𝜗𝜚 SUMMARY - You're nervous to lose your virginity, Dean shows you everything that you've been missing out on.
𝜗𝜚 WARNINGS - smut, dom!dean, sub!reader, nervous/shy!reader, unprotected sex, creampie, p!v, teasing, loss of virginity, fingering, hickeys (r.recieving), size kink, praise kink, dean is experienced, reader is inexperienced, (1) thigh slap, big dick!dean, boob fondling, boob sucking, reader is smaller than dean, illusions to past masturbation, reader blushes, petnames, intended lower case, nothing i write is ever proofread 🩷
dean liked having you sat in his lap.
this wasn't the first time, your legs stretched around his waist while your hands scrunched idly at the black shirt he'd been wearing, your lips against his own. making out with you had to be possibly the best thing he'd ever done. it was like getting sent to heaven and back, between each breath he damned the gods that disallowed him to press his lips against yours for forever.
but you were new to all this.
he had to be gentle.
dean was the first real relationship you'd ever had. and if he was being honest, you were sort of the first real relationship he'd ever had too.
he used to hop from girl to girl, bed to bed and not think twice about it. you were the absolute opposite. you were the type of girl that didn't speak unless spoken to, you kept your head down and got through everything without so much as letting your imagination wander with what it would feel like to be with a man.
then you met him.
his hands were pinching at the fat of your thighs, he found it hard to keep his hands to himself when you were like this. between kisses, he could hear the shakiness in your breaths, it drove him unbelievably mad.
you felt almost sorry for dean, knowing it'd taken this long to get comfortable enough to even make out with the man. you knew his history and how he wouldn't go longer than a week without someone in his bed. now he'd went more than three months with you like this, aching for more.
and it wasn't like you didn't want more, believe me, you'd been aching just as horribly.
you were just... scared?
deans hands moved harshly against your skin, right hand coming down to gently slap your thigh before gripping it once again. the feeling prompted a low whimper to leave your lips.
dean almost groaned. he could get used to hearing noises like those.
when the man pulled away from your lips, heavy breaths still leaving his own, you swore you could have whimpered again just from the loss of contact.
he looked down at you, eyes all blown wide, lips slick and swollen, it was a sight he hoped was never erased from his memory. he wanted to remember this forever. "y'so needy." he had that cocky grin on his lips, cocking his head to the side as he viewed you as a whole, all his, right in his lap for the taking.
you felt your cheeks get hot at the sentence, eyes immediately darting anywhere other than his face. "don' be mean." was the mumble you let out, eyes adverting and voice lowering. you weren't able to talk to him, not when he got like this, all 'bigger' than you, it made you feel small, it made you feel wet.
"'m not, 'm not." he spoke with a low chuckle, one of his hands raising to meet your face, you felt the padding of his thumb wipe across your hot cheeks, he could tell you were nervous. then again, you were always so nervous. "i think it's cute."
again, your face got increasingly hotter but dean didn't leave you any room for words, dipping his head so his lips could meet your neck.
there was something so surreal about being like this, your hands gripping at his shirt, top lip clamped down on your bottom as he kissed against the skin of your neck.
again, this wasn't the first time he'd done something like this. makeouts and hickey-leaving was getting more and more natural in your relationship, common, even.
he'd come home from his hunts with sam and all he'd want was you either below or on top of him, his lips against anything they could reach.
you felt his lips part, sucking against your neck as one hand ran up your back, the other cupping the back of your hair. once he sucked, his tongue would smooth over the skin, pleasure to ease the pain. and he'd go again, gradually moving to different places on your neck. marking you.
your own lips were strewn shut, you were hoping and praying on every star that you didn't let a noise slip from you. you were too nervous, too embarrassed but the whole point of this was to feel good, wasn't it? so why did you feel so embarrassed to show him how good it felt?
your eyes fluttered shut, the feeling suddenly overwhelming.
you didn't register the move of your hips until his lips left your neck and his hands clamped down on your waist, low grunt leaving his mouth.
you stared at him with those big eyes and he swore he was gone. "y'can't do that, sweetheart." despite his words, his tone was gentle. "can't start something if you don't want to finish it."
he knew how inexperienced you were, he thought you wanted to hold off on losing your virginity which is why he'd never made such a move but by the way you were looking at him now, he swore you wanted nothing more than for him to take you.
and he'd gladly do so upon your command.
"i do..." you uttered. ".. want to." the words made your insides twinge, made your nose scrunch and your lips purse.
you were too nervous, shaking like a leaf on top of him. even so, with so much anxiety bottled into a human, dean made no movements of caution.
you sort of liked that dean wasn't as awkward or nervous as you were. dean was confident, that much was for sure. but being so confident also gave him this openness, seeping comfort into your veins as his large, warm hands trailed up and down your thighs.
"yeah?" his voice was breathy and his smile had left his features. he didn't need to be so teasing now, he knew you would simply burst of shyness. and he didn't want you in a position of uncertainty. "what d'you want?"
he wasn't trying to tease you, though he knew his fingers that began to dance against your skin were doing nothing to calm your nerves.
he just needed to hear you say it.
you planted your face into his chest with an incoherent mumble, cheeks alight as flames.
dean could have laughed at you but he didn't want you thinking you'd done something wrong. on the contrary, he found it downright adorable how shy you'd been getting. but you couldn't help it, this was such an unfamiliar feeling bubbling in your stomach.
"can't hear you, sweetheart." his head came down to sit atop yours, his voice a gentle whisper. "i need you to tell me what you want, okay?" his free hand tipped your chin upwards to look at him, those pretty green eyes held so much sincerity. "use your words f'me, baby."
words felt stuck in your throat, you couldn't seem to get them out. but dean didn't want to let this get away from him, he steadied your chin between his fingers.
"i want..." your voice was all breathy, all needy. it had dean reeling. "i want you to touch me."
and as the words passed your lips, you swear all the air was knocked from your lungs. listening to yourself talk had made your head feel fuzzy. before dean, you couldn't have even imagined such words leaving your lips.
dean was struggling to compose himself but nonetheless, he did. his lips quirked into this proud yet sly smirk as his fingers ran up and down your thighs. "where, angel? here?" he practically mocked, fingers against your knee.
at this point, dean had never seen an angel, he didn't believe in them. but he was sure that if angels did exist, you had to be one of them.
you could have corrected him verbally, told him to stop teasing or even scolded him for mocking you while you were all worked up like this. but instead, you chose to grasp his bigger hand in your own and trail it towards your core.
as your hand cupped his own, he could feel them shake, he almost cooed at you but he didn't want to make you more nervous than you already were.
but when his hand finally reached your clothed core, he couldn't help but let out a groan.
it didn't take longer than a second for dean to have you flipped over with your back against the mattress of the bed. a noise left your lips as he towered over you, that infamous smirk etched to his lips.
but a type of seriousness washed over him. "are you sure you want this?"
you knew he wasn't asking you to tease you or make you wait, he was being sincere and you couldn't have been more sincere back by bucking your hips with a low whine of the word, "yes." quickly followed by a "please."
"so needy." he mumbled back, lips moving to your neck while his fingers fumbled at the cotton material of your baby blue sleep shorts. he hooked his fingers around the waistband and tore it off skilfully.
he supposed his experience was paying off.
you didn't have any time to counter what he'd said, too focused on the feeling building in your stomach. much of it was worry, anxiety even but the majority of it was this foreign, amazing feeling.
"fuck." his ring clad fingers circled against your panties. you were suddenly hyper aware of how worked up you'd gotten while making out with him, a blush creeping in on your face as you turned away from him.
dean all but tutted, dragging your face back.
"don't get shy on me now, sweetheart. This wet for me, the least you can do is look at me." he had that empowering stare that told you he was in charge here, it had you shrinking further into the mattress.
but dean wasn't demanding, sure he was dominating but he didn't make you uncomfortable. truthfully, you'd been rather scared of getting this far with anybody but you were sure that if there was anybody you wanted it to be with, it was him.
his hands toyed at waistbands of your panties. "this okay?" his eyes were glued to your face, trying to watch every way your face contorted, making sure you were okay.
believe it or not, there was a lot one could tell from just looking at someone.
you nodded your head briskly, darkened and bitten lips parted slightly, covered in the slick left behind from your tongue. your cheeks had turned a darkened colour too, blush spreading across your face.
there was something so surreal about looking at you like this, knowing nobody else ever had. he pulled the panties down your legs, watching you steadily with his own lips parting open. his eyes moved from yours to trail down your body, landing on your sopping core. he couldn't help but breathe in a breath.
"you're so pretty, angel." he moved his hand upwards again, closed fingers gently toying with your clit, which earned a soft gasp from you. his lips quirked as he brought his hand away, using the other to slip off his ring. he took your wrist, holding it up gently. "take care of this for me, yeah?" you nodded as he slipped the ring onto your thumb, seeing as your other fingers wouldn't fit it. "good girl." he mumbled, pressing a kiss to your cheek.
he was suddenly hyper aware of the fact that you were a virgin.
now, dean wasn't necessarily put off by the fact that you were a virgin. dean couldn't have cared less what you were. but he needed to make sure he was gentle, more so than any other time.
because he was the first, the one you'd remember forever.
though, he intended to be your very last, too.
his fingers trailed across your pretty tank top, down to your hips and finally edging between your legs. he peppered kisses against your face and down across your jaw, finally landing on your neck, fingers pushing your legs apart with ease.
as shy as you were, you didn't hide from him, you allowed him to part your legs, his hand was against your inner thigh, softly soothing up and down against your skin.
but he had to make sure, before he touched you. "sure this is okay? not having second thoughts?"
of course dean wanted to but he only wanted to if you wanted to. but you nodded anyway, swallowing though your mouth was dry anyway. "'m just nervous." you admitted softly.
it was no secret to dean that you were a nervous creature already. he knew this was all new to you but he didn't want you to feel shy around him. "you don't need to be." he pressed a kiss against the supple of your cheek, hand moving further as you let out a shaky breath. "not with me." as the whisper left his mouth, his hand came up to touch your hot core.
the noise that left your mouth should have embarrassed you but right now, you couldn't think of anything other than the feeling of his hand right where you needed him.
he collected your wetness onto his fingers, spreading it up and down your folds, two fingers parting from the rest as he gently eased them into your hole.
heavy breaths suddenly left you, chest rising and falling while dean's face was practically hidden in your neck, peppering kisses, sucking and licking against the soft skin while his fingers settled inside of you.
he gave you hardly any time to adjust to the feeling, pulling them out and then thrusting them right back into you. "you're so warm, sweetheart." he mumbled in slight awe. suddenly, the image took over his mind, the image of him inside of you. he couldn't seem to wipe it away.
he knew that giving yourself to him even just like this was a lot for you, he didn't want to push you any further than he already had tonight.
however, the image still tainted his memory.
as the speed of his fingers increased, so did the volume of your noises.
a sticky, wet sound bounced from wall to wall, causing your cheeks to warm incredibly further. you flushed, your own hand coming up to cover your mouth, suddenly aware of how loud you'd been.
a coo left his lips, free hand coming to drag your wrist away from your mouth. "wanna hear every noise you can make, angel."
and his words alone made you whimper.
the palm of his hand bounced against your clit with every thrust of his hand, emitting these noises from you that you'd never been able to draw from yourself.
"y'sound so pretty, you know that, baby?" you made a noise to show you were listening, though all it told dean was that you felt good. "look so pretty too. so beautiful. all mine."
dean couldn't keep his hands to himself.
his free hand dragged against your skin, pushing at it as if trying to get closer to you in any way possible.
against his fingers formed a creamy ring. he looked down at his digits sliding in and out of you, wetness surrounding you both, keeping you together by a wet string.
he let his thoughts wander.
as evil as it was, he simply couldn't think of anything else, he imagined it was his dick sliding in and out of your hot, wet hole, the noises you'd make would be so much louder, you'd be so much fuller.
then he was suddenly aware of your experience once again.
you were tight, incredibly tight which only made him scissor his fingers. if you were going to take his dick, he needed to stretch you out first.
"dean!" you spluttered out as he scissored his fingers inside of you. "c-cant."
your hips bucked backwards, as if you were trying to tell yourself to stop, but it felt too good to stop.
and dean knew your body well, more than you knew it apparently for he only tutted, holding your wrist in his free hand. "you can take it baby, there you go." and he must have known what was happening because your insides were turning to mush.
you'd orgasmed by yourself before but this? this was true bliss.
he held your waist down to the mattress as your body squirmed, head falling back into the pillows as his name fell on your lips, moans and whines blissfully leaving your slick lips.
"good girl." he mumbled, pressing kisses anywhere his lips could reach. "you're so good, there you go. atta girl."
his words of praise fell on your lips, only making you squirm impossibly more. but nonetheless, he kept up his pace, fingers moving to help you ride out your high.
dean swore he'd never seen something so beautiful.
he watched in awe, staring at the way your face scrunched up, pretty lips parted and your eyes screwed closed, though he could only imagine you were seeing stars behind your lids, not that he was being cocky or anything.
the sight was pure bliss, angelic, even.
he swore he'd been to heaven and back, just watching your face contort.
and he'd watch it forever, if he could.
he was suddenly aware of how tight his jeans felt.
"i need to fuck you." he was mumbling with a slight neediness in his tone, kissing up and down your throat, his hand only coming to a halt when your own practically pushed it away, the overstimulation becoming too much. "can i?" a beat passed. "please?"
his face rose to meet yours and you stared at him, all blissed out. you swore that his fingers were the most skilled, pleasurable feeling you'd ever felt, much better than to how it felt when you'd done it by yourself. your lips were glossed over, heavy pants leaving your chest. huge eyes and flushed cheeks.
almost a whine of the phrase, "uh-huh." passed your lips.
and it was enough for him.
his lips crashed into your own, kissing you ever so softly, though there was passion hidden somewhere between your heavy breaths.
needy hands pawed at the end of his black shirt, his own hands reached down to cup yours, helping you tear it off of his body. his amulet dangled downwards, just below your face and he was suddenly very aware of the fact that your top was still on. he supposed he'd been too focused on making you feel good to realise.
his hands reached the end of your own top, helping you push it over your head.
no words left his lips but they parted, tongue passing over the bottom one as he stared.
your pink bra was so pretty on you he almost had to think to decide whether or not he wanted to keep it on. but he decided with the latter, hands unhooking your bra skillfully, as if he'd done it a thousand times before.
he hardly got to see your boobs, for his hands cupped them as soon as they were let out of the bra. he cursed out a grunt under his breath, one hand leaving your breast so his mouth could replace it.
against the mattress, your back arched, stomach against his own while you bit back the pretty whimpers which he yearned to hear. his mouth worked against you, rolling his tongue back and forth, practically flicking your nipple in his mouth making you unable to contain the sounds you so desperately tried to keep back.
"d―dean!" you spluttered, eyes fluttering shut. his own eyes looked up at you, watching your face contort once again.
he had to have you.
as his face left your chest, a string of spit connected your boobs to his lips.
he wiped it away, though nothing could wipe away that smut smirk he held. nonetheless, he helped himself to shimmying out of his jeans, taking his boxers off with it.
it wasn't until he took everything off that reality set in. you stared, eyes blown wide, he was, well... big. and it was sort of hard not to get nervous, even with the fact that his fingers had just been stuffed inside of you, you weren't so sure it was going to fit.
"you okay?" he leaned down, towering over you. he realised your eyes hadn't moved from his dick, pulling your chin up with his two fingers. "are you sure you want this?"
you nodded your head, thoughts a mere muddle of clouds. "i just... 'm nervous." you admitted, feeling your stomach fill with this fuzzy feeling that you only got when you talked to dean.
"you don't have to be nervous, sweetheart, not with me, okay?" the palm of his hand rested on your face. "do you want this?"
"yes." you answered without a beat.
"promise?" you could have melted right then and there. dean winchester was of many things but above all, he was gentle.
"promise." you mumbled, finding yourself relaxing just at the mere sound of his voice. his hand trailed up to find your own, fingers interlocking yours. his free hand moved down to his dick, pressing it in his hand.
you watched with curiosity yet also nervousness. you'd never seen this done in real life, so the shyness was creeping in as you watched him move his hand up and down his shaft, dragging it towards your wet hole. instantly, a sound left your lips, blush instantly creeping in as your eyes snapped up to him. he only smiled gently at you, finding your shyness rather adorable.
the head of his dick slowly pushed inside of you and that alone had you feeling awfully stretched. he wasn't just long, he was thick too meaning he stretched you out completely. "okay?" you nodded at the sound of his question, the feeling of his lips on your cheek moments after. "'s gonna hurt a little, alright?"
you nodded your head, eyes shutting closed as you braced yourself.
you weren't an idiot either, you knew first times were supposed to hurt but luckily for you, you had dean right there, holding one of your hands tight in his own, soft whispers and kisses against your skin.
what more could you really ask for.
he slowly eased himself inside of you, worried he was hurting you. then again, there wasn't really any other way to get inside without hurting you. he watched as your face contorted, a gentle whimper leaving your lips but he knew it wasn't one of pleasure, more of pain, actually.
he mumbled gentle apologies and left a trail of them in kisses from your neck to your cheeks.
finally, he was in completely and he couldn't help the string of curses that he mumbled under his breath.
dean stayed as still as he could. worry set in, he didn't want to hurt you, not when you'd been so nervous in the first place. he'd been with many girls but you were a tight fit around him, swallowing his dick whole. he couldn't help but almost coo at the way your hole clenched around him.
he felt your hips shift, and he knew you were ready. "can i―fuck, sweetheart, can i move?"
again, you nodded with a subtle whine that told him in other words, yes, he absolutely could move. and that was exactly what he did.
he slowly pulled his dick out from inside you then suddenly slammed his hips back in, his dick hitting the spot deep inside your walls. instantly, he was met with a mewl.
"shit." he uttered, wanting to draw as many sounds like that out of you as he could. his two hands now rested on yours tightening his grip as he placed them over your head so he could gain better access. "oh, fuck, sweetheart, you're so fucking pretty."
it seemed as though dean had the mouth similar to a sailor when put in a position like this.
but he couldn't help it, you were staring at him with those doe eyes, pretty noises falling from you. his hips moved with ease, slamming in and out of you, it didn't take him long to pick up the pace either.
your legs lifted to surround his waist, moans leaving the two of you as his hips slammed inside of you.
"shit, you're so good for me." he was a mumbling mess, he meant every word of what he said, though he wasn't too sure what was leaving his lips as of now. "oh, my sweet girl, thaaat's it."
he tipped his head forward, connecting his forehead to your own. your whimpers and whines were swallowed by a kiss, gentle yet so full of neediness, it was exactly what you wanted.
"feels..." you mumbled once your lips had parted, though you were sort of dazed, not all the way there. "feels so good."
"good girl, 's it, take it all." you felt his hand suddenly trail down, fingers soft against your clit while his dick still hot between your gummy walls. "'s okay, you're okay."
you shook your head, swallowing thickly as your hips bucked. "'s―'s too much!" you panted out, moans leaving you as if you couldn't keep them inside.
"you can take it, baby, know you can." but he could tell by the way your face twisted again, you were close.
and so was he.
"you gonna let go f'me? huh?"
at this point, your eyes had fluttered shut and you lips were parted as you nodded, brows strewn together. "gonna... 'm gonna cum, dean."
"that's my girl." he answered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "cum all over my dick f'me, sweetheart."
you supposed you were more obedient than you thought.
dean watched as you squirmed and moaned, eyes screwed shut as you finally let go around him. he could feel your gummy walls squeezing him tighter, a ring of slick had formed at the base of his dick. the mere sight, his dick still stuffed inside your cunt and you, cumming all over him.
well, it was enough to have any man weak.
which was why he'd finished so quickly, too.
after all, he'd been holding on since you were sat on his lap.
and that one feeling, cumming in your wet, hot walls and watching you with that pretty, stricken and worn out face as you came on him too... he swore he had really been to heaven and back.
when you both rode out your highs, he laid himself on the bed next to you, watching as you reached your hand up, playing with his silver ring that sat on your thumb.
summary: when out on what was supposed to be a supply run, dean gets captured by a djinn and thrown into a world that's full of everything he didn't realize he wanted - what happens once he's saved?
pairing: dean winchester x female reader; bestfriend!sam winchester x female reader (platonic)
word count: 17.4k+ (i am sooo not sorry)
warnings: hunting/working a case, dean goes missing, dean gets attacked, dean is held captive, swearing, angst, alternate reality, wife!mom!reader, husband!dad!dean, mentions of reader's parents, mentions/allusions of age gap, mentions of pregnancy/childbirth, alcohol consumption, magic use, manipulation, mature themes, dean thinks he's losing his mind again, angst, arguments, cannon level violence, idiots oblivious to their own feelings, idiots in love, unknown mutual pining, dean is a dick to reader for a bit, friends to lovers, denial of feelings, hurt/comfort, eventual love confessions, fluff, angst, use of [y/n], nicknames, homage to s2 ep20, did i mention angst?
“We need more beer,” Sam announced, emerging from the kitchen with two bottles in his hand. “We’re running low.”
“I’ll go,” Dean quickly volunteered, slamming his book shut as he practically jumped from his chair.
“We still have-” Sam tried to reply, but Dean waved him into silence.
“It’s fine, I’ll go,” Dean reiterated, slipping his flannel from the back of the chair and shrugging it on.
“Well, since you’re going out,” you started, glancing up at him. “Can you get me something to eat?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I can do food,” he replied with a nod, flashing you a sheepish grin.
“Thanks,” you said, matching his grin for a moment too long again.
Sam awkwardly cleared his throat while taking his seat, causing you to rip your gaze away and focus back on your book, heat burning under your skin.
“Just hurry up, would you? Stop using this as an excuse to get out of doing research,” Sam cut in with a huff.
“I would never,” Dean gasped, feigning offence as he held a hand to his chest.
“Sure you wouldn’t,” Sam sarcastically agreed, taking a sip of his beer.
“Whatever,” Dean muttered, sharing a look of contempt with you that had you giggling quietly, and Sam rolling his eyes.
“Dean-” Sam began to chastise, before being quickly cut off.
“I’m going!” Dean said defensively, holding his hands out in surrender as he backed away from the table. “Call me if you need me.”
“Yup,” you and Sam agreed in unison, both locking back onto the task of researching the case.
Footsteps sounded heavy on the stairs, and the bunker door screeched open and shut before plunging you and Sam into silence.
“How long do you think he’ll take this time?” you asked after a few minutes, a smile playing on your lips.
Sam laughed, running a hand through his hair. “Probably long enough for us to figure this all out.”
You hummed in response, closing your book and selecting a new one. “Probably,” you agreed, flipping through the pages with a chuckle.
The fact that Dean was gone for just over an hour at this point wasn’t entirely intentional. He may have spent some extra time chatting to the patrons when he stopped in for some cases of beer. He may have spent longer than necessary reading the menu once he walked over to the diner you liked - he knew your order by heart, but no one needed to know that, did they? And yes, maybe he put up with the flirtations of the waitress a little longer than he should have, but it’s not like he was purposely avoiding getting back to help with research.
Yet it still came as no surprise to him when your name showed up on his caller id, your irritation practically palpable through the screen already.
“Yeah, I know, I know,” Dean placated, answering the call as he made for the door. “Food’s hot, I’m on my way back.”
“Are you actually on your way back, or are you just saying you’re on your way back?” you questioned, and Dean couldn’t help but chuckle as your inquisitive stare came into his mind's eye.
“I’m on my way back, smartass,” Dean grumbled, setting the food on Baby’s roof as he fumbled for his keys. “Though don’t wait up for me to come save the day and crack the code on this thing,” he added playfully.
“Aw, don’t worry, De,” you comforted lightly, before taking on a more serious tone. “We’re not.”
A grin found its way to Dean’s face as you abruptly ended the call, and he laughed quietly as he unlocked his door.
He really, truly, was on his way back. He was halfway in the car when a noise reached his ears, his attention snapping to the alley across the street. He stilled, waiting in silence for a few moments as he listened for anything else. His hand was on the door, ready to snap it shut when it happened again.
Heaving a sigh, he got back out of the car and gazed across the street, a feeling of unease brewing under his skin.
“It’s just a cat,” he rationalised to himself, resisting the urge to reach for his pistol as he surveyed his surroundings. “Or, it’s whatever the hell we’ve been trying to track down.”
Inching slowly across the street, he carefully pulled the pistol from the confines of his jeans and mentally ran through all the things he could possibly encounter, trying his best to ready himself.
“Please be a cat, please be a cat, please be a cat,” he pleaded quietly, stepping into the shadows of the alley. As soon as his foot stepped over the threshold of darkness, a hunched shadow darted across the back wall, taking on all the likeness of a terrible Hollywood movie villain. “Not a cat,” he determined, quickly making his way through the alley.
Unable to find anything after searching three times over, Dean decided to cut his losses; he’d get back to the bunker, fill you and Sam in, and the three of you could regroup here later and see what could be found.
It was a good plan, except Dean never got to execute it - he never even made it out of the alley. He only made it halfway before he was met with blinding blue light, pain, and then nothing but darkness.
Dean woke with a start, a pounding in his head and cotton in his mouth as he frantically surveyed his surroundings.
“Oh, thank fuck,” he mumbled, throwing his head back on his pillow after recognizing his own room.
He laid there for a few minutes, running through the events of last night - or, what he thought was last night, but was maybe only a dream - before getting ready and making his way to the kitchen.
“Hey, there he is!” Sam greeted cheerfully. “I was starting to think you’d miss breakfast all together.”
“Nothin’ can keep me from my bacon,” Dean teased, making himself a cup of coffee as Sam fixed a plate for him.
“Well, here’s an extra helping,” Sam announced, sliding the plate onto the table before Dean. “Since today’s a special day.”
“Right, thanks,” Dean muttered, his mind running into overdrive as he tried to determine what made today special. “So, uh, what exactly happened last night?”
“What do you mean?” Sam questioned, sitting down across from his brother.
“I mean what happened,” Dean repeated gruffly, taking a hefty bite of his food. “I don’t even remember getting back to the bunker, next thing I know, I’m waking up in my room not even fifteen minutes ago.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not really shocking,” Sam replied with a snicker. “You were pretty out of it.”
“I was?” Dean asked through a mouthful of food.
“Yeah,” Sam confirmed with a grimace. “Look, just shut up and eat your food so we can go meet up with [Y/N].”
“[Y/N]?” Dean repeated. “Where is she?”
“At the house,” Sam answered, off-handed.
Dean only stared at him, trying to determine if he was seriously supposed to know what the hell Sam was talking about or not. “The house?”
“Yes, Dean,” Sam confirmed, already exasperated. “You guys got the keys today, remember? [Y/N] wanted to get a head start on setting up the nursery and we’re supposed to go help her. And we’re late, so hurry the hell up.”
“Nur-... the nursery?” Dean spat, eyebrows drawn in confusion. “Since when the hell is she even pregnant?”
Sam stared at him like he suddenly grew three heads before rolling his eyes. “Hilarious, Dean. You know full well it’s for Ellen.”
“Harvelle?” Dean wondered, feeling like he was losing his mind - or Sam his; hell, or both.
“Winchester,” Sam supplied in disbelief. “Your daughter - dude, are you still drunk?”
Dean felt his blood run cold, his heart getting lodged in his throat. “I, uh, yeah - yeah, probably, I don’t know,” Dean sputtered, chugging the rest of his coffee with a shaky hand. Having completely lost his appetite, he pushed his plate away and abruptly stood. “Let’s go.”
“You’re not gonna finish eating?” Sam asked curiously.
“Nah. Like you said, we’re late,” Dean answered, hurrying from the kitchen before Sam could see the look of terror on his face. “You should probably drive,” he added over his shoulder.
“Yeah, okay,” Sam agreed, following Dean out. “Sure.”
Dean spent the entire car ride feeling like he was going insane. Half of him wanted to search through his phone, figuring it would have most, if not all, of the answers to whatever the hell was going on. Though the other half of him was terrified by what he may find, and he was having a hard enough time trying to fend off the panic attacks already. So he settled for sitting in silence, wracking his brain for a single clue. He barely even noticed that they pulled into a driveway until Sam’s voice startled him out of his daze.
“Welcome home!” Sam cheered, eagerly exiting the car.
Dean felt like he was being weighed down with lead as he climbed out of the car, following Sam to the front door. “[Y/N/N] always loved this house,” he muttered softly, cluing in to the fact they were headed into the very house you always gushed over when driving by.
“Why do you think she was so excited to finally get the keys?” Sam asked with a laugh.
Dean continued to follow him up the stairs and across the front porch, feeling as though he was on autopilot and copying his brothers every move.
“Ready?” Sam asked with a grin.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, sure am,” Dean replied awkwardly, nodding in agreement.
“You’re nervous,” Sam pointed out, not entirely wrong. “Look, I know it’s a big change, but you have nothing to worry about. You’ve already been such an amazing dad, and that’s not gonna change just because you three won’t be living in the bunker anymore. Okay?”
Everything inside Dean started burning, screaming at him to get the hell away from this situation. It only just now truly sunk in that this wasn’t just his house. It was your house. He would be living here with you and his daughter. Wait, did that mean the two of you-
The front door was suddenly yanked open, jarring him from his thoughts. His bewildered eyes landed on your mother - grinning from ear to ear as she took in the sight of him and Sam - and your father, standing a few steps behind her with a polite smile. “I thought I heard you two!”
Stepping aside, she eagerly ushered them in, and Sam nearly had to shove Dean over the threshold as he grumbled incoherently about how weird he’s being.
Dean, once inside, had to steady himself when he saw you.
It wasn’t because you suddenly appeared from around the corner without warning.
It wasn’t because you had an infant resting on your hip; a precious little copy of you.
It wasn’t because the first words out of your mouth were a melodious “Daddy’s home!” when you spotted him.
Hell, it wasn’t even the ring on your left hand, catching the light so perfectly that it almost put the brightness of your smile to shame.
It was because when he saw you - grinning from ear to ear, dishevelled and exhausted from a never ending list of things to do, mysterious stains littered across your shirt - Dean swore you had never looked more beautiful.
“Hi,” he breathed out, wiping his suddenly clammy hands on his jeans.
“Hi,” you repeated with a laugh, advancing towards him as the child in your arms reached out for him.
He wasn’t sure what was more surprising: how natural it felt when he reached for her in return, how comfortable it was to hold her, or how easily he reciprocated the kiss you casually placed on his lips; as if you’ve been doing so for years.
“Sorry I left without waking you,” you confessed, wiping away a stray crumb from the corner of his mouth. “I figured you could use the extra sleep given how hard you went at Garth’s party.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Dean replied automatically, despite not having a clue what you were talking about.
You and Sam both laughed, which irritated him. It felt like there was some inside joke that he was the butt of and wasn’t allowed to know.
“No, of course it wasn’t,” you teased, turning your attention to Ellen. “Daddy’s just as young as ever, isn’t he, baby?” you added, playfully pinching her cheek to elicit a laugh from her that made his heart soar.
Dean grinned mischievously, adjusting his grip on Ellen. “Yeah, well, I don’t think my age was a problem for you back when we made this little angel, now was it?”
Part of him was surprised he even said it, given he has no recollection of his life with you, let alone that, while the other half of him beamed with pride over how easy it was to play along.
“Oh, god,” Sam groaned, cutting off any chance you had to reply. “That’s my cue to leave. Who wants to help me make coffee?”
Quickly agreeing, your parents followed Sam towards the kitchen, leaving you and Dean grinning at each other in the hallway like smitten teenagers.
“Okay, come on! I need your opinion on paint colours for her room,” you gushed, tugging on his sleeve.
Firmly taking your hand in his, he followed in your wake as he listened to you ramble over the ideas you had. He wasn’t sure if he was really supposed to give his opinion or not, considering you never gave him much time to speak up, though he knows he would have agreed with you anyway just to keep that smile on your face.
He was glad you never gave him time, though, because at some point he completely stopped listening. It was neither intentional nor because he didn’t care. It was simply because you looked so happy, so excited and at ease. It felt like forever since Dean saw this sparkle in your eyes; he didn’t want to do anything to take it away.
It took you staring at him with raised eyebrows to realize he was supposed to say something.
“You weren’t even listening, were you?” you asked.
“Yes, I was!” he argued, setting Ellen down in her playpen.
“Okay, which colour is the one I like most?” your voice held a challenge, but the look on your face showed you were more amused than angry, much to Dean’s relief.
Scanning the colour samples on the wall, he confidently chose the one he knew to be your favourite before grinning in triumph.
You sighed, shaking your head with the shadow of a fond smile on your face. “Please, we both know that’s only there to make my mom think it has a chance. That colour is just awful.”
Playing it off as a joke, Dean laughed as casually as he could without making it obvious he was losing his footing all over again.
This was your favourite colour. He helped you paint your room in the bunker this colour. Nearly every trinket or accessory he ever bought you was this colour. Hell, he almost lost a bet that had him upholstering Baby in this colour - a bet he, to this day, has no idea why he accepted. Dean knew this was your favourite colour.
Yet, apparently, it wasn’t.
“So, like I said, I was thinking of this colour,” you continued, pointing to the last colour Dean would’ve thought you’d ever pick. “I figured it’d go really well with the wallpaper we picked out for the accent wall, don’t you think?”
Dean had no idea what the hell wallpaper you were talking about, but he nodded away. “Almost a perfect match.”
You grinned enthusiastically, planting a firm kiss on his cheek before beginning to ramble again. Not even Sam coming in to deliver mugs of coffee and steal away Ellen could stop your ideas from being known.
As the day carried on, you dragged Dean throughout the house to have him help you decide on final touches in each room, littering kisses across his face whenever you could and leaving him flustered each time.
As the day carried on, he grew more and more at ease, leaning into your touch every time.
Before he knew it, he had learned Ellen's nighttime routine while he helped you get her ready for bed, and was now sitting beside you at the dinner table to enjoy what seemed like a feast created by your parents.
“The first dinner in your home should be a special one,” your mother declared, seemingly reading his mind as she added the last dish to the table with a grin.
After expressing his thanks, he quickly fixed your plate before serving himself; a gesture that was familiar to him, as he knew he'd done this countless times before in the bunker. The kiss he received from you in return, though, was a gesture he still wasn't familiar with. Yet, it was one he guiltily realized he wouldn't mind getting used to.
The conversation flowed so easily between the five of you that Dean almost felt fooled into believing he's done this time and time again. Hell, maybe at this point he just wanted to believe it. Or better yet, maybe there just wasn't anything abnormal going on after all. If he had a crazy night out like you and Sam said, then maybe all his confusion could be chalked up to a crazy hangover. Maybe this really was his life. Maybe-
“Everything okay?” you asked quietly, breaking him from his thoughts.
“What?” he asked, turning to look at you. “Yeah, why wouldn't it be?”
You arched an eyebrow at him, clearly picking up on the waver in his voice. “You were lost in space. What're you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” he assured, wiping some sauce from your cheek. “Just a long day.”
It looked as if you wanted to argue at first, though you quickly plastered a smile back on your face. “Alright.”
“He's tired,” your mother announced. “Remember that he isn't as young as you are,” she chided playfully, pointing a finger at you.
“Yeah, and neither are we!” your father cut in with a laugh. “I think it's time we call it a night.”
“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” agreed your mother. “Let's just clean up first.”
“No, absolutely not,” Dean declined with a shake of his head. “You two did all the hard work, we can handle the clean up.”
“Don't bother arguing,” you pitched in, cutting off your mothers reply. “I'll make Dean kick you out if you don't go willingly.”
Dean stammered over his response, trying to figure out if that was really something you expected from him or not, before he was met with laughter from everyone; laughter he belatedly joined in on.
“We're going, we're going!” appeased your father, standing from the table with a laugh. “No need to sic your attack dog on us.”
Dean laughed on time at that, because, well, he'd gone to bat for you many times before, and he doubts your parents are where he'd draw the line - and he's glad your father seems to know that.
Having said your farewells with them, Sam pitched in to help you and Dean clean up, carrying on your idle conversations from dinner as you did so. This is when Dean felt like things were finally normal again. With you and Sam tackling the dishes and laughing over your dumb jokes, while he tried to ignore you both and put the food away. Just like how it always was.
“Well, I think that about does it,” Sam announced, tossing the dish towel onto the counter - which earned him a glare from you as you quickly hung it up. “I should head out, too.”
“Already?” you questioned.
“Yeah,” Sam shrugged. “I got a new lead I wanna follow up on.”
Dean almost jumped for joy over his brother's response. “You hunting something?”
“Uh, yeah,” Sam informed awkwardly. “Yeah, I've been working on a few cases.”
They were still hunting. Another sign of normalcy. This was good. He really was starting to think this was somehow just one massive misunderstanding. “Great! What do we got?” Dean asked eagerly.
The look shared between you and Sam made his blood run cold again, and he felt a pang in his heart as he watched you dip your head to play with your ring, a deep frown on your face.
“Well…” Sam started, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “We don't have anything, Dean. I'm still working alone.”
“What?” Dean asked curtly. “Why the hell are you hunting by yourself? I'm not allowed to help you anymore?”
The sound of your defeated sigh filled the room, and his attention snapped back to you. Avoiding his gaze, you said goodnight to Sam before practically running from the kitchen.
“Sometimes I don't know whether you're an asshole or just an idiot, Dean,” Sam said haughtily, running a hand through his hair.
“What did I do?” he asked helplessly.
“Dude, come on,” Sam sighed, taking a seat in the breakfast nook. “Why would you say that in front of her?”
“Say what? That I wanna help you?” he asked, joining his brother where he sat.
“Yes!” Sam exclaimed. “You don't do that anymore, Dean.”
Dean felt like he was caught in a sea of confusion, and every time he thought he'd break the surface, tendrils weaved from mystery and misunderstanding wrapped themselves around him, pulling him back under to where he was destined to drown.
“I don't… help you anymore?” Dean wondered, not understanding anything.
“You don't hunt anymore!” Sam replied, being as loud as he could dare without waking Ellen. “You stopped hunting as soon as you and Y/N learned she was pregnant, and you swore off hunting altogether as soon as Ellen was born.”
“Yeah, but-” Dean tried to say, before falling silent. What the hell was he supposed to say to that?
“Look,” Sam butt in. “I'm sure you were only offering to help with research, but that's how it starts.”
“What do you mean?” he inquired, and he almost had to laugh, because he was suddenly reminded of when he first had to give the hunting talk to Sammy as kids - only this time, he was the one asking Sam all the questions.
“You have a wife, Dean,” Sam announced somberly, and Dean wondered fleetingly if his heart would ever stop skipping a beat when someone mentioned you as being his in such a way. “You've got a beautiful daughter, a house, a family. A family that you and Y/N are trying to make bigger. Why would you want to go back to hunting in any capacity?”
Dean fell silent, taking in what his brother had said and feeling like his head would explode.
All because he doesn't remember.
He doesn't remember dating you. He doesn’t remember proposing or getting married. He doesn't remember you being pregnant or getting you pregnant. He doesn't remember Ellen being born, or when you both apparently decided to have another child. He doesn't remember his life. But this is his life, and something in him doesn't want to lose any part of it.
“I guess I don't,” he finally admitted quietly, shocked at how true that answer felt to him.
Sam nodded, remaining quiet for a minute as they each gathered their thoughts. “I know you've been… freaked out, I guess, today. I don't know why, but if the reason has you wanting to start hunting again, you need to talk to Y/N about it.”
“That's not what's happening,” Dean denied, shaking his head.
“Alright,” Sam accepted with a nod. “Whatever it is, it's between you two, anyway.” With that, he placed a hand on Dean's shoulder in consolidation before standing up to take his leave. “I'll see you all tomorrow.”
Dean only nodded, his mind too far away to formulate any other response. He remained sitting there after Sam had left, staring at his surroundings for who knows how long. By the time he came to his senses, his initial instinct was to get up and find you, but instead he decided to wander around the house in search of some answers.
There was still so much left to do with the place, yet there were pictures littering the mantle and hanging up on walls that made him want to tear his hair out as he examined them. Engagement photos, wedding photos, maternity photos, vacation photos - an entire life with you portrayed right in front of him that didn't stir even the faintest bit of recollection within him.
Terror laid claim on his heart, his mind growing hazy as the world around him began to crumble. He felt like he couldn't breathe, a weight on his chest so heavy that the air was trapped in his lungs.
“Who the hell am I?” he asked himself, the picture before him beginning to blur as tears clouded his vision.
He was stuck. Stuck in a net made up of lies and deceit and impossibilities and he needed to get out but those woven tendrils had him wrapped up tight, binding him to a mind he couldn't trust and dragging him down, down, down into the sea.
“Dean?” you called softly, sounding muffled and far away.
He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out; he couldn't even fucking breathe let alone talk. He tried to answer again, but it felt like he was choking, his throat burning every time he opened his mouth.
“Baby?” you pressed, sounding louder to him this time.
It wasn't just because you were closer now, having tentatively approached him during his struggle. It was the hand you gently placed on his arm, pulling him out of the black abyss and onto dry land once more.
“How is this real?” he choked out, unable to peel his gaze away from the photo above the fireplace.
“What do you mean?” you asked tenderly, taking his hand in yours.
“I mean this,” he breathed, squeezing your hand for effect. “How can this all be real? It shouldn't be real.”
He kept muttering to himself, and you gently took his face in your hands to get him to look at you.
“You feel that?” you asked quietly, wiping away his stray tears with your thumbs. “I'm real.”
“It just doesn't make sense,” he confessed, struggling to meet your gaze.
“Everything is alright, baby. I'm real. You're real. We’re real,” you told him, gentle yet firm.
“We're real,” he repeated shakily. “This is real,” he added, needing to convince himself further.
“I know this is all a big change for you, De,” you admitted, trailing your hands down to rest on his chest. “But why didn't you tell me it was this hard for you?”
“I don't think it's the move,” he told you, resting his hands on yours. “I just- I feel like I'm forgetting something. Like something important is slipping away from me, and I can't figure out what it is.”
You studied him carefully for a moment before threading your fingers through his. “Well, we'll just have to figure it out together, won't we?”
Dean smiled sadly, tightening his grip on your hands. “Yeah, I guess we will.”
All Dean could do was hope that everything would be better come tomorrow.
“Did you get a hold of him?” you asked, re-entering the library after shedding your pyjamas.
“No, still going to voicemail,” Sam said with a frown, pulling the phone away from his ear as he glanced over at you. “Why the hell did you change, where are you going?”
“Where do you think I’m going?” you asked in turn, staring at him as though the answer were obvious - which, in your defence, it really was.
“We don’t even know for sure if something’s wrong,” he sighed. “And you’re gonna… what? Just march around town looking for him?”
