Not talented enough to write my own fics, so I reblog the ones I love! 18+ only please. Minors, please do not follow me. Much of what is posted here is not suitable for your consumption.
summary: cozy night after a hunt in a motel with dean :]
pairing: dean x reader (gn) | genre: cozy fluff | word count: 2.8k
warnings: lots of cozy fluff, one very sleepy dean, non-sexual nudity, a few suggestive comments (it's dean, what do you expect?)
sam's version
The gravel parking lot under the Impala’s wheels jolts you back to reality. Your head thuds against the glass of the window as the car rolls over a pothole, and Dean murmurs an apology under his breath when he catches you glaring at him. You sit up, stretching as best you can in the cramped space and yawn widely. It’s hard to not be tired, not with the hunt that just wrapped up.
Somewhere in rural Wyoming, a witch had gotten hold of some extremely potent dreamroot, using it to walk into the dreams of her victims and curse them from the dreamworld. They’d die in their sleep of seemingly natural causes, and if it weren’t for six of them happening in the span of a week, you wouldn’t have flagged it as supernatural. But when six young men die in their sleep, and all of them were perfectly healthy, you start to get suspicious.
They’d all had criminal records, usually for small things like petty theft and the like. But each one of them had a secret; they were no strangers to hook-ups. Apparently, this witch had had a boyfriend of hers cheat on her via motel hook-up some years ago, and now, she was taking revenge by getting rid of all the others like him that she could find. Which meant Dean was her next target.
You’d had to work fast, because there’s only so many hours in a row one can stay awake before they go crazy. Neither you nor Dean knew how long that was, and you weren’t really keen on finding out. You’d spent the last few days working non-stop; tracking hex bags, poring over county maps and property lines, until you’d finally found her. She wouldn’t threaten the county any longer.
Now, you’re pulling into a rundown motel parking lot, the building looking older than the ground around you, if that was even possible. Worn concrete, rotting wood posts, a layer of dust over the whole property like a blanket. But it was the only thing around for miles, and neither you nor Dean could afford to drive much further, lest one of you fall asleep at the wheel.
“I still don’t get why you had to drive,” you grumble to yourself as you step out of the car.
“Because I wanted to,” Dean replies around a yawn. “She’s my Baby.”
“Yeah, I know, and if this motel were any further, we’d be dead.”
“Relax a little, we made it.”
You huff, more than a little frustrated, but you need to find the poor old man at the check-in desk and hope he’s got a room available. You think you’d be surprised if he doesn’t.
You trudge along the buildings, boots scuffing on the ground, and you’re too tired to bother to pick up your feet. Rocks kick under you, and one bounces to thud against someone’s car. You wince a little, hoping they don’t come out, but when nobody does, you keep walking.
The check-in desk is quiet, and you ring the little bell. To your surprise, a kid probably no older than eight comes to meet you, shyly sliding you a key across the table and accepting your money. You pay in cash, and the girl puts it into the register, counting each bill aloud under her breath. You thank her quietly, and she gives you a small smile before skipping back to the room behind her.
You return to the Impala, shoulders slumping with lingering exhaustion. You’re about ready to toss Dean the room key and start pulling the guns from the trunk to clean, but something stops you. Dean’s laying slumped against the car door, sunglasses perched on his nose despite the late hour, breath fogging the glass in small puffs as he breathes.
“Sorry, Dean,” you whisper to yourself before pulling the door open.
He shoots upright, hands flying to look for something to hold on to. He takes off his glasses, blinking slowly up at you as you smile gently.
“Morning,” you joke. “Got a room. You take the key, I’ll get the guns.”
“Forget the guns,” he says lowly, stepping out of the car. “We’ll worry about ‘em tomorrow.”
You gape a little, because this is so unlike him. He never goes to bed after a hunt without cleaning his weapons and restocking the ammunition. He must really be out of it if he’s willing to skip it.
“C’mon, what’re you gawkin’ at me for?”
He slings his duffle bag over his shoulder, tossing you yours and gesturing at you to lead the way. He locks the Impala, unceremoniously stuffing the keys into the pocket of his leather jacket as he walks. His steps fall in time with yours, heavy and uncoordinated like he’s just learning to walk.
“Doing all right over there?” you ask, kissing his cheek.
“Yeah. Gonna sleep for a damn week after this one.”
You nod in agreement, because you both need the rest. You’d contentedly stay with him for months if he asked, because you’d get to sleep beside him, his arms curled protectively around you and his body throwing off heat under the covers. It’s your favourite place to be when you feel like this; soft and sleepy, a little disoriented and a little mushy with love.
Your fingers fumble for the key, struggling to put it in the lock. Dean takes it from you, sliding it in and turning it with a decisive click. The door swings open on a room that’s seen better days, but right now looks like salvation.
“We’re saved,” Dean says dramatically, flicking the lights on and flopping onto the bed, limbs spread like a starfish.
“At least it doesn’t smell like mold?” you offer, and Dean hums.
“Could be a hell of a lot worse.”
You drop your bag beside the bed, taking the side away from the door. It’s almost automatic now, the way you choose your spots, because they’ve been the same for years and you don’t think they’ll ever change. You sit on the edge of the bed, and Dean moves his arm for you, giving you space to perch with your legs crossed. You run a hand through his hair, the short strands poking up like a porcupine. He wiggles across the mattress, dropping his head into your lap with a heavy sigh.
“Comfy?” you ask lightly, poorly hiding a fond laugh.
“Mhm,” he hums in a way you feel more than hear.
You sit there, back against the headboard, Dean’s head in your lap, for what feels like hours. You’re playing with his hair, lulling him to sleep under your soft touch. His breathing evened out minutes ago, shifting from his usual cadence into slow, deep inhales that border on a soft snore. He shifts, mumbling something unintelligible, and you lean down to kiss his temple.
As much as you’d love to let him stay here forever, you’re both still in your hunting clothes. They’re covered in dirt from the trek through the barn, and Dean’s shirt is sticking to his back with sweat. He can’t be comfortable in his jeans either, and you desperately need a shower.
You lift his head from your lap, standing and ignoring the way your knees crack when you get off the bed. You work slowly, careful not to wake him until the absolute last second. You pace the room, salting the windows and door, shutting the curtains until the only light is the faint glow from the bedside lamp you’d turned on moments ago. The overhead lights could stay off until morning.
When you return to the bed, Dean’s sprawled on his back, limbs across the mattress in every direction. You chuckle softly at the sight; how comfortable he lets himself get when he trusts you to keep him safe.
With gentle precision, you start to strip him of his clothes. His leather jacket comes first, folded carefully over the back of the motel chair. His flannel and shirt are next, revealing his broad chest with the anti-possession tattoo, covered in a soft spray of freckles.
He wakes when you’re halfway through shimmying his jeans down his legs, and you mentally curse yourself for being so careless.
“’F you wan’ed me naked, you coulda jus’ asked,” he slurs tiredly, sending you a lazy wink.
Your face heats up a little. “Shut up. I’m helping you out, work with me a little here.”
He huffs a laugh, lifting his legs off the mattress enough that you can slide the jeans down them. He reaches for you with grabby hands, and you pull him to his feet. He tugs you against his bare chest, swooping down to capture your lips in a heated kiss.
“Slow down there, cowboy. Shower first,” you tease when you pull apart.
He pouts a little, then lightens up when he puts two and two together. Shower means with you, because you need one too. That satiates him.
He pulls you into the tiny bathroom, running the water and monitoring the temperature as you undress. His eyes flick appreciatively over your body, and you swat at him playfully. He shoves off his boxers, stepping into the steamy shower and pulling you with him. You wind up flush against his chest, sharing the spray, and he can rest his head on your shoulder as he lets the water run over him.
He lets you wash his hair, slow and tender, sighing under your touch when your fingers brush his scalp. His breathing slows again, a rhythm tipping toward sleep, and you splash him with water when you see him start to succumb to his exhaustion.
“What’s that for?” he mutters, blinking awake and jerking back from you.
“You’re falling asleep, and I want you to wash my hair.”
He rolls his eyes dramatically, pretending it’s a bigger deal than it really is, but he always caves eventually when it comes to you. His movements sluggish and his touch gentle as ever, he massages the shampoo through your hair, teasing out the knots. You feel a little bad when you feel yourself falling asleep from his ministrations, but you’re just so damn tired, and a little nap wouldn’t hurt, right?
Dean splashes you with water the second he’s done rinsing out the soap, and he cackles devilishly when you glare sleepily at him.
“Hypocrite. Don’t fall asleep in the shower,” he says.
“Are we done then? I wanna go to bed.” You sound a little like a toddler, but you really don’t care right now.
“What, you sure I can’t take a little more time with you while I gotcha here?” he says, winking.
“No. Maybe tomorrow when I don’t feel like a zombie. Besides, could you even get it up right now anyways? You’re exhausted.”
“Ouch. You wound me.” He puts a hand over his head in mock injury. “After you.”
He shuts off the water, and you hand him a towel after wrapping yourself in your own. The fabric is itchy against your skin, and you rush to dry off as quickly as you can. You know Dean’s exhausted by the way he doesn’t make a single lewd comment about your body as you towel off, not even playfully smacking your ass when you walk past to fetch pyjamas.
You lay out sleep clothes for the both of you; yours is a worn t-shirt with more faded, see-through patches than actual shirt, and a pair of his boxers you’d snagged a few months ago. He opts for just boxers, which makes you snort, because it’s really cold in this motel room and for some reason, the AC just won’t stop running.
“Sure you’re not gonna freeze, sweetheart?” he drawls from beside you as you finish changing.
“Are you? You’re like…basically naked.”
“I run hot,” he says, and it shouldn’t make you shiver, but it does.
“Yeah, I know. Trust me, I plan on weaponizing that.”
“That mean I get to hold you?” He asks it every night like you could ever answer with anything other than yes.
“Yeah, you do. Good luck.”
He grins, pulling up the sheets on his side and sliding under them with all the grace of a kid who’s shoes are too big. He gets his elbow caught in the bottom sheet, cursing under his breath as he tugs it free. When he’s finally situated, he beams up at you with utmost pride, holding the blankets open for you.
“Congratulations,” you say sarcastically.
“Thanks, darlin’.” He kisses the top of your head as you settle in. “What should we watch?”
He flicks aimlessly through the TV channels that come through, settling on something that looks like reruns of an old cartoon you have vague memories of watching as a kid. You can’t remember the name, and Dean doesn’t seem to care that much, eyes already dropping closed.
“Hey, Dean?” you say, looking at him.
He cracks his eyes open a touch, turning to you with a grimace like the lamplight is personally fighting him. “Wha’s up?”
“I’m happy you’re here, you know.” He stills. “There’s no one else I’d rather spent nights in crappy motel rooms, tired as hell from stupid witch hunts with.”
He wraps an arm around your shoulders, tugging you into a half hug.
“Don’t get all sappy on me,” he says, but his voice is full of tired affection. “You’re a damn good hunting partner, I’ll give you that.”
You know what he’s trying to say. It’s how it always goes. He rarely says ‘I love you’, but he’ll say it a million other ways. From complimenting your shooting, to admiring the way you work an interview, to praising you when you’re both sleepy in motel rooms, wrapped in each other’s arms.
