a slumped-over man in all black standing by your couch. At least you knew one of them.
“You scared the crap out of me!” You exclaim, arms still dropping in a tension-releasing sigh. “How the hell did you get into my house?!”
“I’ll explain everything later. I need your help,” Matt answers, breathing hard and irregularly. He manages to sit the slumped-over man onto your couch, making him groan loudly.
You round the sofa quickly, placing the candle on the side table with a thunk. You can see the man clearly now in all his bloodied glory. He’s huge. He’s got broad shoulders, big arms, and short cut hair. Immediately, you know who it is because you’re technically working with people who want to find and incarcerate him.
This man is Frank Castle. And at this very moment, he doesn’t seem to be all that here, with his head tilted back against the couch and his legs spread wide.
Wide-eyed, you turn to Matt, only now realizing that he isn’t in good shape either. There are bloodied holes in his suit, he’s got a busted lip, a bloody nose, and probably a handful of other issues you can’t see.
“What did you get into?” you ask, somewhere between sounding stern and pleading.
“He needs help,” he answers.
“Yeah, he needs a hospital! I’m not a doctor. You know I’m not a doctor, right?”
He laughs softly, wincing in the middle of it. “I know. Can’t bring him to a hospital, and you’re the only one I can trust right now.”
If your heart rate wasn’t already through the roof, it certainly is now. Panicked energy fills your veins, forcing you to move into action.
“‘M not a doctor. Hell am I supposed to do?” You grumble, flipping on all the lights.
“Thank y—“
“You’re not going anywhere,” you stop him. “You’re in bad shape, too. Sit down.”
“You’re starting to sound like a doctor,” he teases, chuckling. “I’ll be okay. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“What?! You can’t just—“
But before you can argue further, he’s gone as quickly as he came. Great.
With quick steps, you move around your apartment to grab: medkit, gauze, ice packs, tweezers, Advil, water bottles, bowls, peroxide, alcohol, gloves, scissors, and a claw clip.
You throw your hair up with the clip, wash your hands, and glove up. By the time you make it back to the living room, Frank looks like he’s gotten worse.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood; you really need a hospital,” you reason one last time.
“I’ll be fine,” Frank answers, his voice deeper and more gravely than you expected.
You bite back a remark about him being just as stubborn as Matthew, deciding this man needed help more than he needed to hear something stupid and true.
“Right, then…take off your shirt. Please. Sorry,” you ramble.
“Cut it off,” he grumbles.
You blink at him, shocked, before moving into action. You stand between his spread legs, cutting a straight line up the black t-shirt. A hard plane of muscles and abs stand in front of you, and you do anything in your power not to think about it too hard as you get him out of the shirt completely. Still, to help, you need to stare for a different reason.
There are bruises along his ribs and a number of bullet holes along his torso, as well as a lot of blood.
Before you start anything, you open up the Advil and offer it over. He needs something stronger, but it’s all you have. Still, he takes it, his large hand brushing against yours as he accepts the pills and a water bottle.
You pour some of the alcohol into a bowl and dip your tweezers in, letting them sit long enough to disinfect them. Then, you kneel beside him on the couch, mumbling an apology as you nudge him to sit forward, eyes tracking down the muscles of his back to see if any of the bullets passed straight through. Some of them did.
You press him back into the couch, earning a wince and a groan. Then, you get to work, using the tweezers to dig a lodged bullet out. He grimaces, tensing slightly, and while you expected anyone in his position to scream out, he doesn’t.
“Breathe,” he rasps.
You pause, tweezers freezing around the found metal. You knew a lot about him from what your cop coworkers talk about, like the fact that he’s an ex-Marine, and still, his keen observation throws you off. You weren’t even aware that you were holding your breath until he said so. It wasn’t uncommon for you to forget to breathe when you were nervous or zoned in; it’s just that no one had ever called you out on it.
“Sorry,” you mumble, continuing the task at hand. But, by briefly looking up, you catch the way his lip pulls into a snarl, his head turning as if he’s stopping himself from saying something.
You manage to clean and patch up half his torso before the silence is broken once again.
“For not being a doctor, you sure as hell know what you’re doing,” Frank remarks.
“I…don’t have an explanation for that,” you admit. You’ve kind of just been doing what feels right, and what you’ve seen from those doctor shows.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a Forensic Scientist,” you mumble before quickly jumping into a rant so that he doesn’t freak. “But I promise I’m not gonna tell anyone that you’re here, let alone the cops, because I’m not a snitch and—“
“I’m not worried,” he reveals.
Once more, he’s thrown you off. You pause your work to meet his eyes, but there’s nothing to suggest he’s lying. He doesn’t seem like the type to trust easily, and yet he’s admitting something like that. Though maybe you don’t seem too threatening in thin pajamas now smeared with specs of blood.
“You know who I am then, huh?” he asks, keeping eye contact. You have to admit, even with facial bruising and two black eyes, he was quite handsome, which you know you shouldn’t be thinking of right now, but you can’t help the thought process.