“Yes,” you said stubbornly. “That’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”
Sam stared at you for a moment, and you readied yourself for his speech about it being a stupid idea; but it never came. Instead, he simply nodded and stood from his seat. “I’ll get my jacket.”
You wanted to grin in triumph, as you almost never got away without bickering with Sam over things like this, but the worry you had for Dean prevented it. Something just wasn’t right here. You aren’t exactly sure how it was that you knew, but you knew.
“Let’s go,” Sam called, heading for the garage.
You hurried after him, patting yourself down along the way to make sure you did in fact have your weapons on you - yeah, every vehicle you guys drove had some kind of arsenal, but you needed to know you had something at the ready. Just in case.
“So, what exactly is it that you think happened to him?” Sam questioned, starting the car.
“I don’t know,” you admitted. “All I know is that he should be back by now, and not only is he not back, but neither of us can reach him, and we’re in the middle of working a case fully revolving around people going missing and never being seen again, so clearly there has to be some kind of connection because-”
“Hey, okay,” Sam gently interrupted your rambling. “I know you’re worried, but let’s just see what we can find in town before we start thinking like that, okay?”
“Okay,” you muttered, wringing your fingers together as you stared at the passing scenery. “We should check around the pub first.”
“Wouldn’t that’ve been the first place he went?” he asked, casting a glance at you.
You shook your head, keeping your gaze outside. “Yes, but the diner I like is just up the street.”
“Well, that’s good for you, but I’m not really hungry right now,” he replied, shifting in his seat.
Caught off guard by his response, your head snapped in his direction as you stared at him in surprise. You were about to make a snarky comment until you saw the corner of his mouth twitching, and you realized what he was doing.
“You’re such an idiot,” you snorted, grateful for his attempt to lighten your mood.
His poker face finally crumbled as he chuckled along with you, and the atmosphere surrounding you both really did feel lighter for the rest of the drive.
It felt lighter right up until Sam turned the final corner and you caught sight of Baby parked up the block, stationed and solitary, glistening under the glow of the streetlamp.
“Sam,” you said quietly, sitting up a little straighter.
“I see it,” he said, matching your uncertain tone as he pulled up to the curb.
You both seemed to struggle with leaving the car - wanting to run out to not waste any time, while simultaneously being held back by the fear of what you may find.
Surveying the immediate surroundings, nothing seemed out of the ordinary as you both approached the impala - an observation that was voiced by Sam.
“Everything looks normal,” he said, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. “Maybe he’s just getting another drink.”
“I don’t think so,” you said confidently, eyes catching sight of the takeaway left abandoned on the passenger’s seat.
Sam noticed your gaze, though being on the driver’s side, he couldn’t see what you were looking at. “What?” he asked stiffly, bending down to glance through the window. “Okay, definitely weird, but not panic worthy,” he cautioned, coming back into view over the roof to give you a meaningful look.
“It’s unlocked,” you declared, ignoring his attempts to keep you from panicking. “He’d never leave it unlocked.”
“It’s not-” he started to argue, wanting to prove you wrong by pulling on the handle, but his words stopped short when the door opened with ease. “Okay, getting weirder,” he breathed out, looking over at you like a deer caught in headlights.
“I told you something was wrong!” you exclaimed.
“We still don’t know for sure!” he exclaimed in return. Yet you could see in his eyes that he was just as afraid as you were, and you suddenly weren’t sure if his denial remained for your sake or his.
“Should we split up?” you asked, trying to move on.
“No,” he stated, closing the door. “I don’t feel like losing both my brother and my best friend all in one night.”
“Sam,” you started, wanting to offer him some comfort, but he cut you off.
“Come on, let’s start asking around.”
He came around the car and nudged you in the direction of the pub, to which you quickly obliged, silently hoping you were wrong and Dean would be there. Though as you stepped inside, your hope was immediately shattered, for none of the gazes that you met held that familiar sense of home you’d grown accustomed to.
With a heavy sigh, you started talking to the patrons, while Sam did the same. You both ended up with the same information: Dean got there maybe two hours ago, stayed about thirty minutes to have some drinks and chat, bought some cases of beer, and left. Nothing new, and nothing helpful.
Refusing to acknowledge the time wasted, the two of you made your way over to the diner to start your next line of questioning - which was started by someone else as soon as you walked through the door.
“Oh, no. Did we mess up your order?” Lori, a greying server you often got whenever you came in, asked you.
“I- what?” you wondered, confused by why she was asking.
She tsked, tucking her notepad back into her apron. “That man of yours was in earlier and ordered your favourite, figured he was bringing it back to you.”
“My-... Dean?” you asked in confusion.
“Yeah, that green eyed statue of a man you stop in with from time to time,” she informed, giving you a smile that suggested she knew more than you.
“How long ago was he here?” you questioned, ignoring the feeling of unease her expression gave you.
Lori sighed, tucking her pen behind her ear. “Let me check the slips,” she answered, jerking her head towards the counter before heading in that direction.
You and Sam followed close behind, watching with increasing impatience as she sifted through the order slips.
“Aha!” she exclaimed, finding the right one. “It was about… an hour ago.”
“Was he here long? Did he talk to anyone? Did anyone leave around the same time he did?” you fired off anxiously.
Lori stared at you, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Are we thinking he’s cheatin’ or something?” she asked conspiratorially.
“I- we- he-” you stammered over your response, all versions of he isn’t at all my man, we aren’t even dating, and he’s fucking missing and could be dying somewhere lost to your frustration. Tears of fear and anger clouded your vision as you ran your hands through your hair.
“Hey,” Lori soothed, misreading the reason for your emotions but validating them nonetheless. “Hey, sit. Sit, I’ll tell you what I know.”
Ushering you onto a stool as she came around the counter, she hopped up beside you, patting your hands for reassurance.
“Now, all I know is he came in about an hour ago,” she began, repeating what you all just discovered. “He took some time going over the menu, more so than usual, but it didn’t look like he was waitin’ on anybody. He finally ordered what you usually do and somethin’ for himself, Cindy chatted him up while he was waitin’, then he got the order and left.”
“Cindy?” Sam asked, and you tried to ignore the sick feeling in your stomach to learn that you were worrying while he was just here flirting with someone - with Cindy no less; she was practically sex on legs.
“Yeah,” Lori said with a shrug, squeezing your hand. “One of our servers. Oh, she eyes him up every time he’s here, not that I blame her. Figure she thought it was an opportunity given that he was here alone this time.”
“Did it…. work?” you asked meekly, wondering if he was just off having a one night stand and nothing was wrong after all.
You were almost startled by Lori’s bark of laughter, and you watched her eyes sparkle in amusement as she answered you. “You rest assured, sugar. That man is completely hung up on you. I’ve never seen someone look right through that girl before, not a flicker of interest in him let me tell you. First guy in here I’ve ever seen turn her down, hand to god.”
You wanted to ask where in the world she was drawing these conclusions about you and Dean from, and why, but Sam’s voice stopped you from speaking up.
“Did that make her angry?” he asked. “Him denying her?”
Lori looked at him curiously, as if wondering why such a question was necessary, but she answered anyway. “She was upset, sure, but I don’t think she was angry, no. She moves on pretty quick. By the time he was leaving she was already talkin’ to someone else.”
“And you’re sure he left alone? He didn’t talk to anyone else?” you asked desperately, giving her a meaningful look. If her thinking you were accusing him of infidelity would get you answers, then so be it.
“I’m positive, sugar,” she assured, smiling sadly. “He was only here maybe half an hour, and he rushed out when he got your call.”
“My call?” you wondered, face scrunching with confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, well, I assumed it was you,” she replied simply, sliding off the stool. “The way his face lit up and all. Had that smile he always gives you.”
“Did you hear anything he said?” Sam asked quickly, catching her before she walked away to confirm it really was your call she heard.
Lori shrugged, taking the pen out from behind her ear. “Not really. Just heard that he got the food and was on his way back, then he was out the door.”
“Okay,” Sam said with a nod. “Thank you for your time.”
“Sure,” she said with a half shrug. “See you around, sugar,” she told you, giving you a meaningful look before finally walking away.
You weren’t entirely sure if you thanked her or not, because your head was spinning with all the information she just gave you, but either way she’d be getting a big tip the next time you came.
“Well, that was interesting,” Sam declared lightly, staring down at you with an amused smirk.
“Was it?” you asked hotly, hopping down from the stool. “Too bad we didn’t get anything that can help us.”
“Well, we got a solid timeframe,” he pointed out, gesturing for you two to leave. “That’s something.”
“I guess,” you sighed, trying to ignore the churning in your stomach as you stepped back outside.
“Let’s walk through it,” Sam suggested. “Like any other case.”
You let out a breath, nodding in agreement. “Well, he would’ve come out talking to me,” you declared, standing outside the door. “And he’d be heading back over to Baby, since he said he was on his way home.”
You and Sam both made your way in that direction, taking the path he most likely would’ve taken, finding nothing amiss along the way.
“Did you hear anything on the other end at all?” Sam asked, stopping beside you.
You closed your eyes for a moment, going over the call in your mind. “No,” you determined, shaking your head. “Nothing unusual, just him getting into the car.”
“You’re sure he got into the car?” Sam asked, brows raised.
“No,” you admitted in defeat. “Though the food’s inside, so he was at least here to drop it off.”
“True,” Sam agreed with a nod. “Plus it was unlocked, which suggests he was likely surprised by something.”
“Yeah, but what?” you wondered. “Nothing here points to a struggle, and Dean’s not exactly someone that’s easy to sneak up on.”
“No, he’s not,” Sam sighed, glancing around once more as he went over everything in his head.
A sound caught your attention, and your gaze snapped to the alley across the street, an idea dawning on you as you stared into the shadows.
“What if he was lured away?” you asked, regaining Sam’s attention.
He turned to you, following your gaze and quickly catching on to your thoughts. “Let’s check it out.”
You each drew a weapon, his gun and your knife, as you made your way across the street.
Desperation clawed at you while you and Sam searched every inch of the alley, a familiar feeling of dread settling in your bones when you both came up empty handed.
“What the fuck are we supposed to do now?” you seethed, kicking away an unsuspecting trash bag in frustration.
Sam’s answer was lost on you as all your focus was pulled to the dumpster, the street lights glittering off an object hidden underneath, previously obscured by the trash bag you just sent flying.
Quickly dropping to all fours to retrieve it, you felt a sob claw its way up your throat as you realized you now held Dean’s pistol.
Each day that went by, Dean found more and more things that were out of place.
Things he would’ve bet his life on turned out to be completely wrong.
Events he bore witness to never happened.
The people he had saved were gone. People that he lost were alive. Sam remembered all kinds of stuff about their lives that he didn’t.
Then there was you.
The food you liked was different. Your taste in music has changed. The clothes you wore weren’t your usual style. The little details that made you you were gone - you were the same, yet somehow a completely different person.
Dean tells himself this is what made it so easy to love you so openly. It was why he stopped squirming under your lingering gaze. It was why he took you out for a night on the town so he could show you off every chance he got. It was why he took you and Ellen to every event he caught wind of in order to boast his beautiful family. It was why he stopped running away from your wandering hands. It was why he started letting his own hands wander. It was why he found himself meaning it more and more each time he uttered the phrase I love you.
Dean wanted to accept it more than anything.
He wanted to believe that this was really his life. That he was the loving husband and father you made of him. That he finally freed himself from the shackles of hunting. That he found his happily ever after.
He needed to believe it, because he had gotten everything he never knew he wanted, and he didn’t want to give it up.
Yet he has to, because he knows something’s wrong; that something bigger is at play - hell if he knew what, though.
“What about Alec?” you suddenly asked from where you lounged beside him on the couch, pulling him from his thoughts.
“Alec?” he repeated. “Absolutely not.”
You sighed half heartedly, and he watched with a faint smile as you crossed the name off the list you held; a smile that widened as the title Baby Winchester, Round 2! ♡ caught his eye.
“Daisy?” he suggested.
“As in Duke?” you asked with a laugh. “Not a chance.”
Dean’s laughter echoed yours, and he pulled you in close as he fired off another name.
The two of you made suggestions back and forth, taking turns laughing at some of the choices made by the other in between actually agreeing on some. You had built a pretty solid list before you stood with a groan, his gaze lazily trailing over you as you stretched.
“Where’re you going?” he wondered.
“Errands,” you huffed. “Gotta pick up some last minute things for our announcement before everyone gets here.”
“I’ll come, too,” he quickly offered, eyes lighting up.
“Did you forget we have a child napping in her room?” you asked with a chuckle.
“No,” Dean lamented.
You grinned as you leaned over him, quickly kissing away his pout before it fully formed.
“I’ll be quick,” you promised, giggling as he chased your lips for one more kiss.
“Or,” he started, his palm cupping the back of your head to hold you in place. “We can wait until she wakes up and then we can all go together.”
“Dean-”
“C’mon,” he whined, taking hold of your hips. “I know some ways we can kill time.”
“I don’t have any time to kill,” you told him, placing a hand on his chest as you freed yourself from his grasp. “There’s a lot left to do for tonight.”
With a dramatic sigh, Dean followed as you left the living room. “Then let me help! Look, why don’t you give me the list of what we need and I’ll pick it all up?”
“You’re sure?” you asked.
“Of course,” Dean laughed. “I gotta check on some parts for the car, anyway. Was gonna wait on it, but may as well grab ‘em and help out my girl all at once.”
“A true gentleman,” you teased, though the look on your face made it clear you meant it. “It’s not too much, so it shouldn’t take long, but I’ll try to not wake Ellen while you’re gone. Lord knows she can’t go that long without her daddy.”
He grinned in response, grabbing the list from you. “Don’t worry, I always race home to my two best girls.”
“Maybe three now,” you grinned, placing your hands on your belly.
“Maybe three,” he echoed, his insides turning to goo as he placed a hand over yours. “And I’ll be back before the three of you can even miss me,” he added, planting a lingering kiss on your forehead before backing away.
“Oh - baby, wait!” you called out, catching him just as he made it to the front door.
“Yeah?” he asked, turning to face you from down the hall.
“I forgot to add it to the list, but I noticed we ran out of gin - could you get some?”
“Gin?” he repeated, the word sitting heavy on his tongue.
“Yeah,” you confirmed. “I wanna make sure we have some for my dad later.”
“Gin?” he asked again, a sinking feeling settling in his gut.
“I know,” you laughed, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil he was suddenly facing. “I don’t know how he can drink the stuff, either.”
“Right,” he said, laughing awkwardly as he opened the door.
His mind was spinning the moment he left the house, trying to work out what was weighing on him. His chest was growing tight, and the feeling was the same as what he’s been experiencing since he first woke up here. He did his best to shake the feeling for the rest of the drive, deciding to blast the radio as he sped towards the garage.
“The hell are you doing here?” met Dean’s ears the second he left the car.
“Good to see you too, Bobby,” Dean replied, turning to face him with a grin.
Bobby rolled his eyes and turned on his heel, gesturing for Dean to follow him. “You know, people usually spend time with their families while on vacation, not show up to their place of work.”
“I’m running errands!” Dean defended, strolling over to look under the hood of a broken down Nova. “Still don’t have her purring yet? Man, you really are lost without me.”
“Shove it, boy,” Bobby grumbled.
With a boyish grin, Dean walked away from the car and plopped himself down on a nearby stool. “We got those parts in for Baby yet?”
Huffing in annoyance, Bobby set down what he was tinkering with and turned to Dean, wiping his hands on a rag. “What did I tell you when you put in the order?”
“You’d call if they came in while I was gone,” Dean said, awkwardly shifting in his seat.
“And did I call?” Bobby pressed.
“No,” Dean said meekly, clearing his throat.
“Well there ya go,” Bobby announced, turning back to his work. “Answered your own question.”
Dean sighed, getting up from his stool with hands raised in surrender. “Alright, I get it. You’re busy, works piling up without me-”
“If your name wasn’t up on that sign, too, you’d be kicked to the curb,” Bobby cut in, shaking his head.
“You and your empty threats,” Dean teased, making his way out.
With a fond smile on his face, Bobby chuckled quietly. “See you tonight, kid.”
“See ya, Bobby,” Dean replied, sliding behind the wheel with a smile of his own.
You weren’t lying, there really wasn’t a lot to pick up. Dean was wrapping up the shopping not long after he left the garage, bouncing quickly from store to store. He felt at ease again, focusing all his attention on the list you gave him, and the fact that in a few hours you’d be revealing to all your loved ones that baby number two was on the way.
Feeling giddy and eager to get back home, Dean breezed through his last stop. Grabbing a bottle of scotch for Bobby, some whiskey for himself, and wine for everyone else, he then searched the shelves for a bottle of gin.
It felt heavy in his hands once he found it, the bottle staring back at him seeming entirely unfamiliar as he moved through the check out.
His chest was tight again as he drove back home, the feeling once more the same as when we woke up to this life.
When he first woke up.
Dean’s heart skipped a beat as he had that thought, the realization bouncing around his mind.
A memory of a blue light flashed behind his eyes so vividly he had to swerve off the road, skidding to a stop as pain followed suit. Gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turned white, he gasped for air as he tried to calm himself down.
“Djinn,” he breathed out through a wave of panic.
You were handed a miracle.
It was all you could think as you stared at Ethan, the young man sitting before you and Sam.
The same young man who was listed as a witness to the latest abduction, but was quickly written off by authorities once they heard his story. The story which you and Sam were hearing now.
“You’re saying Mr. Kleinman was tased?” you clarified, starting to wonder if this was related to Dean after all.
“I mean, either that, or it was some kinda hoodoo crap,” Ethan told you with a shrug.
“Well, what makes you say that?” Sam asked gently.
Ethan sighed, seeming to consider whether or not to explain, before answering. “One second, I’m seeing the guy putting groceries in his car, right? Then, next thing I know, some creepy looking dude comes up behind him. He reaches out for the guy, and there’s this weird, like, blue light, then the guy is just… out cold. I don’t know what else could’ve done it.”
“And you didn’t see where they went?” you questioned.
Ethan shook his head. “No, it was like they just… vanished.”
“Vanished?” Sam repeated.
“Yeah,” he said with a nervous laugh. “I swear it was like they just turned to smoke or something. They were there, and then they were just gone.”
“Did you actually see any smoke before they were gone? Or smell anything weird?” you asked.
“No, I- it wasn’t so much smoke as just… like, mist, I guess?”
“Mist?” you echoed.
“Yeah. I don’t know how else to describe it. They just… vanished into the air.”
You and Sam shared a quick look before you jotted some more notes down.
“You guys don’t believe me either, do you?” Ethan asked.
“We believe that the brain copes with seeing terrible things in any way it can,” you told him sympathetically. “Though believe it or not, you’re being very helpful.”
“Really?” he asked hopefully.
“Really,” you confirmed. “Though I do need to ask - earlier, you described the suspect as being creepy looking. What exactly made you say that?”
“He was bald, and wearing some kind of dress or cloak or something,” Ethan explained. “And he had these crazy tattoos.”
“He had tattoos?” Sam asked, perking up.
“Yeah, and they must have cost a fortune. They were all over his face and head, his hands too. Who knows where else.”
“What did they look like?” asked Sam.
“They were just, like, crazy black swirls and lines. Kinda tribal, I guess.”
“Huh,” Sam said quietly, getting lost in thought.
“Do you think that can help you identify him?” Ethan wondered.
“I think there’s an excellent chance of it,” Sam said honestly, standing from the couch.
“Thank you for your time, Ethan,” you said sincerely, standing beside Sam. “This was incredibly helpful.”
“Good, I- I’m glad I could help,” he said awkwardly, standing as well. “I hope that guy is okay.”
“We’ll do everything we can for him,” you promised, hoping to ease his mind.
Ethan nodded, leading you both through the living room.
Once at the front door, Sam handed the young man his card. “In case you happen to think of anything else.”
“Yes sir,” Ethan said, taking the card before opening the door for us.
Sam made a beeline for the car as soon as he stepped out of the house, immediately sliding into the driver's seat.
“What the hell is going on?” you asked, scrambling to get in for fear he’d drive off without you.
“I know what took Dean,” he told you, making your head snap in his direction, seatbelt poised in hand.
“You what?” you asked.
“It’s a Djinn,” he told you simply.
“A Djinn? How the hell did you figure that out?”
“We’ve dealt with them before,” Sam grits out, hand coming down on the steering wheel. “I should’ve realized sooner.”
“You’re allowed to not know everything, Sam,” you comforted. “We worked with the information we had, which wasn’t a lot.”
“But I should’ve known!” he hissed. “He shouldn’t be going through this again,” he added, more so to himself.
A beat passed as you processed what he said, clicking your belt into place as the car picked up more speed. “What does that mean?”
He was quiet for so long you didn’t think he’d answer, and your gaze shifted from him to the window as his voice rang out. “Dean’s been captured by a Djinn once before.”
“What?” was the only thing you could force out.
“It was a long time ago,” he started to explain. “Way before you came around. Classic hunt gone wrong.”
“Dean never told me that,” you admitted.
Sam chuckled bitterly. “He’s not exactly one to brag about his shortcomings.”
“Right,” you frowned, staring at your hands clasped on your lap.
The only time Dean was anywhere close to being an open book was when he was with you. You knew there was still a lot you didn’t know, but he had shared with you some pretty horrific parts of his past, and it made you wonder what about that experience was so distressing that he didn’t want to share it with you; and if it was so hard for him that first time, was this time going to be even worse?
Steeling your resolve, you shifted your attention back to Sam. “How do we catch this thing?”
“Warehouses,” he began, which had you pulling out your phone to search for any abandoned sites nearby. “It was the main thing they had in common - setting up home in empty warehouses.”
“What do you mean the main thing they had in common?” you asked, fingers stalling over your keypad. “Are Djinn not all the same?”
“Just- let’s start with the warehouses, okay?” Sam replied, dodging the question.
“Fine,” you huffed. “Closest one is just off Milner Road, but it’s pretty central. There’s one a few miles outside of town, off Fowler and Carson that seems pretty secluded, so I’d put my money on that one.”
“Alright, so we start with that one, then.”
Dean swore his tires were going to burn out before he even made it to the warehouse, yet he refused to ease up on the gas.
Once he was able to bring himself back from the brink of terror, it didn’t take him long to put the rest of the pieces together. Given his last dealings with Djinn, he knew the abandoned warehouse outside of town would be his best bet; reality always bleeds through on the feeding grounds, and Dean needed to see for himself whether or not he was going crazy.
His feet were heavy as he walked through the door, his pulse echoing in his ears as he trudged past the dusty storage racks. He hadn’t yet decided on whether he would prefer to find the place empty or not when a voice rang out from the shadows.
“You shouldn’t have come here, Dean,” he heard you warn.
His heart stopped cold, and he knew without a doubt what he would find if carried on through the warehouse.
“Why did you have to come?” you asked, stepping into view.
Dean tried. He tried with all his might to find his voice, but the sight of you took his breath away every time he opened his mouth.
It wasn’t real, he knew that, especially considering he saw you less than an hour ago, but there you stood, hands resting protectively over a full-term baby bump as you met his gaze.
“Was I not enough for you?” you asked sadly, moving to close the gap between you two. “Were we not enough for you?”
“I don’t belong here,” he managed to choke out, fingers tightening on the hilt of his knife.
“This is exactly where you belong,” you snapped. “This is everything that you ever wanted, everything that you deserve! Why would you want to ruin this?”
Shaking his head, he took a small step back. “No. This isn’t real.”
“So what?” you asked, taking another step forward. “This is what you want, Dean.”
“I want to go home,” he found himself admitting. “I was happy there.”
“You’re happier here, and you know that.”
“That’s not true,” he argued, unsure who he was trying to convince.
“No?” you wondered, tilting your head. “What waits for you there, Dean? Another lonely night in the bunker, eating cold burgers on the road as you risk your life for a thankless job?”
“I love what I do,” he defended. “I have no regrets about it.”
“Maybe,” you conceded. “Yet you still want out. You want the nine to five, you want the girl, you want the family. Well guess what, Dean? You got it. You got it all. You just need to stay.”
“None of this is real,” he said quietly. “It won’t last forever.”
You approached him with a sad smile, resting delicate hands on his cheeks to wipe away tears he wasn't aware had fallen. “It can feel like forever. We can watch our children grow up, raise them in a life without hunting. We can grow old together. You can live out your whole life here, Dean. With me."
“I can't," he denied.
"Why?" you prodded. "I love you. I love you the way you deserve to be loved. You can't just walk away from this - from us."
"There is no us," he whispered, feeling like he was choking on the words.
"There is no us out there," you told him. "You're alone out there, Dean. We’re not yours. I'm not yours."
"You may not be my wife," his voice broke. "But at least you'll be real."
Before he could change his mind, he turned the knife on himself.
The warehouse you chose proved to be the right one, and you couldn't help the sob that tore through you when you came across Dean, strung up like a marionette as he was being bled dry; barely even alive.
Before you were able to make it to him, the Djinn got the drop on you, sending you crashing down. Pain radiated through your spine, your head pounding as you pushed yourself up off the concrete.
"Always have to sneak up on your prey, huh?" you sneered, aiming a swing of your knife at him.
Your attack was easily blocked, the blade sent skidding across the floor with a deafening clatter in the cavernous room.
Fingers pierced your wrists as you wrestled for control of the situation, your foot landing straight into his knee once you started losing the upperhand. The momentary lapse on his grip let you break free, a fierce kick to his stomach giving you the opportunity to run to your knife.
You underestimated how fast this thing was, and you landed back on the concrete after being tackled, blood pooling in your mouth when your chin ricocheted off the floor. Managing to flip yourself onto your back, you tried to kick him off of you to no avail.
It wasn’t as if you were a stranger to losing ground during fights, though you were usually still always able to hold your own. When you realized that you couldn’t gain back the advantage against this thing, a wave of fear rippled through you.
You flailed and kicked wildly when a hand clasped against your throat to hold you in place, a cry for help coming out as no more than a squeak when the air was stolen from your lungs. Terror widened your eyes as his other hand reached for your head, blue electricity dancing between his fingers.
Eyes squeezed tightly shut, you stilled as you waited for the blow.
When nothing happened, you peeled one eye open, afraid of what you would see. A cry of relief left you when Sam kicked the Djinn off of you, his limp body hitting the floor with a thud before dissipating in a stream of mist.
“You okay?” he asked, wiping the blood from his knife on his jeans.
All you could do was nod, a hoarse cough coming out when you tried to speak.
“Dean,” you croaked, rolling yourself onto all fours to try and pick yourself up.
Sam hurried to your side, ready to help you up, but you quickly shook off his grasp.
“No- get Dean,” you urged. “I’m fine.”
Knowing better than to argue with you, he quickly let go and ran towards his brother, making quick work of unhooking the blood bags.
Scrambling over as quickly as you could, you began to assess him, trembling hands meeting pale skin to check for signs of life.
As if the very touch of you awakened his soul, his eyes blinked blearily open to stare at you in fear and confusion.
“Dean?” you asked shakily. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m with you. We figured it out, we're gonna get you out of here.”
He laughed. Quiet and barely noticeable aside from the small quirk of the corner of his mouth.
“That’s my girl,” he muttered proudly, before his eyes fluttered shut again.
You and Sam had finished getting him down and, after checking on the others and calling in an anonymous tip to local police, made it back home in record time.
You settled Dean in the infirmary so he could recover properly, hardly ever leaving his side for the next few days, waiting and watching closely for any signs of improvement or regression.
Which meant you were there when he finally woke in a cold sweat, confused and a little afraid, asking for a girl you had never met.
“Where’s Ellen?”
It was the first thing he asked, chest rising and falling rapidly as his eyes scanned the room in a frenzy.
“I-... I don’t know-” was the only thing you could stammer out.
You had armed yourself with answers to the onslaught of questions he was bound to have once he awoke, even had a few questions ready yourself, though this was something you couldn’t have prepared for.
Though it didn’t matter, since he didn’t seem to hear you.
“Is she with your folks?” he further questioned, crazed eyes turning to you.
“My-” your voice caught in your throat as tears sprung to your eyes. “My parents?”
He seemed to look right through you, eyes still glazed over in pain and confusion.
“Dean, just lay back down,” you urged softly, approaching tentatively.
He mistook your tone, flinching away from you. “Is she okay? What about the baby? Where are they, what happened?”
“Everything is okay, Dean,” you told him. “I need you to take some deep breaths for me.”
“I need you to answer me!” he declared, voice so fierce you jumped a little.
“Okay,” you placated, slowly sitting on the end of the bed. “I will, just breathe for me first.”
His gaze followed your movements like a caged animal, but he did what you said.
Once his breathing returned to a normal place, you started with a simple question.
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
He had to think about it for a while, which worried you to no end, though he finally recalled something.
“I went out,” he muttered. “We needed supplies.”
Your heart turned heavy in your chest, thinking he didn’t know anything that happened since he left the bunker; you weren’t sure yet if that was a good or bad thing.
Though when he carried on, you realized you were wrong.
“We had to get the last minute things, because everyone was coming over for- for dinner…”
He trailed off, eyes laser focused on you. First on your stomach, then the rest of you, gaze cutting across every feature you had and piece of clothing you wore with doctoral precision before turning to take in the room.
“What happened?” he whispered shakily.
So you told him. Slowly and carefully, you told him everything you knew ever since he left the bunker, your heart ripping in half as tears danced in his eyes while he listened.
The silence when you finished explaining pressed in on you, thick and heavy. His mood became impossible to read, and he refused to meet your gaze any more.
“Dean?” you prodded.
“No.”
It was all he said, quiet and unsure; you didn’t even know whether he was talking to you or himself.
“Dean?” you tried again.
“No!”
Before you could even think, he was scrambling out of the sheets and ignoring all your attempts to get him to lay back down.
“No, no, no,” he muttered, bypassing you and heading out into the hall.
“Dean!” you called out, trailing behind as you tried to reason with him.
He ignored everything you said as he marched through the bunker, and you didn’t know if it was intentional, or if it was because he was lost in his own thoughts.
“Talk to me, please,” you pleaded. “Tell me what’s going on.”
When you were met with nothing but silence once again, you called out for Sam in the hopes he would be able to control the situation better than you could.
He came quickly, managing to bypass Dean with just enough time to block the stairs, cutting off his escape as you covered ground behind him.
“Move,” Dean demanded.
You couldn’t see him, but you could tell by his voice that he had murder in his eyes.
“Not until you tell us where the hell you think you’re going,” Sam cooly replied.
“I don’t need to tell you anything,” Dean said. “Now move.”
“No,” Sam denied, standing straighter on the steps and glaring down at his brother.
“Sam I swear,” Dean warned. “Move out of the fucking way before I start swingin’.”
“Go ahead, Dean,” Sam accepted, arms opened wide in challenge before resting at his sides once more.
Dean stood as rigid as a statue for a few moments, and you could practically feel the anger vibrating through him. In a last ditch effort to get away, he turned and spun on his heels so fast he smashed right into you, sending you crashing to the floor with a thud.
You managed to catch yourself on your palms, hitting the concrete with so much force your hands stung and you were sure your tailbone would be sore for days.
Dean looked down at you, shock lining his features before morphing into worry, then regret, then back to anger as he looked away, all but stepping over you as he marched his way towards the garage.
You sat there in shock for a minute, dazed at how easily he had just dismissed you - he’d never done that before. Even when you two were in the middle of unresolved petty arguments, he had always made sure you were taken care of one way or another. Whether it was quietly leaving a mug of coffee on the counter for you, making sure the temperature in Baby was just right after a hunt, or letting your favourite program run on the tv in the Dean Cave while he and Sam shoot a game of pool - the gestures to prove he still cared were always there no matter what.
Tears prickled behind your eyes, though you did your best to brush it all off. You knew he was going through something you couldn’t even begin to imagine, and that he wasn’t himself right now, though it didn’t do much to lessen the pain of it all.
Sam stepped down from the stairs, helping you up. “You okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” you muttered, dusting yourself off. “Let’s just go get him.”
By the time the two of you made it to the garage, Dean was long gone, leaving you to guide Sam from the passenger seat as you tracked the GPS on the car Dean took.
You quickly pulled up to an area that was familiar to you, unable to think of a single reason as to why Dean would be here; it was nothing but a regular country lane on the border of town, a pretty farm house littered here and there.
When Sam rolled to a stop just behind where Dean was parked, you saw he was leaning against the car and staring out at the house you once declared your favourite, an unreadable expression on his face.
“Dean?” Sam called. He approached slowly, like he was afraid to startle him away.
You followed loosely behind, letting Sam take the lead this time - you weren’t in a hurry to relive how he looked at you when he left.
“Talk to us, man,” Sam urged, stepping closer when there was no answer. “What’s going on?”
“I had to see,” Dean mumbled, just loud enough for you to hear.
“Okay,” Sam said. “See what?”
Dean shook his head, eyes still fixed on the house across the street while he remained silent.
“Listen, you’ve been through a lot, okay?” Sam soothed. “Let’s get you back home, and we can talk about it if you want to.”
“Home,” Dean whispered, not bothering to wipe the stray tears that let loose.
“Home,” Sam echoed with a nod.
“That’s gone,” Dean muttered.
“What do you mean gone?” you found yourself asking, voice just loud enough to carry over to him.
His gaze finally tore away from the house to land on you, a fire burning in his eyes that made you take an instinctive half-step back.
“Everything,” he choked out, looking back to the house. “It’s all gone.”
“Everything is still here, Dean,” Sam told him. “We’re still here - your home is still here.”
“Is it?” Dean asked quietly.
“Yes!” you lamented, finally making your way over to him. “So please, just let me take you back there.”
His jaw clenched, head shaking as if trying to clear away his own thoughts. You placed a hand on his arm, hoping to steady him, but he ripped himself away from you as if your skin burned.
When he looked at you, you had a fleeting thought that this Dean must be the version of him that all those monsters he’d slain had seen right before the end. Breathing ragged, eyes wild, a sneer as if he couldn’t stand to look at what was right in front of him; you had no idea who this Dean was.
“Fine, I'll go” he huffed, turning to Sam. “But I’m not going anywhere with her.”
The words hit you like a gut punch, and your breath caught in your throat as you watched him climb into the car. You had no idea whether he meant for you to hear him or not, but given the less than fleeting glance he gave you before closing the door, you had a feeling he didn’t care either way.
“Alright, come on,” Sam cooed, quickly taking hold of your arm to lead you away. “Let’s get you back home, too.”
You nodded, feet numbly following along as he brought you back over to the passenger side while Dean peeled off down the road.
“We’ll figure it out, okay?” he promised quietly, before gently closing the door behind you and rounding to his side.
The drive back passed in a blur, and the weeks that followed were just as hazy.
Dean was withering away, you were hollowing out, and Sam was drowning trying to keep each of you afloat.
“What do you think I did?” you asked Sam, like clockwork, staring at the ceiling as you stayed buried in your blankets.
His answer never changed. “You didn’t do anything.”
You groaned, shifting to look at him in his place beside you. “I mean the other me. I - she - must have done something. ”
“I know what you mean,” he said. “And I still don’t think you did anything. Either version of you.”
“Well something had to have happened!” you exclaimed, trying to keep your voice steady. “He can barely even look at me.”
“He’s just… still processing everything,” he told you, but you knew him well enough to catch the undertone of uncertainty.
“He hates me,” you broke, unable to stop the tears from flowing. “He hates me, and it’s not even my fault.”
Sam sighed, falling into the well practiced routine of pulling you in towards him, comforting arms holding you as you cried. “No he doesn’t.”
You heard him every time he said it, but the words were always lost on you. How else would you explain the way he treated you? The way you suddenly became a stranger? The way he looked at you like he couldn’t even bear your existence?
It started with little things, things that could be chalked up to him getting his bearings again after being thrust back into reality. Things you tried to brush off.
First it was the way he forewent his morning greeting when meeting you in the kitchen, keeping his distance and ignoring the mug you already had ready for him, held out like an olive branch.
Okay, you told yourself, he’s probably just tried.
Then it was the way he always chose the seat at least two away from you in the library, never letting his limbs tangle with yours the way they used to; overly cautious not to let his skin brush yours the way it always did like second nature.
Fine, you said. Space is okay when he needs it.
You quickly noticed that he started using only your name to address you, a sound foreign to your ears when it was laced with his voice. No more sweetheart or sunshine, no more darlin’ or princess, no more shortcake or firefly. No more exasperated smartass, no more playful brat or menace, no more quietly proud trouble. Only ever your name, clipped and professional, as if you were always only ever someone he had to work with.
Well, nicknames aren’t always necessary, you rationalized.
Then you noticed the breath he always took whenever you entered the same room, as if bracing himself for your presence, before refusing to look in your direction unless strictly necessary. The way his body was always angling itself away from you, shoulders tense. How he always retreated a half beat before he needed to as soon as he realized he didn’t have to be there.
I guess he just has a lot on his mind, you excused. He’s always been busy.
The ice started to solidify next. His irritation seeped through into everything he said to you. His replies were always clipped and precise, nothing more than procedural. His eyes never left the work before him while discussing a case with you. His corrections were always too sharp and condescending whenever you got something wrong.
He hasn’t been sleeping well, you told yourself. He’s just stressed and overtired. He always takes too much on.
His interest in anything revolving you seemed to die completely. Any attempt you made at an inside joke fell flat, met with nothing but a blank stare. Every question you asked was answered with a distracted mumble, never any hooks to hang a conversation from. He never replied to any of the texts you sent of stupid things you knew would make him laugh. All the warmth and fondness that used to surround the two of you was replaced with cold indifference.
Maybe I’m overthinking it all, you found yourself thinking.
Then, you thought you were going crazy. Books you left open in the archives were closed and stacked away. Files you left scattered on the library table were gathered neatly. Mugs you put away were rotated, organized differently. Blankets you left crumpled up somewhere were folded neatly over chairs or armrests. You thought it was all in your head until you caught Dean refolding the dishtowel you had just put back, and you realized he was going behind you this whole time, erasing all the tiny traces of you from around the bunker.
You didn’t have any excuses this time.
Even the arguments were different - more often, sharper, harsh. With him never having the desire to say how he truly felt, or the care to fight for what used to matter, he always got in the last word after either blaming you for something or treating you like you were the problem.
Like when you drank the last of the coffee during a long night of research, and he came in before you started another pot.
“Did you finish this?” he asked, slamming the carafe down harder than he meant to.
“Yes,” you said, flinching ever so slightly at the noise. “I was going to make a new batch.”
He whirled around, glaring at you. “You didn’t even ask if I wanted the last cup.”
“I…” you faltered, trying to figure out if he was teasing you or not. “I never had to before, you always gave-”
“So you just assumed you could have it?”
“I- I’m sorry,” you stuttered. “I just didn’t think to ask.”
“Well,” he huffed, turning his back on you to busy himself with making a fresh brew. “Maybe you’ll remember to ask next time.”
Or when you queued up your music on the ride back after wrapping a case, and he almost tore off the knob turning it off.
“Not everyone wants to listen to music,” he snapped. “My head is killing me.”
“You never once minded if I played something,” you countered.
“What does that matter?” he asked, knuckles turning white on the wheel.
“It matters,” you said, taking a calming breath. “Because you never used to mind.”
“Yeah, you just fucking said that,” he bit back.
“Because it’s true,” you told him. “Why do you mind all of a sudden?”
“Because I do,” he said. “So drop it - and leave that shit off.”
Even the time when you double checked he had his blade with him on a hunt was unwelcome.
“‘Scuse me?” he asked, taken aback.
“I asked if you had your blade,” you repeated, meeker than the first time.
“You mean the blade that’s our only way of killing this thing? That blade?”
His tone made it obvious he wasn’t truly looking for a response, but you gave him one anyway.
“I just- I didn’t see you grab it,” you explained. “I wanted to make sure.”
He scoffed, unsheathing his blade from where it rested in his belt and brandishing it with a dramatic flourish. “Yeah. I got it.”
“Okay, sorry,” you said a little too quickly.
“I know how to do my job,” he grumbled, tucking his blade away again.
“I never said you didn’t.”
“You wouldn’t have asked otherwise,” he snapped.
“I always ask!” you exclaimed. “You would always ask.”
“Yeah, well,” he muttered, picking up his pace ever so slightly. “Let’s not pretend we both still care.”
What got to you the most was when it became clear he no longer trusted you on hunts, shoving you out of the way to take a shot he felt you were taking too long to make.
“What the hell was that, Dean?” you snapped, tossing your rifle into the trunk harder than you wanted to.
“You froze,” he shrugged. “Had to take the shot.”
“I did not freeze,” you seethed. “It was a calculated distraction.”
“Was it?” he asked half-heartedly, shutting the trunk.
“I saved that kid!” you shouted.
“Sure,” he agreed, sarcasm oozing off him. “While nearly getting yourself killed.”
“Yeah, well, what do you care?” you muttered, words hitting him like a blow he’d never let you see landed. “You used to trust me on these things.”
“Yeah, well, that was before I realized you were a liability,” he said simply. He stilled ever so slightly after he said it, and you thought maybe he’d take it back, or apologize. Yet he just carried on, opening the driver side door like nothing was wrong.
“I’m a what?” you asked shakily.
He sighed, as if the conversation was bothering him. “Hesitation gets people killed. You should’ve been smarter than that.”
“So… what?” you implored. “You just don’t have faith in my ability to do the job anymore?”
He paused for a moment. Deliberate. Calculated. Cold.
“No,” he told you. “I don’t.”
What you didn’t know, couldn’t see, was that Dean still reached for you every morning, a brief window where his mind was still half asleep and believed he was still married. The shock he felt every time he was met with nothing but a cold and empty bed was brash and cruel; it had him feeling the loss over and over again.
He couldn’t greet you in the kitchen anymore, because he didn’t trust himself not to take your face in his hands and kiss you good morning like he grew used to. He couldn’t take the coffee from your hands because he was scared that if his fingers brushed yours he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from intertwining them, because his hands felt empty without yours in them.
He wasn’t able to sit beside you anymore, because the smell of your shampoo made him homesick. The heat of your skin was painful, because all it made him think about was the warmth you emanated each time he held you. If he got too close, too comfortable, he was worried he’d fall into new habits and sweep you into his lap.
Your name was the only solace he had. Grounding him, reassuring him that you were still here. That you were still you. He couldn’t use the nicknames which used to replace your name in his vocabulary because they were too intimate. Too familiar. He didn’t deserve to use them anymore. He didn’t deserve to be that close to you anymore.