“Love you too, Dean,” you reply.
His lips are on yours, warm and sweet and tasting like tiredness and the road. It’s addicting in a strange way, and you can’t get enough, chasing after his mouth when he parts. He chuckles lowly in his chest, appeasing you with a final kiss that has your knees weak and your head spinning.
He settles in, tossing the remote onto the bedside table. You lay back, head on the pillow and eyes watching the light of the TV on the ceiling. Dean’s left the volume on, but it’s so low you can barely make out what’s being said; perfect white noise. He wriggles down the mattress after you, reaching across your body to turn off the lamp.
He rests his head on your chest when he lays back down, his arms encircling you and one leg thrown over yours. Dean always wraps himself around you like this when he’s tired, letting himself dissolve completely into your warmth and safety like it’s a second skin, a blanket made of safety just for him to curl up in. He makes a contented noise against your collarbone, and you softly kiss his hair.
“Night, Dean,” you whisper.
“Night,” he mumbles back, words getting tied up on his tongue and voice heavy and laced with sleep.
There’s nothing to get up for tomorrow; no alarms, no world-ending problems, no hunts knocking at the door. Tonight, and tomorrow morning, is just for you and him, savouring each other’s company and the way your bodies fit together like puzzle pieces. You’re not quite sure where he stops and you start, and it’s just the way you like it; so close together, so completely entwined, that you could be the same person. One heartbeat, one pattern of breaths, one hand mindlessly swirling shapes on one thigh.
Neither of you wake the entire night, and it’s only when the insistent midday sun streams through the motel curtains that your eyes finally crack open the next morning. You’ve rolled in your sleep, completely sprawled across Dean’s body like a weighted blanket, your head under his chin and his breaths tickling your hair. He’s snoring now; not overly loud, but just enough for you to know that he’s deeply asleep, where even nightmares can’t wake him.
Dean shifts under you, breath catching before evening out again. His arm twitches slightly around your back, thumb stuttering a quick rhythm before stilling once again. He mumbles something, more just sounds than any real words, and you smile softly at the noises. If he feels safe enough to talk in his sleep, there’s no reason you can’t try and get a bit more rest while the world waits for you. You turn your face up to press a quick kiss to his lips, and he hums happily. You tuck your head back down again, letting the world sweep you up and away into sleep again, feeling warm and safe against Dean’s chest.
Written for @storytellers-contest-tjac . Beta-read by @zepskies - thank you so much, Alex! And thank you to my bestie, @jensensgotyoudean - for your advice and ever-present support! Love you, mah Liz! 💖 Quotes on the header and at the end of the fic are lyrics from Silver Springs by Fleetwood Mac. Dividers by @firefly-graphics.
Reenie Green is a close friend, and when you end up in a dangerous situation through no fault of your own, she calls the Shaw brothers, Colter and Russell, for help. Russell has always worked under the self-imposed rule that you do the job, then walk away. But since he met you, he's having a hard time letting this one go.
Russell helped himself to another beer, plopping down next to the small table in Colter’s trailer. He leaned back against the wall, stretching his long legs out on the bench seat with a sigh. Personally, he didn’t know how his brother spent so much time in this tin can, but to each his own.
Colter’s phone began to ring, and Russell craned his neck to peer over at the screen. Reenie. He grinned to himself and grabbed the phone, swiping to put her on speaker. “Reenie! How’s it going?”
“Russell? Why are you answering Colter’s phone?”
“Well, he happens to be in the shower at the moment, and I saw it was you, so – figured you’d want to say hi, anyway, right?”
Reenie could picture the cocky smirk on his face clearly, but she didn’t have time for their usual back and forth. “This is serious, Russell.”
He sat up straight, his demeanor immediately shifting. “Okay, got it. What do you need?”
“My client is in big trouble. Well, my friend – haven’t convinced her yet to be my client. Not the point.” She took a deep breath to calm herself before she went on. “The point is, she’s been kidnapped. Her brother called me a few minutes ago. He’s a computer whiz – a former hacker, actually – and some very bad people have been trying to recruit him. He’s been staying clear of them, but last night they took his sister, and they’re threatening to hurt her or kill her if he doesn’t do what they want him to do.”
“Does he know where they’re keeping her?”
“They’re holding her at his house. He’s afraid if he shows up there, they’ll force him into doing what they want and kill them both.”
Russell nodded, teeth worrying at his lower lip. “He’s probably not wrong. Can you send us the address?” Colter was out of the shower now, listening with a concerned frown as he stood there, towel around his waist.
“I will. Can you help?”
Colter looked at his brother, then nodded. “Yeah. Send us whatever info you’ve got. We’re on our way.”
Your eyes opened reluctantly, drifting closed again a few times before you managed to keep them open. Your head was pounding, your body ached, and – you were cold. Awareness slowly seeped in, and you managed to hold your head up, taking in your surroundings. Your pulse began to race as you realized you had no idea where you were.
You tried to move, but your arms were bound behind you, around the pole that you were propped against. It felt like a zip tie, and it dug painfully into your wrists as you tested it. The light was dim, but you could see that you were in a large, mostly empty room with a concrete floor. It was chilly against your legs, and you realized you were wearing the camisole and shorts that you had gone to bed in. No wonder you were cold.
The thought of shouting for help crossed your mind, but you quickly discarded it. The foggy memory of rough hands dragging you from your bed and covering your face with a rag told you the response wouldn’t be a friendly one. You could faintly hear male voices upstairs, and the sound of a TV. You bit your lips together, fighting panic and the tears that threatened. You needed to try to stay calm, be observant, and do what you had to do to make it through whatever was happening.
As your eyes adjusted to the darkness, you made out the shape of a bike against the far wall. Back in the corner was an old foosball table, a baseball bat leaning against it. It seemed familiar – and your eyes widened as you realized where you were – in your brother’s basement. You rested your head back against the pole and closed your eyes, a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. So Grant was in trouble, and you were obviously bait – or leverage.
You sat there for what seemed like forever, no indication of the hour, no windows to give a hint of what time of day it was. You had tried to work your hands free, but your wrists were rubbed raw and you had finally given up. No one had even bothered to come down and offer you water, or to take you to the bathroom. You had an awful feeling that they weren’t planning on keeping you alive.
A loud knock from the floor above startled you from the doze you had slipped into, and a loud, cheerful voice joined the other male voices you had heard previously. “Hey, is Grant around? Thought he might wanna join me and my brother to watch the game and have a few beers. Hi, I’m Russell, I was Grant’s roomie in college. I could tell you some stories.”
Your head hit the pole behind you with a dull thud, disappointment sinking the hope that it had been a rescuer knocking at the front door. A tear slipped down your cheek as you closed your eyes. Maybe Grant was already hurt, or dead. Maybe…
Your eyes flew open wide with panic as a large hand covered your mouth, and you began to struggle, terrified. “Shhhhh!” A whisper next to your ear made you freeze, your body trembling with fear. “I’m not gonna hurt you, okay? My name’s Colter. I’m here to help you. But you have to stay quiet. If they hear us…” You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest as his hand moved slowly away. “I’m gonna cut you loose.”
You felt the tension loosen on the zip tie around your wrists, and Colter moved around in front of you. “Do you think you can walk?” You nodded again, reaching for his hand as he pulled you to your feet, letting you stand for a moment to get your bearings. “We’re going up the back stairs and out the door. You get in the back seat of the pickup and lie down so no one can see you.” He gave your hand a squeeze. “Jesus, you’re freezing.” He stopped, taking off his jacket and helping you slip your arms into the sleeves. It was huge on you, but the warmth felt like heaven.
“Thank you,” you whispered hoarsely.
“Okay, here we go. Whatever happens, you go straight to that truck and get inside, right?” You nodded in reply, and he took hold of your hand again, leading you through the room with the help of a tiny flashlight. You recognized the short flight of steps up to the back door, and you followed him out, the grass cool on your bare feet as the two of you made your way to a large black truck. He opened the back door and helped you inside, and you laid down on the seat as he had directed, nervously waiting for what would come next. After all, as much as you appreciated the rescue, you didn’t know this man any better than the ones who had abducted you in the first place.
He climbed into the driver’s seat, sending a couple blasts of the horn into the otherwise still night, making you jump. “Russell, come on – we’re gonna miss kickoff!” he shouted out his window, then lowered his voice to speak to you again. “My brother is inside, he was our distraction. We’re friends of Reenie’s, she sent us to help you.” The mention of Reenie’s name sent a wave of relief through you, and you began to breathe a little easier.
A couple of minutes later, another man climbed into the pickup, turning his head to glance into the back seat as he closed his door. Colter spoke your name quietly. “This is my brother, Russell. We’re gonna take you to the motel, your brother’s there waiting for us.”
“Yes – okay – thank you,” you managed to say as the truck started up, and you headed down the road.
After a few minutes, Russell turned around to peer into the back seat. “You can sit up now if you want. We’re clear.” You raised yourself up slowly, wrapping the borrowed jacket tighter around you with a shiver. Russell looked at his brother, his voice a little impatient. “Turn up the heat, man – she’s freezing back there.” Then he turned his attention your way again, reaching across the back of his seat to hand you a bottle of water. “Here.” He flashed you a quick smile when you thanked him, and he watched as you drank, your eyes closing in relief as the cool liquid soothed your parched throat. “Better?”
You nodded, putting the lid back on the bottle. “Thank you. Thank you both.”
“Are you injured? Did they hurt you?” He asked softly, and you shook your head. His eyes never left you as he spoke, and you couldn’t help but notice how attractive he was, even in the dim light – dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard, beautiful eyes. “I know you’re scared, but I promise you’re gonna be okay. The police will meet us at the motel, and they said they’d contact your husband, let him know where you’ll be.”
His brows drew together at the expression on your face, the expression you were too tired and traumatized to disguise. “Everything okay?”
You took a shaky breath. “Yeah. Yes, I’m fine. It’s just – he’s going to be so angry.”
Russell studied your expression, taking a beat before he responded. “I’m sure he is, but you’re safe and I’m sure that’s the most important thing to him, right?”
You let your gaze slide away from his, staring out the window as you gave a vague nod in answer. Russell shot a perceptive glance over to his brother, silent communication between the two of them.
You had just dozed off in the back seat of the pickup when it pulled up in front of the motel. You yawned, letting Russell help you out of the truck. “Where are we?” you asked, still disoriented as he escorted you to the door with a gentle hand on your back, pulling keys from his pocket.
“My motel room. Your brother is inside.” He let you into the room, fairly large with a worn hide-a-bed couch on one wall, a king-size bed and the usual tiny table with two chairs next to a counter with a coffee maker and mini fridge.
As soon as you stepped inside, Grant jumped up from the couch and grabbed you in a hug. “Are you okay?” Grant was shaking as he held you, his voice breaking as he spoke. “This was because of me, I’m so sorry. They were trying to force me to hack into some company’s financials, I… I never thought they’d involve you. I’m so...” Russell draped a blanket around your shoulders as you moved back from your brother’s embrace, wiping tears from your cheeks as you interrupted.
“Not your fault, Grant.” You sat down next to your brother, pulling your legs up underneath you and pulling the blanket tighter around you as he put an arm around your shoulders. Russell left the two of you to talk quietly, heading over to make a pot of coffee.