“Yes.”
“You scared?”
“No,” you whisper.
“You should be,” he grins.
It’s almost as if he wants you to be afraid of him, like it’d be easier that way, because fear is easier than trust or companionship. But, beyond a deep internal feeling that pulses behind your heart, you know he only kills criminals, which you aren’t, and so there’s no reason to be scared.
“Somehow, I think you’re wrong,” you conclude.
Another ten minutes go by in silence, too focused on finishing patching his torso up to talk. Finally, you stand, stepping back to examine your work, checking for mistakes. Then your eyes land on a patch of blood-stained on his thigh, and a clear hole made through the pants.
“I…could clean that up too, but I don’t think I should cut off your pants so…”
He gives a single nod, head leaning back against the couch, showing off the column of his neck as he grunts and pulls at his belt.
Immediately, you force your eyes up, finding sudden interest in the paint color of the ceiling. At least there’s no water damage, you think.
You hear the clinks of his belt, the rustle of fabric, the hum of a zipper, and more rustling. You take a glimpse, his pants down at his ankles, his boxer briefs hugging him firmly. You swallow roughly, looking away, and repeating in your mind a reminder not to look at his crotch. That wasn’t your business.
You kneel between his legs, focusing only on his wounded thigh and nothing else, though your warm cheeks said otherwise. Hell, you’re struggling to even look at his thigh for more than a couple of brief seconds, and the second the wound is covered with an alcohol dipped washcloth, your eyes are off to the side.
“You’re a big girl, ain’t you?” he drawls. “Don’t gotta be shy ‘bout it.”
Your brain short-circuits. You don’t think he meant to mean anything by it, but it makes your heart stutter nonetheless.
You move the washcloth to the side, applying the gauze pad and tape to the area instead of answering his comment. What would you even say?
Then you stand, busying yourself with cleaning up the mess of bloodied washcloths, scraps, gloves, and other materials, sweat clinging to your brow. By the end of it all, it feels as if you’d run a marathon, your mind and body shot.
You know you did the best you could for Frank, but you also know he should’ve gotten better help; he should be at a hospital. So when you walk back to the living room and see him standing as if nothing happened, you pause. This guy keeps surprising you.
“What are you doing?! Sit back down, you’re gonna hurt yourself more,” you lecture, moving closer to him to push him onto the couch if you need to.
Tongue in cheek, he tilts his head down to meet your gaze as he re-buckles his belt. You force your eyes not to drop down for the third time tonight. “‘Just gonna make some coffee,” he reasons.
Your eyebrows shoot up. “Really? You could’ve just asked me. Sit down. Please.”
This man was seriously going to give you a run for your money.
His lip twitches into that little snarl again, but he gives in and sits back down.
“Thank you,” you exhale, simply glad that a man who takes orders from no one is humoring you. So, you move through the quiet motions of putting a pot of coffee on. Really, how the hell did you get into this mess?
As the coffee brews, you return to the living room, shyly curling up in the armchair.
“How do you know Red?” he asks, glancing at you and then settling his gaze on something in front of him.
“Oh…” you hum, unsure if you’re glad for the break in awkward silence or not. Daredevil, or Matt, right. “Long-time friend, or acquaintance. He’s a good guy. Means well.”
His jaw tenses, and he scoffs. “You believe in the same crap he does?” he asks, voice loud though you’re starting to think that’s normal for him. “Justice system. ‘Doing it by the book.”
Why he cares what you think is beyond you. But it matters to him, that’s clear enough. Though maybe he’s just looking for an argument.
“I try to…I want to,” you admit, unafraid to meet his gaze again. “But, it’s hard sometimes. There’s a lot of corruption, a hell of a lot of people that slip just under the radar or can walk right through it because they have money in their pocket. I know most of the people on the force are corrupt, and I can’t really trust anyone. There’s also not much I, or most people, can do about it.”
“There is,” he corrects, gruffly.
There’s more behind his dark brown eyes than any rumors or case files could ever tell you. And yet, you know, there’s much more to him than his tough vibrato.
“Yeah, maybe there is,” you echo softly. You break the contact, his gaze a little too intense and revealing.
“Um…you can stay here as long as you need. Brooklyn doesn't have any vigilantes, or heroes, and, um, the cops don’t really patrol often either, so no one should be looking for you,” you continue, standing from the armchair to check on the coffee. “And it’d make me feel better knowing you were somewhere safe while you healed.”
“Why?” he rasps.
“Why what?” you laugh.
He pushes himself to stand, jaw tensing. “Why the hell are you helping me out? Is it cause I know Red? ‘Cause let me tell you something, we’re real different people. It ain’t safe with me around.”
“I don’t have any ulterior motives if that's what you mean,” you answer calmly. “I’m helping just because I am. That’s all. Now what did I say about gettin’ up?”
He chuckles, shaking his head and momentarily looking away.