He had to brace himself every time you walked into a room because all he wanted was to reach out for you. To find out how your day was going and wrap you in his arms as you rambled on. He couldn’t stand to look at you because all he felt was guilt when he remembered the way you looked underneath him. The way you looked carrying his child. Deep down he knows none of it was real, but the shame he felt over it all definitely was. Every part of him was always screaming out for you, and he never trusted himself not to do something stupid, leaving you in his wake the second his presence wasn’t needed.
His conversations with you had to be cut short because the way you laughed now conjured the memory of the daughter he never truly had. The inside jokes you made tore him up inside, making him realize things could never be the same as they used to. He always came off sounding harsh when he corrected your mistakes because he didn’t know how to be himself with you anymore - he didn’t have it in him to poke fun at you, and he had to force the words out each time otherwise his voice would fail him. He had to type and retype replies to your texts before giving up entirely, and all the things he saw that reminded him of you, that made him say oh she’d love this went unsent, because suddenly he thought she would… wouldn’t she?
You left traces of yourself everywhere, and he hated that more than anything. The messes you made, the products you used, the things you did, all of it brought him back to living in that house. When the only traces of your existence came in the moment: cooking dinner, playing with Ellen, putting your laundry away, doing the dishes. Nothing was ever out of place. He never needed to go in behind you and tidy something up or put things away. So when you left your books in the archive, staked haphazardly and waiting for you to go back and shelf them, he did it for you. When you left your files spread across the library after you no longer needed them, he ghosted his fingers across the words he knew you’d read and gently tucked the pages away. When he opened the cupboard to grab a glass and noticed the mugs you hastily put away, he rearranged them in a way he knew you would’ve if you had the time; by size and by colour, handles facing just slightly outward so you could grab them easily but not knock anything down. Blankets were tucked away neatly because, if he was fast enough to do it, they would still be warm from your touch, your fragrance wafting off them just enough that if he closed his eyes he could trick himself into thinking it was you he was holding. He wasn’t trying to erase the traces of you. He was cherishing your existence. He was reminding himself that you were real. That you were here.
He was letting himself feel the love he had for you in a nonimposing way, because he knew now that he always loved you.
He knew that what he felt in his perfect little dream world didn’t just come from nothing. It was always there, lying in wait until it was safe to come out.
Which made it all worse. Because he let himself love a shadow of you before he let himself love the real you. It made him feel like he somehow took advantage of you, like he knew all these little secrets about yourself that even you didn’t know.
How could he possibly explain that he was mourning a family he never had? That he missed a life that wasn’t real?
How was he supposed to tell you he loved you, and make you believe he really loved you, and not the idea of you the Djinn gave him?
He couldn’t.
So he didn’t.
Instead he tried to push the feelings away; he tried to push you away.
He argued over you drinking the last cup of coffee without asking because he hated how you knew he’d let you have it like always.
He argued over your music because he hated how routine it was for you to take over his radio. He hated how for that split second it felt like nothing changed.
He argued over you making sure he was armed because he hated how much you still cared, even after everything, because he didn’t deserve your concern.
He argued over the choice you made during a hunt because he saw how badly it could've ended for you, and he hated how scared he felt. He hated that he knew you’d never turn your back on him no matter what he did. No matter what he said. He hated that he needed to try anyway.
So when Sam came storming in one day, holding your battered and bloody body like you were already dead… he didn’t know what to do.
“What the hell happened?” he asked, shaky legs carrying him over.
“Ambush,” Sam replied, bringing you towards the infirmary. “We didn’t think the nest was that big. She took the hit for me.”
Dean could tell Sam already felt guilty, but he couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out.
“You went into a nest?” he snapped. “You let her take the damn hit for you?!”
“It’s not like I planned on it, Dean!” grit Sam. “Just help me, okay?”
Dean took you in his arms before he even knew what he was doing, laying you on the bed with a tenderness he knew was being shown too late. He worked with Sam to patch your wounds, cleaning you up while muttering about how you’d be okay.
Now it was his turn, never leaving your side for the next few days, waiting and watching closely for any signs of improvement or regression.
Which meant he was there when you finally woke up, cold and afraid, asking what happened.
He told you what Sam told him. You got outnumbered. You managed to make sure Sam was clear and took on the heat yourself. Sam cleaned out the nest in record time after that, bringing you back home.
His jaw ticked, fists clenching in his lap, and you could feel the unspoken words hanging in the air.
“Go ahead,” you croaked, prompting him to quickly bring you a glass of water. “Say what you’re not saying.”
“What the hell were you thinking?” he asked miserably.
He sighed quietly, retaking his seat and watching as you sipped the drink, a small grimace on your face to show even such a small movement was painful.
All you did was shrug, resting the glass on your lap as you refused to meet his gaze. “It was a job.”
“Yeah, a job I didn’t even know about,” he pointed out. “Why the hell didn’t you at least have any kind of back up?”
You laughed, raw and unamused. “Like who, Dean? You? You made it clear you wouldn’t watch my back any more.”
“That’s not true,” he said automatically.
“Yes,” you said firmly. “It is. What the hell do you care if my case goes sideways? I’d just be another body for you to burn. You’d move on.”
The words hit him like a kick to the face. Not just the words themselves, but how you said them; like you really believed it.
He knew this is what he was working for the whole time, but now that he had it, he never wanted you to think that ever again.
“Don’t say that,” he choked out. “Don’t you dare think that.”
You scoffed, eyes still locked on the glass in your hands. “Please, Dean. You made it clear you stopped caring.”
“I always cared.”
“Well you sure as hell stopped acting like it,” you sneered.
“I didn’t know how to!” he snapped. “I didn’t know how to go back to normal with you when I could barely even look at you.”
“And why not?” you cried, fed up with still being in the dark.
“Because every time I look at you all I see is what I lost!” he exclaimed, standing from his chair with so much force it clattered backwards. “Everything I… everything I can still lose,” he added softly, gesturing to where you lay.
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about!” you yelled, angry tears rolling down your face. “What did you lose? Just tell me!”
“Everything!” he yelled back. “I lost everything and nothing at the same time.”
You let out a watery laugh of frustration. “If you don’t want to tell me the details, then at least tell me what it was that made you hate me so much. I at least deserve that much.”
His gaze snapped to yours, a ragged breath leaving him when he saw how much pain you were in. He didn’t just mean the cuts and the bruises and the swelling. He meant the slumped shoulders, the red eyes, the tear stained cheeks and the quivering lip. He broke you, and he loathed himself for it.
“Don’t,” he breathed out, feeling himself break right alongside you. “Don’t you say that.”
“Just stop!” you sobbed. “Don’t turn around and tell me it’s not true when you’ve done nothing to prove otherwise since you recovered! I don’t know what the hell could have happened in a fake world that was so twisted it carried itself over in your heart to the real world but it was not my fault! And I am tired, so tired, of trying to fix whatever it was that broke while you’re standing there with the hammer behind your back.”
Your name left his lips like a broken promise, begging you to look at him.
So you did. Just long enough to say what you needed to say, but not long enough to watch the sorrow cross over his face.
“Just leave,” you mumbled. “It’s apparently what you’re best at.”
He never considered himself a coward before, but as he trudged towards the door he realized that when it came to you, that’s exactly what he was lately.
And you deserved better than that.
So for once, he stayed.
“Look,” he muttered, stopping at the door, gaze fixed down the hallway. “I know I’ve done and said things that I shouldn’t have-”
“You meant them,” you cut in.
He whirled around. “No. Who are you to say what I did and didn’t mean?”
You fought the urge to roll your eyes; or worse, chuck the glass in your hands at his head. “Then why?”
“Because I was scared,” he admitted.
“Of what?” you asked, holding back a laugh.
“Of realizing that I loved you,” he said.
He had said it so simply, yet after all he’d done the words hit you like a slap.
You flinched, choking down a gasp.
“Don’t you dare,” you seethed. “You don’t get to say that to me. Not after everything."
“I fell in love with you, and I didn’t even know it,” he carried on. “Then I fell in love with you in a life we never really had.”
“What does that even mean?” you asked, fighting to keep yourself together.
“You wanted to know what you did?” he asked, arms folding over his chest. “What that version of you did?”
You nodded, no longer trusting your ability to speak.
He laughed. Low. Quiet. Bitter. Heartbroken.
“You married me, you menace.”
The weight of his words pressed down on you, crushing the air from your lungs. The silence filled the room like a third occupant.
“What?”
He shrugged, like he didn’t just detonate a bomb. “We lived in that house - you know the one. No more hunting, just a run of the mill job at my own garage. Even owned it with Bobby. You stayed home, keeping everything perfect. Taking care of the house and our one and a half kids-”
“Kids?” you breathed out, getting hooked on that detail.
He smiled. Sad. Reminiscent. “A baby girl. She looked so much like you.”
“Ellen?” you guessed, remembering how he asked for her when he first woke up.
He nodded, laugh watery as he wiped away tears before they fell. “Yeah. The day I got out, it was when we were gonna tell everyone we were expecting again.”
“Why-” you choked on a sob, trying to process what he was saying. “Why didn’t you just tell me this before?”
More tears fell as he avoided your gaze, but he didn’t bother wiping them away this time. “I didn’t know how. The guilt was killing me.”
“Guilt?” you asked incredulously.
“I had an entire life with you that you didn’t even know about; a whole family,” he lamented. “I realized that I was in love with you because I fell in love with the entire idea of you. I loved you, and I lost you, and I was mourning you even when you’ve been here right in front of me.”
He paused, pacing slowly to work off the emotions rolling through him. “How can I not feel guilty for that? How can you ever look at me the same way knowing what I did? It feels like it was some sick form of betrayal. I told myself that if I pushed you away it would make it all stop hurting. So that’s what I did.”
“Did it?” you asked quietly.
“No,” he said easily. Too quickly. “God, no.”
“Then what did it do?” you prodded.
“It killed me,” he admitted shakily. “And it almost killed you.”
His gaze trailed pointedly over your injuries, making it clear he meant it in more than one way.
“I know I should have told you,” he said. “But when am I ever doing what I’m supposed to?”
He tried for a laugh, but it didn’t come out quite right. Too high. Too fraught.
“I can’t go back and change what I did. But know that I am sorry. I never wanted to hurt you like that."
You nodded dumbly, head too hazy to think of a response. You just sat there, watching as he stopped pacing to look at you. To really see you.
“You-” he started, before cutting himself off nervously. “Don’t you ever, ever think that you’d be just another body for me to burn. I’d never move on from that. Hell, I’d throw myself on the goddamn pyre with you because you are the love of my fucking life.”
The shock that ran through you was visceral, a sob tearing its way out of you. You had too many thoughts swimming in your head, too many things to process.
“Please,” you begged, unsure what you were asking for. “How could you do this to me?”
You weren’t entirely sure what you meant, but he seemed to know what you needed anyway. He always did. He always would.
“I’ll go get Sam,” he said calmly. “And I’ll give you your space. If you ever want to talk… I will be here.”
You lost all track of time after that. Dean was gone, replaced by Sam in what seemed like an instant but also an eternity. He held you while you cried. He listened while you explained what happened. He didn’t offer any advice or solutions; he just listened, and he didn’t leave until he was sure you were asleep.
But it was a fitful sleep.
A sleep that didn’t soothe your heart, the ache so fierce it followed you into your dreams and forced you to wake up. An ache that stayed until you sought out the only thing you knew would help.
You found him by instinct. Feet carrying you on their own, like you were following a thread he left for you to guide the way.
He sensed you before he saw you, jumping to his feet as he turned to watch the door. His body tense, like he was waiting for an ambush, only relaxing when he saw you standing dwarfed in the doorway.
“You hurt me,” you said, matter-of-fact.
“I know.”
“I am still so angry with you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t forgive you. Not fully. Not yet,” you told him.
He nodded in acceptance. “Okay.”
“But it’s only fair for you to know that I-” you stopped yourself, composing your thoughts.
“Don’t say anything you don’t want to,” he comforted, but you ignored him.
“I’ve always loved you, Dean,” you whispered. “I don’t know if I’ve always known, or if it took until hearing you say those things for me to realize, but it’s true.”
He nodded once more, like reluctant acceptance. His face was stoic, body posed carefully, but the way his chest rose and fell gave his emotions away.
“And that life you had, that we had,” you carried on, hands shaking. “You didn’t lose it. Not really. Because it’s still here, in your future. In our future.”
His eyes flicked to your hands, his own flexing and relaxing on a loop as fought the urge to steady them.
The silence dragged on, and you started to mistake his distracted gaze as rejection.
“If you… still want that,” you added quietly, hugging yourself as a way to ease the nerves.
His attention snapped back to you in an instant. “I do,” he assured softly.
Every fibre of his being screamed out for you, but he forced himself to stay put. Not wanting to make the first move before you could fully process how you felt about everything, he ground his jaw to steady himself.
“Good,” you said, voice shaking as your eyes glistened. “Good, because I really missed you,” you admitted, voice blending with a sob as the emotions rolled over you again.
This time he let himself move, body taking action before his mind could catch up. He folded you in his arms before you even fully finished your sentence.
He held you like he was afraid to break you even further, but his fingers gripped the blanket hanging off your shoulders like a lifeline, knuckles turning white as his eyes screwed shut in a futile attempt to keep in the tears.
“Believe me, sunshine,” he whispered into your hair, planting the ghost of a kiss to your head. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you, too.”
BONUS SCENE
“Do you think it was prophetic?” you asked Dean, tossing a glance over your shoulder.
“Do I think what was prophetic?” he asked, coming up behind you.
“That her name was Ellen,” you explained like it was obvious. “I mean, is that what we need to name her now?”
He laughed, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against his chest, chin resting on the crown of your head. “Well, first of all, we don’t even know if it’s a girl or not yet.”
You hummed, deep in thought, laughing softly as his hands shifted ever so slightly to rest on your belly. “I’d like it to be a surprise,” you admitted, resting your hands on his.
“Yeah?” he asked, placing a kiss behind your ear. “We could make that happen.”
“You don’t want to know beforehand?” you wondered.
He thought about it for a moment before you felt him shrug. “I want whatever you want, sweetheart. It doesn’t matter to me. Whether we find out early, or we find out in a delivery room, I’m gonna love that kid all the same.”
“Well aren’t you a smooth talker?” you laughed.
“Of course,” he laughed with you. “How else would I have convinced you to marry me?”
You giggled as he littered your skin with kisses, spinning in place to catch his lips with yours.
“I don’t remember much convincing being needed,” you told him with a sly grin.
“And I thank the stars every day that you haven’t come to your senses yet,” he joked.
“Never,” you chuckled. “You’re the only thing in this world that’s ever made sense to me,” you added on a more serious note.
“Who’s the smoother talker now, huh?” he teased, taking your hand to spin you back around.
You landed with your back against his chest with a laugh, and he wrapped you in his arms once more.
Standing there in the kitchen of your new home, you both stared at the sonogram taped to the fridge until the light flitting through the window bathed everything in sunset hues.
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ with two deans in front of you, the only thing left to trust is the part of him no monster can steal cleanly
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x reader ( f )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 807 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ angsty !!
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ emotional distress, weapon mention, blood/injury mention
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
the worst part is that they both look tired.
not evil. not wrong. not even slightly off in the easy, merciful way you need one of them to be.
they both stand under the flickering motel sign with dean’s face, dean’s blood on their knuckles, dean’s green eyes fixed on you like you are the only solid thing left in the whole ruined parking lot. rain dots the windshield of the impala behind them. somewhere far off, a dog won’t stop barking.
your gun shakes in your hands.
“sweetheart,” the one on the left says, breathless. “look at me.”
the one on the right flinches. “don’t call her that,” he snaps.
same voice. same rough edge. same wounded anger tucked under the words. your stomach turns. “stop,” you say, and it comes out smaller than you want. “both of you. stop talking.”
they do and it almost makes it worse.
the shapeshifter has dean’s memories. sam warned you, voice tight over the phone while you were still running through wet alleyways and trying not to throw up. it can know things. private things. motel rooms and bad jokes and the way dean hums under his breath when he thinks you’re asleep. the first time he kissed you. the first time he said i love you and then immediately panicked and pretended to check the car’s oil. all of it. stolen.
“ask me something,” left-dean says, stepping half an inch forward.
you lift the gun higher. “don’t.”
he stops.
right-dean’s jaw tightens. “ask me.”
your eyes burn. “you both know.”
“not everything,” right-dean says.
left-dean scoffs, and god, it sounds so much like him you feel sick. “that’s what i’d say too.”
your finger rests near the trigger. not on it. near.
you think of dean’s hands on your hips in the bunker kitchen, warm and grease-stained from fixing something that didn’t need fixing. you think of him stealing your fries, then pretending he didn’t. you think of the night he crawled into bed beside you without a word after a hunt went bad, pressing his forehead between your shoulder blades, silent until he finally whispered “don’t make me talk yet”.
you know him. you do. so why can’t you breathe? “what did you tell me,” you start, voice cracking despite the effort, “after jolene’s case? when i wanted to quit?”
both of them go still. left-dean answers first. “i told you that you could. that i’d drive you anywhere you wanted. no guilt trip.”
your chest caves a little. right answer. perfect answer.
right-dean swallows hard. “and then i said i was selfish.”
left-dean turns sharply. you freeze.
right-dean looks at you. “i said i was selfish because i wanted you to stay,” he says. “and then i got scared you’d hear that as pressure, so i made a joke about your terrible motel coffee and you threw a pillow at my head.”
no. it doesn’t. that’s the awful thing. it still doesn’t.
then left-dean softens his face, careful and familiar, and takes one slow step toward you. “baby, come on. you know me.”
baby. too easy. too clean. your dean almost never uses that when he’s scared. he gets rougher. quieter. meaner to himself.
right-dean’s eyes flick to your gun. then to you. “shoot me,” he says.
your heart drops. left-dean goes silent.
“what?”
right-dean’s voice is hoarse. “if you can’t tell, shoot me. leg, shoulder, whatever. silver’ll show you. don’t let him near you.”
“dean—”
“don’t argue with me.” his face breaks, just for a second. “please.”
there. not in the memory. not in the words. in the way he makes himself the sacrifice before he lets you become one.
your hand steadies.
left-dean sees the shift before you move. his expression hardens, dean’s face turning strange with something that is not dean at all. “you sure about that?” he says.
you aim at him. “yeah,” you whisper. “i am.”
the shot splits the rain. silver hits shoulder, not heart, because even now—stupid, stupid—you can’t shoot dean’s face without mercy. the thing screams with his mouth, skin rippling wrong under the streetlight, and then sam is there from nowhere, finishing it before your knees can give out.
after, dean catches you before you fall. the real dean. solid. shaking. warm. you grab his jacket with both fists and shove your face into his chest, furious at him, furious at yourself, furious that you ever had to learn him this way.
“you told me to shoot you,” you choke.
his arms tighten around you. “yeah,” he says, voice breaking at the edges. “i know.”
“i hate you.”
“yeah,” he whispers into your hair. “i know that too.”
you hold him harder anyway, because his heartbeat is under your ear and it is his. it is his. it is his.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
CW: MNDI Bicep Riding, Fluff, Kinda cockblock Robin, no use of y/n, half plot half smut, reader calls Steve Daddy, spanking, Steve manhandling reader,
use of nicknames: baby, pretty girl, stevie
Not proof read,
A/N: This is my first attempt at writing smut so please be nice
Likes, Comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated :) 💙
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One thing you never really understood when it came to sex was how a person could a favorite body part of their partners. During Girls Nights and Sleepovers whenever the question came up you would answer with "I just love him and his body. That's good enough for me." Which usually lead to your friends booing your answer or going into too much graphic detail about their favorite body part of their boyfriend.
It wasn't until you started dating Steve that you finally understood what your friends were talking about. Something finally snapped the night when you, Steve, Eddie, Robin, and Nancy were in the upside down. Something started to stir in you as Steve threw the demobat onto the ground and ripped it's head off with his teeth. You had let out a small whimper that was hopefully covered by the lightening and thunder.
Your gaze never left Steve as you walked around. You'd look him up and down and lick your lips before staring at his mouth than his neck, than his chest, all the way down to his happy trail before your eyes stayed locked on his biceps.
You were so busy eye fucking his biceps that you didn't seem to notice or care that Nancy was bandaging up his wounds. Something that you would normally be doing or at least checking in on him to make sure he was ok. But you didn't trust yourself to be any Steve right now.
In fact, you almost snapped at Eddie as he offered Steve his denim vest for Steve's modesty. But when he finally put the vest on all you could down was let out another whimper. Lovone how the vest highlighted Steve's biceps, his chest hair, and his happy trail.
If you weren't so busy trying to find a way to escape the upside down you would've snuck off somewhere for a quickie. Hell, you would have settled for a heavy petting session. Steve speed slows down. The group now a head of you
"Baby" His voice holding a special softness he reserved only for you "Baby, are you ok?"
"Hmm?" Your gaze grew more intense as he stood in front of you. Your hands moving faster than your brain as you gently touch his bandages before tracing the scar on his neck. A small pout on your face
"Does it hurt?" You ask
"No" He quinces
"Ok, maybe just a little." His hand reaches out to cup your cheek "You don't have to worry about me, pretty girl. I promise I'm ok."
You wrap your arms around his waist, "The second we get home you go lay down and I'll clean you up... properly."
Steve nids
"Hey! Lovebirds!" Robin calls out "Nance has an idea to get us out of here so hurry up!"
Steve never got the chance to ask you about that night. But he had noticed that your gaze was glued onto him and how you kept looking him up and down as if he was a piece of meat. He wondered what had caused the 2 whimpers he heard from you.
With Hawkins quickly becoming a military city under lockdown that particular night seemed like so long ago. Tonight was one of the next to normal nights. No crawls, no coded secret messages coming from The Squawk, just you, Steve, Robin, and the kids watching a movie in your living room.
"Can we have ice cream now?" El calls out
"Right now? Didn't we just finish the pizza?" Jonathan chuckles
"I can go for some ice cream." Dustin says
"Me too!" Lucas agrees
"Alright." You sigh and untangle yourself from Steve.
"C'mon Stevie, let's get the nuggets ice cream." You tease
"Nuggets?" Lucas asks
"Yeah, Stevie here apparently wants 6 nuggets or as normal people would call them kids and go travel in an RV during the summer." Robin teasingly explains
"Hey" Steve stands up from the couch "only she gets to call me Stevie."
You place a kiss on his cheek before pulling him into the kitchen wanting to stop another Stobin debacle
"Everyone ok with a banana spilt?" You ask
Steve looks at you than the group in the living room. "Hey, is every-" You quickly place a hand over his mouth
"I was asking you, not them. If we ask them we'll never get out of this kitchen alive." You laugh "Besides I can make sure they ate a fruit even though it's covered in sugary sweetness."
"I think it evens itself out." Steve laughs reaching for a kitchen cabinet to bring out bowls. Your eyes staring at his biceps again.
"Is that all of them?" You ask as he closes the cabinet
"Yeah. Unless you didn't wanna share?" Steve asks
You shake your head, "No, no, I wanna share."
You organize the bowls into two straight assembly lines than add two peeled bananas while Steve adds 5 ice cream scoops.
"Wait... I wanna try something." You whisper
Steve turns to face you "What is it?"
"Do you trust me?"
He laughs, "What?"
"Steve, do you trust me?"
He nods, "Of course."
You nod, "Ok. Don't move and don't make a sound. Don't want anyone seeing this."
He leans against the island for support as he completely stills. His eyes watching your every movement. You walk over to him and lean in to place a kiss on his cheek.
Your lips move to his hand and continue to kiss your way up to his biceps
He calls your name with a soft whisper
"You trust me." You remind him
He nods as you place another kiss on his cheek
You gently roll his sleeves as high as they can go
"Stevie, I need you to flex for me, ok?"
You lick your bottom lip as he flexed, his thick biceps being shown off even more. You reach for the can of whip cream and pour it onto his bicep. You keep eye contact with Steve as you lick away the pointy top of the whipped cream.
A smirk on your face as you suck the remaining whipped cream off of him and into your mouth. Letting your mouth linger longer than necessary so you can leave a hickey.
He swallows thick, "Babe."
"Too much?" You ask nervously
"No. I've never seen anything hotter."
You smirk proudly and place a kiss on his lips, "Just wait until we're alone tonight."
"What's taking so long? Y'all are missing the movie?!" Robin calls out
"We want our ice cream before the movies over!" Dustin shouts
"I could kick everyone out right now?" He offers
You laugh "Maybe after the ice cream."
"We're almost done. Just adding the toppings so hold your horses!" You shout
"Do I even wanna know what was going on here?" Robin asks
"Nothing was going on here, Rob. Just making ice cream."
"Mhm I'm sure." She rolls her eyes "I heard you two whispering "I've never seen anything hotter." "Just wait until we're alone tonight." She gags
Damn Robin and her superhuman hearing
"Y'know you don't have to know every detail of our - my sex life" Steve complains
She smirks, "Ohh. This has gotta be good. Let me guess it was something really kinky, huh?"
"Don't you have someone else to annoy? I mean the living room is full of people."
"And to think I was coming here to warn you that the kids are talking about trying to spend the night."
"Thanks for the heads up, Robin. Now, can you help us pass out the ice cream, please?" You ask
Once all the banana floats had been passed out you and Steve went back to your spot on the couch. One of Steve's arms around your waist as he holds the bowl. Your head resting against his shoulder as you take turns handfeeding each other.
"Hey Steve" Dustin speaks as the credits of the second movie rolls "Can we all stay here tonight?"
"We didn't bring D&D so we'll actually be quiet this time." Will says hopefully
"I don't know guys-"
"How about next weekend? I work tomorrow so I really need my sleep and so does Steve." You lie, knowing how much it broke your boyfriend's heart to say no to the kids.
The group looks at each other before nodding
"Yeah, that could work." Dustin answers
"How about one more movie than I'll drive you guys home?" Steve offers
"Are you sure dude? I mean you should just let them spend the night since they're already staying later" Robin offers, playing devil's advocate
The glare you give both of them is pure evil
"I swear you're just as bad as the kids" he jokes making everyone laugh
"I can't do another movie. I'm too tired." You stand up "Goodnight guys, enjoy the movie. Goodnight Robin. Night Steven." You grumble as you walk upstairs to your bedroom.
"Who would've known you didn't need my help to block you? You did it to yourself" Robin whispers with a laugh
"Turn the movie up and don't let them come upstairs. I'll take em home in the morning." Steve instructs as he follows you into the bedroom
"I thought you'd be watching the greatest movie ever with the kids?" You step out of the bathroom, wearing Steve's favorite lace set
"No, that video is for our eyes only." He smirks, referring to the sex tape you had made one night when the weed and alcohol mixed perfectly
"You're hilarious. The next Robin Williams everybody." You grumble as you climb under the sheets.
The bed shifts with Steve's weight as he joins you in bed. You sigh and turn to lay on your side. Your back to Steve as you look out the window.
"Baby?"
His fingers ghosting over your hips where the lace bra meets lace underwear. He turns to lay on his side wrapping an arm around your waist and gently pulling you to him
"Let me make it up to you.....please" His voice a deep whisper
His head resting in the crock of your neck to place kisses. Stopping at your pulse point to lick and suck. He pulls away just enough to place kisses on the back of your neck and kisses down both of your shoulder blades.
"Oh" You sigh. Your hand reaches for the strands of hair at the end of his neck and tug.
He gently pulls the blankets off of you and guides you to face him. His lips meeting your in a heated and messy kiss all teeth and tongue. His hands moving up and down your sides then settling on top of your boobs. Thumbs flick your nipples up and down until they harden
" Steve -"
"Shh, pretty girl, let me make it up to you, ok? Let me say I'm sorry by making you fall apart."
You simply nod. Any words getting caught by the lump in your throat and the ache between your legs. Steve's words only adding to the ache and making you twist around desperate for any relief.
His hands going back on your hips to stop your movements. His head moves to the space between your boobs with his lips kissing your nipples over the lace causing you to tug on his hair again.
"You like that?"
"Yes"
You can feel him smirk against your chest as he continues kissing down. He pauses just above your panties, placing a gentle kiss on the top and a kiss to each of your thighs before taking the lace in his mouth and pulling it off of you.
"Fuck.... Daddy that's so hot." The words leave your mouth before you even register them. Your brain overwhelmed with need and lust. Your mind savoring every moment of Steve using his teeth to undress you, the panties still between his teeh
His eyes darken dangerously a mix of want, need and lust taking over. The name only egging him on more as he practically tears his shirt off and tosses it somewhere in the room. You let out a small yelp as he lifts you to stand up on the bed.
"What are you-"
Steve doesn't answer. He adjust so he's laying down somewhat comfortable before pulling you down with him. Moving a pillow sideways to offer you some comfort and support and before you know what's happening you're hovering just above his arm. Your eyes noticing how he had his bicep flexed
"Ride it" It's a command, not a request or an offer
"Wh-what?" You look down at him with big doe eyes
"Ride my bicep baby"
You swallow thickly as your heartbeat quickens
"C'mon, I saw how you eyed them up in the kitchen and I can still see the drool now" He laughs
"Ride em til you fall apart." Steve's free hand moves to help guide you down "Wanna taste you on them."
You didn't need to be told twice. His words sending another pool of arousel between your legs. Your pupils almost completely gone and blown with lust.
You move so his arm is trapped between your thighs. Pausing for a moment to take in the fact that one of your wildest was about to come true. You look down on his bicep, wanting to remember what it looked like, what it felt like, in case this moment never happened again.
Steve's left hand sending a firm slap to your ass. You squeal not used to the action but enjoying it. His left hand grabs a hold of your hip bone the rough yet firm grip forcing you down on his bicep.
"Oh" You moan, enjoying the feeling of his bicep on you
Steve moans "Baby, you're wetter than I thought. Shit, never felt you this wet before."
You giggle and tangle one of your hands in his hair, using him as something to hold onto, something to keep your balance. Using his bicep to get off
"You look like sin up there. You look angelic" He flexed his bicep. The movement adding the best friction to you and hitting your clit perfectly
"Heavenly and....... sinful just........ just for you Daddy" Your words spaced as you ride him. Your body rocking back and forth. The headboard banging against the wall. The sound louder than before due to your position on the bed
"That's right baby. All for me"
His left hand moves to your pussy. His thumb staying on your clit moving left to right than up and down. Two of his fingers teasingly touch your entrance, only making you more worked up.
The sounds of your arsousel covering Steve's bicep while you chase your high. Your moans, sighs,and pants every time he teased your clit just right or flexed enough that his veins hit just the right area.
You tug on his hair, "Shit. Ste - 'M close."
Your hand moves down to replace Steve but he stops you
"Don't. That's my job" His voice stern and his eyes finally meeting you "Let daddy take care of you. You just sit here and let me get you off."
You clinch around him, loving the way he was when he was dominanting like this. He can see that your hand is wondering looking for something to do
"Play with yourself. Touch and tease your nipples like I do. Like I taught you."
You move your hand up to your boob. Playing with your nipple flicking it back and forth then up and down. Your legs moving faster as you chase your climax, Steve's thumb only on your clit
A moan escapes your lips as his mouth wraps around your other boob. Steve licking and sucking. Your cry a warning before you came.
Almost blacking out from the pleasure. Your eyes rolling to the back of your head and seeing stars
"Baby......... You did so good........... baby, come back to me" Steve coxed, wanting to make sure you were ok.
Your eyes met his and you catch the worry disappear. Happy that you were back with him.
"That was........ amazing"
"You did amazing baby"
You lean down to kiss him
"Can I borrow your camera?"
He nods
"Take one of me? Just like this on top of your incredible sexy bicep"
"Are you sure?"
You laugh, "Positive. Figured we'd both wanna remember this moment"
Steve grabs the camera holding it as best he can and making sure you got you and his bicep in the frame
"Gonna need your help. Press the button for me?"
You raise an eyebrow but does what he asks. Steve smirking proudly when the photo prints. The picture a perfect mix of your boobs that were closer to the camera and you sitting pretty on his bicep
major TW: disordered eating | minors dni. dni. dni.
blurb: you were hired to photograph Chef Berzatto’s dishes. you didn’t expect him to notice you never ate it. between late nights at his restaurant, his attentive nature, and a growing attraction neither of you could ignore, Carmen slowly teaches you that food isn’t the enemy. unfortunately for your sanity, he was also infuriatingly handsome.
warnings: 18+ NSFW, eating disorder themes/recovery, but surprisingly body neutral, no use of y/n, slow burn, coworkers to lovers, mutual pining, feelings realisation, hurt/comfort, eating encouragment, body image issues, food intimacy, smut w a plot, body worship, praise kink, very subtle size difference, a little primal play if you squint, dirty talk, emotional sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v sex, possessive!Carmy, protective!Carmy, reader-insert
word count: 5.6k
*read part one: hunger here
part two: sustenance
the restaurant was slammed, a suffocating heat radiating within the kitchen, while every corner of the restaurant reverberated with noise and movement. you had been running entirely on caffeine for nearly three days now and your stomach burned acidically with every sip. but you ignored it, you always ignored it. you felt yourself observing the room in third person as everything started to blur together in pieces,
“behind.”
“corner.”
“need hands here, now.”
until Carmen’s voice cut sharply through the overwhelming chaos. “hey.” you look up too fast and suddenly you feel the world tilting violently beneath you. your knees buckle, and you remember nothing but darkness.
when consciousness returns in bits and pieces, the first thing you recognise is Carmen, his tone low and tight with panic.
“c’mon, sweetheart. open your eyes for me.” he says, his arms tense as he steers and his fingers nervously tap at the wheel. your lashes flutter open weakly.
the fluorescent overhead lights of the kitchen now replaced by the dim amber glow of passing street lamps outside the car window, Carmen’s hand grips your thigh from across the console hard enough to ground you there beside him.
“you scared the shit outta me.” he confesses, the words riding on a ragged exhale, as his voice cracks slightly on the last syllable.
shame floods you instantly, God i’m so much more trouble than i’m worth. “i’m sorry.”
“no.” his grip tightens. “stop that.” the sheer firmness in his tone silences you. but for the rest of the drive, his eyes dart back to you every few seconds, terrified you might disappear again the moment he looks away.
back at his apartment, Carmen helps you inside with a hand pressed gently against your lower back. you’re greeted by a cozy, open concept loft. the hallway opens into a small living room where large trifold windows frame the late night Chicago skyline, casting a subtle light over blanket draped couches. just behind the living area sits the kitchen, where walnut cabinets and quartz countertops cocoon a central stove and a fridge that sits plastered with sentimental photos and magnets. it isn’t untidy, but lived in and welcoming for certain.
flicking the switch, the space softens under a warm orange glow, as he guides you further in. “sit,” he murmurs softly, gesturing toward the velvet green couch, and you hadn’t the strength to protest. the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and laundry detergent. jazz hums quietly from an old radio near as you watch Carmen pace to the kitchen, moving around the stove with a restless urgency.
you observe him from under heavy eyelids. you see the way he runs his fingers through his hair, pushing golden curls off his forehead. you see the way his shoulders tense as he turns on the hob, hearing the sharp succession of clicks echoing through the room before the gas catches and blooms into a quiet hiss of blue flame. you even see the anger he was desperately trying to keep inward, because that was the thing about Carmen. he never looked at you with disgust, just grief.
soon a bowl of pasta appears in front of you, a small serving of spaghetti aglio e olio, steam curls upward between the two of you as he sits knee to knee with you on the edge of the couch. so close that your legs touch, close enough to feel his warmth.
“you with me?” he asks gently, to which you nod once. Carmen twirls the spaghetti carefully around his fork before holding it towards your lips. “open up for me, doll.” too exhausted to uphold an ounce of resolve, you obey and he watches you chew with an unbearable attentiveness.
“that’s it,” he purrs. “good girl.” but the praise rattles something fragile inside you, and suddenly you feel your throat tightening painfully around the bite. too much, too heavy, too many calories. your breathing sharpens and head spins. in an instant, Carmen’s hand lifts to cradle your jaw.
“hey,” he whispers. “look at me.” and you do, but the raw tenderness in his expression threatens to tear you apart.
“your body doesn’t need punishment.” he says quietly, holding your gaze with an unrelenting certainty. a tear spills down your cheek involuntarily and before you could stop it, his thumb catches it gently. “it deserves kindness.”
another forkful lifts toward your mouth. “open.” you obey. “now repeat after me: i deserve nourishment.”
“i d-deserve nourishment.” your voice wavers. he doesn’t rush you, just guides the bites patiently after each affirmation.
“good,” the word leaves him rougher than before. his gaze drops briefly to your lips as you repeat the phrase back to him, and something dark flickers behind his eyes. every time you obeyed, every time you surrendered another piece of the exhausting burden you carried alone, his expression tightened. as if the trust itself was enough for him, and being allowed to guide you felt intoxicating.
“you deserve softness.”
“i deserve s-softness.” a tender kiss is pressed against your shoulder before your next bite arrives.
“you deserve to take up space.” your chin drops to your chest, the line flaring your defence mechanisms right up. your brain has spent a lifetime convincing you of the exact opposite; trying to voice this claim feels like a pill too massive to swallow. sensing the retreat, Carmen hooks a finger under your chin, lifting your face back to his steady gaze.
“you don’t need to shrink yourself to make others comfortable,” he commands softly, pouring every ounce of his belief into you. “you deserve to be here. you deserve to take up space.” his eyes fall briefly to your lips “say it.”
“i deserve… to take up space.” you croak out, the words tearing at your throat as if they were physically choking you.
Carmen goes still. a slow breath escapes his nose to steady the heat of infatuation crawling up his skin. he’d spent years commanding squadrons of chefs, even you had seen how cooks would intrinsically follow his instructions to the letter with nary a question. but this assertion of authority felt different to him, intimately so.
the realisation settles steadily onto him. this wasn’t obedience for obedience’ sake, it was trust. you were handing him the part of yourself that had spent years at war with its own reflection, trusting him to be gentle with it. and judging by the way his gaze darkened, he felt the privilege of that trust too. the ache in your throat begins to ease right as his head falls to brush his lips against the curve of your collarbone in gratitude.
“you deserve more.” he whispers, reaching for the bowl as he guides the final bite upward. his other arm rests upon your opposite shoulder, hand tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. you feel him completely swallowing you within his arms, and all you want to do is fall in.
“i deserve more.” you comply, finding yourself entranced in his ocean blue stare. each mantra was designed specifically to hypnotise you into believing it, like an affirmation meant to manifest a new reality just by repeating it.
“your body is a temple.”
that is where you collapse. you wince as quiet sobs wrack your chest, the accumulated weight of years of self-inflicted cruelty suddenly collapsing beneath the immense pressure of his tenderness. Carmen sets aside the bowl immediately. he pulls you flush against him while his strong arms wrap around you securely as you weep into the crook of his shoulder.
“it’s okay,” he whispers into your hair, his voice a steady anchor pulling you ashore. “i’ve got you.” his palms slide up your spine in slow, soothing strokes.
“say it for me: my body deserves kindness.” the order settles over you, muffling the noises of your internal war, and for once there is nothing to control. nothing to calculate. no endless negotiation with the screaming voice inside your head. only Carmen, his instructions, the authority in his tone, and the quiet expectation in his eyes
and when you obey, his expression softens but his jaw flexes and his gaze grows heavier. every act of trust you offered him seemed to unravel him further, as though each surrender made it harder to hide what he felt.
“my body deserves kindness.” you hesitate
“again.” he orders.
“my body deserves kindness.” you repeat, this time, with more resolve.
“that’s my good girl.” he coos, holding you there in the quiet room and kissing your forehead between whispered reassurances, until the voice in your head finally begins to sound smaller than the one loving you back to life.
the road to recovery was anything but linear, you still had difficult mornings and moments where old thoughts crept in through the cracks of your developing confidence. but there were good days now too. days where you caught yourself reaching for food without calculating it first, days where you laughed without immediately wondering how you looked while doing it. but one thing was for certain, your appetite had increased. and every time Carmen caught you finishing your meal entirely, that same look crossed his face. a devastating display of pride.
one particular rainy evening, long after the restaurant had closed, you found yourself back at his apartment. though you both played it off as innocent, you simply couldn’t resist gravitating toward him, desperate to steal just a little more time with him. now, leaning against the quartz countertops of his kitchen, you watch him straighten the couch cushions in preparation of a movie.
the faint, peppery sting of garlic and torn basil lingers in the air, a scent that coaxes a low rumble from your stomach. for years that sound had been a source of deep humiliation, a betrayal by the hands of your own body, but tonight you welcome it with a smile.
Carmen’s head snaps up instantly. “hungry?”
the answer surfaces before your doubts could choke it back. “yeah.” you whisper, a genuine grin tugging at your lips. his features soften, not with relief but with that streak of pride you had grown to crave. the kind he exclusively wore when he thought no one was looking.
“what d’ya want?” he asks stepping closer, mentally preparing himself for the familiar request of yet another unadventurously clean meal.
you pause for a moment, letting the silence stretch before shrugging. “i dunno.”
a faint twitch nips at the corner of his mouth, “helpful.” he teases, letting out a soft, defeated huff.
a genuine chuckle escapes you. “how bout you make me something?”
that arrested his movement entirely. his hands went dead still against the cold relief of the counter as his gaze swept over yours, searching for any hint of a joke, any sign of retreat. he quirked a single brow, “anything?”
“anything.” you replied, the absolute certainty in your voice caught him completely off guard. for a long, breathless moment he just stared. because just a short while ago, a question like that would’ve triggered a whole spiral of panic: one that would’ve had you cross examining him about seed oils, calculating portions and meticulously counting calories under the guise of it’ll help me calm down if i know how much it is. but now, you’d find yourself surrendering. trusting him, again.
a slow, breathtaking smile spreads across his face. “okay, sweetheart.”
and so he cooks. you watch him from the bar stool on the opposite end of the island, mesmerised by the familiar, effortless confidence of his movements within the kitchen. no menu, no ticking clock, no demanding customers. just the two of you entwined by a quiet, mutual yearning.
the meal he sets in front of you is a simple cheeseburger, but it feels like a gift. it not only arrives hot, but exudes the most delectable fragrance of the rich, savoury scent of seared beef. the patty, thick and beautifully charred at the edges, gleams with trapped juices that slowly seep into the toasted bottom bun. nestled beneath it was a thick layer of caramelised onion jam; dark, umami and lightly sweet. over the top, a blanket of smoked German cheddar forms a golden skirt around the beef, sealing the burger tightly together. two crisp slices of dill pickle peek out the sides, its sharp acidity cutting right through the decadent richness. as you lift the pillowy soft brioche to your lips, your mouth slick with accumulating drool, you render completely defenceless against how sinfully scrumptious it looks.
you finish every single bite with a quiet victory. he hadn’t needed to bargain with you, and there was no guilt left from the voice in your head trying to steal the moment away. just satisfaction, and warmth. just him.
as you pick your head back up, Carmen was already watching. his eyes carry the same expression they always did whenever you finish a plate: like he was witnessing a divine, sacred act of devotion. you reach across the counter, brushing his hand with the tips of your fingers.