A couple of hours later, you headed back to the couch after being questioned by the local police. You let your head drop back, your eyes squeezed shut as you wished for the ordeal to be over. Reliving everything for the police was bad enough, and Vince, your husband, hadn’t even gotten there yet. You were dreading that, already knowing what his mood would be when he arrived.
“You doing okay?” Russell’s voice made you open your eyes and sit up straight, inhaling and expelling a deep breath. He was hunkered down in front of you, his eyes watching you closely.
“Hanging in there. Just wish this was all over.”
He gave you a kind smile. “Yeah, I get that, you’ve had a rough day. Your husband should be here shortly, and once the cops talk to him, he can take you home.” Russell watched as you tried to control your expression. “Listen – none of my business, but I noticed you haven’t been too excited at the thought of your husband showing up. If you need help – just say the word. We can get you somewhere safe.”
You looked into his eyes, yours welling with tears that you managed to keep from spilling over. “Thank you, but I’m fine. Just really tired, and not looking forward to his temper when he hears about all this. I didn’t mean to make you think…”
Russell shook his head. “No problem, I get it. But if you ever do need help – call Reenie and let her know. She knows how to find me.” He put a warm hand over yours in your lap and gave it a squeeze, then rose to his feet and walked away. And the next moment, the hurricane that was your husband blew through the door.
“You!” Vince pointed an accusing finger at Grant, who was sitting at the table with an officer. “This is all your fault!” He stormed directly over towards his brother-in-law, who rose to his feet.
The police officer stood up as well, stepping forward with a hand out. “Sir! I’m gonna have to ask you to calm down and stop where you are.”
Vince glared at him defiantly. “This piece of shit got himself in a bind, and got my wife kidnapped. Lucky she wasn’t injured! Or killed! You stay the hell away from us from now on. Stay away from her, you understand me?” He turned on his heel and came towards where you now stood near the sofa, shoving a bag at you. “Here, get some clothes on. I’m taking you home.”
You took the bag and headed into the bathroom to change, your gaze never leaving the floor. Russell took a couple of long strides forward, his eyes narrowed in anger. “Hey – Vince, is it? You might want to take it easy on her. She’s been through hell in the last 24 hours.”
Vince turned to look at him, his jaw raised as he stared back at Russell with contempt. “And just who the fuck are you?”
“My brother and I are the ones who found her and got her away from her kidnappers,” Russell said quietly, crossing his arms across his chest.
Vince sighed. “Oh. I see. So how much?”
“How much? We weren’t working for you. Grant hired us to find his sister.”
Vince let out a derisive snort. “Yeah, like he has any money. What’s the bill, I’ll pay it.”
Russell sighed. “No thanks – we’re good.”
Your husband took a step closer, an insolent expression on his face. “Well, then, Mr. Weekend Merc, maybe you shouldn’t try to tell me how to take care of my wife.”
Russell’s eyes went cold, a humorless smirk curving his lips that would have sent a chill up the spine of any man with half a brain. Colter moved forward, putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder. After a second, Russell gave a barely perceptible nod, sucking his teeth as he turned and walked back towards the coffee pot. Colter looked impassively at Vince, then turned away and joined Russell.
A moment later, you walked back into the room, dressed and with Colter’s jacket folded over your arm. Vince grabbed your arm, growling, “Come on, let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Just a minute,” you said softly, pulling away.
“Time to go home,” he argued, and you looked at him, snapping a reply.
“Give me one minute!” He glared after you as you walked towards the Shaws, handing Colter his jacket. “Thank you.” Colter nodded with a smile, and you turned your attention to Russell. His expression softened as he looked back at you. “Thank you both.”
Russell looked steadily into your eyes. “Remember what I told you.” You bit at your lip with a nod, finally pulling your gaze from his as you turned to join your fuming husband at the door. He practically shoved you out, the door closing hard behind you.
Russell turned to look at Colter, his jaw working. “That guy is twelve kinds of wrong.”
Colter nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. But there’s nothing we can do unless she wants help, Russell. And you always tell me, when the job’s done, walk away.”
“Yeah. I know.” Russell grabbed the coffee and filled his cup. He could still see the look in her eyes – the attempt at courage failing to completely mask her apprehension. She was afraid, trying to pretend that everything was fine. And in spite of his usual self-imposed rules, he was going to have a hard time walking away from this one.
Russell sat next to his campfire, enjoying the warmth of the sun, a bottle of his home-brew in his hand. He stared into the fire, his inner voice reading him the riot act for still sticking around. It had been three weeks, and you hadn’t reached out to Reenie for help. Colter had given him a hard time as well, and he knew he had it coming, but he couldn’t seem to get you out of his mind. There was still the nagging feeling in his gut that you were in trouble, and that his particular set of skills might come in handy.
And then there were the dreams. The first time, he dreamed he was back in the motel room the night they’d rescued you. Only this time he was comforting you, sitting with his arms around you, and you were crying softly on his shoulder. After that, there had been another, starting the same way. Only this time it changed – his lips on yours, his hands roaming, your skin soft and warm under his touch. He woke up breathing hard, his heart pounding, his cock hard and throbbing, and he had jacked off imagining sinking deep inside you and making you come, hearing you cry out his name.
His phone rang, Reenie’s name flashing across the screen, and he shook his head to clear it before answering. She barely gave him time to say hello before she blurted out, “Russell – she just called. She overheard – never mind. She ran, she’s in trouble, you need to pick her up. South of you, mile marker 132 on Highway 39, she’s hiding in the trees. Go pick her up, I’ll meet you back at your campsite with some clothes and things.”
“On my way,” he responded, ending the call and stuffing the phone into his pocket. He tossed water over the fire, ditching his beer in the trash can on the way to the car, sending gravel spitting from the tires as he took off.
There had been nothing but trees for a couple of miles when he reached the spot Reenie had indicated, and he pulled over, stepping out of the car, eyes scanning the area. He called your name softly, watching. “It’s Russell Shaw. Reenie sent me.”
You peered carefully from behind a tree, then ran towards the car, looking over your shoulder as you reached it. “Get in,” Russell said, “we’ll talk later.” You nodded, climbing inside, and he looked around carefully for signs that you’d been followed before getting behind the wheel. He looked over at you, his brows drawn together in concern. “You okay? You’re not hurt?”
You glanced his way, clasping your hands nervously in your lap. “I’m okay.” He nodded, turning to make sure the way was clear and making a wide turn to head back to his campsite.
Russell pulled to a stop and got out of the car without a word, heading straight to his tent to break it down and pack up his belongings. By the time Reenie pulled in, he was loading everything into his trunk, still without saying a word, and you were wondering if you’d done the right thing calling for his help.
Reenie pulled a large suitcase out of the back seat of her BMW, pulling it behind her to Russell’s car. “Brought you some clothes and essentials to get you by. Russell, you keep her safe.”
Russell closed his trunk, coming around to take the suitcase and shove it into his back seat. “You know I will.” He climbed back behind the wheel and gave Reenie a nod. “I’ll be in touch.” You hugged her, whispering your thanks, and got in the passenger side, trying to stay calm in spite of not knowing what was coming next. Russell waited for Reenie to head down the drive, then followed behind, turning in the opposite direction on the highway. “Okay,” he said, glancing over your direction, “tell me what happened.”
Several miles and two small towns later, Russell reached for a remote and pulled into a small garage attached to a modest-looking ranch-style house, the door smoothly lowering behind you to hide you from the world.
You had told him about the phone call you had overheard, Vince on the phone with someone, you didn’t know who. “Yeah, the kidnapping should have worked, but I guess Grant’s more stubborn than I gave him credit for. Stop worrying, I found somebody else. We’ll have that money by the end of next week. No, she has no idea I was behind it, don’t worry about her. She believes what I tell her, and she does what she’s told. I already took care of those two fuck-ups, they won’t be talking to anybody.”
Russell had listened intently to everything you said, nodding quietly once in a while as you told your story. You had overheard that conversation and you knew you had to get away. You had sneaked back upstairs, put on your shoes and a jacket, grabbed the burner phone Reenie had given you for emergencies, and gone down the back staircase and out the back door. It was a couple of miles through the woods to get to the highway, and you ran until you were out of breath, then slowed to a hurried walk, determined to escape the man you thought you knew.
“He’s not the man I married, I know that. But I never thought he was…”
“An abusive murdering asshole?” You had shot Russell a sideways glance, and he had cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s true.” Tears stung your eyes as you looked down at your hands. “I feel like such an idiot. Reenie has been trying to convince me for months that I needed to leave him, but I just...”
“None of this is your fault. You know that, right?”
You hadn’t answered him, just stared out the window for the rest of the ride. Russell was quiet after that, his focus on the job ahead. And this was a job, he reminded himself – he needed to keep his head on straight. The last thing she needed right now was to get involved with someone like him, so whatever feelings were invading his subconscious, he needed to ignore them.
Russell led the way into the house, dropping your borrowed suitcase near the couch and doing a quick walk-through before coming back to the room. You looked at him, confused, and he let out a rather sheepish little chuckle. “Sorry, it’s a habit to make sure the house is clear. Which it is. So, get settled in – I’m heading out to get some supplies, but I’ll be right back.”
You nodded, and he headed back to the garage. You stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do. Your whole life had been turned upside down in the space of a few hours, and you had no idea what was coming next.
You finally took a deep breath and ventured into the next room. You explored the small house – a bedroom, bathroom, cute little kitchen with a breakfast nook, living room with a huge sofa, recliner on one end and chaise lounge on the other. There was a medium-sized flat-screen TV, a few DVDs on a shelf below.
You took the suitcase Reenie had brought into the bedroom and opened it – she had been very generous. It was bulging with clothes and lingerie, along with some toiletries, a few mystery/thriller novels, a deck of cards – everything you would need to get you by until you could get your own things. Whenever that would be. You felt a clutch of panic at the thought of your unknown future, closing your eyes to fight it back. You were safe for the moment, that’s all that mattered.
A little later, your phone pinged with a message from Russell that he was back with the groceries. You met him at the kitchen door, relieving him of one of the bags in his arms. He thanked you with a smile, and the two of you unpacked and put away the food he had purchased. “This is – a lot. I mean, how long do you think we’ll be here?”
He glanced your way, then went back to putting milk and eggs in the fridge. “Hard to say for sure. It depends on how long it takes the cops to finish getting the evidence they need to put Vince away.”
You stopped what you were doing and braced your hands on the counter, your eyes filling with tears as the weight of everything that was happening suddenly hit you like a blow to the chest. Russell closed the fridge and put a hand on your shoulder, speaking softly. “Hey.”
You looked up into his eyes, a tear overflowing and trailing down your cheek. “I can’t pay you. I – I don’t have anything. Everything belongs to him. I don’t know how I’ll pay for you for all of this,” you said, sweeping your hand, thinking of the house, the groceries, Russell’s time.
He gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Didn’t ask to be paid. I told you if you needed help to call. I’m just here to help.” He was really looking at you now, not the barely glancing, distant contact you’d had with him since he picked you up. The kind look in his eyes made you suddenly feel not so alone. “So are we good?”
You took a breath and blew it out slowly, finally nodding. “Yeah. We’re good. Thank you, Russell.”