“‘You always this bossy?” he asks, wearing a wicked smile.
“Not usually,” you admit, then point down at the couch. “Sit.”
He laughs again, the rumble deep in his chest.
“Yes, ma’am,” he smirks, surprisingly doing as said.
Your cheeks burn as you move into the kitchen. He’s a little infuriating with his stubbornness, but he’s hot and has a really nice smile, which is even more infuriating. Once more, you have to ask yourself: “How the hell did I get into this situation?”
(Next Chapter)
A/N: First time writing for Frank Castle, let me know how I did. Also, I’m actually from NYC, raised here my whole life so I’m gonna be as accurate as possible without doxing myself lol.
I am going to be starting a Frank Castle x f! reader mini(?) series. It’s cannon divergence, starting in season two of Daredevil.
Essentially, at the end of “Penny and Dime,” what if Matt has a change of heart after hearing Frank’s story, deciding to not allow him to be taken in by the police, but bring him to someone who can help, someone he can trust: You.
It will be a slow burn but may have some time skips.
My posting for this will likely not be consistent since I have my focus on my main series which will not be paused or go anywhere!!! I’m also balancing a million final papers, projects, and work, so yk how it is. But I do have at least three chapters in mind with one done and the other in the process.
wait so she said the friend works with you but you don’t know who she is?
i’ve only been here a month so idk everyone yet and i’m not great with names. BUT i did see the girl today and i feel really mean saying it but if he likes her than that means i would’ve had a chance. like i know im being mean and so you guys can bash me but i feel like i “out mog” her which is saying something cause i wouldn’t and don’t out mog anyone (#insecure). Im being mean. I feel bad for being mean.
She’s probably really nice and i’m being horrible. I’m not usually horrible. I feel bad.
i actually need to get over myself cause it’s not like i ever talked to him before. my sister is saying like he’s jsut a man and yeah she’s right so i shouldn’t care but also she’s in a relationship so shut up lowkey.
i lowkey am becoming friends with the girl through our mutual friend and she was saying how during lunch he was being touchy with her and playing with her hair and he’s gonna walk her home tonight even tho that means him staying later than he has to.
i’m lowkey mad for no reason but i’m also happy for her cause she sees really happy and she was blushing hard.
like i said, i need to get over myself and this. ughhh
wait so she said the friend works with you but you don’t know who she is?
i’ve only been here a month so idk everyone yet and i’m not great with names. BUT i did see the girl today and i feel really mean saying it but if he likes her than that means i would’ve had a chance. like i know im being mean and so you guys can bash me but i feel like i “out mog” her which is saying something cause i wouldn’t and don’t out mog anyone (#insecure). Im being mean. I feel bad for being mean.
She’s probably really nice and i’m being horrible. I’m not usually horrible. I feel bad.
so there’s this guy at work that i’m totally crushing over except i’ve never interacted with him let alone spoken with him.
i’ve only been working here like a month, and the first time i saw him i immediately thought he was cute so it’s not one of those proximity only based things. but even then i was like hold up i need a closer look before i can really tell. well next time i see him it’s oh wait he’s actually hot….
then i learned through one of my co-workers who i coincidentally go to school with, his name, what he actually does here (he’s like security but it’s something with the merchandise), what he aspires to be in life, that he doesn’t have his license yet (#same), and that he’s 21 so only a little older than me (😛)
THEN on a really hot day he wore this black short sleeve shirt instead of his usual long sleeves and his biceps were STRAINING against the fabric like….i literally had to stop myself from giggling. literally almost lost it. UGH HES SO HOT I HATE LIFE.
See, i’m not confrontational. I do not have the ability or confidence to strike up a conversation with him. The best thing I can do is tell my friend/co-worker that i think he’s cute and if she could lowkey be a wing-woman and even set up just a conversation but i need the balls for that too. I also don’t know if hes taken already cause i’ve never talked to him. For my sake i hope he isnt. I also will never make the first move ever so i guess it doesnt matter.
Anyways he’s really hot, makes it worth going into work, and it’s fun to talk about it with my mom.
I can say for certain that he’s aware of me just cause I’ve passed by him so many times and he’s also like looked at me but i think in just the “acknowledging there’s someone else near you” way and not the 😏 way. i wish bro. but one of the times that happened i highkey gave him the awkward white person smile LIKE A FRICKING IDIOT OMGGGGGGG
Actually put me out of my misery. You guys got any advice? Comments? Concerns? Mind you i’ve never been a relationship 😊
Computa how do i be confident and not a coward and also hot?
So i’m about to go into work (haven’t been in since i made this) but I talked to my friend about it and she told me that he got out of a relationship three months ago but is now in a talking stage with one of her friends who is a coworker of ours expect idk who she is lol. she even overheard a pickup line from him to the friend so it’s like fr fr.
Thus, all missions are and will be aborted. GG, it was fun while it lasted. Maybe ignorance is bliss but also maybe not