“i’m still hungry.” you say, looking at him with a sickeningly sweet doe eyed expression. his eyebrows lift with slight glimmer of amusement and pure disbelief.
“for food?” a smirk tugs at the corner of your lips, but you bite it back, running the tip of your tongue over your lower lip to soothe the sudden, aching need blooming in your chest.
“for you.”
for the first time since meeting him, chef Berzatto has been utterly, completely stripped of his words. but the speechlessness doesn’t last; it develops, darkening into an expression that makes your heart flutter. it wasn’t anger or impatience, but an agonising display of restraint. as if the very last thread holding him back had finally snapped.
his hand settles against your waist. his palm, warm and heavily calloused, presses into your skin with a tentative pressure, as if he were skeptical that you were even real.
“yeah?” he asks. the question a low, rough murmur, spoken softly. terrified of startling his precious, fragile deer, he is acutely aware of just how easily he could undo you, and exactly how much he could make you feel
you nod, returning to that devastatingly innocent, doe eyed look. “yes chef.”
in one fluid motion, Carmen reaches out and gathers you into his arms, lifting you with an effortless strength that makes the world feel small and safe. with your legs wrapped around either side of him, your breath catches as you find yourself tucked against his muscular chest, you hands naturally finding a perch on his shoulders.
he pauses there looking at you with an intensity that borders on worship, before leaning down to press his lips against you. your tongues twirl in a dangerous dance of desire, with him in lead. the kiss he gives you is deep and lingering, beaming with a reverence that somehow seems to recognise every struggle you have ever faced. in this embrace, your submission feels like a release. a quiet choice to let go of the heavy burdens you’ve been carrying and trust in his care.
as he walks with you in his arms toward the bedroom, he doesn’t break the connection, his steady heartbeat thrumming against your own. upon reaching the bed draped with fresh white sheets, he lowers you onto the covers with such deliberate gentleness that it feels akin to handling something sacred. he remains close, hovering over you with a gaze that searches every inch of your face, determined to banish the lingering presence of any self doubt.
“you are incredible,” he murmurs, his voice low, grounded, and heavy with an authority that makes your core ache. he presses a slow line of kisses against the crook of your neck, right where it meets your ear, igniting little fires in his wake and coaxing the sweetest, involuntary sounds from your throat. his hands drag down your frame, his fingers catching and tugging in sudden frustration at the clothes binding you.
“take it off for me. wanna see all of you.” he pulls back just enough to watch you, anchoring himself at the edge of the bed as you rise to your knees. you make a show of it for him. first, you strip away your sweater, then your trousers, moving agonisingly slowly. when you’re left in nothing but your bra and panties, a sharp, ragged gasp escapes Carmen's lips. the sound is an unspoken confession of his hunger, and it sends an immediate, throbbing wave of heat pooling between your legs.
your mind is stripped entirely empty of the usual shame that plagues it, replaced instead by an all encompassing need to please him. you tease him, inviting him in with a slight, rhythmic twist and dip of your shoulders, cupping an arm beneath your chest to lift your cleavage. you toy with the straps of your bra, threatening to slide them down, pulling them right to the precipice of your nipples before stopping. he lets out a low, desperate whine of aching need. your own hunger grows at the sound of his unraveling, and you finally comply; unclipping the clasp and letting the fabric fall onto your lap.
his eyes darken unbearably, the deep ocean blue blown completely pitch black with lust. he stares at you, utterly entranced, his head spinning as he drinks you in. to him, you are the very definition of perfection; every curve gorgeously shaped, nipples that come to tight, perfect points and look mouth wateringly soft.
slickness pools at your folds under his heavy, unblinking gaze. the sheer pressure of his stare makes a hot flush creep up your chest, and you find that continuing the show is harder than you originally anticipated; the stakes have become too high.
feeling his control begin to boil over, Carmen reaches out, his large hand wrapping around you to pull you flush against him. his head falls to your chest, the tip of his tongue flicking your left nipple while his fingers possess the right. you are softer, sweeter, more so than he could have ever imagined.
you melt under the heavy warmth of his touch, letting yourself sink entirely into his needy embrace and moaning softly against the crown of his head. the sound is light, breathy, and rises instinctively from your chest.
“what pretty little noises,” he murmurs against your skin, cock throbbing painfully at the sound as he feverishly presses hungry kisses back up your neck. “and the most perfect tits.” he hums, traveling back down to switch sides, lapping at you with more fervour than the devotion of a sinner seeking absolution. your skin tastes faintly floral to him, like the bud of a rose.
“give me another show. wanna see that sweet little kitty,” he commands slightly rougher than before, his hot breath tickling your ear. he gently flips you around so your back faces him, stepping off the bed to stand at the edge, forcing you to expose yourself to his gaze once more.
you look back at him over your shoulder, a violent shiver running down your spine as you do. left in nothing but your panties, you feel thrillingly vulnerable under his eyes; but as his gaze drags over every inch of your frame, you see no judgment there, only an all consuming awe that leaves him breathless. bending forward slightly, you arch your spine, offering the gorgeous curves of your hips closer to his face. you hook two fingers on either side of the silk and pull the garment down at an excruciatingly slow pace.
a low, primal growl escapes his lips, heavy with hunger it makes your core ache, and you squeal softly at the sheer weight of his reaction. as you pull the fabric off completely, Carmen's whole body tenses with raw desire.
he stares at the bare, unhidden expanse of your skin as if looking at a masterpiece he has waited a lifetime to touch. your fuller state is an absolute triumph of form he thought, a sanctified and exquisitely soft addition. he drinks in the view of your lower back, the curve of your waist, and the plush contour of your ass with the same consuming focus he dedicates to his finest craft. examining every single inch of you, utterly entranced, and unable to find a single flaw. he drags a heavy thumb right over your folds.
“perfect little pink pussy, soaking just for me. you gonna let me taste it?” he swallows hard, watching your own slick string between his fingers. you nod bashfully, caught in a desperate war between looking back at him and looking away.
his lips curl into a tight smirk before he sinks onto the bed, spreading your thighs apart and pressing his tongue directly on you. he drags a single firm stripe up your folds, and your knees threaten to give out at the mindnumbing pleasure. his arm rests heavy over your lower back, pinning you in place as he relentlessly licks and prods at your clit. he slips a finger inside, curling it deeply to coax a succession of the most melodic little moans he has ever heard. he can feel your walls tightening frantically around him, but he isn’t done yet.
“you taste so good, kitten. so sweet,” he praises, his hand firmly petting the skin of your ass before he flips you back over in an instant. now pressed flush against you, his clothed crotch grinds directly against your bare skin, sending sharp shocks straight to your clit. his eyes and lips drag slowly over your figure: from your shoulders down to your chest, your arms, and your hips, tracing all the way down to your feet, leaving not an inch unkissed.
“you’re so perfect. you have no idea what you do to me.” he growls against your skin, his mouth traveling lower to press heavy kisses and light, teasing nips against your stomach. a quiet, familiar pang of self consciousness tries to flare up inside you. your figure is plumper now, holding onto the weight you’ve gained since starting your recovery. a soft plushness you are still learning to comfort yourself with but to Carmen, it is an intoxicating feast. your softness has him entirely feral, his hands gripping your hips as if anchoring himself to the only thing that matters.
“people spend their whole lives carving marble to make somethin’ beautiful,” he murmurs, lazily tracing his fingers over the full curves of your chest, leaving a trail of electric sparks under your skin. “but then here you come.”
you feel the exhausting burden of constant insecurity slowly begin to wash away, replaced instead by an increasing ache for pure desire.
“spent years starving yourself ‘cause you thought taking up less space would make you easier to love?” he asks, his voice low, in a grounded register that demands candor. but the question rattles you, as if he had seen right through you, down to the last bone. he drags his thick fingers to cup your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. reassuring you.
“every day you get better, I find something entirely new to fall in love with.” the utter reverence in his admission completely obliterates the lingering fears of your past. now overtaken by the ache of desire, so intense that a mindless whimper breaks from your throat, needing the solid feel of him. you restlessly grind your yoni against his clothed crotch, seeking any kind of relief.
his eyes flicker with a dark amusement at your impatience. unable to maintain his own resolve any longer, Carmen pulls back to strip away the barriers between you.
you watch him, breathless, as he pulls his shirt over his head. the fabric hides a beautifully sun kissed, muscular frame, the hard contours of his chest and shoulders shifting under a dim light while pulsating veins adorn his tense biceps. he disposes of his jeans next, exposing the sharp v-line of his pelvis and the happy trail that starts below his navel, leading your eyes down to the boxers that confine him.
when he pushes the cotton down, his throbbing length dripping with arousal, is finally revealed to you. he’s magnificent; thick heavy and deliciously veiny, curving downward slightly with a plush pink tip smeared with the glisten of premature juices. he stands before you completely unburdened, his gaze locking onto yours with an unspoken promise that he is about to worship every single inch of the space you take up.
Carmen’s gaze remains locked on yours as he sinks back onto the mattress, the sheer weight of his frame making the bed dip beneath you. there is no more hesitation, no more slow teasing; the air in the room thick with a lustful hunger, one that had been building since you first stepped through his door. he grabs your hips, his large hands sinking into the plush softness of your skin with a possessive grip, and pulls you flat onto your back. looming over you with a delicate dominance that completely walls out the rest of the world.
“look at me,” he commands, his voice a gravelly rasp against your ear as he knees your thighs wide apart.
you look up, completely entranced by the pitch black intensity of his stare. he lifts your legs, draping your knees over his broad shoulders to display you open for him. he positions his heavy, slick length right against your burning folds, and with one deep, unyielding thrust, he drives all the way inside.
“MMMPHH—” a loud, shattered moan tears from your throat, your fingers instantly clawing into the muscles of his back as your body stretches to accommodate him. he is so thick, so impossibly big, filling the space inside you so entirely that your mind goes blissfully blank. every leftover thread of worry instantly pulverised by the blunt force of his entry.
Carmen lets out a ragged groan, his jaw flexing as your tight, wet walls clamp desperately around him. he gives you little time to adjust before pulling back to the very edge and driving in, establishing a relentless, pounding rhythm that shakes the bed beneath you.
“HMM—soo big!” you moan, the pace fierce and uncompromising. each deep plunge strikes against your cervix, sending sharp shocks of pleasure rippling through your pussy. the raw and carnal slapping sound of his length pounding into you, alongside your melodic pleading moans, echo through the room.
“i know baby, it’s so tight.” he growls, his chest heaving, tight with an aggressive and desperate need. “be a good girl, take it all for me.” he’s unraveling completely, his carefully managed control burning to ash under the heat of your surrender.
he shifts his grip, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while the other presses firmly against your stomach, feeling the internal stretch of his own length moving inside you. you arch your back, your hips instinctively rising to meet every devastating down stroke, pleading wordlessly for the release that’s spiraling just out of reach.
Carmen watches your face, drinking in the sight of your flushed cheeks, your blown out eyes, and the way your exquisite body trembles beneath his assault. seeing you completely consumed by him only makes him hit you harder, his thrusts become faster, needier, as he chases his own impending peak.
“aahh—“ another delicious moan escapes your lips. the rhythm of his frantic pounding slows just a fraction, a dark shift passing over his features as he catches his breath. drunk on the sound of you, each shattered, breathless cry tearing from your lips only pushes his arousal past the point of no return. it triggers something carnal in him; a predatory instinct that thrives on how completely you have been consumed by his weight. but he wants to see you take it. wants to watch the exact moment you realise this body, the one you spent so much time wishing away, has the power to undo him.
with a guttural low groan, Carmen suddenly pulls out of you entirely, the abrupt loss leaving you gasping and reaching for him. before you could protest though, his large calloused hands wrap around your waist and in one fluid motion, he lifts you off the mattress.
carrying you a few short steps across the room, he backs you flat against the full length mirror that leans against his bedroom wall. the cool glass shocks your bare back as he lets you down, a stark contrast to the boiling heat of his skin.
“turn around,” Carmen rasps, his breath hot against your ear as he positions himself behind you. his heavy cock slides back into you from behind with a slow, devastating thrust that makes you reach back to steady yourself, resting your hands around the nape of his neck.
“look at us. don't look away.” your eyes snap open at his behest, locking onto the mirror. the sight is dizzying.
“good girl.” he growls. you’re completely pinned between the cold glass and his massive, looming frame. Carmen’s dark eyes are already waiting for you in the reflection, blown out and feral, tracking every micro expression on your face.
he locks eyes with you through the glass, refusing to break the connection as he crushes your hips beneath his palms and begins a brutal, driving pace. a stark contrast to the sweet praises he whispers into your ear.
“look at you,” awe and desire tangled together in his voice. “so beautiful it hurts.” thrust. the force of his movement makes your breath catch.
“every curve on your body belongs exactly where it is.” thrust. his gaze drags over your reflection hungrily before returning to your eyes.
“wouldn’t change a damn thing.” thrust. your hands brace against the mirror, but your attention remains completely fixed on him, held there by the unwavering conviction in his blue stare.
seeing yourself completely taken by him, watching the way his large hands dent the plush softness of your hips in the reflection, sends a spike of electric heat straight to your core. the pacing is frantic now. Carmen’s hand slides around to the front, his heavy thumb finding your swollen clit through the slickness, circling it with relentless fervour.
a knot of intense, burning pressure tightens the pit in Carmen’s stomach with every sweet moan you throw back into the room, and soon the sounds begin to shatter the last of his restraint.
your walls begin to twitch and spasm around him. in the mirror, you watch Carmen’s eyes darken to a dangerous, pitch black intensity as he feels you tighten. he doesn’t blink, just drinks in the sight of your flushed cheeks, your gorgeous tits bouncing with every downward plunge of his hips, and the look of sheer ecstasy wracking your features. the dual sensation of his thick length and his circling thumb pushes you right over the precipice.
“Carmy—please!” you cry out, the sound shattering against the glass. you arch your back into him, eyes wide and locked onto his in the reflection as your body violently rattles into a blind, screaming climax. a thick wave of your sweetness squirts over his fingers and his thighs, the sight of your total undoing completely breaks him. holding your desperate gaze through the mirror, Carmen lets out a primal groan. his hips drive upward in one last, deepest possible thrust. trapping you against the glass as he unloads inside you, hot white ropes filling you to the absolute brim.
for a long minute, neither of you move, the loft filled only with the sound of your ragged, synchronised breaths. you tremble against the glass, your eyes still helplessly chained to his in the reflection as the aftershocks ripple through you both.
slowly, the frantic energy breaks into a breathless silence. Carmen lets out a low ragged chuckle, his forehead slumping forward against the back of your shoulder. he gently slides out of you, the sudden absence leaving you weak kneed, but he catches you before you can fall, scooping you up into his massive arms and carrying you back to the tangled sheets.
he lays you down, leaning over you as his glossy eyes shine with a soft warmth, looking down at the remnants of your squirt that coat your inner thighs. with a deliberate gentleness, he leans down and his tongue laps against your sensitive folds, licking up the sweet cream of your meshed climaxes. cleaning you with the meticulous care of a man who worships what he consumes.
he pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a smoldering smirk playing on his lips.
“too good to let a single drop go to waste. a perfect dish.” he murmurs, his voice a low rumbling vibration.
the heavy heat of the room slowly begins to cool, and the raw carnal energy transitions into a comforting stillness. Carmen pulls the heavy duvet over both of your sweaty bodies, immediately wrapping his strong arms around you and pulling you flush against his chest. he tucks your head securely beneath his chin, while his large hand traces soothing circles across the plush curve of your waist. there is no urgency now. just the steady, rhythmic anchor of his heartbeat beneath your ear, grounding you there with him.
“c’mere,” he whispers into your hair, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your crown. he tightens his grip, completely swallowing you within his warmth, holding you as if you’re the most precious, fragile thing in his world. “i’ve got you now, princess. just breathe.”
and as you lie there, tangled in his limbs and wrapped in his scent, the voice in your head stays entirely silent.
looking for a proof reader so hmu if ur interested :)
PLEASE DO SIERRA SIX PUH-LEASE I NEED EVERY INCH OF THAT MAN maybe a body guard six! x brat!reader 😙😙😙😙
okay i got wayyyyy too carried away this hehe also i'm sorry this took me so long. work has been kicking my asssss
TW: brat, pet names, canon typical violence
Word Count: 11.7k
begins under cut !
The penthouse smelled like expensive leather and your father’s cologne, too heavy, too sharp. You were sprawled across the massive sectional sofa in silk lounge shorts and a camisole, scrolling through your phone with deliberate disinterest as your father paced in front of you.
“I’m not asking, I’m telling you,” he said, voice tight with stress he rarely let show. “There was another attempt last night. Closer this time. I’ve hired someone… different.”
You didn’t even look up. “If it’s another ex-Marine meathead who calls me ‘Miss,’ I’m jumping off the balcony.”
The elevator dinged.
Your father straightened like a man who knew exactly how dangerous his next decision was. “He’s already here.”
The doors opened.
He stepped into the penthouse like he owned the shadows themselves.
Tall. Broad shoulders under a simple black jacket. Sharp, angular face with a faint scar along his jaw. His eyes were cold and pale blue as they swept the room once, assessing every exit, every window, and finally landing on you with zero expression.
Your father cleared his throat. “This is Sierra Six. You can call him Six for short. Former CIA. He’ll be your personal security detail until I say otherwise. Twenty-four seven.”
You slowly sat up, letting your phone drop to the cushion. A smirk tugged at your lips as you dragged your gaze up and down the man standing ten feet away. He looked like a loaded weapon in human form.
You tilted your head.
“So… they sent you to babysit me?” You let out a soft, mocking laugh. “This should be fun.”
Six didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink. His voice was low, rough, and completely flat when he finally spoke.
“Ma’am.”
Just that. One word. Dry as desert sand.
Your father exhaled, already exhausted. “I have meetings in Geneva. Try not to make his job harder than it needs to be.”
He gave Six one last nod and left.
The heavy door clicked shut, leaving you alone with him.
You stood up slowly, walking toward him with that signature sway in your hips you knew drove bodyguards crazy. Stopping just a little too close, you looked up at his impassive face and smiled sweetly.
“Rule one, Six,” you said, tapping one finger against his chest. “I don’t do rules. And I *especially* don’t listen to men who look like they’ve never smiled in their life.”
You arched a brow, waiting for a reaction.
Six stared down at you, completely unbothered. After a long beat, he said calmly:
“Rule one, Princess. You try to slip away from me… I’ll cuff you to something heavy. We clear?”
You stared at him for a long second, lips parting in genuine disbelief. He was supposed to get flustered. Or at least *annoyed*. Instead, Sierra Six just stood there like a damn statue, watching you with those flat, unreadable eyes.
Your irritation flared hot and immediate.
“Excuse me?” you snapped, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “Did you just threaten to *cuff* me? Who the hell do you think you are?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just gave you one slow blink.
You huffed loudly, spinning on your heel and storming toward the open kitchen. The silk of your shorts rode up with every angry step, but you didn’t care. You yanked open the fridge, grabbed a sparkling water, and slammed it shut harder than necessary.
“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, loud enough for him to hear. “I don’t need a glorified babysitter following me around like some shadow. Especially not one who thinks he can talk to me like that.”
You cracked the bottle open and took a sip, glaring at him over the rim. Six hadn’t moved from his spot near the elevator. He simply watched you, hands clasped loosely in front of him, posture relaxed but clearly ready.
After another tense beat of silence, he finally spoke, voice low and even.
“Your father hired me because the last three agents couldn’t keep up with you. I’m not here to be nice. I’m here to keep you alive.” His eyes flicked over you once. “Throw your little tantrum if it makes you feel better, Princess. Just know I’ve got all night.”
Your cheeks burned with frustration. He wasn’t rising to the bait. Wasn’t yelling. Wasn’t even pretending to be intimidated. It made you even *more* irritated.
You set the bottle down with a sharp clink and stalked past him toward the hallway that led to your bedroom.
“I’m going out tonight,” you announced over your shoulder, voice dripping with challenge. “There’s a party downtown. You can either stay here and play statue, or you can try to keep up. Your choice, Six.”
You didn’t wait for his reply. You slammed your bedroom door behind you, heart pounding with a mix of anger and something else you refused to name.
You spent the next hour in your room, fuming the entire time. The fact that your father had actually done this, assigned some stranger to follow you around like a prison guard, made your blood boil. You weren’t a child. You weren’t helpless. And you definitely didn’t need *him*.
You changed into a tight black dress and heels anyway, not because you were trying to impress or provoke anyone, but because you refused to cancel your plans just because Sierra Six existed. You weren’t going to let this ruin your night.
When you finally came out, clutch in hand, you didn’t even glance at him at first. Sierra Six was still standing near the windows, silent and unmoving.
“I’m going out,” you announced flatly, voice laced with clear irritation. “I don’t care what my father told you. I’m not sitting in this penthouse like I’m under house arrest.”
Six turned around slowly. His expression remained completely neutral as he looked at you.
“Alright,” he said simply.
You frowned, thrown off by how easily he agreed. You’d expected an argument.
He walked over to the elevator and held the door open for you without another word. You huffed and marched past him, arms crossed tightly over your chest. The silence in the elevator was suffocating. You stared straight ahead at the doors, jaw clenched.
Once you reached the garage, he opened the back door of the black SUV for you. You climbed in and immediately looked out the window, refusing to acknowledge him.
As he started driving, the quiet only made you more annoyed. After a few minutes, you finally snapped.
“This is stupid,” you muttered. “I don’t need a babysitter. I’ve had security before and they were never this… *constant*. You’re just going to hover around me all night like some shadow?”
Six kept his eyes on the road, voice calm and low.
“My job isn’t to hover. It’s to make sure you don’t get killed. You can be as irritated as you want, Princess. Doesn’t change anything.”
You let out a sharp, frustrated breath and sank back against the seat, glaring at the back of his head.
“I hate this,” you said under your breath, loud enough for him to hear. “I hate all of it.”
A couple moments later you rolled up to the club. You had decided the best way to deal with this was to ignore him completely and headed straight in.
Since stepping into the club, you hadn’t looked at Sierra Six once. You joined your friends in the VIP section, forcing yourself to smile and act normal despite the heavy weight of his presence behind you. You danced with them, sipped your drink, and laughed at their stories like everything was fine, like there wasn’t a tall, silent man standing a short distance away, watching your every move.
But no matter how hard you tried to pretend he wasn’t there, you could still *feel* him. Every time you shifted or turned, he was somewhere nearby. Not crowding you, but never more than ten feet away. Calm. Focused. Unmoving.
It was exhausting.
You leaned against the railing overlooking the dance floor, nursing your second drink and chatting with your friends. You kept your back mostly to him, refusing to give him any acknowledgment. The music pulsed around you, but your mood remained sour and irritated. Having a constant shadow forced on you like this made everything feel stifling.
One of your friends glanced over your shoulder. “He really doesn’t take his eyes off you, huh?”
You shrugged, keeping your tone flat. “He’s just doing his job. I’m not going to pay attention to him.”
You took another sip of your drink and moved deeper into the VIP lounge with your group, still deliberately acting like Sierra Six didn’t exist.
You were tired of feeling his eyes on you.
While your friends were distracted laughing and ordering another round, you saw your chance. You slipped away quietly from the VIP area, weaving through the crowd without looking back. The main dance floor was packed, dark, and loud. It was exactly what you needed to disappear for a while.
The bass hit harder down here. Bodies moved all around you as you pushed deeper into the crowd. For the first time since arriving, you felt a small sense of freedom. No tall shadow right behind you. No constant reminder of your father’s overprotectiveness.
You found a spot near the center and let yourself move with the music. A server passed by with shots, and you took two, downing them quickly. The burn felt good. You grabbed a third drink from another tray and kept going, determined to enjoy yourself and forget that Sierra Six even existed.
Time blurred as the alcohol started hitting you. You danced harder, laughing at nothing in particular, moving with strangers and friends who had followed you down. The lights flashed across your face and the world felt a little softer, a little warmer.
You were definitely getting drunk now. Your movements were looser, your laughter louder, and your balance a little unsteady.
The alcohol had loosened you up significantly. The music felt louder, the lights brighter, and your usual sharp edges had softened into something reckless. You kept dancing, hips swaying, refusing to check if Sierra Six was still watching.
That’s when he appeared.
A tall guy in a fitted black shirt slid into your space on the dance floor, smiling confidently as he moved with you. He was attractive enough, sharp jaw, easy grin, and under normal circumstances you wouldn't have flirted back lightly. Tonight, though, with your annoyance still simmering, you let him get closer.
He placed his hands on your waist, pulling you in as the beat dropped. You didn’t push him away. Instead, you let your body move against his, a small defiant spark flickering in your chest. *Let Six see this*, you thought hazily. *Let him deal with it.*
The guy’s hands grew bolder, sliding down to your hips, then lower, gripping you tighter as he pressed closer. His breath brushed your ear as he murmured something you couldn’t quite hear over the music. You laughed, tipsy and stubborn, and didn’t stop him.
You allowed it.
For a few moments, his hands roamed, one slipping down to grab your ass, the other staying possessively on your lower back. You were drunk enough to lean into the chaos of it, using it as quiet rebellion against the man you knew was somewhere nearby.
Then suddenly, he was gone.
A strong hand clamped down on the guy’s shoulder and yanked him backward hard. Sierra Six appeared like he’d materialized out of the crowd, his expression cold and dangerous. He shoved the guy away with enough force that he stumbled into other dancers.
“Touch her again and I’ll break your fucking arm,” Six said, voice low and lethal, barely audible over the music but clear enough to make the guy’s face go pale.
The stranger muttered something and quickly disappeared into the crowd.
Six turned to you. His jaw was tight, eyes narrowed as he looked you over. You were still breathing fast from dancing, cheeks flushed from the drinks and the defiance.
He stepped in close, closer than he’d been all night, and spoke directly into your ear so you could hear him clearly.
“We’re leaving. Now.”
“No,” you mumbled, pulling your arm away from his grip as best you could.
Your voice came out weaker than you wanted, slurred around the edges from all the drinks. You tried to step back, stubbornness still burning through the haze in your head. “I’m not… I’m not leaving yet. You can’t just… drag me out.”
Sierra Six didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t argue. He simply looked down at you for a beat, taking in your unsteady stance and glassy eyes, then wrapped one arm firmly around your waist to steady you.
“You’re done,” he said calmly, voice low and final.
You huffed, irritated even through the fog of alcohol, and tried to push at his chest. Your hands felt heavy and clumsy. The shove you attempted barely moved him. “This is so stupid… I was fine. You’re ruining everything again.”
Six didn’t respond. He simply turned and started guiding you through the crowd toward the exit, his arm staying locked around you like iron. You kept loosely fighting him the whole way, half-hearted tugs, quiet complaints, trying to dig your heels in, but your body wouldn’t cooperate. Your heels wobbled dangerously with every step, and the room kept tilting slightly.
By the time you reached the club’s exit, you were mostly leaning against him whether you wanted to or not. The cool night air hit your face as he led you outside and straight toward the waiting SUV.
You muttered under your breath, “I hate this… hate you being here…” but the words were soft and blurry. Your balance was completely shot.
Six opened the back door and helped you inside with surprising patience. You half-fell onto the seat, dress riding up, head spinning as you tried to sit up straight. He closed the door, walked around, and got into the driver’s seat.
As the car started moving, you slumped against the window, still quietly huffy, watching the city lights blur past. Your attempts at rebellion had completely fizzled out under the weight of how drunk you actually were.
By the time the SUV pulled into the private garage beneath the penthouse, most of your fight had drained away. The alcohol made everything feel heavy and slow. You were still irritated, still resentful that Sierra Six had ruined your night, but you didn’t have the energy to argue anymore.
You relented.
When he opened the back door and offered his hand, you took it without protest and let him help you out of the car. Your heels were unsteady on the concrete floor, and the world tilted dangerously with every step toward the elevator.
Six stayed quiet the entire ride up. You leaned against the wall of the elevator, eyes half-closed, arms wrapped around yourself. The doors opened directly into the penthouse. You took a few wobbly steps forward before your balance completely betrayed you as the floor rushed up to meet your face.
Six caught you before you could stumble too far.
“That’s enough,” he said under his breath.
In one smooth motion, he bent down and lifted you, tossing you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. A surprised sound escaped you, but you didn’t have the strength to fight it. Your head spun as you hung upside down, one of his arms locked firmly around the backs of your thighs to keep you in place.
“Put me down…” you mumbled weakly, more out of habit than actual protest. Your voice was soft and tired. “This is humiliating, Six.”
He didn’t answer. He simply carried you through the dark penthouse, his steps steady and quiet. You could feel the strength in his shoulder and arm, solid, unyielding. The silk of your dress had ridden up, but you were too drunk to care.
He carried you all the way down the hallway and into your bedroom. Only when he reached your bed did he carefully lower you onto it. You landed on your back with a soft bounce, staring up at the ceiling as the room continued to spin.
Six stood over you for a moment, looking down at your flushed face and messy hair. His expression was still mostly unreadable, but there was a faint trace of something, maybe mild exasperation, in the set of his jaw.
“Get some sleep, Princess,” he said quietly. “You’re going to feel like hell tomorrow.”
You didn’t fight him anymore.
The second your back hit the bed, the exhaustion and alcohol pulled you under. You barely managed to kick at the covers half-heartedly before your eyes fluttered shut. The last thing you registered was the sound of Six’s footsteps heading toward the door.
Then nothing.
You woke up the next morning to sunlight slicing through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Your head was pounding, mouth dry, and your body felt heavy with regret.
You were still wearing the tight black dress from last night, now wrinkled and twisted around your body. However, your sky-high heels had been carefully removed and placed neatly by the closet. Your face felt clean. No trace of sticky makeup or smudged mascara. Someone had taken it off for you.
On your nightstand sat a tall glass of water and two painkillers, right next to your phone which was plugged in to its charger.
You stared at the items for a long moment, a mix of irritation and reluctant surprise twisting in your chest. You knew exactly who had done this. Sierra Six.
You slowly sat up, wincing as your headache flared. The penthouse was quiet. For a second you wondered if he had left, but you doubted it. He was probably somewhere nearby, waiting like the constant shadow he was.
You swallowed the painkillers with the water, then swung your legs over the side of the bed. Your reflection in the mirror across the room looked rough, hair messy, dress disheveled, eyes tired.
Memories from the club came back in fragments: dancing, the random guy’s hands on you, Six yanking him away, being carried over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes…
Your cheeks burned with embarrassment and lingering annoyance.
You stood up on shaky legs and made your way toward the bedroom door, still wearing last night’s dress. You weren’t ready to face him, but you needed coffee.
You padded out of your bedroom, barefoot and still in the wrinkled black dress from last night. The penthouse was quiet except for the low hum of the city far below. As you entered the open living area, the smell of fresh coffee hit you immediately.
Sierra Six was standing in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup. He looked exactly the same as always, calm and composed. He was dressed in a simple black shirt and pants.
You stopped near the island, arms crossing over your chest. The sight of him made your lingering headache feel worse. He had taken your heels off. Removed your makeup. Left water and pills like he had any right to touch you while you were passed out.
You hated how thoughtful it was.
Six glanced over at you, his expression unreadable as always. He slid a second mug of coffee across the counter in your direction without saying a word.
You stared at the mug for a moment before reluctantly walking over and picking it up. The warmth felt good against your hands, but you refused to thank him.
“I didn’t ask you to do any of that,” you said quietly, voice still rough from sleep and the hangover. “The makeup. The shoes. The pills.”
Six took a slow sip of his own coffee, leaning against the counter.
“You were barely conscious,” he replied evenly. “Figured you’d be more comfortable without the heels digging into your feet and that makeup caked on your face.”
You huffed softly, looking down into your mug. Part of you wanted to snap at him, but the hangover made it hard to muster up the energy. Instead, you settled for cold irritation.
“I don’t need you playing caretaker, Six. Just… doing your job and staying out of my way would be great.”
He watched you for a long beat, those sharp blue eyes steady.
“Staying out of your way almost got some idiot’s hands all over you last night,” he said, voice low. “You can be annoyed with me all you want, Princess. But I’m not going anywhere.”
You tightened your grip on the mug, cheeks warming with a mix of embarrassment and frustration. The worst part was knowing he was right but you weren’t about to admit that.
You scoffed under your breath and walked away without another word, disappearing into your bathroom. The hot shower felt like the only thing you had control over right now. You stayed under the water until your fingers pruned, letting the steam and heat wash away the headache and the lingering embarrassment from last night.
By the time you stepped out and wrapped yourself in a towel, you felt slightly more human.
**Three months later**
Three months had passed, and nothing had really changed.
Sierra Six was still there. Constant, quiet, and impossible to shake. He followed you everywhere: to dinners, events, shopping trips, late nights out with friends. You had tried everything to make his job difficult. You ignored him for days at a time. You ditched him in crowds. You stayed out until dawn just to test how long he’d wait. You gave him one-word answers and cold shoulders whenever he tried to speak to you.
And still, he never cracked.
He never raised his voice. Never lost his patience in front of you. He simply did his job with that same calm, steady presence that somehow managed to irritate you more than if he had yelled back.
Tonight was no different.
You were getting ready for another event, some high-profile charity gala your father insisted you attend in his honor since he had some other business meeting to attend to. You stood in front of your mirror in a sleek, backless black gown, putting the finishing touches on your makeup. Six was already waiting in the living room, dressed in a tailored black suit that somehow made him look even more dangerous than usual.
You could feel his presence even from down the hallway.
When you finally stepped out, heels clicking against the floor, his eyes lifted from his phone and landed on you. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you. His gaze was slow and assessing before giving a single, short nod.
“Ready?” he asked quietly.
You didn’t answer right away. You walked past him toward the elevator, the long slit in your dress flashing skin with every step. Only when the doors opened did you finally speak, voice cool and distant.
“Let’s just get this over with.”
Six followed you inside without another word.
The gala was exactly what you expected, loud, glittering, and full of people who smiled too wide and talked too much. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, champagne flowed freely, and the air smelled like expensive perfume and money.
You had barely stepped inside before you started putting distance between yourself and Sierra Six.
He stayed close, as always. He was close enough to reach you in seconds, but far enough that it didn’t look like he was hovering. Still, you could feel him. That quiet, steady presence at your back no matter where you moved in the ballroom.
You made your rounds with a polite smile plastered on your face, greeting people you barely knew and accepting compliments on your dress. Every so often you’d glance over your shoulder and catch Six watching you from across the room, hands clasped in front of him, expression unreadable.
You were in the middle of a conversation with some politician’s son when you noticed Six had moved closer. Not close enough to interrupt, but close enough that you knew he was listening.
Irritation flickered in your chest.
You excused yourself from the conversation and made your way toward the bar, hoping the crowd would make it harder for him to stay right on top of you. You ordered a glass of champagne and took a slow sip, letting your eyes scan the room.
Six appeared at your side, close enough that his arm brushed yours when someone bumped into him from behind. He didn’t apologize. He just stood there, calm and solid, like he had every right to be in your space.
“You’re doing that thing again,” you muttered under your breath, not looking at him.
“What thing?” he asked quietly.
“Hovering.”
Six was quiet for a beat. Then he leaned in just slightly, voice low enough that only you could hear it.
“Someone’s been watching you from the east side of the room for the last ten minutes. I’m not hovering. I’m doing my job.”
You finally turned your head to look at him. He was close, closer than he usually allowed himself to be in public. The suit made him look sharper, more dangerous. His eyes were steady on yours, unreadable as always.
You hated how your stomach flipped.
You took another sip of champagne and looked away.
“I don’t need you to save me from every person who stares,” you said coolly. “I’ve been handling myself just fine for three months.”
Six didn’t argue. He simply stayed where he was, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne.
“Three months of you trying to lose me,” he said quietly. “And I’m still here.”
The words hung between you, heavier than they should have been.
The night had been moving in that same tense rhythm it always did with him around, you ignoring him and him watching you from a distance. You were standing near the tall windows, half-tuned out of whatever the man beside you was saying, when something in the air shifted.
It happened fast.
You caught the movement in your peripheral vision, a man in a dark suit cutting through the crowd with purpose from the east side, his hand already reaching inside his jacket. Your stomach dropped the second you saw the gun.
Before you could even open your mouth, the attacker raised his arm and fired.
The shot was deafening in the crowded ballroom.
The man standing right in front of you, the one who had been talking about stocks, jerked violently as the bullet tore through him. Blood sprayed in a hot, violent arc across your chest, neck, and face. You felt it hit your skin instantly warm and wet.
The man collapsed at your feet.
Screams erupted around you. Pure chaos.
You stumbled backward with a broken, choked sound, hands flying up. Your heart slammed so hard it hurt. You could still feel the warmth of someone else’s blood on your skin, on your dress, dripping down your collarbone. The metallic smell flooded your nose.
The attacker was already moving again, gun swinging toward you now that his first target was down.
Sierra Six hit him like a freight train.
He came out of nowhere, slamming into the man with brutal force. There was a violent struggle, fists, a grunt, the gun skittering across the floor. Six drove his elbow hard into the attacker’s face, then grabbed him by the back of the neck and slammed him face-first into a marble pillar with a sickening crunch. The man dropped, unconscious or worse.
It was over in seconds.
Six turned to you immediately, eyes sharp as he took in the blood covering your chest and face. He stepped in fast, hands gripping your arms.
“Hey. Look at me,” he said, voice low but urgent. “It’s not yours. You’re okay. You’re okay.”
You couldn’t stop shaking. Your breathing came in short, panicked gasps. The image of the man dropping right in front of you kept replaying. You could feel the blood cooling on your skin.
“I-I felt it hit me,” you managed, voice cracking. “He was right there-”
“I know.” Six’s grip tightened just enough to ground you. “But you’re not hit. We need to move. Right now.”
He didn’t give you time to fall apart. One arm wrapped firmly around your waist as he started moving you through the screaming crowd. People were scrambling in every direction. You stumbled once in your heels and Six caught you without slowing, half-carrying you toward the exit while keeping his body between you and the room.
“Keep your eyes on me,” he said as he hurried you forward, voice steady even as he moved fast. “Don’t look back. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”
The cold night air hit your face when he finally got you outside, but it didn’t stop the shaking. Your legs felt weak. Six opened the SUV door and guided you inside with careful urgency, one hand on the back of your head so you didn’t hit it.
The second the door shut, the noise cut off.
Six slid into the driver’s seat and immediately turned toward you, his expression tight but his voice calmer now.
“You’re okay,” he said again, quieter this time. “It’s over. Just keep breathing for me. I'm going to get you somewhere safe. Okay princess?"
Six didn’t waste a second.
He threw the SUV into drive and pulled out fast, tires squealing slightly as he merged into traffic.
“Eyes on me,” he said, voice low and steady as he weaved through cars at dangerous speed. “You’re okay. You’re not hit. That blood isn’t yours. Just keep breathing for me, alright?”
You were still shaking. Your hands trembled in your lap, and you could feel the blood drying on your skin and the front of your dress. Every time you blinked, you saw the man drop in front of you again.
“I-I can’t stop shaking,” you whispered, voice thin.
“I know.” Six’s eyes watched you through the rear view mirror as he took a sharp turn. “Adrenaline. It’ll pass. You’re safe now. I’ve got you. No one’s getting to you while I’m here.”
He kept talking the entire drive. His voice calm, low, and constant. Reassuring you that you were okay, that he had you, that they were almost to a safe house. He didn’t raise his voice once. He just kept driving like a man who had done this a hundred times, while still making sure you didn’t spiral.
When he finally pulled into an underground garage beneath a nondescript apartment building, he killed the engine and was out of the car before you could even reach for the door handle.
He opened your door, took one look at how badly you were still shaking, and didn’t even ask.
In one smooth motion, he slid one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you bridal-style against his chest. You made a small sound of surprise but didn’t have the energy to protest. Your arms instinctively looped around his neck as he carried you quickly through the garage and into a private elevator.
He moved fast, like every second counted. His heartbeat was steady under your ear. He didn’t put you down when the elevator doors opened. He just carried you straight into the safe house apartment, kicking the door shut behind him with his foot.
Only once you were inside did he finally slow down. He carried you over to the large couch and carefully set you down, but he didn’t step away immediately. His hands stayed on your shoulders for a moment, steadying you as he looked you over.
“You’re okay,” he said again, quieter now that you were behind locked doors. “We’re safe here. No one knows about this place.”
Six stayed close for a few minutes, watching you carefully. You were still trembling, eyes glassy, blood drying on your skin and dress. He eventually spoke, voice low and gentle.
“You should go take a shower. Get that blood off you. It’ll help.”
You didn’t answer. You just nodded weakly and stood up on shaky legs, making your way down the short hallway to the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind you.
You didn’t even bother undressing.
You stepped straight into the large walk-in shower, still in your blood-stained black gown and heels. The second the hot water hit you, something inside you cracked. You sank down onto the tiled floor, pulling your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. The water poured over you, turning pink as it washed the blood from your skin and dress. You stayed there, curled up tightly, shaking as the events of the night finally crashed over you in full.
You didn’t know how long you’d been sitting there when the bathroom door opened again.
Six stepped inside quietly. He had a change of clothes in his hands, one of his own shirts and a pair of soft sweatpants. He set them on the counter without a word, then paused when he noticed you on the floor of the shower, still fully dressed, water soaking through your gown.
He didn’t say anything at first. He just watched you for a moment, jaw tight.
Then your voice came out small and broken.
“…Six?”
He stepped closer to the shower door.
“Yeah.”
You lifted your head slightly, eyes red and wet. Your voice cracked when you spoke again.
“Can you… can you get in with me?”
He went still.
You swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “Please. I-I don’t want to be alone right now. Just… stay with me. I just need help getting it off.”
For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, without a word, Six stepped into the shower with you. The water immediately soaked through his black button-up and slacks. He crouched down in front of you, not touching you yet, just making sure you were okay with him being this close.
You reached for him with a trembling hand.
He took it gently.
Then he started helping you clear the blood off. His careful, steady hands wiping the blood from your arms, your collarbone, your neck. The water ran pink between you as he worked quietly, his clothes plastered to his body, completely focused on you. He didn’t speak. He just stayed there with you under the spray, letting you lean into him when your shaking got too bad.
The water eventually ran clear.
Six stayed crouched in front of you until your shaking had eased into something smaller, quieter. Then he reached over and gently turned the shower off. The sudden silence felt heavy.
“Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s get you out of here.”