His lips curved in a soft smile. “Good. So, I’m starved, and I got us one of those giant frozen pizzas with cheese in the crust – sound okay?” You nodded with a slightly watery smile and went back to unpacking the groceries as he turned on the oven.
You spent the rest of the evening mostly in companionable silence, eating pizza in front of the TV with a How I Met Your Mother marathon serving as background noise. Russell thumbed through the old magazines you had found in a drawer of the TV stand, and you started in on one of the books Reenie had included in the collection of treasures she had sent.
When you were yawning and reading the same paragraph over and over again, you finally gave in and headed for bed. You said a quiet goodnight and walked to the bedroom, closing the door behind you. You didn’t think you’d be able to sleep, but you dozed off almost as soon as your head hit the pillow.
You woke suddenly, a feeling of dread in the pit of your stomach. The room was pitch black, so you grabbed your phone, the screen lighting up the space, your heart lurching in your chest as you spotted a figure standing near the foot of the bed. You lit the flashlight on your phone and aimed it that direction, then screamed in terror. Vince was standing there, a sneer on his face, a gun in his hand.
“Hey, hey!!” The light went on and a hand grabbed your shoulder, shaking you. Russell’s voice was calling your name as you scooted yourself up as close to the headboard as you could, your feet scrambling to try and push you farther, your eyes wide with fear. “You’re okay, it was a nightmare.” You stared at him, shaking, whimpering and pointing.
“He was right there! He was going to kill me!”
“I promise you, there’s nobody here but you and me. You were having a nightmare. You’re safe, I promise you.” He reached out take hold of your hand. “There’s no way in hell he will ever get close to you. I won’t let him, trust me. You trust me, right?”
You nodded, trying to calm yourself, still trembling and your heart still trying to escape your chest. Russell sat there with you until your quaking subsided, and you looked up at him as he ducked his head to peer into your eyes. “You okay?”
You nodded again with a sigh of exhausted relief. “I’m sorry. It was so real.”
“Nothing to be sorry for.”
You looked at him again, feeling embarrassed as you spoke again. “I feel like a child, but I don’t think I can sleep in here. I don’t want to be alone.”
Russell smiled as he looked down at you. “I get it. Why don’t we grab your pillow and you can sleep on the sofa. I’m sleeping in the recliner, so I’ll be right there in case you get spooked. Sound okay?”
He helped you gather what you needed, and soon your bed was all set up on the couch. You settled yourself on your pillow, wrapping yourself in the blankets and yawning as your body finally calmed itself. “I usually leave the TV on with the sound real low, will that bother you?” he asked as he took his seat in the recliner again.
“No, it might actually help me sleep,” you said. “Thank you, Russell.”
“Any time.”
The next morning you woke to the smell of fresh coffee brewing and bacon frying. Apparently Russell was an early riser. You got up from the couch and gathered your bedding, heading for the bedroom to get dressed. A pair of leggings and a big sweater seemed cozy, and after hitting the bathroom and combing through your hair, you made a beeline for the kitchen and the coffee pot.
“Mornin’,” Russell greeted you as you filled a mug with the steaming brew, holding it to your nose appreciatively.
“Good morning. Thank you for making coffee. And breakfast, I guess – do you want some help?”
He shot a smile over his shoulder. “Got it covered here, but you could make some toast, if you want. Scrambled or fried?”
The two of you sat in the breakfast nook to eat, Russell scrolling on his phone and you back to your paperback mystery. When you were finished, you chased him out of the kitchen, refusing to let him help with the dishes. “You cooked, I’ll clean up.”
“I’m used to doing both, ya know,” he protested, but finally gave in and left you to it. You heard his phone ring as you finished up, and you were drying your hands as he walked back into the room.
“That was – uh – the FBI.”
Your eyes widened in surprise. “The FBI?”
“Yeah. Apparently they’ve been investigating Vince for a while now for shady investment practices. They want to send an agent to talk to you, about the phone call you overheard and anything else you might have seen or heard that might help their case. Are you okay with that?”
You bit at your lip, but nodded in agreement. “I guess so – I don’t know that I’ll be much help, but if it helps put him away…”
“Colter’s in the area, said he’d bring her here this afternoon. I don’t want you out in public if we can avoid it, not until he’s locked up.” You glanced at him nervously, and he put a calming hand on your shoulder. “I’m not trying to scare you – I just want you safe.”
“I know. Thanks.”
When the doorbell rang that afternoon, you watched nervously as Russell motioned you to stand back, then grabbed his gun from the end table and went to answer it. He peered through the peephole, then lowered his weapon and unlocked the door, opening it and stepping back to allow Colter and a woman in a dark pantsuit to enter. Colter spoke up to introduce you and Russell to the woman, who held out a hand to shake both of yours in turn.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” she said, aiming her comment at you.
Russell stepped forward. “Can I get a minute before you do your thing?” The agent nodded, following him into the next room. Even though he kept his voice low, you could hear him, insisting that she keep in mind that you were innocent and that you not be treated like a criminal just because you were married to one.
You glanced over at Colter, blushing a little. “He’s been very protective,” you said softly, and Colter smiled.
“Yeah – that’s no surprise. He’s been doing it since we were kids. He stood between our dad and me – or dad and our little sister, Dory – so many times. Dad had – well, he had some mental issues. Russ took the brunt of a lot of his crap.”
Russell came through the door just then, giving you a quick smile and nodding towards the kitchen. “She’s ready for you. If you need me…”
You gave him a grateful smile in return. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.” He moved to the side to let you walk by, watching until you took your seat across from the agent.
“How’s she doing?” Colter asked quietly as his brother turned to face him.
“She’s scared.” Russell gnawed at his lip a little, glancing over at Colter as he took a breath and exhaled with a short nod. “But she’ll be all right.”
A couple of hours later the interview was over, and you said your goodbyes to Colter and the agent shortly after. You dropped down on the sofa with a sigh of relief, and Russell sat down nearby.
“So – how’d it go?”
“She asked about the phone call I overheard, wanted word for word as well as I could remember. Then she asked about people I’d seen at Vince’s parties, anything I might have heard in passing about specific things that maybe didn’t mean anything to me but might help their case.” You took a deep breath. “She said when they arrest him, they’ll seize all of his assets. But she said they found one account that was started in my name before we were married that he hadn’t touched, and she said that will come to me. I remember right before we got married, I pulled my 401K from my job at the bank and had him invest it for me – he must have forgotten all about it. It’s been sitting there for the last 10 years, slowly growing. So maybe I’ll be able to repay you for all of this after all.”
He sighed sharply. “I told you, I didn’t ask to be paid. You’ll need that money to start over.” He lowered his head and looked at you from under raised brows. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m not hurtin’ for cash. So I don’t wanna hear another word about you paying me, okay?”
“Russell, I just…”
“I mean it. Vince gets put away and you get a clean start. That’s payment enough for me.” You looked up into those captivating green eyes, his expression dead serious.
“Okay, okay, subject dropped,” you answered, and he allowed himself to smile.
“Good. Goddamn, you’re stubborn.”
You laughed softly, rising to your feet. “You have no idea. Okay, I’m going to go take a shower – if that’s allowed?” you teased, laughing again as he blew out a disdainful breath.
“Smartass.”
The rest of that night was spent much as the first, eating in front of the TV, and Russell borrowed one of Reenie’s mystery thrillers to keep himself occupied. If he was being honest, he just wanted a distraction to keep his eyes from constantly wandering over to you as you read, occasionally trapping your lower lip between your teeth as you got engrossed in a passage. He started to read, but found his eyes drawn back again to the wisps of hair curling against the gentle slope of your neck. Luckily you were an avid reader and didn’t notice his staring, but he mentally shook himself. This was a job, he was there to protect you, and that was all. He forced his eyes to the pages in front of him, determined to keep focused there, even though he would occasionally make sarcastic comments about how unrealistic it was.
Yawning, you finally laid your book aside and laid down, saying a soft “Good night” to Russell as you settled in. You slept well that night, the sound of the TV in the background and the knowledge that Russell was close giving you the peace of mind you needed to rest.
The next day you were going a little stir-crazy, feeling cooped-up and bored. You aimlessly wandered around the house, looking through closets and cupboards, letting out a happy cheer when you found an abandoned crossword puzzle book in a drawer in the kitchen. You settled on the couch, your legs crossed underneath you, glad to have found a distraction. “Who played Angel Eyes in The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly?” you asked, a thoughtful frown on your face as you chewed at your pen.
“Lee Van Cleef,” he answered. “How do you not know that?”
“You’re the old movie buff. I only know the big ones – Casablanca, stuff like that.”
“So you don’t like westerns.”
You looked at him, an offended expression on your face. “I like westerns! I love John Wayne.” You filled in the answer and read another clue. “Clint Eastwood western?”
Russell let out a mock impatient sigh. “Obviously you need help.” He moved to plop down beside you, looking down at the page. “Where does it go? Ok, got it – A Fistful of Dollars.”
The two of you worked your way through the apparently western-themed puzzle together, Russell teasing you about your lack of knowledge on the subject and laughing when you excitedly shouted the answer to an actual clue involving John Wayne. You finished putting the last answer in place and grinned up at him, your smile slowly fading as you looked into his eyes. The air suddenly seemed charged around you, your gaze traveling down to his lips as his tongue swept over them. Before you had time to think, he pushed up from the sofa and stood. His abrupt movement away from you broke the spell, and you swallowed hard, your heart pounding.
“I’m gonna go grab us some take-out. Chicken sound good?” He asked, not looking back as he headed for the door. You agreed, taking a relieved breath as he closed the door behind him, leaving you alone.
You took a shaky breath as you put a hand to your face, your fingers cool against your flushed cheek. “What the hell was that?” you asked yourself out loud. Whatever it felt like, it couldn’t be, that was for sure, you told yourself sternly. Tossing the book on the end table, you determinedly marched to the kitchen to mix up some brownies. Chocolate. You just needed some chocolate.
After lunch, Russell spent most of the afternoon out in the garage, saying he needed to do some work on the car, and you were honestly a little relieved. The last thing you wanted was to embarrass yourself with the man who was protecting you. It was probably just a reaction to him saving you, a rescue crush. And it didn’t help that he was so aggressively good-looking. He was tall and lean, broad-shouldered, handsome as hell. That dark beard made his smile seem that much brighter, enough that it made it hard to breathe normally. And those mesmerizing green eyes – looking into them was just downright dangerous.
You spent the afternoon channel-surfing, did another puzzle and read your book for a while. Russell was in and out, keeping himself busy with something, you didn’t know what, but you were sure he was avoiding you. Towards evening you headed for the kitchen, thoughts of searching for what to make for dinner on your mind. The blinds on the patio door were open, and you could see Russell adding wood to the fire pit, the flames already started. You watched him for a moment, completely unaware of the fond smile on your face. He looked up as you stood there, motioning for you to come out and join him.
You went to the closet and grabbed your jacket. Surely there was enough space outside that it would be safe to be around him, you thought to yourself, then slipped out the patio door, sliding it closed behind you. “Missing the great outdoors?” you asked and he grinned.
“I do love a good campfire and some fresh air.” He reached into the cooler sitting beside him. “And a cold beer – want one?”
“Ooh, yes, please.” You breathed in, then searched for where the delicious aroma tickling your nose was coming from. “What smells so good?”
“Oh, I threw a couple of steaks on the grill, and some potatoes. Hope that sounds okay.”
“Sounds great – smells wonderful.”
His shoulders shook with a silent little laugh. “Reminds me of that time my brother and I tried to cook over the campfire when we were kids. Almost burned the damn forest down.” He launched into the story, and before you knew it, you were both talking and laughing, relaxed with each other again. Russell was a great storyteller, and the time passed pleasantly as you ate together.
When you finished eating, you set your plate beside you on the bench with a satisfied sigh. “That was delicious. Maybe you should be a chef when you retire from working security – or whatever it is that you do when you’re not being my guardian.”
He huffed out a laugh. “A chef - that was never on my list of things I wanted to do when I grew up. More like astronaut, firefighter, rock star, pitcher… the usual. Now – I’m still searching. I thought about opening a craft brewery, sell my beer and have barbecue, so I guess that’s close. But now? I don’t know. After working with Colter, I’m kind of thinking of going more that direction. Helping people. Who knows?” He took a swig from his beer and looked at you. “So what do you want to do when you get back to your life?”
A log cracked in the fire, and you watched thoughtfully as a spray of sparks floated upwards into the darkening sky. “I used to dream about opening a book store and gift shop, with a coffee counter in the front. A couple of tables, and a few little reading nooks tucked in here and there. That would be nice.” You glanced back at him, then looked off into the distance. “But what I really want – I just want to be able to go for a long walk without my paranoid husband sending security guys after me. I want to be able to eat a meal without someone criticizing me because I might gain weight. I want to be able to wear what I want when I want, and not hear a lecture about how I’m ‘representing’ him. I want to dance because I like the music, not because I’m bait for lecherous old men who might be potential clients.” You stopped your tirade, letting out a deep breath. “Sorry. I guess that’s been bottled up inside me for a while.”
Russell’s eyes were warm and supportive as he responded. “No need to apologize.”
You nodded, unable to continue looking at him, a little embarrassed. Russell watched you for a moment, then pulled his phone from his pocket. A fast country beat filled the air, and he set the phone down on the bench beside him, standing up and reaching out a hand. “Okay, let’s go – you wanna dance? Let’s dance.”
You looked up at him, unable to keep the shy smile from your face as you saw the grin on his. “You dance?”
He scoffed with a little laugh. “Do I dance? Get up here.”
You never would have guessed it, but the man could dance. Before long he was swinging you around the patio, twirling you out and back, both of you smiling and laughing together. You danced your way through that song and the next, but then the music shifted to a slow ballad, and you both came to a stop, looking hesitantly at each other. Russell’s eyebrow lifted, his expression asking without words, and you gave a little shrug. He smirked, shrugging in reply, and pulled you closer, taking your hand in his and holding it close to his chest as his other hand rested warm on your lower back. You draped your arm over his shoulder, your hand resting at the back of his neck as you swayed together to the music.
The song began to fade away, and you realized you were resting your head on his shoulder, your fingers fidgeting with the soft hair that fell over his collar, and your face grew warm with a blush as you both stopped moving. You took a step back, grateful that it was evening and he hopefully wouldn’t notice the color in your cheeks. “I – um – guess I should take these dishes inside,” you mumbled. You stepped away from him, gathering the dishes and turning to walk towards the patio door.
“Yeah, I gotta take care of this fire, I’ll be inside in a minute,” he answered, his voice sounding just as strained as yours was. Maybe he was just as affected as you were? You chased that thought away with denial as you stepped inside, turning to close the door behind you. He had been polite and kind to you from the beginning, but never more than that. You watched him for a moment as he stuffed his phone into his pocket, then grabbed the bucket of water he had set nearby to put the fire out, his back facing towards you the whole time, and you finally turned away.
You headed for the living room, then turned back, going to the fridge for a bottle of water, your mind reeling with conflicting thoughts. You were attracted to him, you had been from the first moment he looked into your eyes and asked if you needed help. But that was just the trauma, right? You had gone through hell and he was being kind to you, that’s all it was.
You were completely in your own head as you finally closed the door to the fridge and turned, rushing towards the living room, focused on your own thoughts. As you neared the doorway, you ran into a solid wall of man, the bottle of water in your hands flying to the floor and rolling away.
Russell grabbed your arms to steady you as you both spoke at the same time. “Shit, I’m sorry!” and “Are you okay?” and you wished you could just disappear from view.
He was close – so close. He smelled like wood smoke and cinnamon gum, beer and something masculine and warm that was just him and had your skin tingling. He looked down at you, his tongue darting out over his lips, his eyes steadily searching yours. He raised his hand, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw gently before he slipped them into your hair, and he leaned in slowly, giving you plenty of time to push him away – but you had no desire to do that. His well-trimmed beard brushed against your cheek, softer than you expected, but you didn’t have time to think about that because when his lips connected with yours, your brain ceased to function. You could focus on nothing but your heart pounding, your nerves buzzing, you could barely breathe. There was a throbbing between your thighs that made your knees weak, made you want him to throw you down and take you right there on the floor.
It all happened in a matter of seconds, and when he stopped suddenly, his hands dropping to his sides, your head was spinning at the sudden lack of his touch. His breathing was labored, his arms flexed as though they were fighting him to reach for you. He stared at the floor, taking a few breaths before he spoke, his voice husky and quiet. “This is – I shouldn’t have done that. It’s a bad idea.” He tilted his head, a rueful little smirk flitting over his lips. “Actually great idea for me. Very bad idea for you.”
You stared back at him, still stunned and silent. He stepped away, going to retrieve your bottle of water and bringing it back to you. You took it from him with a whispered “Thank you,” and he gave a short, quick nod before turning to walk away.
You heard the bathroom door close, and finally started breathing again. So he was feeling it, too. He had slammed the brakes pretty hard, but he had said it was a bad idea for you. Unanswered questions filled your head – was he really just holding back because he thought you’d get hurt? Or was there something in his past he was worried about you finding out? He seemed like a good man, but you had a feeling there was a history there that he couldn’t easily share. In spite of how you were feeling, you needed to try to get past it and get back to normal, or as normal as things could be for you at the moment. You glanced into the living room, making sure he was still out of sight, and headed quickly for the bedroom, closing the door. You’d just get ready for bed, try to put it out of your mind, and move on. It wasn’t going to be easy, since you could still feel his lips on yours, his fingers twining through your hair.
You changed into a t-shirt and shorts to sleep in, and after a few minutes battling with yourself, you finally grabbed your pillow and blanket and headed out to the couch. Russell was already settled in the recliner, searching for the classic movie channel he liked to leave on at night. You wrapped your blanket around you, snuggling down in your pillow. “Ready for lights out?” Russell asked softly, and you mumbled a “Yeah” in reply. He turned off the lamp next to him and left you both in the flickering light of the TV.
You laid there, staring at the glowing images on the screen, pretending to be trying to go to sleep. You were wide awake, unable to stop thinking about that kiss, craving more. It was infuriating, really, that Russell had just walked away like it was nothing and you were left wanting something he was apparently not willing to give, whatever his reasons.
You fought the urge to toss and turn, acutely aware of how close he was, probably watching whatever it was that was on the screen. But your imagination was merciless, showing you the possibilities, teasing you with images and thoughts of erotic touches, of his lips on your skin, of his calloused hands in places that ached for him.
He cleared his throat, shifting restlessly in his seat, and your resolve to act as if everything was fine crumbled. You threw back the blanket, your heart pounding as you crawled down the length of the sofa and straddled Russell’s lap. His eyes went wide, your fingers on his lips cutting off his startled “What…?”
You stared down at him, slowly removing your hand and resting it on his chest, your voice hushed as you spoke. “I don’t care if it’s a bad idea.” You could feel his heart rate rising beneath your hand, his eyes fluttering shut just before yours did as you leaned down into him, your lips landing on his in a soft kiss.
His hands drifted up to rest on your back, his cock steadily swelling underneath you. You moaned softly, grinding down into him, and he drew back, panting for air as he looked up at you. You kept your eyes on his, sliding back off his lap as he raised the recliner upright, and you took hold of his hand to lead him with you back to the couch. You spread the blanket out as Russell came up behind you, his hands moving to your hips as you straightened back up. “Told myself I wasn’t gonna do this,” he said softly as you leaned back into his chest. “You’re making me a liar.”
You couldn’t help smiling a little before you turned to face him. “You need to know – I don’t have any expectations. I know, when this is all over, that you’re going to leave, move on to your next job, and I’ll be going back and try to start my life over again. But I’m not asking…” For some reason your eyes began to sting with tears, and you blinked hard to chase them away. “I’m not asking for anything more than you want to give.”
Russell stared down at you for a second before his arms wrapped around you, the last shreds of his resistance evaporating as he pulled you close. His lips landed soft but decisive on yours, his tongue teasing at your lips, and you opened to him, a whimper in your throat as you slipped your arms around his neck.
After a moment or two, he parted from you one more time, one hand rising to drag a thumb across his mouth as he cleared his throat. “I – uh – don’t have a condom.”
You reached for his hand. “It’s okay. We’re good.”
“You sure? Because if you’d rather not...” The tip of his tongue peeked out, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment. “I’d be more than happy to take care of you some other way.” His thumb brushed over the top of your hand, his words invoking images in your mind that sent a flash of heat through your body.
You finally found your voice, although it was a little breathless and stammering. “I promise we’re good – but… Well, that sounds – umm – amazing, too.” His lips curved in a one-sided smirk as he stared into your eyes. He reached for the hem of your shirt, pulling it up over your head, then did the same with his before he pulled you back into his arms and kissed you again. You buried your fingers in his hair as you leaned into him, breasts crushed to his chest, your pulse racing.
He moved you backwards until your legs ran into the couch, then slid his hands down your sides to your hips, pushing your shorts down until they fell to the floor. You stepped out of them and let him lower you down to the sofa, stretching out with your head on your pillow. He put a knee down between your legs, sliding his palm up the outside of your thigh and guiding it up to his hip as he lowered himself down over you.
He kissed you, deep and hungry, rutting his still-clothed erection gently against your thigh, and the combination was driving you insane in the best possible way. He propped himself up on one elbow, his other hand beginning to roam, and he moaned in appreciation as he brushed a palm over your breast. He gave each one a little attention as he moved his lips across your jaw to your pulse point, then steadily moved down your body, his destination clear.
Your stomach muscles quivered as his lips traveled over your soft skin. Your entire body tensed, frozen in anticipation of what was about to happen. He splayed his fingers over your hips, his thumbs pulling gently at your mound to give him easier access to your swollen clit. He leaned in close to place soft, lingering kisses over your pussy before exploring you thoroughly with his tongue, finally dipping it inside you and then dragging it up and over your clit.
He teased you that way until you were rearing your head back into your pillow, one hand behind your head gripping the arm of the couch and the other clutching at his hair. Then he pulled your clit between his lips, his tongue brushing over it as he worked two fingers inside you, curling them to rub against your walls. When you gasped, he hummed his approval, stroking over that sweet spot he’d been searching for, your grip on his hair tightening as he gave your clit a hard suck.