He stood first, water dripping from his soaked clothes, and offered you his hand. You took it without hesitation this time. He helped you to your feet, steadying you when your legs wobbled, then stepped out of the shower first. He grabbed a large towel from the rack and handed it to you before turning his back respectfully.
“I’ll be right outside,” he said. “Take your time.”
You nodded even though he couldn’t see it. Once he stepped out and closed the door behind him, you peeled off the ruined black gown and let it drop heavily to the floor. Your hands were still unsteady as you dried off and changed into the clothes he’d brought you, his soft black t-shirt that hung loose on your frame and the gray sweatpants that were far too big but comfortable.
When you finally opened the bathroom door, Six was waiting in the hallway, now changed into dry clothes himself. He didn’t say anything. He just looked you over once, checking that you were okay, before gently guiding you down the short hallway with a hand on your lower back.
The bedroom was simple and clean. He pulled back the covers on the bed without a word, then turned to you.
“Lie down,” he said softly. “You need rest.”
You were too drained to argue. You climbed into the bed and he carefully pulled the blankets up over you, tucking them around your shoulders with surprising gentleness. For a moment he just stood there, looking down at you like he was making sure you were really okay.
Then he reached out and brushed a damp strand of hair away from your face.
“I’ll be right outside if you need anything,” he said quietly. “Door’s open. Just call for me.”
He started to turn away, but your hand shot out and caught his wrist before he could leave.
“Please,” you whispered, voice small and raw. “Don’t go. I… I don’t want to be alone right now. Please stay.”
Six went still. He looked down at where your hand held onto him, then back at your face. You could see the hesitation in his eyes — the way he was weighing everything. Three months of you pushing him away. Three months of him keeping his distance. And now this.
He was quiet for a long moment.
Then he exhaled slowly.
“Just this once,” he said, voice low.
He didn’t make you ask again.
Six walked around to the other side of the bed and pulled back the covers. He climbed in beside you without another word, the mattress dipping under his weight. He stayed on top of the blankets at first, like he was still trying to keep some kind of line between you, but when you instinctively shifted closer, he didn’t stop you.
After a beat, he lifted his arm and let you curl into his side. Your head rested against his chest, and you could hear the steady, calm rhythm of his heartbeat. One of his arms came around you, careful and warm, holding you there.
He didn’t say anything else. He just stayed.
You could feel the warmth of him through his shirt and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to fight the contact with him.
You closed your eyes, exhaustion finally pulling at you.
Six’s hand moved slowly up and down your back in soothing strokes.
“Sleep,” he murmured against your hair. “I’ve got you.”
***
You must have fallen asleep first.
The steady rhythm of Six’s heartbeat under your ear, the warmth of his arm around you, and the exhaustion from everything that had happened pulled you under quickly. At some point during the night, he must have pulled the covers over both of you, because when you slowly blinked awake the next morning, you were completely wrapped up in him.
Your legs were tangled with his. One of your arms was draped across his chest, and his hand was resting low on your back, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of the shirt you were wearing. Your face was tucked against the side of his neck, and you could feel the slow, even rise and fall of his breathing.
He was still asleep.
For a long moment, you didn’t move. You just laid there, listening to the quiet of the safe house and the sound of him breathing. The events of last night felt distant now, like a bad dream, but the memory of how he’d carried you, stayed in the shower with you, and climbed into bed without hesitation was still fresh.
You tilted your head slightly to look at him.
Even in sleep, he looked calm. The sharp edges of his face were softer in the morning light filtering through the curtains. His arm was still securely around you, like even unconscious, he was making sure you were safe.
Something in your chest tightened.
For the first time in three months, you didn’t feel that sharp, irritated urge to push him away. You didn’t feel the need to be difficult or cold. Instead, there was something quieter. Warmer. A strange, reluctant softness you weren’t ready to name yet.
*Maybe he’s not so bad*, you thought.
The realization settled over you slowly as you stayed curled against him, not wanting to move just yet. His hand flexed slightly on your back, like he could sense you were awake, but he didn’t open his eyes.
You closed yours again and let yourself stay there a little longer, limbs tangled, breathing in sync.
You didn’t move.
Instead, you settled in deeper against him, letting your body relax fully into the warmth of his chest. Your fingers curled lightly into his shirt as you closed your eyes again, breathing him in. For once, you didn’t feel the need to create distance. You just wanted to stay exactly where you were.
A few minutes later, you felt him stir.
Six’s breathing changed slower, then deeper as he started to wake. His arm tightened around you instinctively before he even opened his eyes. When he finally did, he blinked a few times, gaze soft with sleep as he looked down at you still curled against him.
He didn’t pull away.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You could feel his heartbeat pick up just slightly under your cheek. Then his hand moved slowly up your back in a gentle stroke.
“Morning,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.
You didn’t answer right away. You just hummed quietly, still not ready to move.
Eventually, Six shifted and sat up slowly, careful not to jostle you too much. You followed, sitting up beside him. The blankets pooled around your waist as you rubbed at your eyes. The events of last night felt heavier in the daylight, but the fear had dulled into something quieter.
Six ran a hand through his hair, then glanced over at you.
“We’re going to lay low here for a while,” he said, voice calm but firm. “Until we know it’s safe. No going out. No contact with anyone outside this place. Just us, until I get word that the threat’s handled.”
He looked at you for a moment, studying your face.
“You okay with that?”
You nodded slowly, still feeling the ghost of his arms around you from the night before.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I’m okay with that.”
Six gave a small nod, then stood up from the bed.
“I’ll make some coffee. You can take your time.”
He headed toward the door, but before he left, he paused and looked back at you.
“You did good last night,” he added, softer this time. “You stayed calm when it mattered.”
Then he was gone, leaving you sitting in the quiet bedroom with your thoughts.
**A couple of days later**
The safe house had fallen into an easy, quiet rhythm.
Mornings started slow. You’d wake up tangled in the sheets, sometimes alone, sometimes with the faint smell of coffee drifting in from the kitchen. Six would already be up, always early, making breakfast or checking in with whoever was handling things on the outside. You’d sit at the small kitchen island in his oversized shirts, sipping coffee while he moved around the space with calm efficiency.
Afternoons were quiet. You read, watched movies, or sat by the window while Six worked on his tablet or cleaned weapons you pretended not to notice. Sometimes you talked. Sometimes you didn’t. The silence between you had changed. It wasn’t cold anymore. It was comfortable.
Evenings were when things felt most natural. You cooked together (or rather, you tried while he actually cooked). You’d eat on the couch, knees touching, the TV playing something low in the background. And every single night, without fail, the same thing happened.
You would look at him across the couch or from the bedroom doorway and ask, voice soft but insistent:
“Can you sleep in the bed with me tonight?”
Six would usually pause, that familiar hesitation flickering across his face. Sometimes he’d say no, gently, but firmly. “Not tonight.” Other times he’d just look at you for a long moment before giving in with a quiet sigh.
But on the nights he said no, you didn’t argue.
You just waited until he was asleep on the couch or in the spare room, then climbed into his bed anyway. You’d curl up against his back or press yourself into his side, and every single time, he would eventually give in. His arm would come around you. He’d pull you closer and let you stay with him.
Tonight was no different.
You stood in the bedroom doorway in one of his shirts, watching him as he finished checking the locks on the front door. When he turned and saw you, he already knew what you were going to say.
“Six…” you started, voice quiet. “Please sleep in the bed with me tonight.”
He looked at you for a long moment, that unreadable expression softening just slightly at the edges.
Then he exhaled, running a hand over his face.
“Just this once,” he said again, the same thing he’d told you that first night.
But you both knew it wasn’t just this once anymore.
He followed you into the bedroom without another word. You climbed into bed first, and when he slid in beside you, you immediately moved into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t fight it. He just wrapped an arm around you and pulled you against his chest, his hand resting warm and steady on your back.
Neither of you spoke.
You just laid there together in the dark, breathing in sync, the rest of the world locked outside.
And for the first time in a long time, you felt safe.
You were curled against his side like you had been every night for the past few days, your head on his chest, one leg draped over his. His arm was around you, fingers tracing slow, absent patterns on your back. The safe house was dark and still.
You’d been thinking about it for hours. About how different things felt now. About how you didn’t hate having him around anymore. About how you actually looked forward to these quiet nights.
Your voice came out small in the dark.
“I used to hate you being here,” you admitted quietly. “Like… really hate it. I thought you were just another one of my dad’s control freaks. Another babysitter.”
Six didn’t say anything, but you felt his hand pause on your back for a second before continuing.
You swallowed and kept going, voice even softer.
“But these last few days… I don’t know. I’ve been waiting for you to come to bed. I’ve been climbing in with you even when you say no. And I don’t think it’s just because I’m scared anymore.”
You lifted your head slightly to look at him. His face was half-lit by the moonlight coming through the curtains.
“I think I just… want you here. With me.”
The words hung in the air between you.
Six was quiet for a long moment. His expression didn’t change much, but you could feel the shift in his body, the way his muscles tensed slightly under you.
Finally, he spoke, voice low and careful.
“You shouldn’t.”
You blinked.
“What?”
He exhaled slowly, staring up at the ceiling instead of looking at you.
“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Me staying in this bed with you every night. You curling up against me like this. It’s a bad idea.”
You felt your stomach twist.
“Why?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.
“Because I’m not supposed to be doing this,” he said, still calm, still quiet. “I was hired to protect you. Not… whatever this is turning into. And I’m not good for you. You know that.”
He finally looked at you then. His eyes were steady, but there was something tired behind them.
“I’ve done a lot of ugly things in my life, Princess. You don’t need to get caught up in that. You deserve better than someone like me sleeping in your bed just because you’re scared.”
You stayed quiet for a moment, heart sinking a little.
“So what?” you asked softly. “You’re just going to keep pretending you don’t feel anything?”
Six’s jaw tightened.
“I’m going to keep doing my job,” he said. “And right now, my job is keeping you alive. Not letting this get more complicated than it already is.”
He gently brushed a strand of hair from your face, the touch lingering for just a second too long.
“Go to sleep,” he murmured. “We’ll talk about it another time.”
But you both knew he was hoping there wouldn’t be another time.
He didn’t pull away from you, though. His arm stayed around you. His body stayed warm against yours. He just closed his eyes and let the silence settle again.
You were quiet for a long moment after he told you to go to sleep.
Then you pushed yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him. Your voice came out smaller than you wanted it to.
“So all this touching?” you asked quietly. “All these nights with me in your bed, you holding me… that means nothing to you?”
Six’s eyes opened. He looked up at you, expression unreadable.
You swallowed, throat tight.
“I’m just a job to you?”
The words hung there, sad and heavy.
Six didn’t answer right away. He stared at you for a long moment before exhaling slowly.
“No,” he said, voice low. “You’re not just a job. That’s the problem.”
He sat up a little, one hand gently cupping the side of your face.
“I care about you. More than I should. But this… it’s a bad idea. I’m not supposed to want you like this.”
You leaned into his touch, eyes never leaving his.
“I want you,” you whispered. The confession felt terrifying and freeing at the same time. “I don’t care if it’s a bad idea. I want you, Six.”
He closed his eyes for a second, jaw tight, clearly fighting with himself.
Then you asked, voice barely above a whisper:
“Kiss me.”
Six’s eyes opened again. You saw the exact moment his resolve cracked.
“Fuck it,” he breathed.
He surged forward and kissed you.
It wasn’t soft or hesitant. The second his lips met yours, all the months of restraint disappeared. He kissed you like he’d been starving for it. His hand slid into your hair, tilting your head as he claimed your mouth completely.
You moaned softly against him and he responded with a low groan, rolling you onto your back and pressing you into the mattress with his body weight. His other hand gripped your hip, fingers digging in as he settled between your thighs.
When he finally pulled back for air, his forehead rested against yours, breathing ragged.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he muttered, voice rough. “I’ve been trying so fucking hard to stay away from you.”
You pulled him back down into another kiss, legs wrapping around his waist. His hand slipped under your shirt, warm palm sliding up your bare skin as the kiss grew hotter, more desperate.
This time, he didn’t try to stop.
Six kissed you like he was finally allowing himself to let go.
His mouth was demanding, almost punishing in its intensity, but his hands were surprisingly careful as they moved over you. He pushed your shirt higher, palms sliding up your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. When he finally broke the kiss to pull your shirt over your head, he sat back on his knees and just looked at you for a moment.
His eyes darkened as they dragged slowly down your body.
“Been thinking about this for too long,” he muttered, almost to himself.
He leaned down again, mouth finding your neck, then your collarbone. His hand cupped one breast, squeezing gently before his thumb brushed over your nipple. When you arched into his touch, he let out a low sound of approval and lowered his head, taking your nipple into his mouth.
You bit your lip, trying to hold back a moan, but a soft, breathy sound still escaped.
Six glanced up at you, eyes sharp even in the dark.
“Don’t hold back,” he said, voice rough. “I want to hear you.”
You gave him a small, defiant little smirk, even as your breathing was already uneven.
“Make me,” you whispered.
Something flashed in his eyes, equal parts amusement and warning.
He moved lower, kissing down your stomach, hands gripping your hips as he settled between your legs. He peeled your sweatpants and underwear down slowly, tossing them aside. For a moment he just looked at you, completely bare beneath him, his hands running up your thighs.
You shifted restlessly, suddenly feeling exposed.
“Six…” you started, a bratty edge slipping into your tone, “are you just going to stare all night or-?”
He cut you off by spreading your thighs wider and dragging his tongue up your center in one slow, firm stroke.
Your words died instantly, turning into a sharp gasp.
He did it again, slower this time, savoring you. When your hips twitched, he pressed one strong arm across your lower stomach, holding you down.
“Stay still,” he murmured against you, the vibration of his voice making you shiver.
You tried to move again anyway, just to test him, and he responded by sucking on your clit with just enough pressure to make your back arch.
“Fuck- Six,” you moaned, one hand fisting the sheets.
He pulled back just enough to look up at you, lips shiny, eyes dark with heat.
“You’re still being a brat even when I’ve got my mouth on you?” he asked, voice low and dangerous. “Careful, Princess.”
Then he lowered his head again, this time sliding two fingers inside you while his tongue worked your clit. The combination was overwhelming. You couldn’t help the needy sounds that kept falling from your lips, even as you tried to keep that teasing edge.
Every time you tried to roll your hips or tug at his hair, he pinned you harder, forcing you to take what he gave you.
He was exploring every inch of you with patient, devastating focus, like he’d been imagining this for months and was determined to make it count.
"Six please. Harder. I need more-" You whined, hips twitching.
Six pulled back just enough to look up at you, his lips glistening, eyes dark with heat and something dangerously close to amusement.
“You’re still running your mouth?” he asked, voice low and rough. “Even with my fingers inside you?”
You gave him a breathless, defiant little smile, hips twitching against his hold.
“Maybe you’re just not doing it well enough to shut me up,” you teased, even as your voice shook.
Six let out a low chuckle, dark and full of promise.
“Oh, Princess…” He curled his fingers inside you, pressing against that perfect spot that made your breath hitch. “You’re going to regret saying that.”
But he didn’t stop you.
In fact, the bratty little challenge in your voice seemed to spur him on. He lowered his head again, sucking on your clit with slow, deliberate pressure while his fingers kept that steady, devastating rhythm. Every time you tried to roll your hips or tug at his hair, he pinned you down harder with his forearm.
You moaned, head falling back against the pillow, but you still managed to gasp out:
“Is that all you’ve got, Six?”
He pulled his mouth off you with a wet sound and looked up, eyes narrowed in that calm, predatory way that made your stomach flip.
“You really want to play this game right now?” he asked, voice dangerously soft. He added a third finger, stretching you as he pumped them deeper. “Because I can keep you right here on the edge for hours if you keep acting like a spoiled little brat.”
You bit your lip, trying to fight the whimper that wanted to escape, but still managed to shoot back:
“Maybe I want you to try.”
Six’s eyes flashed with heat. He clearly liked your attitude more than he wanted to admit, the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smirk.
He crawled back up your body, fingers still buried deep inside you, and hovered over you. His face was inches from yours, eyes locked on you as he worked his fingers faster.
“You’re lucky I like that mouth of yours,” he murmured, brushing his lips against yours teasingly. “But keep pushing me… and I’ll fuck that attitude right out of you.”
You shivered at the promise in his voice, but still gave him a sweet, defiant smile.
“Promises, promises…”
Six groaned low in his throat and kissed you hard, swallowing your next bratty remark as his fingers continued their relentless rhythm between your legs.
He was definitely enjoying this.
And you both knew he’d make good on his threat to tame you eventually.
He pulled his fingers out of you abruptly, making you whine at the loss. Before you could complain, he flipped you onto your stomach with ease, like you weighed nothing. He gripped your hips and yanked them up so you were on your knees, face pressed into the mattress.
“You’ve had your fun running that mouth,” he said, voice low and dangerously calm. “Now I’m going to fuck that attitude out of you.”
You barely had time to react before he lined himself up and thrust into you in one hard, deep stroke.
A sharp moan tore from your throat. The stretch was intense, and the sudden fullness made your fingers clutch the sheets. Six didn’t give you time to adjust. He started moving immediately, deep, punishing thrusts that rocked your whole body forward.
“Fuck- Six, please” you gasped, still trying to sound defiant even as your voice cracked.
He leaned over you, one hand fisting your hair and pulling your head back slightly as he kept driving into you.
“Still talking?” he growled against your ear, hips snapping harder. “Thought I told you I was done with that bratty mouth tonight.”
Each thrust was powerful and controlled, hitting deep inside you. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room along with your broken moans. Every time you tried to push back or say something smart, he fucked you harder, effectively cutting you off.
“You like pushing me, don’t you?” he muttered, voice rough as he pounded into you. “All those months of teasing me… sneaking into my bed… acting like a spoiled little princess.”
He reached around and rubbed tight circles on your clit, making your legs shake.
“Well now you’re going to take what I give you.”
Your bratty attitude started crumbling fast. The overwhelming pleasure mixed with the way he was dominating you completely made it harder and harder to talk back. Your moans grew louder, needier, and more desperate.
Six felt the shift. He released your hair and wrapped his hand around your throat instead, not squeezing hard, just holding you possessively as he fucked you deeper.
“That’s it,” he praised, voice low. “Getting quieter already. Where’s that smart mouth now, Princess?”
You whimpered, pushing back against him despite how overwhelmed you were. He rewarded you by slowing his pace just enough to grind deep, making you feel every inch.
“Beg me to let you come,” he said calmly, still thrusting steadily. “And maybe I’ll be nice.”
You were panting hard, fists clenched in the sheets, the last bit of brattiness quickly disappearing under his relentless rhythm.
Six kept his brutal, steady rhythm, his hips snapping against your ass as he drove deep inside you. His hand was still wrapped around your throat, possessive and firm.
“Beg me,” he repeated, voice low and commanding. “Beg me to let you come.”
You tried to hold onto the last scraps of your brattiness. Even as your body trembled and your walls clenched around him, you gasped out:
“I don’t- fuck- I don’t beg…”
The words barely left your mouth before Six slammed into you harder, punching the air out of your lungs. A broken moan ripped from your throat.
He leaned down, lips brushing your ear as he growled:
“Yeah? Then I guess you don’t get to come.”
He slowed his thrusts deliberately, dragging every inch in and out torturously slow, keeping you right on the edge without letting you fall over it.
You only lasted a few seconds.
The overwhelming need won almost immediately.
“Okay- okay, please,” you whimpered, voice cracking as you pushed back against him desperately. “Please, Six… I’m sorry. Please let me come.”
A dark, satisfied sound rumbled in his chest.
“There she is,” he murmured, sounding pleased. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
He immediately picked up the pace again, fucking you hard and deep, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, tight circles. His grip on your throat tightened just enough to make your head spin in the best way.
You broke completely.
Moans and pleas spilled from your lips without filter as he drove you toward the edge. The bratty attitude you’d been clinging to vanished in seconds under his relentless control.
“Come,” he ordered, voice rough against your ear. “Right now.”
Your orgasm hit you like a wave, crashing through your body so hard your arms gave out. You moaned loudly into the mattress as pleasure ripped through you, thighs shaking violently. Six fucked you through it, groaning as your walls clenched tight around him.
Only when you started to come down did he let himself go. He buried himself deep and came with a low, guttural groan, hips pressed flush against you as he filled you up.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was both of you breathing hard.
Six finally pulled out slowly and flipped you onto your back. He hovered over you, brushing damp hair from your face as he looked down at your flushed, wrecked expression.
His voice was quiet but firm when he spoke.
“Good girl.”
Your face instantly flushed a deep, burning red. The praise hit you harder than you expected. A shy, flustered warmth spread through your chest and down between your legs. You tried to look away, embarrassed by how much you liked it, but Six gently caught your chin and made you meet his eyes.
“You like that, don’t you?” he asked, voice low and knowing. “Look at you… blushing like crazy just from being called a good girl.”
You bit your lip, cheeks still flaming, but you couldn’t deny it. The way he said it made you feel small and wanted at the same time.
Six leaned down and kissed you slowly, deeply, his tongue sliding against yours. When he pulled back, his eyes had softened, but the hunger was still there.
“Think you can handle one more?” he asked.
You nodded, still flushed and a little shy now.
He shifted between your legs, spreading them wider as he settled into missionary. This time there was no rushing. He guided himself back inside you slowly, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt. You both let out a soft moan at the feeling.
Six braced himself on his forearms, caging you in as he started moving. His thrusts were deep and slow, making you feel every inch of him. His face hovered just above yours, eyes locked on you the entire time.
“You feel so fucking good,” he whispered, kissing you between thrusts. “So warm and tight just for me, princess.”
You wrapped your arms around his back, nails lightly dragging down his skin as he moved inside you. The slower pace felt more intimate, more intense in a different way. Every deep stroke made your breath hitch.
Six pressed his forehead to yours, voice rough but gentle.
“That’s it… just take me. No more attitude tonight, yeah?”
You blushed even harder at his words, but nodded quickly, melting under him.
“Good girl,” he praised again, voice low and warm against your lips.
The words sent another rush of heat through you. You whimpered softly and pulled him closer, legs wrapping tighter around his waist as he continued his slow, deep rhythm.
Six kept rolling his hips into you with smooth, deliberate strokes. Every thrust pressed him flush against you, grinding against your clit in a way that made your toes curl.
He never looked away from your face, watching every little reaction you gave him.
“Look at me,” he murmured when your eyes fluttered shut. “Want to see you while I fuck you like this.”
You forced your eyes open, cheeks still burning from his earlier praise. The eye contact felt almost too intense, too vulnerable, but you couldn’t look away. His gaze was dark, focused, and full of something much deeper than just lust.
He leaned down and kissed you again, slow and filthy, tongue sliding against yours as he buried himself deep and stayed there for a moment, grinding in small circles.
“You’re being so good for me right now,” he whispered against your lips. “Taking me so fucking perfectly.”
You whimpered at his words, your walls clenching hard around him. The praise made your stomach flutter and your face grow even hotter.
Six noticed immediately.
“You really like that, huh?” He smiled slightly, almost teasing, but his voice stayed low and warm. “My spoiled little princess likes being called a good girl?”
You nodded shyly, too embarrassed to speak, but your body gave you away. Your hips lifting to meet his thrusts, legs tightening around his waist.
Six groaned softly and picked up the pace just a little, still deep and intimate but with more purpose now.
“That’s it,” he praised, brushing his lips against your jaw. “Such a good girl for me. So wet… so tight… letting me fuck you exactly how I want.”
Every word pushed you closer to the edge. Your fingers dug into his shoulders as your breathing turned into soft, needy moans. The slow drag of him inside you, combined with the constant stream of quiet praise, was driving you crazy in the best way.
Six could feel you getting close. He slid one hand between your bodies and rubbed gentle circles on your clit.
“Come on, baby,” he murmured, voice rough but tender. “Be a good girl and come for me again.”
That was all it took.
Your second orgasm washed over you slower and deeper than the first. You cried out his name, back arching, thighs shaking as pleasure rolled through you in long, powerful waves. Six kept moving through it, kissing your neck and murmuring soft praises against your skin until your body finally went limp beneath him.
Only then did he let himself go.
With a low groan, he buried himself deep and came hard, hips jerking against you as he spilled inside you for the second time that night.
For a long while afterward, the only sounds were your heavy breathing.
Six stayed inside you for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, before slowly pulling out. He rolled onto his back and immediately pulled you on top of him, wrapping his arms around you tightly. One hand stroked up and down your spine in soothing motions while the other cradled the back of your head.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple.
You nodded against his chest, still flushed and a little dazed, enjoying the feeling of being held so securely.
---
Two weeks later, the safe house no longer felt like a cage.
The threat had been handled, your father’s team finally tracked down the people responsible. Six had been on calls most of the morning, his voice low and serious, while you pretended not to eavesdrop from the kitchen. When he finally stepped out, the tension in his shoulders had eased.
“It’s over,” he said simply.
You looked up from your coffee, trying to play it cool even though relief flooded through you.
“So… I can go back to my regularly scheduled chaos now?” you asked, a familiar teasing edge in your voice.
Six walked over and stopped in front of you. He placed his hands on the counter on either side of your body, caging you in. His expression was calm, but his eyes were intense.
“You could,” he said. “But you’re not going anywhere without me.”
You raised an eyebrow, that old bratty spark flickering.
“Oh? Still my bodyguard, Six?”
He leaned in closer, voice dropping low.
“I’m not your bodyguard anymore.” His hand came up to tuck your hair behind your ear. “I’m yours. And you’re mine. That’s not changing.”
Your heart stuttered.
For a moment, the old version of you wanted to push back, to say something snarky, to test him like you used to. But you didn’t. Instead, you reached up and looped your arms around his neck, pulling him down until your foreheads touched.
“I was really awful to you in the beginning,” you admitted quietly. “I don’t know why you put up with me.”
Six’s hands settled on your waist, thumbs brushing gently over your sides.
“Because even when you were being a spoiled little brat,” he murmured, lips brushing yours, “I could see you. The real you. And I wanted you anyway.”
He kissed you then.
When he pulled back, there was the faintest hint of a smirk on his face.
“Besides,” he added, “someone has to keep that attitude in check.”
You laughed softly and lightly smacked his chest.
“Careful, Sierra Six. I can still make your life difficult.”
He caught your wrist and pressed a kiss to the inside of it, eyes warm with affection.
“I’m counting on it, Princess.”
He lifted you onto the counter effortlessly and stepped between your legs, wrapping his arms around you. You rested your head on his shoulder, breathing him in as the morning light filled the safe house.
For the first time in your life, you didn’t feel trapped.
You felt safe. Wanted. *Chosen.*
And as Six held you close, one hand gently stroking your back, you realized something:
hii! i hope this isn’t too forward, but i wanted to ask if you might consider writing a dean winchester x reader story. the reader would be a young woman in her early 20s who struggles with an eating disorder (anorexia) something i personally struggle with, so it would mean a lot to see it portrayed with care. i think it would be really meaningful to show her struggles and dean noticing and supporting her in a kind, understanding way. i always imagine him being by my side and it would just mean so much to me to have something that goes into this direction to read about:)
i completely understand if this isn’t something you feel comfortable writing, and i really appreciate you even reading this!! take care and have a great day!!:)
⋆˚꩜｡ all that you deserve,
summary. dean notices the things you try so hard to hide—and stays anyway, softer than you expected.
notes. i just hope you know that you're special. to me. to the entire spn community. and i'm sure jensen and jared would love you. so, take care of yourself, because you're precious ⭐
<𝟑 .ᐟ consider supporting my work on ko-fi 🩷
The thing about disappearing is that you get good at it.
You learn how to fold yourself smaller. Quieter. Easier to ignore.
You push food around your plate at diners, laugh it off when Dean raises an eyebrow. “Big lunch,” you say. Or, “Stomach’s weird today.” Or, “I’ll eat later.”
Later rarely comes.
You tell yourself it’s control. That it’s strength. That it’s something solid in a life that has never been solid.
But Dean watches.
He notices when your jeans hang looser than they did last month. Notices when you get lightheaded standing up too fast. Notices the way your hands shake just slightly when he passes you a burger and you hesitate for half a second too long.
He doesn’t call you out in front of Sam.
He doesn’t joke.
He just… watches.
One night in a cheap motel room, you think you’re being quiet when you sit on the bathroom floor.
You don’t mean to cry. It just happens. Silent, frustrated tears because you’re hungry and terrified of being hungry at the same time.
It doesn’t make sense.
None of it does.
There’s a knock at the door. Soft.
“Hey,” Dean’s voice says. Not demanding. Just there. “You okay?”
You wipe your face quickly. “Yeah.”
Silence.
He doesn’t buy it.
The door opens slowly. He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t look disappointed.
He looks worried.
That’s worse.
He crouches in front of you, careful not to crowd your space. Like approaching a wounded animal.
“You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on?” he asks quietly.
You shrug, staring at the tiles. “Nothing.”
“Sweetheart.”
Your throat tightens at that.
He doesn’t use pet names lightly.
“You’re not nothing,” he says. “And this? This isn’t nothing.”
You shake your head. “I’m fine.”
He studies you for a long moment. And then, very gently, he reaches out and takes your hand.
Your fingers feel small in his.
“I’ve seen you take on things that would break most people,” he says. “Monsters. Nightmares. Stuff no one your age should have to carry.”
His thumb brushes over your knuckles.
“But this?” His voice softens. “This is fightin’ you from the inside.”
The words land too close.
You look away. “I just… I don’t feel right in my own skin.”
It comes out barely above a whisper. The truth you never say out loud.
Dean’s jaw tightens, but not at you. Never at you.
He shifts so he’s sitting on the floor with you now, back against the tub. Close enough that your shoulder brushes his.
“You know what I see?” he asks.
You don’t answer.
“I see the girl who outshot me at the range last week.” A faint huff of a smile. “Who patched me up after that vamp nest without flinching.”
His voice dips lower.
“I see someone I love.”
You inhale sharply.
He doesn’t look embarrassed. Doesn’t backtrack.
“I don’t see numbers,” he continues. “I don’t see flaws you think are there. I see you.”
Your chest feels tight. “It’s not that simple.”
“I know.” He nods immediately. “I know it’s not.”
There’s no fixing tone in his voice. No “just eat more.” No frustration.
Just understanding that this is real. That it’s heavy.
“But you don’t gotta fight it alone,” he says. “You don’t gotta starve yourself to be worthy of takin’ up space.”
The word starve makes you flinch.
He notices. Of course he does.
“I’m not mad,” he adds quickly. “I’m not disappointed. I’m just… scared of losin’ you to something I can’t punch.”
Your eyes sting again.
Dean Winchester is not a man who cries easily.
But there’s something glassy in his gaze now.
“You matter,” he says firmly. “More than whatever voice is tellin’ you you don’t.”
You let out a shaky breath. “What if I can’t shut it up?”
“Then we make it quieter together.”
He stands slowly and offers you his hand.
No pressure.
Just an invitation.
“There’s pie in the mini fridge,” he says lightly. “We can split it. No big speeches. Just… sit.”
Food still feels like a battlefield.
But his hand is warm. Steady.
You take it.
He doesn’t comment when you hesitate over the first bite. Doesn’t watch you too closely. Just sits beside you on the motel bed, knee pressed to yours, talking about some dumb classic rock trivia to fill the silence.
Halfway through, you realize you’re not shaking anymore.
Dean bumps your shoulder gently. “See?” he murmurs.
You lean into him without thinking.
“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he says, kissing the top of your head. “Not when it gets ugly. Not when it gets hard.”
For the first time in a long while, the voice in your head isn’t the loudest thing in the room.
He is.
And he’s saying you deserve to stay.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule
── .✦ requests are currently closed.
Could you please maybe do a body swap Drabble with Sam? I just read your Dean one and I loved it and now I need one for Sam (I’m 5’3, so the thought of getting to be a giant even just for a day is so much fun)
I love your writing, by the way! Definitely becoming my favourite writing blog on this app. Keep up the good work and don’t forget to take care of yourself!
⋆˚꩜｡ tall, dark, and temporarily you,
summary. a spell gone wrong leaves you in sam’s very tall body—and you are absolutely not normal about it.
You know something is wrong the moment you sit up in bed and the ceiling feels… closer.
No.
Not closer.
Farther.
Your legs tangle in sheets that suddenly feel too short. Your hands—oh.
Oh.
Those are not your hands.
They’re huge.
Long fingers. Broad palms. Veins mapping the backs like highways.
“What the hell—”
The voice that comes out is deep. Gravel-warm. Familiar.
Across the motel room, there’s a strangled yelp.
You look up.
And there you are.
Five-foot-three of confused fury, drowning in Sam’s oversized t-shirt.
Sam—currently you—stares down at his borrowed small hands in horror. “Why am I short?!”
You scramble out of bed and immediately slam your head into the low-hanging light fixture.
You don’t feel it.
Because you’re tall.
You freeze.
Slowly.
You look down.
The world is different from up here. The dresser seems tiny. The bed smaller. The doorframe suspiciously fragile.
“Oh my God,” you whisper in Sam’s voice. “I’m gigantic.”
Sam gapes at you from your body. “That’s your takeaway?!”
You take one experimental step. The room shifts around you in ways you are absolutely not emotionally prepared for.
“Is this what you see all the time?” you demand. “This is amazing. I can see the top of the fridge without climbing.”
“This is not amazing,” he says, trying to stand and wobbling slightly in your much shorter legs. “The spell must’ve backfired.”
You flex your—his—arms.
There’s muscle there. Obvious muscle.
You make a fist.
“This is illegal,” you breathe.
Sam’s eyes narrow. “Do not get weird about this.”
“Too late.”
You stride to the mirror.
It’s Sam’s face staring back at you. Sleep-mussed hair. Broad shoulders. Built like a tree.
You grin.
It looks devastating.
“Oh, I get it now,” you murmur. “This is power.”
Sam crosses his arms—your arms—and scowls up at you. “You’re five-three.”
“Temporarily.”
You stretch again, reveling in the height. “I could reach the top shelf at the bunker without asking for help. I could change light bulbs. I could intimidate people in grocery stores.”
“You already intimidate people,” he mutters.
You spin toward him. “Do I?”
“Yes. You’re scary.”
You beam.
He sighs.
“Okay,” Sam says, focusing. “We just need to reverse the spell. It’s probably tied to the hex bag from yesterday.”
You kneel in front of him—and immediately misjudge the distance, nearly knocking him over with your borrowed mass.
“Sorry!” you say, grabbing his—your—shoulders to steady him.
He steadies you back, hands warm and small against your ribs.
It’s surreal.
“You feel… lighter,” he admits quietly.
You tilt your head. “You feel compact.”
He huffs.
You study him for a moment. The way he fits in your frame. The way your clothes hang off him differently.
“You carry this every day?” you ask, softer now.
“My body?”
“The size. The expectations. The whole giant thing.”
He hesitates.
“It’s just me,” he says finally.
You glance at your reflection again.
It’s strange—being in him. Feeling the weight of it. The reach. The strength.
“Okay,” you decide. “One more thing before we fix it.”
He squints suspiciously. “What.”
You straighten to your full borrowed height and look down at him dramatically.
“So this,” you say in your best impression of his serious voice, “is what it’s like when you loom.”
“I do not loom.”
“You absolutely loom.”
You take one exaggerated step closer.
He instinctively steps back.
You grin wickedly.
“How’s the weather down there?”
He lunges—short legs and all—and pokes you hard in the ribs.
You yelp.
It echoes much deeper than usual.
Both of you freeze.
Then laugh.
Big, unrestrained laughter that feels too loud for the motel walls.
He looks up at you—really looks.
“You don’t need to be taller,” he says gently. “You know that, right?”
The words land differently from him.
You shrug, a little sheepish. “Still fun.”
He smiles. “Yeah. It is.”
You reach down and take his hand—your hand—and squeeze.
“Okay,” you say. “Let’s fix it before I accidentally walk through a doorframe.”
“Please.”
But as you gather the hex bag and start undoing the spell, you take one last glance at the mirror.
At the height.
At the strength.
At him.
And you think, being small was never the problem.
Still—nice to visit giant land for a day.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule
── .✦ requests are currently closed.
Sam x soft spoken reader? Just thinking of him leaning down during a conversation just to hear better and not thinking anything odd of it, while reader is just scrambling to get their words out without stuttering while their eyes flick anywhere but him lol. And maybe when they have sex they aren’t as vocal but then Sam coaxes it out of them? Love your stuff!!
⋆｡ ˚ the quiet ones break the loudest
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ you’ve always been soft-spoken, especially around sam—stumbling over words when he leans in close to hear you, eyes darting away—until he finally shows you how vocal you can.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ sam winchester x reader ( f )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 1012 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ smut!!
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ explicit sexual content, soft-spoken/shy reader, size difference, gentle dom!sam vibes, coaxing/encouragement, praise kink, voice kink (sam coaxing sounds out of quiet reader), p in v, emotional intimacy
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
The library in the bunker is dim, just the desk lamp and the faint glow from Sam’s laptop screen. You’re tucked into the corner armchair with a lore book open on your lap, legs folded under you, voice barely above a whisper as you read him the passage about the djinn variant you’re hunting.
Sam’s sitting on the floor in front of you—back against the ottoman, long legs stretched out—head tilted back so he can look up at you while you talk.
He’s close. Too close.
His shoulder brushes your knee every time he shifts.
You get to the part about the venom dosage and your voice drops even lower, automatic, like you’re afraid of disturbing the silence.
He turns fully toward you then. Leans in. His face is suddenly inches from yours—ear tilted toward your mouth so he can catch every murmured word. His hair brushes your cheek. You smell cedar and coffee and the faint trace of gun oil on his skin.
Your sentence dies halfway.
“…and the—the antidote needs to uhm be administered within—” You swallow. Blink fast. Eyes flick to his mouth, then the bookshelf behind him, then the ceiling. Anywhere but the warm hazel staring at you like you’re the only thing in the room. “Within, um. Forty minutes.”
Sam doesn’t move back. Just stays there, patient, waiting for the rest.
You try again. “It—it has to be—” Your voice cracks. Tiny. Barely audible.
He smiles—small, soft, the kind that makes your stomach flip—and murmurs, “You can talk quieter. I’ll hear you.”
That’s the problem. You know he will.
You nod jerkily. Finish the sentence in fragments. He nods along, serious, focused, like this is normal. Like leaning in so close your breaths mingle is just practical.
It’s not practical.
It’s devastating.
Later—hours later, after the hunt’s done, after showers and takeout and the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that makes everything feel slow—the motel room is dark except for the bathroom light you left on. One bed. Always one bed lately.
You’re already under the covers when Sam climbs in behind you. Big spoon by default. His chest presses to your back, arm sliding around your waist, hand splaying wide over your stomach.
He kisses the nape of your neck. Soft. Once. Then again.
You shiver.
“Still thinking about that djinn?” he asks, voice low against your ear.
You shake your head. Barely.
“Good.” His hand drifts lower. Slips under the hem of your sleep shirt. Fingers trace lazy circles over your hipbone. “Because I’ve been thinking about you.”
Your breath hitches—quiet, but he hears it.
He always hears.
“Tell me what you want,” he whispers.
You bite your lip. Shake your head again.
Sam chuckles—soft, fond. “Can’t hear you, sweetheart.”
His fingers dip between your thighs. Find you already wet. He groans against your shoulder. “Fuck. You’re soaked.”
You whimper—tiny, almost silent.
He circles your clit slow. Teasing. “Use your words. Tell me.”
“I—” Your voice is threadbare. “Want… you.”
“Louder.”
You try. “Want you inside me.”
He rewards you—slides one finger in, then two. Crooks them just right. You arch, mouth open on a soundless gasp.
“More,” he coaxes. “Let me hear you.”
You shake your head—habit. Too shy. Too much.
Sam pulls his fingers out. You whine—small, pitiful.
He rolls you onto your back. Settles between your thighs. Big hands push your knees wide. He’s already hard, heavy against your stomach. “Look at me.”
You do. Barely. Eyes flicking to his, then away.
He notches himself at your entrance. Doesn’t push in yet.
“Say my name.”
“Sam…”
“Louder.”
“Sam.”
He sinks in—slow, inch by inch, stretching you open. Your head tips back. Mouth falls open. No sound.
He bottoms out. Stays there. Lets you feel every thick inch. “Tell me how it feels.”
You swallow. Try. “Full.”
“Not enough.” He rolls his hips—just enough to drag against that spot. “Tell me.”
You gasp. “So full—Sam—please—”
“Please what?”
“Move.”
He does. Slow, deep thrusts that make the bed creak softly. Every time he bottoms out you make a tiny, choked sound—barely there.
He leans down. Lips at your ear again—just like in the library. “Louder, baby. I want to hear every little noise you make when I’m fucking you.”
Your hands fly to his shoulders. Nails digging in. He picks up the pace. Deeper. Harder. Precise. You’re trembling now. Trying to stay quiet. Failing.
A real moan slips out—high, broken.
“There it is,” he breathes. “That’s my girl.”
He hooks one of your legs over his elbow. Changes the angle. Hits deeper.
You cry out—sharp, surprised.
He groans. “Fuck yes. Again.”
You can’t stop now. Every thrust pulls another sound from you—whimpers, gasps, his name over and over, getting louder each time. “Sam—Sam—oh god—”
He kisses you—messy, deep—swallowing the noises. Then pulls back. “Let me hear. Don’t hide.”
You don’t. Can’t.
The sounds spill out—desperate, wrecked. “Please—harder—Sam—don’t stop—”
He gives you what you need. Pounds into you. Hand sliding between your bodies to rub tight circles over your clit.
You’re loud now. Unrecognizable. Moaning his name like a chant. Begging. Crying out when he hits that spot again and again.
“Come for me,” he growls. “Let me hear you come.”
You shatter.
Back arching. Thighs shaking. A long, broken cry ripping out of you—his name, garbled, loud enough the walls probably hear it. He follows right after—deep, grinding thrusts as he spills inside you, groaning low against your throat.
You’re both panting. Shaking.
He doesn’t pull out yet. Just stays buried, kissing your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. “So fucking good for me.”
You’re still trembling. You hide your face in his neck. Embarrassed. Pleased.
He chuckles. Soft. Wraps both arms around you.
“Next time,” he whispers, “I’m leaning in close again. Just to hear you try to talk.”
You groan—half mortified, half already aching at the thought.
He kisses the top of your head. “Get used to it, sweetheart.”
You don’t answer.
You just hold him tighter.
And hope he never stops making you break the quiet.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
Summary: What you and Dean have is casual with no strings attached, so why do you get so upset when he shows interest in another woman?
Content warnings: smut, dissociation during sex, reader has less emotional intelligence than dean but we love her for it, mentions of bruising from sex, semi rough sex, doggy style, angst, kinda shameful feelings relating to sex, angst, cursing, lowkey self worth issues
wc: 5k
a/n: requests open!!! there most definitely will be a pt2!!
~~~
“You’re unbelievable.”
Dean’s eyes move to the scowl on your face, cutting short his beholden gazing at the waitress’s ass. He’s entirely unapologetic to be caught staring. The fact that he looked at all irritates you, but him doing it so brazenly in front of you infuriates you so much you lose your appetite.
“Easy there, tiger.” He says with an aloof smirk. “M’just appreciating the scenery, that’s all.”
He’s allowed to appreciate whoever he wants. That’s not the problem. The problem is that it's happening in front of your face this time, and you dislike this pretty waitress a little extra. She’d been so focused on calling Dean sugar and sweetie that she’d brought you out the wrong eggs. You’d been surprised she remembered your order at all, with how little attention she paid you.
You give Dean a sour smile. “Can you at least try to keep the drool to a minimum? I’m trying to eat.” Really, you’re just pushing the food around your plate.
He watches you for a second, then he waves the tacky waitress back over, and you stop yourself from rolling your eyes.
“What can I do for you, sugar?” She asks suggestively, only acknowledging Dean.
“Sorry to bother you, sweetheart,” He apologizes with a charming grin. “My friend here ordered over-hard.” He gestures to the two eggs on your plate, which are very obviously undercooked. “Think you could run them back and get her new ones?”
“Of course,” The waitress smiles and then takes your plate without even looking at you. She seems delighted by Dean’s labeling of you as a friend.
When she’s gone, Dean stares at you expectantly. You ignore him, so he says, “Y’know, it’s polite to thank someone when they do you a favor.”
“How is wooing the waitress a favor for me?”
“C’mon, we both know you won’t eat eggs like that. You don’t like when the yolk is runny.” He raises his eyebrows as if to say you know I’m right, why are you acting crazy.
He is right. You think runny yolks are gross. In any other situation, you might even think the gesture was thoughtful, and that it showed that he paid more attention to you than you thought. But right now, you’re annoyed and dedicated to maintaining your attitude. So the most logical explanation for the whole thing is that Dean cared less about getting you what you could eat, anx more about about getting another view of the waitress walking away.
“I’m not hungry, anyway.” You say.
“You gotta eat. Y’need to keep your energy up after last night.” He winks at you like he’s sharing some inside joke, as if he’s totally oblivious to how exasperated you are.
Him bringing that up irritates you even more, which you didn’t think would be possible. You look at your arrangement with Dean for what it is. You sleep together occasionally, partly because it's convenient and partly because he’s good at it. Scary good, sometimes. There’s no romance between you. The sex is hard and dirty. It’s not a situation you’re particularly proud of, especially when the nonchalant, non-committal nature of your relationship is thrown in your face, like it is right now. But the sex has proved too good to walk away from. The longer it's gone on, the more apathetic you’ve become to the arrangement, and Dean himself. You sometimes aren’t sure if you even like him.
Sometimes, you wonder why you bother answering when he calls. The easy answer is that it’s safer for you as a lone female hunter to work with someone else watching your back, but you know that’s not the entire truth. There are a handful of other sole hunters and groups that you work with when you cross paths, but Dean is the only one you see so frequently. And the only one you sleep with.
And you two certainly argue. A lot. It’s kind of your thing. Every so often, you team up to work cases, inevitably end up bickering, and then unavoidably end up fucking. The circle of life, as Dean would call it. He’s capable and reliable on a hunt, and you’d guess he felt the same about you, but once the job is done and all sexual frustrations are relieved, you don’t stick around. You don’t overstay your welcome or wait for Dean to ask you to leave. You find your next case and are gone by the next morning. He never asks you to stay.
That’s how it works. Just a few days together and then you leave the man with the emotional capacity of a teaspoon in your rearview.
Maybe the problem now is that you’d slept with him before finishing the case. So now there’s no avoiding him the morning after. Instead, there’s sitting at the dinghy town diner, forcing yourself to stomach breakfast while he openly lusts after another woman after being inside you not even twenty four hours ago.
Not the best start to your day.
“I could’ve handled it myself.” You snap. “I just didn’t want to get in the way of your eye fucking.”
“How considerate of you.” He says flatly. “Really, what’s got you so pissed?”
Literally everything you’re doing. But you say, “I’m not pissed.”
“You sure? You’re looking at me like you wanna murder me.”
You’re spared from having to answer when the waitress comes back, giving Dean big eyes as she sets the plate down in front of you. He smiles at her.
He catches you glaring at him. “I’m just teasing you, sweetheart.” The corners of his lips twitch into a smirk. “Don’t you worry. You don’t have any competition.”
You recoil. “That’s not- I’m not-” Stammering, you give him a look of disbelief. “I don’t care about competition. There is no competition, I mean.”
Dean smiles wider at your reaction. “Then what’s with the attitude?”
You stare at him as he eats for a second, trying to formulate a thought that isn’t kick him hard in the shin under the table. “I always have an attitude.”
“Ain’t that the damn truth.” He agrees around a mouthful. He swallows before continuing. “But you’re extra feisty today.”
This time you give in to the urge to roll your eyes. You’re reaching your wits end and he’s smiling at you, acting like this is all a game for his entertainment.
“I didn’t sleep well.” You say sharply. “I’m used to sleeping alone. You know, without someone taking up all the space in the bed.” You cross your arms over your chest.
“I don’t think that’s it.” He muses, still smiling smugly. “Looked like you slept like a fuckin’ baby to me.”
Your face heats up at that comment. You internally cringe as you're confronted with the thought of him perceiving you while you were asleep. It just feels like something too intimate for the insouciance between you. And even though Dean truly did take up the majority of the bed with his large frame, you’d slept well. You hadn’t even stirred when he got up to shower, so now you don’t have a good defense.
“Whatever, Winchester.”
“Y’sure you’re not jealous that I’m giving attention to-”
“Now I’m pissed.” You interrupt. “Get a grip, Dean. I don’t care what you do or who you give your attention to, alright? Now can you hurry up and finish eating. I don’t want to stay in this town any longer than I have to.”
Though your tone had been cutting, Dean appears unaffected, simply shrugging in response. “What’s the rush? Got your rocks off and now you’re ready to skip town. M’starting to think you might not enjoy my company.”
“Well, don’t think too hard. Might hurt yourself.”
“Cute.” He sneers. “But you seemed to enjoy my company last night, though.” He pretends to think. “In fact, you couldn’t get enough of my ‘company’ last night, if I’m remembering it right.” He leans across the table towards you and drops his voice, mirth glittering in his verdant eyes. “Hell, I’ll give you ‘company’ right now if it’ll fix that attitude-”
The more primal part of your body stirs at his provocative tone and the deep timber of his voice, but your annoyance quickly beats that side of you back into submission.
“At this rate, you’ll never have my company again.” You lean forward and taunt. You know it’s a total lie but it feels good to threaten him anyway. You’re also curious how he’ll react. You've tried to be done with him before, but for some reason, when he calls, you feel inclined to answer.
In his typical withdrawn nature, Dean deflects with a dismissive joke. “Oh, come on, woman, y’know it breaks my heart to argue with you like this.”
“But you have such a talent for it,” You say with fake sympathy.
“Fightin’ with you is just a hobby. My real talents lie elsewhere.” He counters with a smirk.
You recognize the innuendo immediately. Dean practically defaults to making sexual insinuations, and does it frequently that it frankly annoys the hell out of you. It’s just a constant reminder that the only thing between you two is sex. Sex and hunting. And you know he’s more than capable of handling a spirit or two on his own, so that makes your true value to him more than clear.
“Yeah, like driving me insane?” You mutter.
“If I’m driving you insane, sweetheart, it’s only because you gave me the wheel.” He gives you a deliberate look with his eyebrows raised. A look that somehow says and we’ll keep riding until we crash.
You roll your eyes and check the time. “Whatever that means. Hurry up. Library’s open.”
A few minutes later, the same waitress brings over the check. Dean snatches it off the table quickly, but not before you see the phone number written in pink glitter ink at the top. The corner’s of his lips lift as his eyes sweep over the digits, and you’re not sure why that makes your stomach flip.
You spend the next several hours at the library looking through old paper records. The research takes you both much longer without Sam but you’re thankful he’s not here. Though he’s easier to get along with than his brother, you don’t enjoy the looks he gives you and Dean when you fight, like he’s dealing with children. Like he knows something you both don't.
Eventually, you find the death certificate you were looking for. A hitchhiker had been struck and killed in a hit and run accident over thirty years ago, and now the spirit was apparently haunting the isolated stretch of road where he’d been hit, alongside the big cliffs on the east side of the town. The remains were buried by the family on the side of the road, at the site of the accident.
You meet Dean outside in the parking lot outside the library. He’s busy looking at his phone, so he doesn’t see you coming at first. Despite yourself, you find yourself admiring him as you approach. God knows he might be annoying and callous at times, but he sure is good looking. Tall and broad as he leans against his car, and when he looks up and sees you coming, his smile is blinding. No wonder you keep coming back. How does a girl say no to someone like that?
Dean slips his phone into the pocket of his jacket. “We ready to go?”
“Yeah.” You put the road map on the hood of the Impala and point out where you’ve circled the radius the burial site should be located in. “Bones should be somewhere in here.”
He’s standing close to you and you can smell the rugged mix of leather and cedarwood that follows him around. It makes your head swim for half a second, so you focus your attention on the map. He glances at the map, but then you feel him staring at you.
You flinch when he brushes hair away from your neck, stepping away from him immediately. “What are you doing?” Your heart races at your confusion from the intimate gesture.
“You’re a jumpy thing, aren’t you?” He muses. “Just noticed you have a bruise on your neck.”
Using the side mirror of the Impala, you examine your neck. There are three little bruises at the base of your throat, the exact size of Dean’s fingers you’re sure. He has a habit, which you enjoy but would never say it out loud, of holding you by the throat when he fucks you.
“So?” You ask with regained composure. “S’from you. Now let’s go.”
“From me?” He asks but you’re already getting into the passenger seat. He climbs into the car as well before glancing at the bruises again. “You mean from last night?”
“Yeah,” You say impatiently. “Can you start driving now?”
“In a second. Why didn’t you say anything?”
You give him a bewildered look. “About what?”
Dean looks away and starts the car, drumming his fingers on the wheel. He seems unusually tense. “I must have fucking hurt you last night, then.” He finally says. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
You roll your eyes. “You didn’t hurt me. Seriously. I always have bruises after.”
“What?”
His scandalized expression makes you realize that he would have no idea about the bruises he leaves you with after you hook up because he never gets the chance to see you the next day. It irks you that he’s pretending to care about it, though. He’s not exactly the most gentle lover, so what did he expect? The bruises are always very minor, from getting caught up in the heat of the moment, and you’ve never held it against him.
“It’s just a bruise, Dean.” You murmur. “I’ve had worse.”
“Yeah but not from me.”
“It’s not a big deal. Now come on. There’s a three mile radius we’ll have to search. Better to get it done while there’s still daylight.”
Dean starts the car but he’s uncharacteristically quiet for the majority of the ride. Usually, you’re wishing he would shut up or turn the music down, but the volume is set at a respectable level and he’s not even singing along. You’re not sure what his problem is, but it puts you on edge. Part of the reason your arrangement with him works so well for you both is that it’s simple. No nuances, no extra baggage or anything like that, but today, it doesn’t feel simple. But it’s not your problem because you don’t let it be. He can be quiet all he wants. You don’t have to wonder why.
By the time he pulls off the road, there’s only a few hours until dusk. You grab the weapons and supplies you need from the trunk, which Dean offers to carry, and then start the tedious task of walking along the stretch of road, searching for any sign or marking of the grave site. After the first hour of walking and Dean’s phone constantly going off, you’re frustrated.
“Who’s even texting you, anyway?” You snap.
“Oh, that’s Sam.” He says, putting a hand on your shoulder as you step back from the side of the road the same moment a car goes speeding past. “Just checking in. You know how much of a tight ass he is.”
“Well, maybe you should answer, so he can stop checking in every five minutes.” You mutter, rolling your shoulder out of his grip. As far as you’re concerned, he’s only allowed to touch you in the bedroom. Any other time and anything else is off limits.
Another hour passes. A fairly strong breeze blows over the cliffs, blowing the dust and debris on the road, making the grass you’re walking through sway around your ankles. Your mind starts to wander and lands on the ghost of the hitchhiker. You cruelly compare him to yourself. At least he had someone who cared about him enough to mourn his death and bury his body. That’s more than you have. The thought surprises you, but there’s no time to grapple with its implications because Dean calls your name.
“Looks like a grave to me, what about you?” He asks.
Hidden in a tangle of weeds and tall grass, there’s a malformed wooden cross, desiccated from time and the elements, and an inscribed stone. Despite your arguments, Dean insists upon doing all the digging himself, even when you complain that it’s going to take longer than if you helped.
“Just be a doll and hold my jacket, will you?” He requests with an appealing smirk, holding it out for you to take. “Good girl,” He says when you do.
You narrow your eyes at him but stay quiet. He begins to dig while you just watch. In no time, he’s covered in a layer of sweat, glistening in the low hanging sun. You look away occasionally to avoid getting caught, but you sneak appreciative glances at his body as he continues the hard labor. His biceps swell with each lift of the shovel, the muscles in his back flexing as well.
“Rest in peace, you son of a bitch,” Dean mutters after salting the bones. He drops the match, and you’re just relieved you’ll get to skip town.
It’s after dark by the time you make it back to the inn on the edge of town. It’s a rare occurrence that a hunt goes so well, and you want to keep that momentum going. You see your truck where you left it in the parking lot and linger only to give Dean a half hearted goodbye. He’s texting, probably messaging Sam back that the case has been closed, but shoves his phone away at the sound of your voice.
“You’re headed out now?” He asks incredulously.
“Yeah. I can stop if I need to sleep.”
Really, three days with Dean has been more than enough for you. You feel thoroughly disoriented, like you’ve been adrift from yourself just by being near him. Driving through the night, alone with all the thoughts you’ve so savagely wrestled into tight little cages, doesn’t really appeal to you, but you know better than to linger where you’re not wanted.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Dean barks, jerking his head to gesture towards the inn. “I’ve got the room for another night, and I don’t wanna live with you falling asleep at the wheel on my conscience.”
“I’m perfectly well rested-”
“Thought this morning you said you didn’t sleep well?” He counters with raised eyebrows.
You concede without much other convincing, mainly to avoid getting back into that whole argument again. If he wants to pretend he wants you to stay because he’s worried about you, that’s fine, but you know why he really wants you to stay.
Not even an hour later, he’s coming on to you. The events of the day have soured you against him, but your body still wants him, still responds more willingly than your mind ever does. He’s pressing you up against the wall, with one hand tangled in the roots of your hair, the other pawing at your ass in your jeans, lifting your leg to hook it around his waist as his mouth ravishes yours.
“This what you needed?” He pulls away a fraction to murmur, his wet lips brushing yours. He lets go of your hair to grip your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Round two to get rid of all that attitude-” As if sensing that you’re going to say something snarky back, he rolls his hips against you, pressing the hard line of his erection against the seam of your jeans just right, so that you have to bite your lip to suppress a whine. “Such a bad girl all day, and now you’re playing nice ‘cause you want my cock.” His voice is making you wetter with how breathless, low and gravelly it is.
He dives in for another filthy kiss, his taste completely overwhelming you. His hand engulfs the base of your throat and he uses his hold on you there to pry you away from the wall and toss you onto the bed.
“Now you’ve got nothing to say?” He taunts, standing before you at the foot of the bed while you lay on your back, panting.
Dean pulls his shirt off before reaching for his belt and you feel your pussy spasm with interest. “Come on, you know the drill. Take all that shit off.” He gestures to your clothes.
A few moments later, he’s got you on your hands and knees, both of you entirely bare. He’d teased you with his fingers for what felt like forever, edging you until you left angry scratch marks down his chest. Stingy with getting you to your release as punishment for being mouthy all day.
“Fuck-” He hissed, pulling his hand away from the puffy, wet mess of your pussy to glance down at the fresh red lines running from his pecs to his ribs. “Kitty’s got claws, huh?” He smirked.
You hadn’t meant to hurt him, but the last time he’d stopped rubbing your clit right before you were going to come made you nearly deranged with desperation.
Now he’s dragging his cock between your legs, coating himself in all of your sticky arousal, before you feel the burning intrusion of him plunging inside. If he notices the little black and blue imprints from his fingers dotting your hips and the plush flesh of your ass from the night before, he doesn’t say anything.
He fucks you hard and fast, just the way you like, so that you can only focus on the sensations and not any of the shit flying around in your head. He fucks you like he hates you, and it brings tears to your eyes. Your jaw aches from clenching your teeth against the screams you hold back. You’re honestly surprised he has the stamina to fuck you so raw and aggressively, given he had exerted himself over digging up the bones not too long ago.
Dean folds his body over yours, so his sweaty chest sticks to your back, grunting in your ear with every slam of his hips into you. His hand is around your neck again, squeezing you in a firm grip but without really restricting your airway much. You like the drunk, fuzzy feeling you get from it, and you like the way he’s just making you take it.
“Such a fuckin’ bratty little thing,” Dean uses his grip on your throat to lift your head a bit, so he can murmur directly into your ear. “All fuckin’ day, until I give you what you’re too proud to ask for.”
His dirty talk is constant but you miss about half of it. While during the day your mind runs things, right now, with him pounding into you like it's his job to bruise your cervix, your mind turns off, and you’re just your body. Your pussy is throbbing, muscles in your arms and thighs shaking from the effort of holding yourself up, even with his help. You let him make you feel good. And you do feel good, like you’re floating, like you’re not real. Times like this might actually be the only time you do feel good, so you surrender completely to the feeling. You’re not yourself when you let him fuck you. You’re someone different, someone better and worse at the same time. Or maybe, when he’s using you like this, when you let him use you like this, you’re nothing at all.
He squeezes the flesh of your ass before slapping it hard, and you moan in response. He pulls at your hair, and you whine at the pinpricks of pain that you love, pussy clenching hard as you get dangerously close to coming.
“What a fucking whore,” Dean pants in your ear. “Can feel the way your pussy loves that,” He slaps your ass again and laughs darkly.
He makes you cum by sliding a hand between your legs and playing with your aching clit. You scream into the pillow, as if you're cumming against your will, and he doesn’t relent until you stop shuddering, stop tightening your pussy around him. He comes, still with his hand around your throat, like he owns you, like you’re a dog he has on a leash, and when you think about that in the shower later, it makes you feel sick.
He lets you shower first, and then when you’re done, he goes. You never shower together. And you might sleep in the same bed afterwards, but it’s not like you cuddle.
You sit on the edge of the bed, slowly coming back to yourself from the post orgasm haze. You listen to the muffled noise of Dean singing in the shower, staring at the steam that billows out from under the door. Your body is satisfied and fairly tired, but your mind is restless. You’re thinking maybe you should have left town tonight when Dean’s phone rings beside the bed.
Expecting it to be Sam, you answer it. It’s just like Dean to focus on getting laid, before assuring his brother that he’d made it back unscathed. “Hey, Sam,” Your voice is a little hoarse.
“Sam? What? No, this is Penny, from the diner. Who is this?”
You blink. “You have the wrong number.”
“No,” The insufferable waitress says in her snotty little voice. You can barely hear her over the blood rushing in your ears. “I’ve been talking to Dean with this number all day.”
Your stomach drops to your feet. “Wrong number.” You repeat before hanging up.
You know you probably shouldn’t but you open up the message threads on Dean’s phone. No recent messages from Sam. Just a shit ton from this same unknown number. There’s bile rising in your throat as you realize what it all means. That Dean had taken the number from the restaurant this morning, had reached out to the tacky ass waitress, and had continued to flirt with her via text all fucking day. While standing beside you. And when you’d asked about it? He lied to your face and said it was Sam. And to make the entire situation worse, he’d fucked you after it, too. He’d kept you both on retainer, two chicks on the line so if one fell through, he’d still be able to get his dick wet.
Jesus, you’re such a fucking idiot. You let him do this to you, too.
You read a few of the messages before you feel so sick you have to stop. But you see enough to realize they were making plans to meet up. Tentatively for tonight. He calls her baby and beautiful and other shit he never says to you. Instead, he calls you whore.
Emotions boil under your skin, and you can’t make sense of any of them, until anger surfaces. You know there’s no real reason to be angry with him, other than the fact that he lied to you. You have no claim on him. He’s not yours. Not by a long shot. But you feel humiliated, insulted, and worst of all, fucking hurt. But that only lasts for a second before you smother it under more anger.
Dean steps out of the bathroom with a towel hanging low on his hips, torso naked. Your nail marks on his chest stand out against his tanned skin. “Think I pulled something in my back towards the end there. Think you could-”
“You were texting Sam today?”
The nonchalant expression leaves his face at your tone. He stares at you for a second before heading over to the side of the bed, where his clothes are. “Uh-yeah-”
“Really?” You press.
“Can’t a man get dressed before he’s interrogated.” He half heartedly jokes, but then catches the hardness on your face and becomes sheepish.
“Just answer me.”
“Unless you wanna waterboard me, too. In that case, I can keep the towel-”
“Jesus christ, Dean!” You yell. “This isn’t a fucking joke!”
He stares at you, maybe shocked that you raised your voice, or surprised he’s been caught. “Yeah, I’m not exactly laughing here, sweetheart-”
“You asshole-” You round on him, shoving him as hard as you can but even then he only stumbles on step backward. “Keep lying to my face, Dean. Go ahead. I fucking know it wasn’t Sam. God, you must think I’m a fucking idiot.”
“You know that’s not true-” He raises his voice slightly but it’s only to be heard over your own ranting.
“Oh my god, you’re actually disgusting.” You shake your head at him. “You disgust me.”
“I didn’t exactly do anything.” He frowns. “They’re just messages…and we’re not- uh, you and I don’t- You said it yourself. You don’t care who I-”
“You lied to me, Dean.” You bellow. You’re vaguely aware of the dramatics of the scene you’re causing, and later you’ll probably be mortified by your behavior, but right now, you can’t control yourself. You’ve never been this fucking angry at him, never this disappointed. It just confirms what you knew all along; you’re entirely nothing to him.
“You lied to me, and then you fucked me!”
“I didn’t think you would care! She’s just-”
“Then why the fuck did you lie about her!” You nearly scream, getting in his face. “You wanna fuck her, then do it! Don’t ask me to stay the fucking night with you, when you’re telling some other bitch you’re gonna see her tonight! God, are you really that stupid, Dean? You didn’t think I would care? No, you didn’t think about me at all, you piece of shit.”
He gapes down at you and says your name pathetically. You just stare at him, chest heaving. Finally, he says, “You’re right.”
“Fuck you.” You say, the anger leaving you fast. You have to get out of here. “I’m done. I’m so fucking done with you.”
You’ve had that thought about him before. But this time, as you let the door slam behind you, you think you really mean it.
summary: You know Dean and you know he's not exactly boyfriend material. But maybe he could be good for you, if you'd only give him a chance.
cw: mutual pining, miscommunication, idiots in love, hurt / comfort, jealousy, smut (unprotected p in v, mentions of oral - f receiving, dirty talk), cursing, reader is a hunter and had the same kind of upbringing / family dynamic as sam & dean
word count: 8.1k words
a/n: woww another dean hurt / comfort miscommunication fic. literally nobody is surprised. also i cannot tell if this is bad sorry lol
You’re in love with Dean but it’s just one of those things you’re going to have to work through, like a flu or a nasty head cold. It has consumed your life since the outbreak, but you’ll shake it off soon enough.
You don’t really have much of a choice. Because there’s no chance in hell or earth that you will let yourself fall in deep for someone like Dean Winchester.
It would be easy, though. It would be so, unbelievably easy to give him everything.
Especially if he keeps looking at you like this. Eyes glossed and starry, partially because of the whiskey and partially just because of you. That slanted smile, the little half-wrinkle by his eyes. The way you could swear his whole world has narrowed itself to just the sight of you.
“Tell me again.”
You laugh. “Dean, I’ve already told you twice-”
“And I wanna hear it again. S’that a crime?”
He winks at you and tilts his chin up, taking a swig from the dark brown bottle in front of him. He switched to beer two rounds ago.
You narrow your eyes at him but he meets you head-on, brazen grin plastered across his face. You sigh with no real exasperation.
“So I’m eleven years old and I’m on a hunt. I’m at the hospital and I’m told to walk in by myself and ask to see my mother-” You make air quotes around the word ‘mother’. Dean’s eyes droop down to your fingers before sliding lazily back to your mouth. “- in hospital. She’s in a coma. At this point we’re pretty sure this lady had been possessed by a demon and later exorcised so I’m being sent in just to look for signs, search through her belongings, check her injuries - that kinda thing.”
He is glowing with amusement. “So you’re brought into the room-”
“So I’m brought into the room and I’m trying to do what I can while all the doctors and nurses are there giving me those sad eyes you give a kid whose mom might not make it. And y’know - I’m only eleven but I know what to look for and how to be subtle. Except five minutes in, the lady wakes up.”
He’s already smiling, teetering on the edge of a laugh. “And you-”
“And I panic. I have no idea what to do because this lady is looking at me like I’ve got four heads and all the doctors and nurses are waiting for a heartfelt moment. So I burst into tears, screaming ‘Mommy you’re awake’, hugging her, the works. Poor lady is horrified, thinking she has amnesia and forgot her own daughter.”
He laughs now - hearty and full breasted. His eyes are glistening, crinkled at the corners. He takes another swing of his beer when he catches his breath. “Can’t believe I’m hearing that one for the first time tonight. Fuckin’ gold. I can picture it too, y’know.”
“Yeah?” You smile, leaning in across the table.
“Yeah. Bet you had the same nervous, twitchy face you get when you’re panicked. Just on a little thing with pigtails.”
You laugh. “Nope. Didn’t exactly have my hair braided for me every morning. Wasn’t that kinda family dynamic.” You pause. “I’m not twitchy.”
“Yeah y’are. Sometimes.”
“You’re so full of shit. I’m more cool and collected than you and Sam put together.”
“The coolest,” he says, a hint sardonic.
You’re in rocky territory. Both of you leaned forward, elbows pressed to the sticky table in the booth. The way he’s grinning at you - heated and shameless, eyes tilted up through his long lashes - is warming your stomach. You’re trying to convince yourself it’s just the two drinks.
Sam dipped almost an hour ago to sit at the bar. Dropped some teasing line about not wanting to third-wheel anymore. You’ve stopped telling him off for it because it only makes him worse. You see him glance at the two of you over his shoulder every now and again.
Dean reaches an arm down to take up your drink - some red girly concoction with cranberry juice and vodka in it. His eyes don’t leave yours while he takes a sip, fingers clutching the glass by the rim. You wonder if his lips are touching the same spot that yours did.
“Shit, that’s good,” he says, sucking his teeth at the tartness. “Why the hell didn’t I order that?”
You laugh. “You just don’t wanna be seen with it. Not manly enough for a big, bad hunter.”
He smiles. “You’re drinkin’ it. You not a big, bad hunter?”
“C’mon, Dean,” you say, scoffing, but you can’t force the corners of your lips down. “Not trying to get on my soapbox here but it’s pretty hard to get people to respect you when you’re a woman hunter as it is. I’m not worried about people seeing me with a cocktail.”
He shrugs in a ‘fair enough’ fashion. He’s about to say something else.
“Hi, um.” You look up to see a pretty, tall girl around your own age or maybe a few years older. Dark curls frame her face. She brushes a strand behind her right ear in an almost theatrical show of shyness. “I’m sorry - this is so weird of me but, um.” She brushes her hair behind her left ear now. “Are you guys on a date?”
You pause briefly, feeling as though you’re coming out of some sort of daze, and then give her a smile. “No, we’re just friends.”
Her face lights up. She’s not looking at you - she’s looking at Dean. “Oh! Okay. That’s good, because, um, I just wanted to see if I could maybe give you my number or something?”
You don’t wait for Dean to respond. You slip out of the booth and wink, mouthing ‘have fun’ to him. You’re not too bothered about whether or not she sees you. She takes your place without so much as a word or even a glance in your direction, eyes only for Dean. You can’t find it in you to blame her.
He is gaping at you as you turn away - eyebrows scrunched together and mouth in a firm pout. Possibly - probably - because he thought tonight would be the night he would finally be able to bring you to bed. He might have been right until this girl came by and screwed everything up by reminding you of yourself.
Sam jolts a bit when you climb up next to him onto the red stool with its fabric torn and its guts spilling out. His head un-cranes itself from a book you recognise about Celtic fairies. He frowns, confused, and then looks behind him towards the booth where Dean is now engaged in conversation. The confused frown turns into a displeased one. He dog-ears a page and closes the book.
“He get ambushed again?” he says.
You huff a laugh. “The word ‘ambushed’ implies he’s not in his element.”
Sam frowns again and looks like he wants to say something - maybe object - but he doesn’t. You’re glad. There’s nothing he could say on this subject that you would want to hear. Instead, he tucks his books into his bag and fishes out a deck of cards from his jacket pocket. He deals them out silently but Dean has approached you before you can pick up your hand.
“Hit the road?” he asks, voice the slightest bit gruff.
You’re mildly surprised to see him again so soon. You had expected him to slip out the back with his company, but you’re just glad that the night is ending before he has enough drinks to start waxing poetic about how pretty you are and how he would kill any man for ‘just one chance with you’.
“Sure,” you say, standing up. Sam sighs and begins to scrape the cards back up from the grimy counter.
You don’t want the answer, but - “You get her number?”
You’re not sure if your voice comes across as teasing as you intend.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Dean gives you a sideways glance, almost perplexed. “Not my type.”
You’re not sure he has a type. The only prerequisite has always just been ‘pretty’, and he plays fast and loose with that rule too sometimes. You don’t say that, though. You don’t say anything.
The motel is far from the worst you’ve stayed in, but that doesn’t take the sting out of the broken shower. You get into a wrestle with it for a good thirty minutes, pulling the front cover off and fiddling around, before finally submitting.
You’re not sure that it’s an option to get front desk to call an electrician in. Not with salt scattered on the ground and pages of information about fairies and demons strewn across the room. So you end up outside Room 14 in your flip flops.
Sam gets the door. He glances down at the towel in your hand and smiles with amusement, opening the door wider for you to step inside. Their room is like yours - small and hot, with bland aspen furniture and an overhead fan that does very little to stave off the sticky closeness. The only difference is the cluster of empty beer bottles and the two single-beds rather than one.
“This place is a dump, huh.”
“It sure ain’t the Ritz.” you say. “Where’s Dumber?”
Sam sits down into a small wooden chair. It’s always funny to see him do that. He’s so tall, it looks almost like he’s folding himself in half. “He’s getting that address we’re after. He should be back in a few. I’m gonna go check it out at the town recorder’s office.”
“Want a hand?”
“I got it,” he says. “You go take your shower.”
You could argue and he would probably fold and accept your help. But the truth is, you’re sweaty and tired and would really rather save your energy for something more important than poring over housing records. You nod and head into the bathroom, towel in-hand.
The shower you take is hot. You use whatever products are already out on the tray. They’re probably Sam’s, because Dean is most likely the sort of person to have a 4-in-1 shampoo-conditioner-body wash-shaving gel combo. Your hair feels a little dry afterwards - you’re not sure whether to attribute that to the hot water or Sam’s all-natural shampoo - but you’re clean. Your muscles are loose and you feel good.
You spend a bit of time in front of the mirror once you’re out of the shower, scraping your fingers through your hair, scrubbing your fingernails with a brush, and thinking. Thinking about the job you’re on and then - reluctantly - thinking about Dean. Thinking about how he looked in the bar last night. Thinking about how he left without working up some action with that girl. He has been doing that a lot lately.
More than just lately, if you really wanted to think about it. You couldn’t say you remember the last time he had picked someone up - that you had seen, anyway. He’s been keeping it all out of sight. Either he’s become a born-again Christian, or he’s got some angle here. You don’t like thinking about it. It makes some twisted, hurt thing curl in your stomach.
Even so, you feel good. You really do. Your hair is wet and soaking through your white t-shirt, but at least it’s clean. And you got a decent sleep last night too so it’s shaping up to be a good day.
The good feelings evaporate once you open up the bathroom door.
“Goddamnit, Jesus f-”
Sam is gone. It’s just Dean in the room now, naked as the day he was born. You avert your eyes, but not fast enough. He dives for the towel on the bed and holds it over his crotch while your face swims with heat.
“Christ, Dean,” you choke.
“You’re in my room, angel. Can’t a man get naked within the safety of his own four walls?”
“Yeah- um. That’s fair. Sorry.” You’re still looking away, uneasy.
He cocks a humorous eye at you. “What you doin’ in here? You miss me?”
“I- Shower. Mine’s broken.”
“That so?”
You look at him then - you don’t really have a choice, his slow drawl doesn’t give you one - and have to stop yourself from hissing in a breath. You have seen glimpses of his bare torso here and there, but never in a setting where there was enough time to admire. Always with something bleeding out or infected or cursed. You have enough time to admire it now - the muscle built from dirty work and necessity rather than vanity, the scars and scratches painted across his chest. There are a few there for which you could name the source.
His muscles shift the slightest bit under your gaze and you realise you’ve forgotten what he’s asked you. “What?”
He laughs and the low sound sends a fresh wave of arousal flooding through you. Your thighs clench together tight. He’s watching you fight yourself, eyes dark. Your own eyes are currently fixed on his face but they’re a flight risk. “Y’know, I didn’t even know you were in there. A matter of five minutes and I could’ve been walkin’ in on you.”
Heat claws up your neck at the image. “I’m sorry. I figured Sam would have said something.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it. You’re welcome to take a shower here any time. In fact, f’you fancy another, I was just about to-”
“Shut up,” you groan. You try to look annoyed, but you’re truthfully relieved at the return to his usual cheeky forwardness. That’s easier to brush off.
But you do need to get the hell out of the room before you’re tempted into looking at anything but his face again. You bundle up your towel in your arms and tell him you’ll see him later. You don’t miss the disappointment that flashes there when you do.
“So ah…” Sam sucks in a breath, tucking the flashlight under his arm to slot little silver slugs into his gun. “What’s going on with you and Dean, huh?”
You’re tempted to act like you don’t know what he’s talking about, but it would just prolong the conversation.
“Sam,” you sigh. “Can we not?”
“What?” he laughs. “You don’t wanna talk about it?” He flicks his flashlight around the bedroom haphazardly - too fast to see very much of anything. You reach a hand out and clasp it over his to steady it.
“Not a good time.”
“When is a good time? When we get back to the motel? You wanna do this in front of Dean?”
You give him a thin stare that you’re not sure he can see in the dark - irritation pricking at you.
Sam has known how to grave-dig in a time crunch since he was twelve years old, but somehow has really never known when to leave well enough alone. This is the third time he’s tested this subject in the last week - albeit never this straightforward. You’re still working out whether this is something you can worm your way out of.
“Why don’t you check this room out and I’ll go downst-”
“Hey,” he says, voice still amused. “You’re not getting out of this. I will bring it up in front of Dean if I need to.”
You study him for a second longer.
He smiles. “Call my bluff, if you want. Your choice.”
You make an ugly noise that seems to start in your stomach, considering your words carefully for what feels like a long time. Little specks of dust float around in the beam of light leading from the flashlight to a little girl’s jewellery box. “There’s nothing going on with me and Dean.”
Sam barks a laugh - loud and seemingly involuntary. “Y’know, I really thought we weren’t gonna have to do the whole ‘playing dumb’ thing-”
“I’m not playing dumb.” You throw him a flat look, opening the jewellery box. You wind it up and some dainty, tinkling tune you don’t recognise begins to play. The ballerina in the box spins around jerkily and mechanically. “There’s nothing going on between the two of us.”
“He admitted it. Multiple times-”
“He was drunk.”
He scoffs, a harsh noise from the back of his throat. “I mean I’m sorry but that’s just bullshit. Even if he was drunk, I’ve got eyes.”
“And what do your eyes tell you, Sam?” you ask him shortly.
“That you guys are into each other. Very into each other.”
“He’s been trying to get me to sleep with him since I first met you guys in Louisiana. This isn’t breaking news.”
“But it’s different now than it ever was before. He’s been diff-”
“Stop.”
“I’m serious! He’s different. And so are you. You never used to give him the time of day before and now you look at him all starry-eyed. It’s been months of this.”
“And?”
He looks over at you from the child-sized vanity table where he has found a small oil lamp, the glass cracked. He takes a lighter out of his pocket and jerks his thumb over it three times until a weak flame bursts out. When a dim brightness swims into the room, you can clearly make out the childlike befuddlement on Sam’s features.
“And,” he stresses, “you’re clearly lying when you say there’s nothing there.”
“I didn’t say there’s nothing there.”
He frowns. “Yes you did-”
“I said there’s nothing going on.”
He rolls his eyes. “Okay, if you wanna be a stickler. There could be something going on.”
“No, there couldn’t.”
Sam turns to face you - the search paused for now. A twitch of uncharacteristic impatience flashes across his face, glowing with the illumination of the lamp. “Why are you talking in riddles-”
“Sam - I don’t know if there’s ‘something there’ between myself and Dean. I don’t know. You say we’re into each other. Okay. Say we are. I don’t know. What can you see happening between us? You think he’s gonna suddenly decide to settle down? That he’ll just- go the distance with one girl for the rest of his life? Be serious.”
He wasn’t expecting you to say that. His eyes dart around your face for a moment, then quickly away. You continue.
“What’s far more likely is that something happens one night and everything gets awkward and I have to find new hunting partners which would really suck. Or worse, we try to make it work and it fails after two weeks, because we both know he’s not exactly a one-woman kinda guy. And I might not exactly be a traditionalist in most senses, but I-” You surprise yourself by choking on your words slightly, throat closing up. “But I still can’t share him. I’d rather not have him at all.”
You probably didn’t need to say that much. Sam is looking around the room like a guilty puppy, face flushed. You can still read a sliver of doubt there, like he is tempted to argue. He decides against it.
“Can we drop it now?” you ask. Your own voice echoes in your skull - weak and defeated. He nods, finally looking back at you with an apologetic smile.
You return it but you know it’s wavering. “I’ll check downstairs.”
You reckon you can spot the signs before anyone else does. It’s always somewhere with a relatively young population - doesn’t have to be a city, but it’s never an ageing, rural town where the only bar regulars are older men with beer bellies and shotguns.
It starts with a group of girls that look a bit too young to be there. They never approach, but their eyes flicker over far too often to be considered the standard ‘checking out a hottie’ once-over. Then it’s the barmen who give your table cold, assessing glances. And then it’s the attention of any and all single women in the bar - the way they size you up, the way they monitor every single arm movement, every twitch of your face to see whether you’re the lucky girl who has managed to take someone like Dean - handsome, mysterious, new - off the market.
Those are the signs that there is about to be a gold rush. And you’d really rather not be there to see it, but there aren’t many exit options when Sam is across the booth from yourself and Dean with a map open, dragging his pointer finger along it while he expounds on the folklore of the area in excruciating detail.
“-but obviously these fairies are different. And it didn’t make sense until I saw this. Look - the tree was in the exact location of the Stewart family home. My best guess is that the Stewarts cut it down to build their home. That’s what they’re avenging.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Dean interjects. “What about the other families? if it’s just about the tree, why wouldn’t they just quit after the Stewarts?”
“That’s the thing - I think the cutting down of the tree unlocked something. I think the tree was their home. And now their only motive now is chaos.”
“Well shit,” you sigh. “That makes it a lot more difficult.”
“How?” Dean says.
You frown at the apathy in his voice. “Well we can’t exactly exterminate them for that, right? I mean, they lost their home. They might not have anywhere else to go.”
“They’re destroying people’s homes.”
“But they haven’t killed anyone-”
“Yet.”
You sigh. “And who’s to say they will? You can’t punish them for stuff they haven’t done.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “What- you wanna buy a condo for them? Put them up in a fairy hotel?”
You try to look vexed. “Don’t piss me off.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, angel.”
Your smile breaks but you change course quickly because Sam is starting to look like he is proving a point. “I just think- Maybe if we figured out whether we could get them to inhabit another tree, it would be better for everyone.”
Sam shrugs. “Worth a try. I’ll look into it.”
You give him a grateful smile.
Dean nudges you with an elbow. “Soft touch.”
You scoff. “C’mon, you can’t tell me you don’t see where they’re coming from. I’d be pretty pissed off if someone flattened my home with no warning.”
“Good thing you’ve been on the road since you were ten then-”
“Low blow.”
He’s giving you that fucking lopsided smile again, wrinkles appearing beside his lips and eyes. He’s gone all hazy and lovelorn again, and this time he hasn’t even had half of his drink. And you’ve been trying really fucking hard not to picture him naked like you had seen him in the motel just yesterday but you’re failing. He leans in, opening his mouth to speak, but-
“Excuse me.”
This girl is more confident than the last and even prettier too. She’s in all-black with brunette hair that falls to her waist. She purses her lips into a shrewd smile, eyes laser focused on Dean. “I just wanted to see if you’re single?”
You know your cue when you see it. You’re halfway out the booth when Dean’s strong arm over your shoulder pulls you back. He tucks you in close under his arm, body pressed against his, your thigh finding its way over his own inadvertently. You look up at him, questioning, but he doesn’t look back.
Instead, he shoots a tight smile to the girl standing at the booth. “No. Sorry.”
Sam’s head snaps up from his book. A beat passes.
To give her credit, she takes it in her stride. She nods, smiles a bit uncomfortably at the two of you and makes her way back to her own table where her friends are pretending not to be looking over. You’ve gone stiff under Dean’s arm and there’s a sticky sort of dryness sitting in your throat, but he doesn’t release you. You wonder if it’s the kind of night where he gets too drunk and tells you how bad he wants you to be his while yourself and Sam jostle him back to the motel.
You want to hate him. You really want to hate him for doing this to you. And if you can’t hate him, you would settle for just feeling indifferent or just feeling friendly things towards him. But you don’t know how when he has you tucked under his arm like this, smile on his pretty face like he won some goddamn prize. You don’t know how to not want this all the time.
You don’t want to look at Sam, but you do. He’s got a surprised amusement playing on his face, coupled with a very distinct ‘I’m-trying-not-to-look-too-satisfied’ smile. You speak only because it seems like nobody else is about to.
“Never thought I’d see the day Dean Winchester opts out of a hook-up,” you laugh. It falls flat. Sam stays silent. Dean only frowns down at you for a split-second before his eyes dart away again. His expression is hard to read, but he doesn’t seem pleased.