He raised his eyes to look at you, your eyes half closed in bliss, your other hand now tugging and twisting at your nipples. “Jesus,” he swore, watching you for a moment longer before he nuzzled his face against you and sucked hard, pulsing his tongue with the movement of his fingers. Your back arched as you let out a cry, your cunt clutching at his fingers as you came undone, your hips bucking into his thrusts as you rode out your climax.
You watched him through half-lidded eyes as he slowly pulled his fingers free, making you shiver. He sucked them clean, then grabbed a corner of the blanket and scrubbed it over his face before moving up to nibble at your lips. “Told you I’d take care of you,” he teased, and he grinned as you blinked slowly and gave him a faint smile.
“Mmmm-hmmmm,” you agreed between his soft kisses.
“This doesn’t have to go any further if you don’t want it to,” he said quietly, and you opened your eyes to stare up at him.
“Don’t tell me you’re quitting on me.” The corner of his mouth quirked a little, those green eyes shining down at you even in the dim light.
“Only if you want me to,” he answered, pausing as he waited for your response.
“I don’t,” you said, pulling him down with a hand on the back of his neck to kiss him, a nip to his bottom lip making him grunt a little. “So stop teasing already.”
His chest vibrated against you as he chuckled, then raised up to his knees, shoving his clothes down to free himself. He slipped one arm beneath your knee, lifting it to open you up further for him as he settled back between your thighs. He took his time, pushing inside you slow and steady, giving you time, watching your face closely. Your breath was frozen in your lungs as you adjusted to his generous size, finally able to exhale when your bodies were flush and he stopped moving, bending to nuzzle his face into your neck. “Mmmm, you feel amazing,” he rumbled, his lips roaming over the soft skin there.
“God, so do you,” you managed before he began to move, melting your words into a moan. The slick drag of him inside you lit every nerve on fire, and you clutched your arms around his middle, digging your fingers into his back. He took his time, in and out slowly, barely inching out at first and building up until he was pulling almost all the way out before gliding smoothly back in to the limit. When you finally relaxed, adjusted to him, he began to ramp up his speed and drove into you faster, harder, until your nails were digging into his back and you wrapped your leg tight around him.
He shifted his hold on your other knee, tilting you back a little farther, your sweet spot now a bullseye with every stroke. He let out a low groan as your cunt began to clench around him, letting go completely and fucking into you hard, wanton sounds forced from you with every thrust. He let out a soft growl, a sound that sent you careening over the edge, your back arching up beneath him as you came with an unearthly howl of his name.
He joined you with a loud groan, cursing under his breath as he fucked you through your orgasm and his, finally collapsing on top of your quivering body. You breathed helpless little whimpers into his shoulder, your arms going limp as he slipped his arm out from under your knee and hugged your thigh to his side. It was some time before either of you moved, spent and contented to stay right where you were.
You had actually started dozing off when Russell moved, and you shivered as he slipped free from you and stood up. He tossed his sweats over his shoulder, shuffling his way to the bathroom, and you let out a sleepy sigh and sat up, reaching down to the floor for a shirt. It happened to be his, but you didn’t mind. When he came back, you stood up to head to the bathroom, but he put his arms around you and kissed you softly, pausing your trip for a few welcome minutes.
You cleaned up and went back out into the living room, smiling as you saw him spreading a clean blanket on the couch. You grabbed your shorts from the floor and slipped them on as you waited, and he turned to look at you with a faint smile as he finished. “Want me to go back to the recliner?” he asked quietly, and you shook your head.
“No. Stay with me – I mean, if you want.”
His smile broadened, and he plopped down, his back to the back of the couch. “C’mere, you.”
You laid down beside him, and he pulled the blanket from the back of the couch to cover you both before he slipped one arm underneath your neck, the other around your waist to hold you close as he curled himself around you. Warm and happy, you fell asleep in his arms, the most peaceful you’d felt in years.
You woke up the next morning, reluctant to let yourself drift into full consciousness. But the tempting aroma of brewing coffee finally prompted your eyes to open, breathing deep as the sleepy daze cleared from your brain. Russell was humming a little off-key as he worked on whatever breakfast he was concocting that morning, and you smiled to yourself.
You stretched, feeling the ache of muscles you hadn’t used in a while, but it was a good feeling. However, before you went to the kitchen to join Russell, you definitely wanted to take a shower. You threw the blanket off and headed for the bathroom. The mirror was still a little foggy, so Russell had obviously already been in there. Happily, you found a scrunchie in Reenie’s bag of toiletries, and you put your hair up before climbing into a hot shower.
You dried off, refreshed and fully awake, wrapping a towel around yourself so you could make your way to the bedroom and get dressed. You stepped out into the hallway, a cloud of vanilla and jasmine steam billowing out behind you. Russell’s voice calling your name stopped you in your tracks, and he stepped through the kitchen doorway into the living room, still talking.
“I made breakfast, sausage and stuff, if you’re…” he stopped in mid-sentence, his mouth open as he stared at you. “Hungry,” he finished, then snapped his mouth shut, his lips pursing and brows bunching in a contemplative expression before he dropped the spatula he was holding to the floor. “Yeah, it can wait.”
Before you could react, he had you pinned between the hallway wall and his body, his lips crashing down on yours in a ravenous kiss. You blinked up at him, stunned, as he raised his head, his eyes burning into yours. “I told you this was a bad idea,” he rasped, closing his eyes for a beat before he went on. “You are playing hell with my impulse control.”
You kept your eyes on his as you reached for the snap on his jeans, popping it loose before pulling his zipper down. “Losing control once in a while isn’t such a bad thing,” you said, watching his upper lip twitch as you shoved his clothing out of the way and wrapped your hand around his hard cock. He grabbed a handful of your towel and tugged hard, pulling it free where you had it tucked in between your breasts. He tossed it to the side and scooped you up, his hands under your thighs, lifting you to his waist. You gasped as his hot length was trapped between his stomach and your already leaking pussy, your arms wrapped around his neck as he rutted against you, coating himself in your juices. Then he lifted you a little, holding you with one arm while he positioned himself at your entrance.
“You ready?” he rumbled, his eyes on your face as he waited.
You nodded, clinging tight to his neck as he lowered your body, impaling you fully, a breathless, silent moment before he began to move. Then his fingers dug into your hips as he fucked into you, forcing sounds from you with every powerful thrust as your bodies slammed together. His forehead rested on your shoulder as he focused everything on driving you both over the edge, hard and fast.
He came first, and you followed close behind, resting your cheek on the top of his head as you both panted like you had run a marathon. He finally straightened up, then bent his head to kiss you, slow and deep, before lifting you up and lowering you to the floor. You still clung to him, your legs a little shaky, for a long moment, then gave him a coy smile. “Now I need another shower,” you said, and he grinned.
“Me, too – so how about we go clean up, and then we can eat. Don’t know about you, but I’m starved.”
“Sorry you went to all that work, and now it’s probably all cold.” You reached up to stroke his cheek with your fingertips, and you smiled as he leaned into your touch.
“Nope. I stuck it all in the oven to stay warm.”
“Smart man!”
“I’ve been known to have an occasional flash of brilliance. Until you come walking out dressed in nothing but a little towel, and all the blood leaves my brain,” he teased, and you laughed as he herded you into the bathroom for yet another shower.
The next couple of days were amazing. The freedom of being able to be yourself without a filter, without judgment or disapproval – it was like you had been set free from years of confinement. The common sense part of your brain knew that this was all temporary, that it would be gone in the blink of an eye when the time came, but you chose to ignore that nagging voice and live for the day.
Russell had lightened up considerably since you had first met him, too. Maybe it was good for him to have a little time away from gunfire and commando tactics. You talked, and laughed, watched movies together, cooked and ate, drank beer by the fire outside, and even danced again.
And you had sex that you knew you’d never equal with anyone else. He stopped you in the middle of cooking dinner once, plopping you up on the counter top and stripping your pants off so he could go down on one knee and make you his appetizer.
He pulled you over onto his lap during a movie, taking off your shirt and bra and leaning you back against his chest, teasing and tugging at your nipples. He whispered in your ear in that sinful voice, sweet and dirty, until you were a whining mess, begging him to fuck you.
He kissed you awake in the early morning, the two of you making out like teenagers, the sex slow and lazy and perfect.
But late that evening, his phone rang, and you felt your stomach drop. It was over.
He hung up and turned towards you, teeth denting his lower lip before he met your eyes. “They just arrested Vince. He’s being charged with murder and your kidnapping, along with all the financial shit. They found the bodies of the two that grabbed you buried in the woods north of your brother’s house. He’s never getting out.” He sighed, watching your face. “You’re free. You can finally live your own life.”
You dropped down onto the sofa, nodding, your voice barely audible. “Yeah. I guess so.”
He sat down beside you, reaching for your hand, which was trembling a little. “You okay?”
You blew out a breath, still afraid to look at him again, your emotions too close to the surface. “I will be.”
“We’re supposed to meet Reenie and that FBI agent at the house tomorrow at nine. Your brother’s coming, too. They’ll help you get your stuff together before the FBI seizes Vince’s property.”
You nodded, then sighed, raising your head to look up at him. “Okay. Back to reality.”
He pulled his hand away, putting it to his chest in mock offense. “Like I’m not real?” he scoffed, and you smiled in spite of yourself.
“Russell, you’re the realest thing that’s happened to me in the last few years, trust me.”
He grinned, standing up. “Want a beer before we crash for the night?”
“Yeah. I could use one.”
You watched him walk to the kitchen, an ache blooming in your chest. He was right. It had been a bad idea. But it was too late, and this was going to hurt like hell.
Russell came back with beer for the two of you, and you did your best to act like everything was fine as you talked and laughed half-heartedly at the sitcom on the TV. It was already late, and you wished you could just start the day over again. You took the empty bottles and carried them to the trash in the kitchen, stopping to stare out the patio door for a moment.
You felt Russell’s presence behind you before he spoke. “Should have had a fire tonight, huh? Didn’t know…”
“That we wouldn’t have another night.” You sighed, and he put a hand on your shoulder.
“Do you want me to sleep in the recliner tonight? I mean, making a clean break might…”
“Make it easier?” You looked up at him. “Or maybe we should just enjoy the one night we have left.”
His eyes were shining, soft in the dim light as he looked down at you. “Not gonna lie, I was hoping you’d say that.” His arms surrounded you, pulling you close as he bent to kiss you, your hands clenching fistfuls of his t-shirt as you leaned into him.
At least you’d have one more memory to take with you.
You woke early the next morning, reluctant to open your eyes and face the day. Russell, of course, was already awake and had coffee going, so you forced yourself to get up, grab your clothes, and take a shower. Every task was an effort of will – all you really wanted to do was roll up in your blankets and refuse to move.
You stood beneath the hot spray, eyes closed as you washed your body, remembering every moment of the night before. You had taken things slow, exploring each other as if you were sharing secrets no one else would ever know. You had memorized every tattoo, every scar on Russell’s body, reveled in the sensation of the muscles in his back rolling and straining beneath your fingertips as he fucked into you, riding the waves of pleasure he invoked with his touch. He had sent jolts of white hot fire through your veins as he marked you, sharp teeth and soothing tongue, on your breasts, the soft flesh of your lower belly, and the one he made on your inner thigh right next to your pussy had almost made you come. You hung up your towel and ran your fingers over the bruises as you stood in front of the mirror, wishing you could make them stay forever.
When you walked into the kitchen, Russell mumbled a “Mornin’” from the breakfast nook, and you answered him softly. He was quiet, scrolling on his phone, not chatty as he had been the last few days. He was distancing himself, you could tell, and it felt like the first day you had been here all over again.
You drank your coffee and stood to go and pack. “Don’t bother with the blankets or anything,” he said, “Colter and I are coming back later to clean out the house.”
“Okay. Thanks,” you answered, leaving the room, suddenly needing to be as far away from him as possible. This didn’t seem to be bothering him one bit.
By the time you got packed, it was time to hit the road. Russell took the suitcase from you and opened the door, and you started out. “Oh, wait,” you said, turning back and going to the end table next to the sofa. You opened the drawer and grabbed the crossword puzzle book. You didn’t look at him as you headed back to the door – he didn’t need to know you wanted it because working that puzzle was the first time there had been sparks between you. He probably wouldn’t understand, anyway.
You climbed into the passenger seat, he got behind the wheel, and you left the house behind, watching out your window as you passed it by. You had barely spoken to or looked at each other, and the silence in the car was oppressive. Several miles went by that way until you couldn’t keep your hurt contained any longer.
“I should have listened to you. You were right. It was a fucking bad idea.” You took a shaky breath. “It must be nice.”
“What?”
There was a bitter edge to your words as you answered him. “The way you’re able to shut off your feelings. It’s so easy for you, like flipping a fucking switch.”
Your resentment hung thick in the air, and after a few seconds, you assumed he wasn’t going to respond. Then Russell spoke softly, his voice taut. “What makes you think it’s easy?”
There was a note of hurt in his words, and you wished you could just take everything you’d said back, but it was too late. None of this was his fault. You had pushed the issue even after he had tried to take a step back, and you had no right to attack him for it. But you couldn’t find the right thing to say, so you just finished the ride to town in yet more silence.
When you pulled up in front of your former home, Reenie, your brother, and the FBI agent who had interviewed you were standing near the front steps talking. “I’ll grab your bag,” Russell said, and you said a quiet “Thank you” as you got out of the car.
Grant met you halfway, hugging you with a smile. Russell brought your bag over, and Grant took it from him. “Thanks, I’ll put this in the trunk.”
Reenie’s observant eyes shifted from Russell to you and back again, Russell’s gaze sliding away from hers to the ground near his feet. Colter was leaning on his truck, parked out on the street, and lifted a hand in greeting. “Well, I guess I should get going. Colter will bring me back to pick up my car after we finish up at the house.” He looked at you, but you barely glanced his direction. “Take care of yourself,” he said quietly, and you nodded in reply. He bit at his lip, then gave a little nod and turned to walk away.
You finally raised your eyes, watching him until he was halfway out to the street, your heart finally forcing you to call out to him. “Russell! Wait.”
He stopped, turning slowly as you rushed out to meet him. “Russell – I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things, I didn’t mean any of it.”
“Don’t worry about it. I get it.”
You shook your head, your eyes stinging with tears. “No, you didn’t deserve any of it. In fact, I need to thank you.” He started to shake his head, and you grabbed his hand. “No, listen. I need to thank you. Not just for the rescue. Russell, you saved me. You made me feel again after years of being numb. You made me feel like myself again. I needed someone, and you were there for me. I’ll never forget it.”
He looked into your eyes, his jaw ticking as he stared at you for a moment. Then he cradled your face in both hands, bending to kiss you, his lips clinging to yours for a long, bittersweet moment before he let you go, brushing a tear from your cheek before he dropped his hands to his sides.
“I’m gonna miss you,” you said in a wavering voice, watching his face as he held his emotions in check.
A brief, sad little smile flitted over his lips, and he dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Me too, sweetheart.” He reached out to give your hand one more squeeze before he turned and walked away.
You watched as he and Colter got into the truck, raised a hand to wave as they did the same, then drove away. You finally turned and walked back to the house, walking straight into your brother’s arms. You shed a few tears on his shoulder, then raised your head with a heavy sigh. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”
A few miles down the road, Colter glanced over at his brother, who was staring silently out the window, dragging his fingers absently through his beard. “Wanna talk about it?”
Several moments passed before Russell took a deep breath, exhaling hard before he spoke, his voice subdued. “Did you ever meet somebody who makes you wish like hell you could be what they deserve?”
Colter cleared his throat as he looked steadily at the road. “Yeah.”
Colter never mentioned you when he and Russell called each other or got together. He figured he probably came closer to understanding his brother than just about anyone, and he knew Russell wouldn’t – or couldn’t – talk about it anyway.
Yeah, Colter understood Russell, as well as anyone probably did – except maybe Reenie Green. Russell stayed in touch with her, like he always had, the two of them exchanging banter and joking insults. But when the conversation slowed, when that moment of silence sat heavy between them, Reenie would speak softly. “She’s safe, Russell. She’s happy.” No details, which was good, because Russell didn’t want details. He probably couldn’t handle details. And then they’d end the conversation, like they always did, until the next time.
He still dreamed about you. He could still hear your voice, your laugh. He still woke up some nights feeling the softness of your skin on his fingertips, the scent of your hair and the taste of your lips lingering. And he still told himself your life was good, was better without his past, his baggage weighing you down.
You deserved a fresh start, a new life. He could handle being haunted by your memory. He was used to being haunted by his past.
Time cast a spell on you but you won't forget me
I know I could have loved you but you would not let me
Being Touched should have been a blessing—a mark of honor in your lineage, celebrated by your pack since childhood. But to you, it's always made you feel like an outsider, never really fitting in anywhere. Yeah, you had your best friend Jess, but for you, something always felt like it was missing. The land your pack runs on during the full moons brings you a sense of peace you don't fully understand, at first.
Paring: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader/You
Word Count: 3598
Warning: Fluff, Pack dynamics, Talk of Pregnancy, Some Angst.
A/N: Professor Robert Zimmerman is based off of The Doctor from Star Trek Voyager, as I absolutely love that character. Alaric Saltzman is from The Vampire Diaries.
A/N: It's my first attempt with an A/B/O fic, be gentle, please. I hope you like it. Not sure how many chapters this will be yet.
Chapter 62 ------- Chapter 64 - coming soon
A/B/O Master List
Main Master List
Series Master List
Chapter 63
You woke reaching backward.
Your hand found only sheets gone cool.
Not cold—not long gone—but cool enough to tell you Dean had been up a little while already.
For a moment, still caught between sleep and waking, your body tried to keep the dream of him there. Fingers brushing over the hollow he’d left in the mattress. Face still turned toward his pillow where his scent lingered strongest—soap from last night, clean skin, something warm and distinctly him threaded deep into the fabric.
Gone to work.
The thought came without sting this time.
You stayed where you were a little longer, cheek pressed to your own pillow, listening as the cabin held the morning around you.
It sounded different now.
Not quieter.
The fullness from yesterday hadn’t gone anywhere. It’d only expanded.
Somewhere beyond your side of the cabin, muffled through wood and distance, came the faint thud of movement from the opposite wing—a drawer opening. Then closing. Floorboards answering with a low complaint. A second later, Jess laughed at something under her breath, followed by Sam’s deeper voice too muffled to make out.
The sound pulled a smile from you before your eyes had fully opened.
They were here.
Not visiting for a weekend.
Not counting down the days before leaving again.
Here.
The realization settled into you fresh all over again, warm as the blankets tangled around you.
Dean leaving for work used to change the whole shape of the house. Used to leave spaces too large and silences too noticeable. But now the cabin breathed in four places instead of two. Even with him gone, the emptiness never arrived.
Your wolf stirred lazily beneath your skin, content and drowsy, brushing against the bond that threaded through the house. Jess bright and awake already. Sam slower, steadier. Dean farther out now, a warm steady presence moving through the edge of your awareness like a heartbeat at distance.
Working.
Thinking.
Probably already missing home.
You rolled onto your back and stared up at the ceiling beams overhead. Morning light slipped through the curtains in pale gold bands, touching the far wall and creeping across the hardwood floor inch by inch. Dust drifted through it in slow little galaxies.
Another sound carried from the opposite side of the cabin.
Jess, louder this time.
“No, because if you used my shampoo once—”
Sam’s reply was lost entirely.
You laughed softly into the empty room.
Then the smell reached you.
Coffee.
Fresh and rich, rising from downstairs in warm currents through the open central space of the house.
Dean.
He must have saved you some before leaving.
Your chest tightened with something too gentle to hurt.
You pushed the blankets back and slid from bed, bare feet meeting cool floorboards. The room still held the aftermath of sleep—rumpled sheets, pillows pushed crooked, one of Dean’s shirts draped over the chair where you’d tossed it last night. Beyond the glass doors, the covered balcony waited in blue morning shade, trees beyond it stirring faintly in the breeze.
You crossed first to the doors and pulled one open.
Cool air slipped inside immediately, carrying pine and damp earth and the distant birdsong of the woods waking up. The porch roof overhead softened the light, leaving the balcony wrapped in quiet shadow. From here, you could see the forest that had once been divided, Winchester and Winter land, morning mist still clinging low in places where sunlight hadn’t reached.
Peaceful.
Steady.
Home.
You stood there only a moment before the coffee smell called louder than scenery ever could.
Downstairs, the cabin opened around you as you descended your side staircase. The central room came into view piece by piece—the vaulted ceiling, exposed beams, the rounded wooden pillars framing the shift from living room to kitchen, the couch still slightly rumpled from last night, a forgotten bottle cap on the coffee table, one of Jess’s socks somehow near the hearth.
Proof of pack.
The kitchen beyond glowed softly in morning light spilling through the back windows. Dean’s mug sat in the sink. The coffee pot was still half full, steam long faded but warmth remaining.
You touched the handle anyway.
Still warm.
You poured yourself a cup and leaned against the counter with it, letting the first sip settle through you.
Footsteps sounded overhead on the opposite staircase, bringing a smile to match the softness of the morning.
Then Jess appeared first, hair wild, one of Sam’s T-shirts hanging to mid-thigh, grinning like she’d already been awake for hours instead of minutes.
“Well,” she said, eyeing your mug. “Rude. You started without me.”
“I started nothing. ”
“Still rude.”
Sam came down behind her slower, still buttoning a flannel, expression resigned in the specific way only Jess could produce.
“I was in the bathroom for three minutes,” he said.
“And in that time,” Jess declared, sweeping into the kitchen, “everything changed.”
You smiled into your coffee.
The day had begun.
Not in a way that drew attention—just… present. Moving through the kitchen with a second cup of coffee he didn’t seem particularly invested in, leaning against the counter while Jess talked about something half-finished from earlier, his responses coming a beat slower than usual.
You felt it before you named it.
The awareness.
The decision forming.
He glanced between you and Jess once—quick, subtle, like he wasn’t trying to interrupt whatever this morning had settled into, but was still taking stock of it.
Jess didn’t notice.
Or maybe she did, and chose not to call it out.
You did.
Your wolf shifted faintly beneath your skin, picking up on the quiet change in him—the way his energy angled outward instead of in. Preparing to leave, not because he had to, but because he knew when to.
Sam pushed off the counter with a soft exhale, setting his mug in the sink.