You can’t help but feel you made a misstep - like that was the wrong thing to say. Thirty seconds go by and then a full minute. Sam is back to poring over the journal. Dean doesn’t say anything. You clear your throat, as if planning to speak, but you can’t think of much to say. You feel a helpless sort of trepidation. It’s all very pointless and stupid.
“I’m, um, I’m gonna get a drink,” you say, unweaving yourself from Dean. Your glass is far from being empty and you see Dean glance at it for just a second. “Anyone want anything?”
Dean still says nothing, but Sam taps his empty bottle twice with a smile. You’re relieved to find that you’re not deliberately being given the silent treatment. You nod at him and make your way up to the bar.
There aren’t many people waiting to be served, but you don’t immediately try to make eye contact with the barman. You’d rather have a moment away from whatever the hell that atmosphere was anyway.
Word must have gotten around, or maybe everyone had been watching Dean’s arm curling itself over your shoulder in response to the pretty girl who had approached, because nobody else goes up to the table. The gold rush is over.
Dean and Sam are deep in conversation, leaned forward and speaking intensely. It’s hard to get a read on either of them - they’re doing that push-and-pull thing they always do - but you have the distinct impression that they’re talking about you. You’re glad that you can’t hear what they’re saying.
You build the image of Dean in your mind again, when you joked about him uncharacteristically rejecting a hook up. His brows pulled low, a slight pout on his lips. Had you offended him? Or is he starting to get frustrated at your unwavering commitment to not sleeping with him?
You can admit that you have been giving him mixed signals. It’s not an intentional thing. But he looks at you with his bright green eyes and it's alluring and tender and it feels like it’s just for you. And you can’t help yourself. Your stomach goes warm and your lips get loose and all you can focus on is keeping that look on his face for as long as possible. So maybe you are to blame for all of this.
“Can I get you a drink?”
You almost sigh in response, turning around to look at the man who has lodged himself against the bar to your right. He has his elbow perched on the bar, leaned against it in a way that could look casual and cool if he were a little bit shorter. But he’s stretching himself awkwardly to reach it. He’s got black hair, slicked back but is otherwise fairly nondescript. Just another face. Just like anyone else.
“I’m ok, thanks. I’m buying two.”
He smiles, shrugging. “Let me buy you two.”
You look at him closer now, suspiciously. You raise an eyebrow and he smiles wider. “What you wanna do that for?”
“Call it an act of kindness.”
You huff a laugh. “I’m not in the habit of accepting those. Doesn’t tend to work out well in my line of work.”
“What’s your line of work?”
You don’t answer, finally catching the eye of the barman instead. You give him your order and the guy to your right makes a gesture for him to put it on his tab.
“You here with anyone?”
You point to the booth behind you where Sam and Dean are seated without looking away from the barman fixing your drink. He looks behind him and then back.
“Either of them your boyfriend?”
You hesitate, an uncomfortable feeling clawing its way around your gut. “Yes.”
You’re not always averse to flirting. Any other day you might even give this guy the time of day. He’s no Dean but he’s not bad looking. He’s dressed pretty well, in a crisp white shirt and a well-fitting pair of vintage Levis. You just don’t see any point in it right now. Not when Dean is unoccupied and you can take up some more of his attention. Not when you can feed that ugly, cruel thing in your brain and stomach. You’re doing a terrible job of shaking off this sickness.
“Which one?”
“Blonde.”
“Damn,” he smiles. “Well if you get tired of him…”
“I’m good,” you say with a tight smile, grabbing the glass and bottle the barman had placed in front of you. “Thanks for the drinks.”
It’s only when you turn to walk back to the table that you notice that Sam and Dean have seemingly finished their conversation. All of their focus is now on you.
Sam thanks you when you put the bottle down in front of him. You slide in beside Dean once again, but keep a safe foot or so of space between you.
“I swear all these honky tonk bars have the same damn playlist or jukebox or whatever,” Sam says. “If I have to hear Sweet Caroline one more time I’m gonna-”
“Have fun up there?” Dean interrupts with a cutting look at you. Sam licks his lips and heaves a tired sigh, like he knew this was coming.
“Not particularly…” you start slowly.
“No? Sure looked like it.”
You should probably feel a bit defensive at his tone, but you’re mostly just fascinated. Dean’s eyes are bulging - the way they bulge when he’s feeling really frantic while on a job. His face has gone fire-engine red. You look him over, then at Sam, questioningly.
Sam looks between the two of you. “I think maybe it’s time we turn in-”
“Not ready yet,” Dean says punchily. “Knock yourself out.”
Sam gives you a look - an offer to go with him - and you hesitate. It’s probably the better idea to go back to the motel with Sam. Let Dean blow off some steam with whatever girl is morally ok with banging some guy that, as far as she’s concerned, has a girlfriend. But the idea of it doesn’t sit right with you.
You shake your head and Sam nods. You can’t help but feel that it’s the kind of nod that indicates you made the right decision. Whatever the hell that might mean. He picks up his jacket and mutters something about getting one of the cabs nearby.
Dean takes up Sam’s untouched drink. He still isn’t looking at you.
You’re not stupid. You know that Dean’s sudden bad mood likely has something to do with the guy chatting you up unsuccessfully at the bar. His chances of getting laid were under threat. He probably wouldn't have reacted half as bad if he hadn’t turned down a pretty girl a few minutes prior.
And you don’t really have anyone that you can blame for this except yourself. Because you’re the one who set those expectations, even if you didn’t mean to. You’re the one who is dragging this on longer than it has any business being, because you’re selfish and you know that the minute you make those clarifications, he will accept defeat. He will change his behaviour out of respect for your decision, which should be a good thing.
But those little bits of him that you can clasp onto - the flirty back-and-forth, the not-so-accidental touches, the longing stares - are things that would hurt to lose. They’re things that your day would be much greyer without. You’ve prioritised them over your friendship with Dean, your job, your sanity. But it’s coming to a head now and you’re not sure how much longer you can wait before things start to collapse around you.
Dean clears his throat awkwardly, eyes still straight ahead. “Sorry.”
You blink. “That’s okay. Do you wanna…”
“Talk about it?” he asks sardonically. “I’m good.”
You nod, a short pause settling between the two of you. You tap on the glass of your drink just to fill the silence with something, but your mind is still on Dean.
He huffs a breathy laugh. “What’d I say? Twitchy. S’how I can tell you’re thinking.”
“Not twitchy. And of course I’m thinking.”
“‘Bout what?”
“Thought you said you didn’t wanna talk.”
“Yeah, I don’t wanna talk. Never said I didn’t want you to.”
You giggle and his mouth breaks into a smile. “Well, that’s just too bad. I’m not in the monologuing kinda mood.”
“C’mon, sweetheart. Help me out here.”
You frown. Dean just keeps on looking ahead. It had seemed like a good idea to talk about everything a few moments ago but somehow the idea of vocalising your thoughts is a little repulsive now. “You first.”
He sighs and it’s more than exasperation or any leftover frustration from the man at the bar. He sounds tired. “I was thinkin’ about you.”
You hesitate. “Oh?”
“Yeah.”
You’re ready for a bite of sarcasm or teasing or some ridiculously, outlandishly flirty remark but it doesn’t come. Just a long, thoughtful pause. You’re terrified and fascinated but you don’t bother wondering what he’s going to say. You need to give up wondering about things. There’s no point in it anymore. It just makes your head spin.
“I’d like to give you what you want,” he says finally. “I just don’t know what that is.”
“What do you mean?” you ask, even though you’re pretty sure you know exactly what he means.
“I can’t tell if you’d like me to leave you alone or if you want…” he trails off.
“I don’t want you to leave me alone,” you say, nervously. “I’d never want that.”
He looks at you now, eyes half-lidded and sleepy. He is wearing some beaten down expression. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“But you don’t… want me.”
It’s not quite put as a question, but it’s more uncertain than a statement - somewhere in between. You look at him with your mouth just slightly open for one very still, silent moment, before a loud click from the pool table makes you jump.
“I…”
You’re hoping that he’ll make this easier for you by brushing it off, but he is not letting you escape this. His eyes are soft and open, almost pained, but his mouth is set in a resolute line.
You could lie. You could tell him you don’t want him. You could keep it all to yourself - how you want him in every way possible, how you wake up every morning with his voice in your ears and his face in your eye-line, even when he’s not there. It doesn’t seem fair, but you entertain the possibility for just a moment. It would be awkward, but Dean’s a big boy and he has gotten over rejection before. You’ve seen it.
But you’d have to be stronger to do that. You’d have to be able to stop looking at him like he has sunshine pouring out of the pores on his skin. You’d have to stop taking his side in every debate with Sam and you’d have to stop sniffing around like a dog for scraps of his attention. It’s not something you could do. It’s selfish, but you’d rather put the responsibility on Dean of severing whatever the hell you have going on. He would know how to do it much better than you ever would.
“That’s not true,” you choke, just as you see the light beginning to die in Dean’s hopeful gaze. Something flashes there now, brighter than ever. “It’s not that I don’t- That’s not it.”
“Then what?”
“It’s just that I wouldn’t only want that. I would want more.”
His face shifts, mouth downturned. “You- uh, you not into the whole monogamy thing?”
You hiss in a breath. “No! That’s not what I mean-”
“It’s- uh. I mean, I-”
“Dean.” You give him a flat look before turning away. “That’s not what I meant.”
He sighs after a brief, silent suspension. “Sweetheart, I’m no good at riddles. That’s more Sammy’s thing.”
You look back at him with a sort of forced gravity when all you feel is desperation. “I don’t think you know what you’re asking for. Because I don’t just want-” you sigh. “I am into the whole monogamy thing. That’s the problem.”
“Why’s that gotta be a problem?” The way he’s speaking is almost indecently gentle.
“Because I love you.” You force yourself not to look at him when you say it, staring directly ahead at the old jukebox in the corner. “Which is a problem in itself. But you don’t need to- I mean, I’m not expecting-”
Why is this so fucking hard? You’re bumbling around with your words and you might be on the verge of tears.
“You’re not expecting what?”
“For it to mean anything.”
“Why wouldn’t it mean anything?” He sounds urgent now, almost desperate.
“Because it’s not realistic. C’mon Dean, you’re you.”
The silence stretches between you. When it hits a certain point, you hazard a look at his face. He’s like a hurt animal. Like you had just torn open a wound.
“And what the hell does me being me have anything to do with it? I could do it. The whole thing, I could do it with you.” He’s giving you a controlled look but his jaw is clenching and his voice is trembling.
“Dean-”
“I love you too, angel.”
It hits you like a bullet, but you try not to let it show. It would be so easy to forego all your reasonable doubts, let yourself fall into the childish fantasy that Dean could love you and it might actually end well. He’s still looking at you with wide, hurt eyes. It would be so easy, when you know that one word from you could wipe the look from his face
You shake your head, ignoring the way he grabs your hand. Ignoring how it feels in your own, rough fingers brushing over your knuckles. “It’s not going to work.”
“Why not?”
“The women, Dean-”
“No women. There’s no women.”
You smile but there’s nothing behind it. “There’s always women.”
“Not for a damn long time.”
You look at him steadily. “That’s not true,” you say, but you don’t say it well. You sound weak and uncertain. It only occurs to you after saying it that you might also feel that way.
His eyes are blazing now and you feel a bit like an insect, trapped under a glass. He’s watching you try to wiggle your way out.
“You really haven’t noticed? Sweetheart, I haven’t touched a woman in months. My balls look like a Smurf’s.”
Your mouth goes dry. “How many months?”
“I dunno. Since before Tulsa.”
It has been many months since then. Many, many months. “Wh-what happened in Tulsa?”
“You started lookin’ at me different. Like, all smiley and cute. Made me think I had a chance so I got my ass on the straight and narrow.”
You look at him. You’re trying to figure out if he’s fucking with you. You can’t tell, but you also don’t think Dean would lie to you about this. Maybe a lie to protect you, or maybe a white lie about why you can’t use his laptop right now because he has to ‘um, send an email first’… but not a lie about this. And his eyes are so soft on yours. He can’t be lying.
And if you want to think about it - you really hadn’t seen him take anyone home in a very long time. You had just assumed he was. You think back to the girl who approached the table earlier. And then about the one from two days ago. And then the one from the last town over. And the one that looked like a damn supermodel a month or two ago. All were turned away by Dean and you had thought that was strange at the time - you just didn’t know it was because of you.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I did.”
You roll your eyes. “Sober.”
He breathes in. “You look at me sometimes like you want me but whenever I try to do somethin’ about it, you get all twitchy and clear off before I can blink.”
You pout, but a smile is threatening to break. “I’m not-”
“Yeah y’are,” he say, looking at you with so much affection that it warms your skin. He smiles as if he just gave you a compliment. “I didn’t know what you wanted. I still don’t.”
You look back at him, nervous, hesitant. “I want you. But only if I never have to share you with anyone.”
Sun spills out of his smile. He puts a gentle hand over your jaw and brings your face to his. You spend a few short seconds waiting, breathing each other’s air. “Angel. That won’t be a problem.”
Dean kisses you.
“What were you thinkin’, huh?”
You don’t have enough breath in your lungs to reply. You make a strained noise at the back of your throat instead. Dean shifts above you, pressing in harder, and you gasp. Your fingers grip his bare shoulders, trying to get some sort of leverage. The skin is damp with sweat under your touch.
“You’re crazy for thinkin’ I want any other pussy but this one for the rest of my damn life. Fuck- sweetheart, knew you’d feel this good.”
“You thought about this?” It comes out a bit too breathy to be teasing, but you are smiling up at him and he huffs a soft laugh back. He thrusts in hard, tip of his cock hitting a soft, pleasurable spot inside you, and you gasp at the overwhelming fullness of him.
“Shit, angel,” he grunts. “Haven’t thought about anything else since I met you. Can’t get your pretty face outta my damn head. Drives me up the fuckin’ wall every single day when you go to another room, knowing I’m not gonna be able to fuck you like I want to. Or when you stretch out all cute in the backseat and I’m just- shit, I’m hard as a fuckin’ rock, waiting to get back to the motel or to some service station toilet so I can rub one out.”
Your voice catches in your throat. Tears prickle behind your eyes. “Thought about you too.”
“Yeah?” You see his eyes shining above you. His movements are hard and slow - you’re sure it’s at least in some part down to the fact that he’s trying to stave off his own orgasm after months of no action - but it makes it much more intense. Your heart is aching pleasantly in your chest.
“Yeah.” You nod. “All the time. Wanted you so bad, Dean, but I didn’t-“
“Y’didn’t think I was serious,” he finishes. You nod.
He leans down to give you a filthy kiss, hips still rolling into your own. His mouth is hungry against your own - one hand perched beside your head to hold him up and the other clasping your jaw. “Sweetheart, I’m dead fuckin’ serious.” Your body arches into his when he hits particularly deep, tits pressing up against his chest. “Never gonna get enough of you. So fuckin’ gorgeous. Feel so good around my cock. Finally lettin’ me give you what you deserve.”
You sigh, bliss spilling into every inch of your body. Dean backs up, putting both hands under your knees and pulling your legs up, hitting an unfamiliar spot. The muscles in your legs quiver at the foreign sensation - the immense pleasure of it. Dean’s eyes droop down to them and he smiles lazily. “Twitchy.”
You’re about to say something sarcastic, but he starts driving his hips forward and any cohesive thought you might have previously had evaporates. He’s so much deeper like this. You moan, eyes rolling back into your head.
“Fuck. That’s right baby, lemme feel it,” he grunts. “Tight cunt pullin’ me in. S’like I belong in here, huh.”
You nod at him, face twisted up and body squirming around him.
He breathes a light laugh which you can only assume is aimed at your fucked-out expression. “Can’t believe you’ve been keepin’ this away from me, sweetheart. Should be fuckin’ illegal. S’okay though, I’ll make up for it. Gonna fuck you six ways to Sunday. Just keep lookin’ at me like that, sweet girl.”
You should have known that Dean would be like this in bed. It’s not enough that he’s the funniest, most charismatic person you know. Or that he’s the love of your life, whose face you had tried and failed to evict from its residence in your brain for almost a year - more, if you want to be completely honest with yourself. No - he has to have a stupidly big cock and a filthy mouth too. You’ve never in your life been this wet, but then you’ve never in your life been eaten out and fucked by Dean Winchester.
“Fuck me-” he chokes out. “You’re so gorgeous, sweetheart. Y’look so beautiful like this. All pretty and ruined for me while I pound that tight, wet fucking pussy. Gonna bust early. You gonna let me come inside?”
You should probably should be ashamed of the fact that you don’t even think about it. One of Dean’s hands leaves your leg to rub against your clit - already swollen from his tongue earlier. The tight ball of need is growing in your lower stomach again. “Please, Dean-” you whine. “Need it. Need to feel you, please. I love you.”
He kisses you again - hot and deep. “Knew you’d let me fill you up, sweetheart. Such an angel, y’know that? My good girl lettin’ me fill her up and make her mine. I love you too, baby. Love you so much it makes me crazy.”
A whimper breaks out of your lips when you lock eyes. His gaze is locked on you intensely and you’re not sure how you never saw it before - all the soft love and awe and devotion written there. His breath has gone short, eyes boring into your own. It almost feels silly now. How could Dean ever want anyone else when he looks at you like that?
You flutter around him, the tight ball in your stomach beginning to loosen.
“Give it to me, baby - I got you,” Dean grunts, face pinched in a sort of pained bliss, eyes half-lidded.
You clench down on him as you become undone and he moans at the sensation, beginning to spill himself inside. The idea of him filling you up makes you crash harder.
“Got you, angel. Fuck, so good to me, lettin’ me give you all my cum. I love you. My best girl.” Dean talks you through it, body going tense around you, movements dogged and rough, eventually pattering out into shallow thrusts.
His eyes are bleary and confused when he finally stops spilling his load into you. He drops down beside you, pulling you onto your side with one hand so he does not immediately have to pull out of you. You end up with one leg over his hip - positioned in a way that is awkward but not uncomfortable. He presses kisses around your face lazily, holding your body close against his own.
Your body begins to twitch tiredly from exertion, legs quivering. “Don’t,” you grunt. He laughs and your body vibrates with the force of it.
Summary: Welp.. like the title said, a girl who's hungry for her hunk of an older boyfriend.
Warnings: sexual content ahead, daddy kink, age-gap relationship.
A/N: Lowkey the first time that my smut writing has been this in depth, feeling kind of nervous about it lol.
Anyways.. feedback is always welcome :).
If you have any one-shot ideas or fantasies about Jack Abbot that you want written out, let me know. Always down to make your delusions come true ;).
Hope you enjoy!! <3
────────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹────────
The delicious smell leaving the kitchen is drawing you in, checking up on Jack who’s making you dinner.
Coming to a halt in the door opening, you spot your boyfriend standing behind the stove. He’s stirring in a pot, the muscles in his back flexing as he does. You always find it extremely attractive whenever he takes care of you, like when he cooks you a meal, but now he’s doing it shirtless and oh.. it makes the whole scenario about ten times hotter.
“Hope you’re hungry,” Jack says after taking notice of you standing there. “Making your favorite, pasta bolognese.”
“Oh.. I’m hungry alright.” you tell him, eyes taking in his broad form before resting on his big biceps.
You’re ovulating.. which means it makes you absolutely feral. It’s not like you normally have a low sex drive, you and Jack are fucking nearly every day. However, when you’re ovulating.. you become even more horny then you usually are.
“Don’t give me that look,” Jack tells you, whipping the kitchen towel over his shoulder before grabbing his crutch that was resting against the counter. He leans on it as he turns his body a little to face you more. “Put those ‘fuck me’ eyes away.”
“Why?” you pout slightly, taking some steps forwards.
“This morning wasn’t enough for you?” Jack asks, referring to the two hours you spend messing around in bed before getting up.
“No,” you tell him, the way he’s standing there with his broad chest and shoulders on display is not helping your case. “You know m’ovulating. I can’t help it.”
A chuckle escapes Jack as he shakes his head softly at your words. Don’t get him wrong, he loves whenever you’re ovulating, it turns you feral and there’s nothing he enjoys more than taming you. “I made food, sweetheart. Can’t let it go to waste.”
“It won’t go to waste.” you are quick to say. “You can finish making the sauce, then we can reheat it later while boiling the pasta.” you explain.
“Are you serious right now?” Jack cocks a brow. “Can’t wait till after dinner?”
“No,” you take some steps forward, which closes the space between you and him completely. “S’your fault.. shouldn’t be looking this good,” you mutter as your hands roam up his arms and rest on his shoulders.
Jack lets out a soft sigh, looking down in your eyes as he takes hold of your chin. “You’re something else.. y’know that?” he tips your head back some more. “Gonna be the death of me.”
“Why’s that?” you tilt your head a bit to the side. “Because you’re an old man?”
“Oh?” Jack moves his hand lower, wrapping his fingers around your neck. “I’m an old man, now?”
“Uh-hu,” you give him a teasing nod. “One that can’t keep up with a young thing like me."
Jack lets out a bitter laugh, you know just what to say to drive him crazy. It makes his fingers tighten their grip on your neck a little. “Enough.” he says. “Go to our room. I’ll be there in a minute.”
An excited giggle leaves you before you rush out of the kitchen and towards the bedroom. You can’t help yourself with teasing Jack, it’s just so fun to rile him up. Also, he fucks you even better whenever he’s slightly agitated by your teasing.
Anticipation is filling up your body as you lay yourself down on the bed. You’ve taken off the oversized shirt of his you were wearing, leaving you bare chested. There’s just a black thong that’s still covering you.
Jack moves into the room, he doesn’t like wearing his prosthetic around the house so he usually moves around on his crutches. The sight of you laying on the bed is going straight to his cock, the desire he feels for you almost unbearable.
“Old man, huh?” Jack lets his crutches drop to the ground as soon as he has reached the bed. He takes hold of your legs before pulling you closer to the edge. “I’ll show you old..”
He’s quick to curl his fingers around the lining of your panties, pulling them down in a swift motion and discarding them on the floor. Jack lets his eyes trace over your body in awe, sometimes he still doesn’t believe how someone as beautiful as you could want a man like him.
“God.. you’re fucking perfect,” he mutters,
Those words, spoken out in that husky voice, go straight to your core. You can feel the ache for him grow between your legs, it makes you bite down on your lip as you look up at him.
“You need me, baby?” Jack asks you, leaning down some so he could be closer to you.
“Yeah..” a soft nod leaves you. When he gets close enough, you place a hand on his cheek and pull him into a kiss.
A hum escapes Jack as he feels his lips on yours, his eyes flutter close and he’s quick to kiss you back. At first, it’s tender.. but it’s quick to turn more passionate as the desire takes over. His tongue is playing a dangerous game with yours, taking in the way you taste.
Jack is the first to pull back, looking into your eyes as his hand moves up to cradle your face. “M’gonna fuck you so good.” he tells you, voice hushed, the feeling of his breath against your skin makes you shiver.
“Please-” a whine leaves you, making a smirk tug on his lips.
“You need it that bad, sweet girl?” Jack asks you, thumb grazing over your bottom lip.
“Uh-hu..” you nod at him, the ache for him pooling between your legs.
“Show me how bad.” Jack tells you.
Your lips part and you’re quick to take two of his fingers in your mouth, your tongue roaming around his digits before sucking down. Jack mutters a soft curse under his breath, the feeling mixed with the sight of how needy you are is making his cock only harder for you.
“You’re so filthy for it, aren’t you?” he says after seeing you coating his fingers in spit before sucking down on them again.
The nod of your head is not the reaction Jack wants out of you. “Use your words, baby.”
“Yes..”
“Yes, who?” Jack guides you to the answer he wants to hear.
“Yes, daddy.” you tell him, looking into his eyes.
God.. he loves it whenever you call him that. It’s something he didn’t know he was into until you came along. The first time you called him that while he was making you come, changed the entire way the two of you would dirty talk from then on.
“Atta girl,” he moves a hand down and fondles your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers which causes you to whimper out.
Jack lets his hands roam down your body, the feeling of his calloused fingertips against your skin turns you on even more. He presses another kiss against your lips before moving his head to leave a trace of kisses down into your neck.
A whimper escapes you at his actions, the feeling of his fingers moving further down combined with his lips on your skin is driving you crazy. Your body feels like it’s on fire with desire for him.
“Jesus.. you’re already dripping wet,” Jack observes as his fingers move down between your thighs. A soft moan escapes you as he touches you where you want it most.
The sight of your back arching before him, a gasp leaving you as he moves two fingers inside of you, it’s beautiful to Jack. You grip onto his arm, grounding yourself as his digits start pumping inside of you.
“Gonna make you come as much as I can.” Jack whispers, moving his head up to peck your lips. “Let’s see how you can keep up.” he mocks your words from earlier.
It doesn’t take long before the first knot starts forming inside your gut, you start squirming beneath his touch and it lets Jack know you’re close. He takes pride in how fast he can make you come, he was literally beaming the first time you told him that no other man had ever made you come that quickly.
Your orgasm ripples through you, a whiny moan escaping while you coat his fingers with your juices.
The look in Jack’s eyes turns darker, the lust nearly all consuming. He lets you ride out your high before removing his fingers, making eye contact as he puts them in his mouth so he can taste you.
“Want you, daddy.” a needy whine leaves you, hands on his arms.
Jack is quick to grab you by your waist, lifting you higher onto the bed. He takes off his sweatpants, letting them fall to the ground together with his boxers before following you, climbing on top. He holds himself up by resting on his elbows, face inching closer. Before going any further, he connects his lips back to yours.
A soft hum leaves you as your arms wrap around his neck, holding him close as the two of you kiss. When you feel his tongue trace your bottom lip, you open up your mouth a little so he could find his way inside. Your tongues are playing a heated game of exploring one another. The way you’re making out is passionate, you can feel his erection straining against your skin and it causes that ache to form back between your thighs.
“Ready for me, baby?” Jack questions, taking hold of his cock so he could brush his tip through your folds.
“Mhmm.. yes,” you nod eagerly, looking into his eyes with nothing other than desire and lust.
The sight of you so worked up is enough for Jack to want to wreck you. However, he holds himself back as he’s planning on teasing you some more. Payback.
A soft whimper leaves you as you feel him trace his cockhead back between your folds, so close to giving you what you want. You hate whenever he teases you, you’re so impatient and especially when you’re in a state like this. Eventhough you hate it, it also turns you on like crazy.
“Beg for it.” Jack tells you, hearing the needy sounds that are escaping you.
“Please..” you say as you look up into his eyes. “Please, daddy.”
“Gonna be a good girl for me?” he asks, flicking his tip against your clit which makes a soft whine leave your lips. “Tell me.”
“Yeah..” you nod at him. “M’gonna be so good, please-”
With one sharp trust, Jack makes his way inside of you. A gasp escapes you as your hands take hold of his shoulders. “Fuck-” your nails dig into his skin as you feel his cock spreading you open.
A soft groan escapes Jack’s lips as he watches you take him, back arching so beautifully for him. He takes hold of your thigh, lifting it up and making you wrap it around his waist. After placing a kiss against your lips, he starts moving his hips and thrusting inside of you.
A moan leaves your lips as he does, hands moving to his back so you could hold onto him. “Mhmm..”
“Yeah.. that feel good, baby?” Jack watches you nod and it makes a feeling of pride grow in his chest, he loves nothing more than pleasing you.
He hits you with deep strokes, his cock gliding through your gooey walls with ease. Jack’s on a mission to make you come at least two more times before he finishes himself. And everybody who knows Abbot, knows he’s determined once he’s set his goal in place.
As soon as you feel his fingers move down to your clit, you know it’s game over. He’s thrusting in and out of you with no mercy, hitting the right spot while his digits stimulate your clit. The moaning escaping you is like music to his ears, god.. he could listen to it forever without growing bored of it.
“Oh yes,” you whimper out, that bubble of pleasure building up inside of you and you know it’s about to burst at any moment.
“Yeah, sweetheart?” Jack moves his fingers faster which only makes you more sensitive, hips bucking up against his movements. “Like that?”
“Fuck yes,” you whine out, spreading your legs some more so Jack can easily keep his hips moving while his fingers work against your senstive nub.
“Come for me,” Jack spurs you on, eyes focused on the expression on your face.
A whine escapes you as your body tightens up, walls clenching around his cock which makes him curse out under his breath. Jack keeps going until you tip over the edge, cries leaving your lips as your body trembles slightly when pleasure flows through it.
“Atta girl,” Jack holds onto your legs as he watches you come down from your high, the blissful look in your eyes causing that sense of pride in him once more.
When he leans down to bring his lips back to yours, you let out a hum and close your eyes. Your lips move against his, kissing him back softly. “Thank you,” you mumble.
“You’re welcome, baby.” Jack smiles before pressing another kiss against your lips. “Ready for one more?”
“Yeah..” you give him a soft nod.
Jack holds onto your legs, moving them up so he could place them over his shoulders. His actions make his cock move deeper inside of you, a whimper leaving you as your nails dig into his shoulders.
After kissing you once more, Jack starts thrusting back inside of you. A moan rolls over your lips as you feel him move deeply. You hold onto his shoulders, grounding yourself as you take every stroke he gives you.
“Mhm.. daddy,” you whimper out. “Feels so good.”
A groan escapes Jack as you call him that, he looks back into your eyes and picks up the pace at which his hips are moving.
The room fills up with the sounds of you moaning out and Jack’s skin slapping against yours. He’s pounding into you, balls deep, hitting the top of your cervix with every thrust. You’re a mess, already sensitive from coming twice so you know it won’t take long before he gets you there again.
“Fuck-” you cry out softly as a shift of his hips makes him hit the spot perfectly. “Right there,”
“Yeah?” his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips as he holds you still, hitting that spot over and over again.
“Oh my-” your eyes roll to the back of your head as the feeling gets nearly overwhelming.
“You feeling it, sweetheart?” Jack grunts out. “Don’t hold back, want to feel you come on my cock.”
It doesn’t take much longer after that before your body tightens up, so close to getting that intense feeling of pleasure. Jack leans in some more and sucks down onto your nipple, giving that final touch which makes you come undone.
Soft cries fill the room as pleasure bursts inside of you, holding onto him as your body trembles.
“Good girl,” Jack plants a kiss against the side of your head and slows down his strokes. He guides you through the waves of your orgasm that’s slowly washing away.
A trembled breath leaves you as Jack wipes some sweaty strands of hair out of your face, he gives you some time to collect yourself together which is much needed. The way he turns sweet after he makes you come will always melt your heart, his soft touches and kisses make you feel so loved every time.
“Think you can give me one more?” Jack asks as he looks into your eyes, thumb brushing against your jawline.
“I think so,” you give him a nod while smiling which makes him give you a smile back.
“Good.. because this one is going to be intense.” he says, pressing a kiss to your lips before positioning himself again.
You watch as he folds your legs over your head, leaning over and working his hips. His thrusts hit deep, your sensitive core aching as it’s hyper sensitive from previous orgasms. Jack doesn’t give you much time to get used to him, pretty soon he’s back to pounding himself inside of you.
“Fuck..” you whine out, nails digging into his back which makes him groan out.
“Feel how deep inside of you I am, baby?” Jack asks you, voice husky and eyes dark as he stares into yours.
“Yes,” you let out a whimper and feel his hand wrapping around your neck again, pushing you deeper into the mattress.
Soft cries fill up the room as Jack keeps on pounding into you, you’re so sensitive from his earlier actions that you can barely take what he’s giving you. You grip onto his shoulders as your moaning mixed with Jack’s grunts are filling up the room.
“Oh my god-” you cry out softly, so sensitive that you can hardly take it anymore. “I can’t-"
“You can, baby.” Jack presses a kiss to your lips before lifting up your chin so you’d look in his eyes. “You’re so good for me, always are.. you can take it,” he tells you, following that up with another kiss. “Just a little more.”
A whine rolls over your lips as Jack pushes even deeper inside of you, keeping hold of your face so you’d look him into his eyes. It doesn’t take long before you feel that pressure building up inside of your gut, a whimper escaping you.
“M’gonna come again, daddy..” you cry out softly.
“I’m close too,” Jack grunts out as he tries to hold himself back, needing to feel you come before he does. “Come for me, baby.”
“Mhmm..” your body tightens up and you grip onto his arms before you feel pleasure explode, moving through your entire body which makes you cry out and tremble.
As soon as Jack feels you clench your walls around him, he’s done for. A deep groan escapes him as he spills himself inside of you, holding onto your trembling legs.
“Fuck..” his body falls onto yours, completely spent. “That was good.”
“Tell me about it,” you sigh out, legs still trembling softly from the intensity of your orgasm. You move a hand up to cradle the back of his head, holding him close to you as your other arm wraps around him. “I take back my words.. you can keep up with me just fine.”
Jack lets out a chuckle as he moves his head up and looks you into your eyes. “Told you.”
Imagine reader and Andrew Cody have been secretly pining for each other and reader runs into Andrew while he’s making a getaway from a job so she decides to help him by pulling a make out fake out and kissing him in a darkened corner so that the guards don’t see him and Andrew is internally freaking out but when reader apologises once the coast is clear he just pulls her in and kisses her again
a/n: omg anon YOUR MIND!!!
getaway
you’ve grown up with the codys. smurf tried to set you up with baz to get him away from julia a thousand times, but you only had eyes for the oldest, pope. it was always andy to you.
the feeling was mutual, pope was obsessed with you since the first day smurf brought you home and introduced you as julia’s friend. he was just a kid, too scared to do anything about it.
you knew what the codys were into. you used to tend to pope’s wounds when you were teenagers. he’d come to you all beaten up, with that puppy look of his, asking for help and care only you could give him.
you detached yourself from the codys. you didn’t want to have anything to do with their business and pope was too brainwashed by his mother to follow you. you like to think that in another life you could have saved him from his family.
you got a degree and a job at a marketing firm that pays well. of course you heard rumors about heists and robberies all over oceanside and you tried your best to ignore them—but the thought of pope’s well being always gnawed at you.
you didn’t know about julia’s death, you only found out when you met her son j at the beach. the news of her death were delivered shortly after. you loved julia like a sister, but her addiction separated you. she wouldn’t listen and you weren’t exactly the most patient person. you blame yourself a lot for not being there for her.
as times passes you’ve gone through a number of partners, but no one seems to stick around enough to stay. lawyers, doctors and engineers weren’t really your thing, and you knew exactly why.
when you finish your shift at work you take your usual route, cutting it short by passing by an alley when you hear screams and fast footsteps. you try your best to mind your own business, but when a familiar figure bumps into you while running,you can’t help but look.
you both stop in your tracks, blinking in recognition. pope takes his mask off and says your name softly,his voice breaking a little. a siren is approaching the two of you, you panic and your knees wobble as you grab pope by the nape of his neck to crash his lips with yours.
pope freezes for a moment, eyes open looking straight at your closed ones. when the situation registers into his brain he finally relaxes, closing his eyes and melting completely into your kiss. he grabs you by your hips, squeezing and pulling you closer to his chest. your fingers tangle into his grown out curls as he dips his tongue inside your mouth, tasting you gently.
the kiss is urgent, years and years of pent up feelings can be tasted against your tongues.
the police car runs past you, the siren blasting through the road. when the noise of it all fades away, you gently push yourself off of him “i’m so sorry i-i panicked and the police—“ pope cuts you off by grabbing both sides of your face and kissing you again, less panicked and more practiced, at ease. you squeal and grab him by his shirt, pulling him closer.
“i’ve missed you” he says, his eyes scanning your whole face as if he had forgotten what you looked like. which is a lie, pope has been dreaming about you since you left.
James and Reader have not been on great terms since their divorce, but an emerging situation with their son forces them to put aside their differences and work together and hope that past feelings don't resurface
𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐘 𝐍𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐑 | @/shmaptainwrote
James moves into a new apartment and finds a new friend in his neighbour across the hall
Law & Medicine | @vigilante-3073
James Wilson has a secret relationship and House finally discovers it.
Attorney Reader
Pretty In Pink | @/vigilante-3073
House is curious about Wilson's newly formed relationship with the head of the Pediatrics Department.
Wedding Bells Or Separations? | @/vigilante-3073
Something has changed between Wilson and the head of the Pediatrics Department. House is feeling bored and decides to investigate.
I miss us sometimes | @papriikau
You and James Wilson hadn't spoken since your divorce. You still care for him after all this time, but choose to avoid him to avoid getting hurt. But when a family emergency forces you to reconnect with your ex-husband, you struggle with your feelings for each other.
A RIDE HE WOULDN’T SURVIVE | @/papriikau
you and Wilson have been secretly dating and House keeps trying to figure out who Wilsons seeing.
You’re Hired | @star-girl-05
Mornin’ | @/star-girl-05
Loving You From Afar | @/star-girl-05
House is Cupid | @solcito-dps
wilson needs to get out of an annoying situation, luckily you came in the picture just in time.
“If you don’t stop-” | @curiouser--and--curiouser
Tiny humans | @the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf
House gets to meet Wilson’s new girlfriend for the first time when his case takes him into his worst nightmare…peds. House is in for a shock at the ball of sunshine who has his best friend on a string.
James Wilson x peds!reader | @/the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf
Dr y/n y/l/n is a brilliant paediatrician at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. She is a ray of sunshine throughout the hospital. But don’t let the glitter and games fool you, she is an outstanding doctor who has the best track record out of everyone, second only to Gregory House (but she has him beat on bedside manner). No one in the hospital could believe it when she started dating the head of oncology, mr prince-charming himself! Least of all House.
You go. I go. | @/the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf
Vogler is on the warpath, his only goal; the termination of Gregory House. James won’t let this happen. But when his career is put on the line, your heart only tells you to do one thing.
Heartbeat | @kining-the-evil
Nothing brings a fighting couple together like a life threatening event
Jealous James Wilson Headcanons | @/kining-the-evil
dating wilson headcannons | @sorencd
make her mine | @gegewrites
Elevator | @bvnnyjo
I Believe What You Said | @haloshornsinkstains
Commitment | @bi-bard
(Y/n) has recently realized that their boyfriend of a few months, James, seems to be avoiding them. They confront an old friend in the hopes of getting answers and finding a way to help.
Mornings with you | @pomegranateshrimp
Finding you in the break room having a panic attack. (1) | @/pomegranateshrimp
House’s Gremlin | @specialagentlokitty
house's kid comes to visit Wilson and ends up teasing the team with her dad
Two | @/specialagentlokitty
Prompt for Wilson being in a new relationship where Wilson expects their new s/o to react to House like everyone else does, but they turn around and surprise him with their attitude.
meeting house. | @thinkingaboutbetterdays
ᝰ Robert Chase
Dr. Robert Chase x GN!Reader | @daisywrites101
houses kid! Reader, | @y13evie
KISS AND TELL | @iwritefandomimagines
after endless mutual pining, you and chase finally hooked up over the weekend. you agreed to keep it a secret while you figured things out, but it doesn’t last long with the team around.
MORE THAN THAT | @/iwritefandomimagines
when one of your best friends turns up at the hospital with her daughter unwell, you introduce chase as your colleague. considering you’ve been seeing each other for nearly five months now, he does not like that one bit.
I’m sorry I always said the wrong thing. | @audiovideodisco
You have a crush on your Aussie colleague, but have given up on ever being his type, or even someone he respects. People never change, right?
Wedding Night Excitement | @dearestro
Who knew a slip of the hand could lead to this?
Fluff | @rosedpetal
all worth it | @saorsawrites
Lazy evenings with chase after a long day of being annoyed by House
a winning bet. | @thinkingaboutbetterdays
ᝰ Dr House
“that’s my girl!” | @stxrshxpxd
house can’t stay focused on the case when something more interesting is distracting him, but reader knows how to put up a fight in the vicious bantering and flirting match that ensues
feelings are scary. | @thinkingaboutbetterdays
Masterlist | @kittenlittle24
Colleagues | @/kittenlittle24
Perfect for him, | @biahouse
You're House's girlfriend. Wilson doesn't like you, but... 3 times Wilson realized you were the perfect person for house, +1 time he finally admits it
I’m Eepy | @thatgenericwriter
House and the reader have a 4 year old child that definitely takes after her father
When Time Stops | @/thatgenericwriter
reader is at home when they get a surprise visit
Girl!Dad House | @multi-fandom-imagine
Supporting | @specialagentlokitty
Surprise? | @skywwwalker
what i want | @/skywwwalker
The unexpected | @frost-queen
do you yield? | @cmkren
Unsurprisingly, a night out between House and Wilson doesn’t end up uneventful. Tensions were strung in a-- stranger way, now with Amber in the picture. One of House's grand schemes goes sideways when the person he provokes ends up punching him right in the face. In an attempt to get Wilson in trouble (due to the whole curfew agreement), House got ahead of himself and now Wilson dumps him onto someone else rather than face the wrath of his girlfriend.
a human’s touch | @/cmkren
Maybe in some other lifetime romanticism wasn’t lost to House. That he had grown into a man capable of giving clear-cut affections— and capable of receiving it as well. The first ever puzzle he never wanted to solve, and it was of his heart. You, on the other hand, couldn’t give a damn about it all. You tied yourself to him after all.
House being secretly sweet would include… | @justanescapism
Bump in the Road | @cas-kingdom
You notice something which may mean you have cancer, and Wilson’s the only one you can logically turn to.
Split | @/cas-kingdom
For three years, you’ve kept the fact that Stacy married Mark from House. When he finds out, he’s not happy.
Stubborn | @writeyouin
Mirror Image Part 1 of 2 | @/writeyouin
do better | @crossingthedreams
a relationship between the boss and his employee has a million ways to go wrong. one, in particular, hurt them the most.
⤷ breakfast for breakfast: waking up next to clark, and he’s just a softie in love. you both are tbh (~1.9k, fluff)
⤷ going nowhere: clark misses out on your relationship because of his superman duties. it puts a rift between you (-4.5k, angst, fluff)
⤷ have a laugh in a serious time: bimbo!reader loves clark. loves kissing him with lipgloss freshly applied, gifting him little things that reminded her of him, and leaving him written notes to remind him of her love . (~3.1k, fem!reader, fluff)
⤷ manhandled... gently?: clark just wants to show you he loves you (~4.9k, fluff, implied smut)
⤷ afterglow: you're having a tough time, clark is too perfect (~2.5k, angst, comfort, fluff)
⤷ midnight’s sun: you have been busy and Clark is having a hard time without you (angst, comfort, ~3.5k)
⤷ needing you: clark just wants to get lost in you (~2k, fluff)
⤷ embossed memory: your new lipstick just really leaves a mark on him (fluff, suggestive, ~2.6k)
Summary: It doesn't matter how Clark's love feels, it won't fix you.
Word count: 8k+
Warnings: angst, insecurities, based on the Olivia Rodrigo song
A/N:
hey guys!! don’t worry, part 2 of hula hoop is still coming <3 but I really wanted to post this fic because I genuinely think it was illegal for olivia rodrigo to release the cure??? The song is devastatingly beautiful. The second I heard it, i knew I wanted to write a fic about it.
This fic is really special to me and definitely one of the more emotional things i’ve written, so I really hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :( xxx
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
The first time Clark kissed you, you cried afterward.
Not because it was bad. God, it was the opposite.
It happened in the kitchen of your apartment at two in the morning while rain hammered against the fire escape outside your window hard enough to rattle the metal. Your apartment smelled faintly like rain-damp laundry, and the tea Clark had insisted on making, even though both mugs now sat forgotten on the counter, steam long gone cold.
You wore one of his sweaters over sleep shorts, the sleeves hanging past your hands because Clark liked tugging them over your fingers absentmindedly when he talked to you. His glasses sat crooked beside the sink where he'd abandoned them while drying dishes, and without them he looked softer somehow. Less like the sharp-featured reporter from the Daily Planet and more like the man underneath all of it.
There had been music playing quietly from your phone somewhere in the living room, something low and old crackling through bad speakers. Clark had been talking about work, about Perry assigning him some impossible article, but you hadn't really been listening anymore because he kept looking at your mouth between sentences like he was trying not to.
That nervousness in him undid you.
Clark Kent, who could stop planes from falling out of the sky, looked terrified of kissing you wrong.
You leaned against the counter while he stood too close in your tiny kitchen, broad shoulders nearly blocking out the overhead light. He smelled like clean laundry and rainwater and something warm you could never fully name. Home, maybe. Safety. Whatever it was, it made your chest ache.
“You're staring,” you murmured.
A flush crept slowly up his throat, visible even in the dim light. “Sorry.”
“You don't sound sorry.”
His mouth twitched slightly. “Guess I'm not.”
You should have looked away then. You knew you should have. Moments like this always became dangerous eventually. Intimacy always carried the possibility of disappointment behind it, and disappointment had teeth.
But Clark looked at you like you were something worth being careful with.
That was your first mistake.
His hand lifted slowly, hesitant enough to give you time to move if you wanted to. When his fingers finally touched your jaw, warmth spread through you so quickly it almost frightened you. He held your face like he thought too much pressure might crack you apart, which was ironic considering he could probably shatter concrete without trying.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked softly.
Not cocky. Not assuming.
You nodded before he even finished speaking, and Clark kissed you like he was trying to convince you of something.
Not with urgency. Not greedily. There was no performance in it, none of the practiced confidence you'd grown used to from other men. He kissed you with unbearable sincerity, like he was offering you every gentle thing inside himself all at once.
The hand on your jaw trembled slightly.
That nearly destroyed you.
Because nobody that powerful should have been nervous around you.
You kissed him back harder than you meant to, almost desperately. Your fingers tangled in the front of his shirt as if your body already knew something your mind hadn't caught up to yet. Clark made this small sound against your mouth, startled and soft, and then his other hand slid carefully to your waist.
For one suspended, impossible second, your brain went quiet.
No comparisons. No inventory list of everything you wished you could carve away from yourself. No remembering every prettier woman you'd passed on the street that day or imagining all the girls Clark could have wanted instead.
Just him. Just the warmth of his mouth against yours and the slow drag of his thumb against your waist through the sweater, just relief so overwhelming it felt almost holy.
It hit you all at once then, sudden and devastating.
Oh.
This was what people meant, this unbearable quiet.
You felt it so strongly your eyes burned instantly.
Clark kissed you deeper, slow and careful, and your chest ached with terrible, desperate hope. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the thing you'd been waiting for your entire life. Maybe love really could reach into all the ruined places inside a person and pull them whole again.
You had spent years believing that.
And the second he pulled away, your chest cracked open with grief so sudden it embarrassed you.
The silence inside your head vanished all at once, replaced by something sharp behind your eyes.
Clark noticed immediately, of course he did.
“Hey,” he said softly.
You turned your face quickly before the tears could fully spill over, wiping beneath your eye with the sleeve of his sweater. “Sorry.”
Your laugh came out weak and embarrassed.
Clark's expression shifted instantly, concern softening every feature. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” you answered too fast.
“Was it too much?”
The nervousness in his voice made guilt twist painfully in your chest. He looked genuinely worried he'd crossed a line somehow, his hand slipping from your waist slowly like he wasn't sure if he should still be touching you.
“No, Clark.” You shook your head quickly. “God, no.”
“Then why are you crying?”
You swallowed hard.
Because how were you supposed to explain that the kiss had felt too good somehow? That your emotions suddenly sat too close to the surface to hold back properly?
So instead, you lied.
“I think I'm just overwhelmed,” you said quietly, staring down at your hands. “I've been waiting for this for a long time.”
Clark's entire face softened at that.
Relief flickered visibly across his expression.
“Oh.”
You nodded quickly, forcing out another shaky laugh. “It's stupid.”
“It isn't stupid.”
His voice dropped softer then, warmer somehow, and before you could say anything else Clark stepped closer again carefully, like he was still trying to make sure this was okay.
“You scared me for a second,” he admitted.
The confession was so earnest it made your chest ache.
“Sorry,” you whispered again.
Clark frowned immediately. “Stop apologizing.”
Then he smiled a little, nervous and sweet in that way only he could manage, and brushed his thumb lightly beneath your eye where your tears had escaped.
“You know,” he murmured, “for the record, I've been waiting for this too.”
And somehow that made your throat tighten even more.
When you were younger, love looked medicinal.
Not literally, of course. Nobody ever sat you down and said one day another person will save you from yourself. It was quieter than that. Hidden inside every movie you watched late at night and every song you replayed until the lyrics hollowed something out inside you.
Love was always presented as transformation. The lonely girl became radiant. The insecure girl became chosen. The moment somebody looked at her with enough devotion, all the sharp little insecurities evaporated like they had never existed at all.
Every story seemed to promise the same thing in different packaging: you will be wanted, and then you will finally become whole.
You absorbed that message young enough for it to root deep.
You remember being fourteen and standing sideways in front of your bathroom mirror, sucking in your stomach until your ribs hurt because girls in magazines looked effortless, and you already understood somehow that effortlessness was the closest thing women were allowed to perfection. You remember tilting your chin different ways, pulling at your clothes, analyzing every inch of yourself with the detached cruelty of someone grading an exam.
Too soft here. Too awkward there. Not pretty in the right way.
You spent years believing there was a correct version of femininity everyone else had received instructions for except you.
At school, pretty girls moved through the world differently. People softened around them automatically. Conversations bent toward them like gravity. They laughed without covering their mouths afterward, existed without apologizing first, and you wanted that ease so badly it made your chest ache.
Instead, you became observant. Funny. Self aware in the exhausting way insecure people often are.
You learned how to laugh before anyone else could laugh first. Learned how to make yourself agreeable and easy to keep around. You became skilled at reading rooms within seconds of entering them, instinctively figuring out who needed you quieter, prettier, smarter, less emotional.
Smaller.
And underneath all of it lived jealousy so intense it frightened you sometimes. Not loud jealousy, but silent jealousy. The kind that sat in your stomach like swallowed poison while you smiled through it politely.
You would see a beautiful girl beside someone you liked and immediately begin dissecting yourself against her without even meaning to.
Her skin is clearer. Her waist is smaller. She doesn't look nervous all the time.
You could ruin entire days that way.
Then dating started, and everything got worse.
Because suddenly there were histories attached to people. Other girls who existed before you. You approached relationships like someone preparing for inevitable disappointment, every question feeling like gathering evidence before a trial.
How many exes have you had?
Have you ever been in love before?
How many girls have you slept with?
You always forced yourself to sound relaxed asking it, like the answers wouldn't matter. Then afterward you'd lie awake replaying every detail they gave you voluntarily and inventing dozens more they didn't.
Sometimes you'd stalk social media until three in the morning searching for faces you could attach to names. Then you'd compare yourself against carefully curated photos until your stomach hurt.
It became ritualistic in a horrible way. You'd spiral. You'd cry. You'd hate yourself for caring so much.
Then you'd do it again anyway.
The worst part wasn't even the jealousy. It was how humiliating love made you feel afterward. The neediness. The panic. The unbearable desire to be chosen permanently in a world where nothing actually stayed permanent.
You hated how quickly affection turned into fear inside your chest. Hated that one delayed text could unravel your entire evening. You wanted love desperately, but you resented what wanting it turned you into.
Then Clark arrived and complicated everything.
Not because he was Superman, though discovering the quiet reporter you'd started falling for could hear heartbeats from buildings away certainly rearranged your understanding of reality for a while.
No, Clark terrified you because of how gently he loved.
There was nothing calculated about him. No games. No strategic withholding. Clark cared openly, almost recklessly, like affection was the easiest thing in the world for him to give.
Most men you'd dated made you feel auditioned, even the good ones. There was always some underlying sense that attraction was conditional, that you were being evaluated against every other woman in the room.
But Clark looked at you with this steady certainty that made your chest tight. Like he wasn't searching for flaws. Like he had simply seen you and decided that was enough.
You didn't know what to do with that kind of acceptance.
The first few months of knowing him, you kept waiting for the illusion to crack. Waiting for him to notice something disappointing about you and pull away slightly afterward. You expected affection to fluctuate because every other version of love you'd encountered had.
But Clark remained painfully consistent.
He remembered things you mentioned once in passing. He brought you coffee exactly the way you liked it after memorizing your order accidentally. He texted you when he got home safe without being asked. When you spoke, he listened with his full attention instead of scanning the room over your shoulder for someone more interesting.
And maybe none of those things sound extraordinary.
But to someone who had spent years feeling fundamentally replaceable, they were.
Clark made you feel seen in a way that bordered on unbearable.
Because part of you still believed love had to be earned constantly through beauty, usefulness, perfection, or whatever version of yourself seemed easiest for other people to keep.
And Clark loved you before you had proven any of those things.
That should have healed something.
Instead, it exposed every wound more clearly.
Because if someone like Clark could love you this sincerely and you still hated yourself afterward, then maybe the problem had never been a lack of love at all.
You met him at the Daily Planet on a Thursday afternoon that already felt cursed.
The air conditioning on your floor had broken sometime before noon, leaving the newsroom sticky with late summer heat and irritation. Phones rang endlessly from every direction. Someone in politics was arguing loud enough to be heard across the bullpen. Perry had shouted your name three separate times in the span of an hour, and by three o'clock you were surviving entirely on bad coffee and spite.
You were halfway through rewriting a headline when Lois appeared beside your desk like a hurricane in heels.
“You look terrible,” she informed you casually.
You didn't glance up from your computer. “And you look intrusive.”
“Good. Keep that energy.” She dropped a folder onto your keyboard before you could stop her. “I brought you something.”
“Unless it's a winning lottery ticket or hard liquor, I don't want it.”
Lois grinned, sharp and dangerous in the way only Lois Lane could manage. “Perfect. You two already sound married.”
You frowned and finally looked up.
That was when you saw him standing awkwardly a few feet behind her.
Tall. Broad shouldered. Wearing a button down rolled messily at the sleeves like he'd tried to look professional halfway and given up afterward. His tie sat slightly crooked beneath the collar, glasses slipping down his nose just enough to make him push them back up every few seconds.
Clark looked painfully out of place against the chaos of the newsroom. Like someone had taken a small town librarian and accidentally dropped him into the middle of Metropolis.
“This,” Lois announced with immense satisfaction, “is Clark Kent. Small town farm boy. Be nice to him.”
Clark immediately looked embarrassed. “Lois.”
“What?” she said innocently. “It's accurate.”
You expected him to laugh it off smoothly.
Most men did.
Instead, Clark glanced at you with visible nervousness, like he genuinely cared whether or not you liked him already.
“Hi,” he said, offering a hand. “Clark Kent.”
His voice surprised you. Warm. Deep. Softer than someone his size should've sounded.
You shook his hand automatically and immediately noticed how careful he was. Most people shook hands absentmindedly. Clark held yours like he was worried about gripping too hard, despite the fact that you were not made of glass.
“Nice to meet you,” you said.
Clark smiled then.
And God.
He was beautiful. Not movie star beautiful, not the polished kind of attractive that made heads turn instantly when someone entered a room. Clark's beauty unfolded slower than that. It crept up on you quietly until suddenly you realized you'd been staring at him for too long.
He looked warm. Open. Like sunlight through curtains early in the morning.
There was something deeply unguarded about him that threw you off balance immediately. Most people in Metropolis wore layers. Professionalism. Charm. Calculation. Everyone at the Planet sharpened themselves into something harder just to survive the pace of the city.
Clark still looked soft around the edges.
Sincere in a way that almost seemed outdated.
You remember thinking, very suddenly and very clearly, 'This man is going to ruin my life.'
Not because he was intimidating, because he wasn't.
That was the problem.
Men like Clark always ruined you the worst. The gentle ones. The ones who listened too carefully and smiled too softly and made you feel safe enough to lower your guard before they left carrying pieces of you with them.
It was never the cruel men who did the most damage. Cruelty at least prepared you for impact. But kind men convinced you to trust them first.
Then they became irreplaceable.
Clark settled into your life slowly after that.
At first he was just another reporter weaving through the chaos of the newsroom, apologizing too much when he bumped into desks and always looking faintly overwhelmed by Lois' existence. You'd catch glimpses of him throughout the day — bent over notes, arguing quietly with Perry, carrying six coffees because apparently he knew everyone's orders within a week.
And he looked at people when they spoke.
Really looked at them.
Most conversations in the newsroom happened while typing emails or scanning headlines or mentally preparing responses before the other person finished talking. Everyone was moving too fast to fully pay attention.
Clark paid attention completely.
The first real conversation you had with him happened after midnight during a stormy deadline shift. Half the office had gone home already, leaving the bullpen dim and exhausted. You were rubbing at your eyes trying to finish edits before Perry lost his mind when Clark appeared beside your desk holding two vending machine coffees.
“I think this legally qualifies as motor oil,” he said, setting one beside you. “But it's warm.”
You laughed despite yourself.
“That's the nicest thing anyone's done for me all week.”
His smile appeared slow and shy, like he wasn't used to making people laugh on purpose.
“You've been here since six this morning,” he said. “Figured you could use it.”
The comment startled you.
Not because it was invasive, because he'd noticed.
“You keeping tabs on me, Kent?”
A faint flush climbed his cheeks instantly. “No. I just... notice things.”
And there it was again.
That sincerity.
After that, Clark became impossible to keep at a distance.
He remembered things casually, effortlessly, in ways that made your chest ache without permission. If you mentioned liking a certain pastry once, he'd bring it the next week because he “happened to pass the bakery.” If you complained about insomnia, he'd text you ridiculous articles about sleep habits at two in the morning because apparently he was awake too.
You started expecting him without meaning to. Expecting the warmth of his voice drifting over your cubicle walls. Expecting him beside your desk asking if you'd eaten lunch yet because somehow he'd noticed you skipped it again.
One afternoon you muttered absentmindedly that your favorite pen had run out of ink.
The next morning there was an identical pack sitting on your desk.
No note. Just Clark shrugging awkwardly when you confronted him about it.
“You sounded upset,” he said simply.
The terrifying part wasn't grand gestures.
It was the consistency.
Clark cared in steady, unremarkable ways that slowly became devastating.
Even after you started dating, even after discovering he was Superman and spending several weeks mentally unraveling over that information specifically, he remained impossibly attentive.
He texted you after interviews. After late shifts. After nights out with friends.
Made it home safe?
That was it sometimes.
Four words.
But nobody had ever checked for you so consistently before.
There were nights he'd disappear suddenly in the middle of dinner because somewhere across the city a building was collapsing or someone screamed for help loud enough for only him to hear. Then hours later you'd receive a text at three in the morning.
Sorry. You asleep?
Did you remember to eat?
It made no sense. This man could be stopping disasters halfway across the planet and still remembered tiny details about you.
Sometimes you'd catch him looking at you when he thought you weren't paying attention. Not staring. Something quieter than that. Like there was an ache inside him he didn't know what to do with.
You'd be talking about something completely meaningless — office gossip, bad takeout, a movie you hated — and Clark would watch you with this soft, almost wounded affection that made your chest feel too small for your ribs.
Like he couldn't believe you were real.
And slowly, horribly, you began to hope.
Not all at once. Hope arrived carefully, in pieces. In the way your body relaxed around him without permission. In the way silence stopped feeling dangerous when you were together. In the way you started believing him every time he called you beautiful, even if only for a few seconds before doubt returned.
You hated that hope most of all.
Because hope meant vulnerability. Hope meant believing this time might be different.
And deep down, beneath all the fear and jealousy and poison you'd carried for years, a small desperate part of you started whispering something terrifying every time Clark touched you gently enough to make your throat ache:
Maybe this was it.
Maybe this was finally the antidote.
One night, months into the relationship, you sat cross legged on Clark's couch while he cooked dinner behind you.
It was late autumn by then. Cold enough outside that the windows fogged faintly around the edges, the city glowing soft and blurred beyond the glass. Clark had left one of his sweaters draped over your shoulders the second you walked through the door because apparently your hands were “always freezing,” and now the sleeves swallowed your fingers while you scrolled absentmindedly through your phone.
His apartment smelled like garlic and tomato sauce simmering on the stove. Warm and comforting, the kind of smell people associated with home.
The television murmured quietly in the background, some black and white movie Clark loved because his parents used to watch it when he was little. You weren't paying attention to the plot, only the rhythm of it. The low static hum of old film. The occasional burst of orchestral music. Clark humming softly under his breath while he stirred the sauce.
It was domestic and safe, the kind of moment people wrote vows about.
That thought hit you strangely hard.
Because this was the sort of life you'd imagined wanting when you were younger. Not glamorous. Not dramatic. Just this. Someone moving comfortably around a kitchen while you existed together in easy silence.
Clark looked over his shoulder toward you then, wooden spoon still in hand.
“You hungry?”
“Starving.”
“You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“Because I was starving twenty minutes ago too.”
A smile tugged at his mouth.
God, even that smile hurt now.
Not in a bad way. In the way beautiful things sometimes did when you loved them too much.
You watched him move around the kitchen for a moment longer. The sleeves of his gray henley pushed to his elbows. His glasses slipping down his nose while he cooked. The quiet ease in his posture now that he was home with you instead of carrying the weight of the world somewhere on his back.
Clark in private still stunned you sometimes.
Superman belonged to everyone; Clark Kent belonged only to you.
Then Clark's phone buzzed on the coffee table.
You glanced down automatically, thinking it was a text message, and felt your stomach drop almost instantly.
A girl from Clark's college years had followed him on Instagram.
You knew that because her profile included the university initials, and because her picture was beautiful enough to make something sour twist beneath your ribs before you even clicked it.
You should've ignored it.
Instead your thumb moved anyway.
The first photo loaded, and she was pretty.
Of course.
Not intimidatingly glamorous. Worse than that. Effortlessly pretty. The kind of beauty that looked untouched and easy. Soft brown eyes. Tiny waist. Bright smile that didn't seem practiced at all.
You clicked the next photo.
Then another.
And another.
A sickness bloomed slowly beneath your skin because now your brain had something to work with.
A real face. A real woman who had existed in Clark's life before you.
You imagined them younger. Meeting in college hallways. Sitting too close together at parties. Her laughing at something he said while touching his arm casually like beautiful girls always seemed to do without fear.
Had he loved her?
Had he looked at her the way he looked at you now?
Had she ever stood in this kitchen?
You hated how quickly your thoughts spiraled.
Nothing had even happened. A follow request, that was all.
But your body reacted like betrayal had already entered the room.
Your chest tightened painfully. Heat crawled up your throat. You kept scrolling even while nausea spread hot beneath your ribs because some ugly part of you needed to know exactly what kind of woman Clark had once wanted.
Every photo became evidence against yourself.
Her legs are thinner than yours.
She looks easy to love.
She probably doesn't overthink every little thing.
Clark noticed the shift immediately.
Of course he did.
“You okay?”
His voice came from behind you, gentle and immediate.
You locked your phone too quickly. “Fine.”
The answer came automatic, almost too fast.
You heard the stove click off behind you almost instantly.
Silence settled over the apartment except for the television murmuring softly in the background.
“Hey.”
You looked up to find him watching you carefully from the kitchen doorway. Concern already written across his face. He wiped his hands absentmindedly on a dish towel before crossing toward the couch.
“Talk to me.”
The kindness in his voice nearly undid you on the spot.
You hated that sometimes. Hated how quickly tenderness made tears burn behind your eyes these days. It felt embarrassing, how fragile you became whenever he handled you gently.
“I just...” You laughed shakily. “God, this is stupid.”
Clark's brow furrowed immediately.
“It isn't stupid if it's hurting you.”
There it was again. That awful, beautiful softness. Like your pain mattered to him even when it made no logical sense.
Clark crouched in front of the couch slowly, close enough for your knees to brush his chest. His expression stayed open and patient, waiting instead of pushing.
You stared down at your locked phone in your lap.
Then whispered, “Do you ever compare me to other girls? I don't know, like girls you know, girls you dated before me, girls you see walking on the street. Do you?”
The question sat between you for a second too long.
Clark's face softened immediately, something sad flickering across his expression. Not annoyance. Not frustration. Just the quiet hurt of hearing someone he loved talk about themselves that way.
“No,” he said softly.
You looked away first.
“But you've loved people before.”
“I cared about people before,” he corrected gently.
The distinction should've comforted you. Instead it made your throat tighter.
“Sometimes I think about everyone you've ever been with before me and I feel physically sick.”
Clark went very still.
The television laughed faintly in the background at some joke neither of you heard.
Silence stretched between you then, but not the dangerous kind. Not irritated silence. Sad silence. The kind that came from watching someone you loved hurt themselves in real time and not knowing how to stop it.
Clark reached for your hands carefully enough to give you time to pull away if you wanted.
You didn't.
His palms were warm around yours, steady.
“Listen to me,” he said quietly. “I don't want anyone else.”
“But that's not the point.” Your voice cracked unexpectedly on the last word.
Because suddenly this wasn't really about the girl on Instagram anymore.
It was about the ugly thing underneath all of it. The constant, gnawing belief that eventually everyone would realize you were harder to love than they first thought.
That one day Clark would wake up and see you clearly. Really clearly. All the insecurity and jealousy and fear curled underneath your skin. All the exhausting ways you constantly needed reassurance while simultaneously distrusting it.
And once he saw it fully, he'd leave too.
Maybe not cruelly.
Maybe sadly.
But he'd leave.
Because people always did eventually.
Clark searched your face carefully like he was trying to read thoughts you couldn't say aloud.
“What is the point? Please tell me.”
And there it was.
The impossible question.
You stared at him, devastated suddenly by how badly you wanted him to answer it for you.
Fix me.
Please.
Tell me why I feel this way all the time.
Tell me how to stop measuring myself against every woman who walks into a room.
Tell me how to believe you when you say you love me.
Tell me why being loved still feels terrifying instead of safe.
Clark waited patiently while tears gathered in your eyes again.
“I thought...” Your voice trembled badly. “I thought being loved would make me feel different.”
The words landed heavily between you.
Clark looked heartbroken.
Not defensive. Not frustrated. Just devastated in this quiet, aching way, like he'd finally realized how much grief you'd been carrying silently the entire time he'd known you.
“Baby,” he said softly, “you think I don't see how hard you are on yourself?”
That did it.
You started crying fully then.
Because the worst part was that he did see it. Every flinch in front of mirrors. Every shift in your mood after seeing prettier women nearby. Every self deprecating joke disguised as humor.
He saw every ugly little fracture inside you and loved you anyway.
That should have healed something. Instead, it made the grief sharper.
Because now there was proof. Proof that even being loved completely and wholeheartedly still didn't silence the ache inside you.
And that realization terrified you more than loneliness ever had.
Clark moved immediately, sitting beside you on the couch and pulling you into him before you could apologize for crying.
You folded against his chest instinctively.
His arms wrapped around you carefully, one hand moving slowly up and down your spine while the other cradled the back of your head against his shoulder. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear, steady and warm and painfully human despite everything extraordinary about him.
“I've got you,” he murmured softly.
The words nearly broke you apart.
Because he meant them, completely.
“You don't have to earn love,” he whispered into your hair after a long silence.
Your eyes squeezed shut.
Because logically, rationally, you knew he was right. You knew people weren't meant to perform perfect versions of themselves just to deserve softness from others. Clark had spent months trying to show you that through every small, steady act of care he gave so naturally.
But somewhere deep inside you, underneath all the warmth of his body against yours and the comfort of being held, another voice still lingered quietly.
Small.
Persistent.
Cruel.
Then why doesn't it feel like enough?
Loving Clark felt like standing in sunlight with frostbite.
Warmth reached you, it did. That was what made it so confusing sometimes. Because Clark loved you beautifully. Consistently. There was never any shortage of tenderness between you, never any question about whether or not he cared.
And yet some parts of you stayed numb anyway.
Some wounds remained untouched by all that warmth no matter how desperately you wanted them healed.
Clark tried so hard.
Sometimes you thought loving you must feel like trying to hold water in his hands. Every time he soothed one hurt, another crack opened somewhere else. Another insecurity. Another spiral. Another night where your own mind turned against you so viciously it left you exhausted.
And Clark met every single one of those moments with gentleness.
That was the unbearable part.
He never mocked your fear or rolled his eyes at the things that sent you spiraling. Even when he clearly didn't fully understand why your mind turned ordinary things into catastrophes, he still handled your feelings carefully, like they deserved compassion instead of ridicule.
Like you deserved compassion instead of ridicule.
There were nights he'd find you sitting on the bathroom floor after staring too long at yourself in the mirror, knees pulled to your chest while shame crawled hot beneath your skin for reasons you couldn't even fully articulate. Clark would crouch in front of you immediately, concern softening his face before you'd spoken a single word.
“Hey,” he'd say quietly. “Talk to me.”
And sometimes you couldn't.
Sometimes there wasn't language for the heaviness sitting inside your ribs. How do you explain to someone that your reflection feels wrong in ways too abstract to name? How do you explain the exhaustion of constantly fighting your own brain just to exist comfortably inside yourself?
Clark never pushed when you couldn't answer. He would just sit beside you on the cold tile floor, broad shoulders pressed against yours, waiting silently until your breathing slowed again.
Once, after a panic attack left you shaking so badly you could barely unclench your hands, Clark sat cross legged on the edge of your bed and held your face between both palms with such impossible care it made fresh tears spill from your eyes.
The room was dark except for the small lamp glowing beside the bed. Your breathing still hurt from crying too hard, too long. Clark had arrived halfway through it, still wearing his glasses and rumpled work clothes, concern written all over his face the second he saw you curled against the headboard struggling to breathe properly.
He hadn't panicked, hadn't overwhelmed you with questions.
He just climbed onto the bed carefully and stayed close until the worst of it passed.
“Look at me,” he whispered gently once your breathing started slowing.
You tried. God, you tried.
But your vision blurred too badly with tears, and shame crawled hot beneath your skin at the thought of him seeing you like this again. Broken open. Unsteady. Too much.
“I can't,” you admitted weakly.
Clark's expression softened immediately. His thumb brushed beneath your eye, wiping away tears with a tenderness that almost hurt to endure.
“Yes, you can,” he murmured. “There you are.”
The words lodged somewhere painful inside your chest.
Not 'calm down.'
Not 'get it together.'
Not 'what's wrong with you?'
There you are.
Like he'd been searching for you beneath all the panic and noise. Like he still believed there was a version of you worth finding underneath all the unraveling.
And maybe that was the cruelest part of loving Clark Kent sometimes, the way he looked at you during your worst moments like you were still someone gentle and precious underneath all the damage.
Clark kissed every scar like reverence.
Not literally at first. It was quieter than that.
The scar near your knee from childhood. The stretch marks you once apologized for instinctively before he frowned and asked why you were apologizing at all. The parts of yourself you tried to hide automatically because past experiences had taught you softness was conditional.
Clark handled all of it carefully.
The first time he traced his fingers over the faint scars on your thigh without hesitation, your throat tightened so suddenly you had to look away.
It happened late at night while the two of you lay tangled together beneath his sheets, rain tapping softly against the windows while Clark talked about something you weren't really listening to anymore. Your attention had caught entirely on the gentle drag of his fingertips across skin you'd spent years trying not to think about too hard.
Then his thumb brushed over the scars.
He didn't freeze or pretend not to notice them. He simply touched them with the same tenderness he touched every other part of you.
Your chest tightened instantly.
Because he wasn't recoiling. Wasn't silently evaluating your body piece by piece beneath his hands.
Clark looked at your body like it was simply yours. Human and real and deserving of affection exactly as it was.
And still, somehow, you couldn't fully absorb it.
That disconnect tortured you quietly.
Because you knew how lucky you were. You knew people spent entire lifetimes searching for love this gentle, the kind that remained patient even when confronted with the ugliest parts of someone.
Clark loved you in a way that should have felt healing.
Instead, it often felt heartbreaking.
Not because he failed you. Because every time he held you through another spiral and the spiral still returned eventually, grief settled heavier inside your chest.
You started realizing love and healing were not the same thing.
That realization gutted you.
Sometimes Clark would wake in the middle of the night and find you staring at the ceiling beside him while thoughts churned endlessly inside your head.
“You're thinking too loud again,” he'd mumble sleepily, voice rough with exhaustion.
You'd laugh weakly. “Sorry.”
Clark always hated when you apologized for hurting.
Even half asleep, you could feel him frown.
“C'mere.”
Then he'd pull you against him immediately, large arms wrapping around your body until your back pressed firmly to his chest. Sometimes his hand would settle over your sternum like he was trying to steady the frantic rhythm underneath.
And slowly, eventually, your heartbeat would begin matching his.
Steady.
Clark held you like proximity itself could protect you from your own mind.
And maybe sometimes it helped.
There were moments where the noise inside your head softened enough for relief to slip through. Moments where Clark kissing your temple absentmindedly while half asleep made you feel briefly anchored to something solid.
But eventually the pain always returned.
You would wake the next morning and still feel fragile in your own skin. Still compare yourself against strangers without meaning to. Still flinch at compliments some days because part of you remained convinced love could disappear without warning.
And every time that happened, guilt followed immediately after.
Because Clark was trying so hard.
You'd catch him watching you carefully after another spiral with this quiet devastation in his eyes, like he hated that he couldn't save you from something invisible. Superman could stop earthquakes. Could hold collapsing buildings above his head.
But he couldn't pull the self hatred out of your bloodstream.
And the cruelest part was that some broken, childish part of you still wanted him to.
You kept waiting for the moment his love would finally outweigh your fear. For the day you'd look in the mirror and hear his voice louder than your own cruelty.
But healing didn't work like that.
Love didn't either.
That realization came slowly and painfully. It lived in the quiet moments after comfort faded. In the mornings where Clark kissed your forehead before work and you still spent twenty minutes criticizing yourself in the bathroom mirror afterward.
Clark's affection was real. Powerful, even.
There were parts of you that survived entirely because he'd loved them gently instead of harshly. Loving Clark changed you in undeniable ways. It made the world feel safer. Made tenderness feel possible again.
But it was not a cure.
His love could hold you while you unraveled, but it could not stop the unraveling itself.
And maybe that was the hardest truth of all.
Not that Clark failed to save you.
But that he was never supposed to.
The fight happened in winter.
It wasn't explosive or cruel, which somehow made it worse.
There was no screaming. No slammed doors. No sharp words designed to wound on purpose. If anything, the entire thing unfolded too softly, like watching something precious crack in slow motion while neither of you knew how to stop it.
The work gala had been sitting on your calendar for weeks. Some charity event hosted high above the city in a building full of people who looked expensive even standing still. Lois had been excited for it. You had been dreading it quietly since the invitation arrived.
By the time the night finally came, your anxiety already sat heavy beneath your ribs before you'd even started getting ready.
The apartment bathroom glowed warm with yellow light while snow drifted past the windows outside. Makeup products cluttered the counter beside half empty glasses of water and abandoned earrings you'd decided you hated the second you put them on. Three dresses lay discarded across the bedroom behind you like evidence from some humiliating crime scene.
Nothing fit right.
Or maybe it fit fine and your brain simply refused to let you see it correctly anymore.
The black dress pinched too tightly around your waist.
The blue one made your shoulders look broad.
The silk one clung wrong at the stomach.
Every angle in the mirror felt unbearable.
You stood there twisting sideways beneath the bathroom light, arms wrapped around yourself while shame crawled hot and vicious through your chest. The longer you stared, the less recognizable your reflection became. Every insecurity sharpened under scrutiny until it felt impossible to imagine leaving the apartment at all.
Outside the bathroom door, Clark moved quietly through the bedroom gathering his wallet and watch, the soft sounds of hangers shifting and drawers opening carrying faintly through the apartment.
“We're gonna be late,” he called gently.
Not irritated. Never irritated. Even now, with the evening slipping away while you stood frozen in front of the mirror fighting yourself, his voice stayed patient and warm.
You squeezed your eyes shut briefly. “I know.”
There was a small pause before he spoke again, softer this time, closer to the door like he'd started making his way toward you.
“You look beautiful.”
The compliment hit something raw inside your chest.
Your laugh came out brittle before you could stop it. “You don't have to say that.”
Silence answered immediately.
Heavy silence.
The kind that made your stomach sink because you knew, instantly, you'd hurt him.
Clark stepped inside the bathroom carefully, like approaching a wounded animal that might bolt if startled too quickly. He'd already changed into his suit, dark tie loosened slightly at the collar while snowlight filtered pale through the bedroom windows behind him.
God.
Even then, part of you noticed how beautiful he was.
Not intimidatingly beautiful, just unfairly kind looking.
Clark took in the scene immediately. The dresses scattered across the room. Your mascara beginning to smudge beneath your eyes. The way your arms folded tightly around your middle like you were trying to physically hold yourself together.
Concern softened his face instantly.
“You've been in here almost an hour,” he said quietly.
You looked away from the mirror first. “I can't find anything that looks right.”
Clark frowned slightly, confused in that earnest way he always became when confronted with pain he couldn't logic through.
“You've changed three times,” he said gently. “You looked beautiful in every dress.”
Your throat tightened immediately.
Because he meant it.
That was the problem.
Clark wasn't saying it automatically or carelessly. He wasn't throwing compliments at you just to end the conversation faster. He genuinely looked confused standing there in the bathroom doorway, like he couldn't understand why you were seeing something so completely different in the mirror than what he saw standing in front of you.
“I don't understand why you can't just believe me.”
The words were quiet. Careful. Not accusatory in the slightest, but they still split something open inside your chest.
Because there was hurt in them too.
Not anger.
Just the soft, exhausted sadness of someone trying desperately to hand you love in a language you still didn't know how to accept.
You stared at your reflection in the mirror, at the tears gathering humiliatingly fast in your eyes, and suddenly anger flared sharp beneath all the shame.
Not at him.
Never at him.
At yourself. At the exhaustion of carrying this feeling everywhere you went. At how impossible it seemed to escape your own mind no matter how deeply Clark loved you, no matter how gently he held you, no matter how many times he looked at you like you were something worth cherishing.
Something inside you snapped.
“Because you love me.”
The words came out harsher than you intended, echoing off the bathroom tiles in the silence between you.
Clark blinked, visibly thrown by the sudden sharpness in your voice. “Yeah,” he said slowly.
You laughed once under your breath, bitter and shaky all at once. “So of course you don't see me clearly.”
The second the sentence left your mouth, regret crashed into you.
You watched the pain cross his face in real time.
Not offense. Not anger.
Pain.
Real, quiet pain that softened his expression instantly, like you'd reached into his chest and pressed against something bruised there. Clark stared at you for a long second without speaking, and somehow that hurt worse than if he'd snapped back. He looked at you like you'd just reduced his love to something naive. Like you'd taken something honest and beautiful he'd been trying to offer you and called it blindness instead. Like you'd struck something tender directly with your bare hands.
“Is that what you think love is?” he asked softly. “Blindness?”
You opened your mouth, and closed it again.
Because maybe it was.
Maybe some part of you truly believed love required delusion to survive. Maybe you thought people only stayed because affection distorted reality enough to make flaws tolerable.
Otherwise, why would anyone stay at all?
The silence stretched painfully between you.
Clark stepped closer slowly.
Snow drifted quietly outside the windows behind him while the radiator hissed softly in the apartment, filling the room with warmth that somehow never reached your skin.
“I know what you look like,” he said carefully.
You shook your head immediately. “Clark...”
“No.” His voice stayed gentle, but steadier now. “Listen to me.”
He moved closer until he stood directly behind you in the mirror.
Not trapping.
Just there.
Grounding.
“I know every version of you,” he continued quietly. “I know when you're insecure before you even say anything. I know when you're pretending you're okay because your left eye starts twitching when you're anxious.” A sad smile flickered briefly across his face. “I know you leave cabinet doors open. I know you steal my shirts even though you claim you don't. I know you cry when dogs get hurt in movies and pretend it's allergies afterward.”
Your chest hurt.
Clark's voice softened further.
“I know you.”
The words landed heavily.
Completely.
“And I still love you.”
His voice wavered slightly on the last part.
That nearly destroyed you.
Because there it was again. The unbearable truth of him. Clark wasn't loving some idealized fantasy version of you. He saw the mess. The insecurity. The spiraling thoughts and sharp edges and ugly fears.
And he loved you anyway.
Tears blurred your vision instantly.
“But why doesn't that fix me?” you whispered.
The question slipped out before you could stop it.
Raw.
Ugly.
Honest in a way that made your stomach twist afterward.
Why wasn't his love enough?
Why did you still stand in mirrors feeling fundamentally wrong even after being loved this deeply? Why did panic still crawl through your bloodstream at parties full of prettier women? Why did reassurance dissolve so quickly inside you no matter how sincerely he offered it?
Why could Superman hold collapsing buildings together with his bare hands but not the inside of your chest?
Clark looked devastated.
Not because you'd insulted him, and not because he was angry. It was worse than that. You watched understanding settle over his face slowly, painfully, like he was finally seeing the full shape of something that had been hurting right in front of him this entire time.
The problem had never been that he wasn't loving you enough.
The problem was that somewhere along the way, you'd started expecting love itself to save you. To reach into years of fear and insecurity and self hatred and somehow cut them out cleanly. Like being loved deeply enough would finally silence every ugly thing you believed about yourself.
And Clark, for all his strength, could not survive carrying that responsibility forever.
He reached toward you slowly then, hands careful and uncertain in a way that made your chest ache. Like your heart had become something fragile in his hands, something he was terrified of hurting further.
“This isn't something I can save you from.”
The words shattered something inside you.
Not because they were cruel.
Because they were true.
You felt the truth of them immediately, sinking heavy into your ribs with devastating clarity. Clark could hold you through every panic attack. Could kiss every scar on your body gently enough to make you cry. Could love you with terrifying sincerity for the rest of your life.
But he could not heal wounds he didn't create.
Your knees gave out before you fully realized you were crying.
You slid down against the bathroom wall hard enough for the tile to sting through the thin fabric of your dress, sobs tearing out of your chest so violently it hurt to breathe. Everything inside you felt split open. Years of impossible hope collapsing all at once under the weight of reality.
Clark followed you down immediately.
Suit forgotten. Gala forgotten. Everything forgotten except you.
He knelt in front of you on the cold bathroom floor, both hands reaching for your face while tears blurred your vision so badly you could barely see him.
“Hey,” he whispered urgently. “Hey, look at me.”
You couldn't.
Everything hurt too badly.
“You're your own hero in this story, baby,” he murmured shakily, pressing his forehead against yours. “But I don't want to lose you to this.”
The words cracked something open inside you all over again.
Because Clark sounded scared.
Not exhausted. Not resentful.
Scared.
Like he was watching someone he loved drown right in front of him while knowing he couldn't jump into the water and breathe for them.
“You won't,” you whispered automatically.
But even to your own ears, the words sounded uncertain.
Because for the first time, truly, you were beginning to understand how exhausting it must be to love someone who kept asking for proof love could resurrect them.
Clark closed his eyes briefly, his breath uneven against your skin before he spoke again.
“I'll stay,” he said quietly. “But you have to stop asking me to heal something I didn't break.”
That one hurt the most.
Not because it was harsh.
Because he was right.
Love would hold you. Comfort you. Change you in small, tender ways over time. But it would never become the cure you spent your whole life searching for, and somewhere beneath all the grief pouring out of you on that bathroom floor, you finally understood that.
i wanted to do this for so long and then i saw my beloved taggie doing this and it felt like a sign. below are my absolute favorite authors and their works of art. shakespeare aint got shit on yall.
(considering i 99% times read about sam, the list below features only sam fics) 18+ !! mdni probably gonna update overtime !!
@thesundontshineontheseeyebrows
"you should see the things we do in my dreams"
gotta start with my absolute favorite fanfic oat i'm not even kidding. i've read this at least 4 times, never get bored of it.
@theedaythatnevercomes
"breathe out, so i can breathe you in"
"revelations"
"cherry waves"
"hold me 'til i die"
i thank the universe every day for introducing me to this blog. literally EVERYTHING is amazing but these are my absolute favorite ones.
@sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth
"record" has a pt 2 on ao3 (my absolute favorite)
"pretty as a vine, sweet as a grape"
"I dreamed of the places I’ve been with you"
"you got me good (I knew you would)"
"squeaky clean"
writing genuinely feels like "home" idk how to even describe it. so so many amazing fics, if i start listing all of them i'm gonna run out of room lol.
@southernimpala
"you know i'd do anything for you"
"midnight swim"
"backseat" "frontseat"
"all that's left are your walls..."
mia=shakespeare. such beautiful writing i can never get enough.
@wvyik
"the virgin problem"
you'll always be in my mind my sweet sofi </3
@holdinggrudges
"what's my flavor?" "dripping in my favor"
old but gold. never knew i needed vampire!sam this much until i read this.
@sacr1ficialang3l
"these crosses all over my body remind me of who I used to be"
my roman empire. i still think about this fic to this day.
@kblognar
"gorgeous morning"
"cereal and coffee"
@plasticflowersinahistorycemetery
"strange eyes" pt I pt II
@chxrrywines
"mean"
"assistance"
"sexxx dreams"
other amazing authors:
@violained LOVE the fluff fics
@filthgf my fav freak
there are so many other amazing authors here that i still haven't stumbled upon on. love every one of you for taking your time and doing this. you all are amazing im so proud of each and every single one of yall. never stop doing what you love.🤍