“I should probably head out,” he said, casual enough that it almost passed as an afterthought. “Need to return the rental before they charge me for another day.”
Jess blinked at him. “Already?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s a bit of a drive. Figured I’d swing by Mom and Dad’s after. Haven’t seen them yet.”
There was something deliberate in the way he didn’t look directly at either of you when he said it.
Not avoidance.
Consideration.
Jess’s expression softened almost immediately, something understanding settling in behind her eyes.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “They’ll like that.”
He nodded once, then reached for his keys near the bowl by the door.
You watched him move—steady, familiar, grounded in a way that made the space feel solid even as he prepared to step out of it.
At the door, he paused just long enough to glance back.
Not at the room.
At the two of you.
A small, knowing look passed—brief, but clear.
Take your time.
Then it was gone, replaced with something lighter.
“Try not to burn the place down,” he added, already halfway into his boots.
Jess snorted. “No promises.”
“You’re the one I’m worried about.”
“Rude.”
He smirked faintly, then stepped out onto the porch, the door closing behind him with a soft, familiar click.
The cabin shifted again.
Not emptier.
Just… quieter in a different way.
The kind of quiet that didn’t come from absence—but from space being made on purpose.
Jess didn’t move right away.
She stood there for a second, listening to the sound of his footsteps crossing the porch, the creak of the boards, the distant start of the engine. The rumble carried through the trees, fading slower this time, stretching the moment instead of breaking it.
Then she turned to you.
And just like that, the air changed.
Not heavy.
Not tense.
But focused.
Intentional in a way the rest of the morning hadn’t been.
She didn’t speak immediately.
Just walked over, slower now, less energy in her steps, but more weight behind them. She picked up her mug from the table, took a sip that had long since gone lukewarm, and made a face before setting it back down.
Her eyes found yours again.
Softer this time.
Searching, but not pushing.
“You’ve been thinking,” she said, not a question.
You let out a quiet breath, leaning back against the counter behind you.
There wasn’t really a point in pretending otherwise. “Yeah,” you admitted.
Jess nodded once, like that was exactly the answer she expected. She didn’t crowd you. Didn’t rush in.
Instead, she moved to the table and pulled out one of the chairs, turning it slightly before sitting—angled toward you, open, patient.
Waiting.
Your wolf stirred again, not uneasy—just aware. The same way it always was with Jess. Like something in you recognized this space for what it was before your mind caught up.
Safe.
You pushed off the counter after a moment and crossed the room, the wood floor warm beneath your feet. The chair across from her scraped softly as you pulled it out and sat, hands settling loosely in your lap before you knew what to do with them.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
The quiet stretched—not awkward, not strained. Just… full. Like it was giving you room to decide how to step into it.
Jess watched you the whole time.
Not impatient.
Not prying.
Just there.
“Okay,” she said finally, her voice gentler than it had been all morning. “Start wherever you want.”
No pressure.
No assumptions.
Just an opening.
And somehow, that made it harder to keep it to yourself.
For a moment, you don’t answer her.
Not because you don’t have anything to say—but because now that the space is there, now that it’s just the two of you with nothing else filling the air, the words feel… bigger. Harder to place down without making them real in a way you haven’t quite let yourself do yet.
Jess doesn’t rush you.
She never has.
She just sits there, elbow resting lightly on the table, fingers curled around her mug more out of habit than anything else, watching you with that quiet steadiness that has always felt like being seen without being cornered.
You drop your gaze to the grain of the table between you, tracing one of the darker lines with your eyes as you let out a slow breath through your nose.
“It’s not anything… definite,” you say finally, your voice quieter than it had been all morning. “I don’t know anything for sure.”
Jess’s expression doesn’t change much, but something in it softens further—like she’s already adjusting to the weight of what you’re trying to say, not the certainty of it.
“That doesn’t mean it’s nothing,” she replies gently.
Your mouth presses faintly at that, because she’s right. That’s the problem.
You shift in your seat, one hand coming up to rest absently over your stomach before you even realize you’re doing it. The motion is small, almost unconscious, but it feels louder in the quiet between you.
“I’ve just been… thinking,” you admit, fingers curling slightly against the fabric of your shirt. “About what it would mean. If it… if it is.”
The words hang there, fragile in a way that makes your chest tighten.
Jess’s eyes flick briefly to your hand, then back to your face, her attention sharpening—not invasive, just more present. Anchored.
“And?” she asks softly.
You let out a breath that almost turns into a quiet laugh, but doesn’t quite make it that far.
“And it’s a lot,” you say, honesty slipping through easier now that you’ve started. “Some of it’s… good. Really good.” Your gaze drifts for a second, not quite focusing on anything in the room. “Like—I can see it, you know? Not clearly, but enough that it feels real. Enough that it—” You stop yourself, swallowing faintly before continuing. “It feels right.”
That part settles between you differently.
Not heavy.
Just… true.
Jess doesn’t interrupt it. She lets it sit, lets you feel it all the way through instead of stepping in too soon.
“But then,” you continue, quieter now, your thumb brushing absently back and forth where your hand still rests, “there’s the other side of it.”
Her head tilts slightly. “The scary part?”
You nod once.
“Yeah.”
The word comes out softer than you intend, carrying more weight than you planned to give it.
“It’s not just… being pregnant,” you go on, searching for the right way to say it without letting your thoughts run too far ahead of you. “It’s everything that comes after. What if something goes wrong? What if I’m not—” You stop again, the thought catching before it fully forms, but it’s already there between you anyway. “What if I can’t do it the way I’m supposed to?”
Jess’s expression shifts at that—not sharp, not corrective, but steady in a way that pushes gently back against the direction your thoughts are trying to go.
“You’re already doing it,” she says.
You blink, caught off guard. “Doing what?”
“Caring this much,” she answers simply. “Thinking about it. Wanting it to be right.” She leans back slightly in her chair, but her gaze never leaves yours. “That’s not something you fake your way into. That’s already there.”
Your throat tightens a little at that, not from overwhelm—but from being understood a little too clearly.
You glance away again, shoulders easing just a fraction.
“I haven’t told him,” you admit after a beat.
Jess doesn’t look surprised.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I figured.”
You huff out a small breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Of course you did.”
“You don’t look like you’re hiding something,” she explains gently. “You look like you’re holding onto it.”
That lands differently.
More accurate than you want it to be.
“I just—” You stop, then try again, fingers curling slightly against your shirt. “If I say it out loud, it stops being… just mine. Just something I’m working through.” Your eyes lift back to hers. “And if it turns out to be nothing, I don’t want to see that in his face. I don’t want him to—”
Hope.
You don’t say it, but the word sits there anyway.
Jess nods slowly, like she understands exactly what you didn’t finish.
“Dean doesn’t do halfway when it comes to you,” she says.
“No,” you agree softly. “He doesn’t.”
“And you’re trying to protect that.”
You nod again, smaller this time.
“Yeah.”
The room settles around that truth, the quiet stretching again—but this time it feels steadier. Less uncertain. Like something has been named enough to take the edge off.
Jess exhales softly and leans forward, forearms resting on the table now, closing some of the space between you—not crowding, just… closer.
“You don’t have to decide everything right now,” she says. “You don’t even have to decide what it means yet.” Her voice stays calm, grounded. “You’re allowed to sit in the ‘if’ for a little while.”
Your shoulders loosen at that more than you expect.
Because that’s exactly where you’ve been.
Suspended there.
“Yeah,” you murmur.
Jess’s mouth curves faintly, something warm and familiar returning to her expression.
“And when you are ready,” she adds, “you won’t be the only one holding it.”
Your gaze lifts to hers again, something softer settling in your chest this time.
Not certainty.
Not answers.
But… support.
Real, tangible, and right in front of you.
Outside, a gentle breeze moves through the trees, leaving the cabin wrapped in quiet—but not the empty kind from before.
This one feels intentional.
Held.
And for the first time since the thought took root, it doesn’t feel quite so heavy to carry.
Jess watches you for another second after your last words settle, like she’s making sure you’re not about to spiral back into your own head.
Then—just as gently as she let you fall into it—she shifts.
Not abrupt.
Not forced.
Just… a small tilt of her head, a faint narrowing of her eyes like she’s studying you for something entirely different now.
“Okay,” she says, tone changing just enough to catch your attention. “Important question.”
You blink, thrown slightly by the shift. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It is,” she agrees easily. “Hypothetically—if you are pregnant…”
Your stomach flips a little at the word, but before it can settle into anything heavy again, she continues.
“…how long do you think it takes before Dean becomes completely unbearable?”
You stare at her.
For a second, your brain doesn’t catch up.
Then—
A laugh slips out before you can stop it.
“Jess—”
“I’m serious,” she insists, leaning forward like this is a legitimate discussion. “Because I give it… maybe twelve hours.”
You shake your head, but the tension in your chest has already started to loosen, cracking just enough to let something lighter in.
“Twelve hours?” you echo.
“That’s generous,” she says. “That’s me accounting for the time it takes him to process and then fully commit to hovering.”
You huff out another laugh, shoulders easing back into the chair.
“He already hovers,” you point out.
“Yes,” she says immediately. “But this would be advanced hovering.”
You raise a brow. “There are levels?”
“Oh, absolutely.” She starts counting on her fingers. “Level one: normal Dean. Mild concern. Occasional check-ins. You know, baseline.”
You snort softly.
“Level two,” she continues, “increased eye contact, unnecessary proximity, suddenly very interested in whether you’ve eaten in the last thirty minutes.”
“That’s already happening,” you mutter.
Jess points at you like you’ve proven her point. “Exactly. Now imagine level three.”
You lean back slightly, already smiling. “I’m afraid.”
“You should be.” She ticks off another finger. “Level three is full-on ‘sit down, I’ll get it’ mode. You so much as look at something across the room and he’s already halfway there getting it for you.”
Your laugh comes easier now, warmer.
“…okay, yeah. That tracks.”
“I’m not done,” Jess says, eyes lighting up now that she’s got you. “Level four is where it gets concerning.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes. Level four is where he starts arguing with you about what you’re allowed to carry.”
You cover your mouth, already laughing because you can see it.
“He would not—”
“He absolutely would,” she cuts in. “You pick up a grocery bag and suddenly it’s, ‘Whoa, whoa, what are you doing?’ like you just tried to lift a car.”
“That is so dramatic.”
“That is so Dean.”
You shake your head, but you’re grinning now, the earlier weight loosening more with every word.
“And level five?” you ask, because you know she’s not done.
Jess leans in slightly, dropping her voice like she’s about to reveal something classified.
“Level five is where he starts talking to your stomach like it can already hear him.”
You choke on a laugh.
“No—”
“Yes,” she says firmly. “Full conversations. ‘Hey there, kid, you behave for your mom, alright?’”
You can’t help it—you laugh, head tipping forward as your shoulders shake.
“He would never—”
“He so would,” she insists, grinning now. “And he’d get all serious about it too. Like it’s a contract.”
You wipe at your eyes, breath a little uneven from laughing.
“Okay, that one—” you manage, still smiling, “—that one might actually happen.”
Jess beams, victorious.
“Thank you.”
You shake your head again, but there’s no tension left in it now. Just warmth.
“And Sam?” you ask after a second, glancing back up at her. “What does he do in all of this?”
Jess leans back in her chair, considering that like it’s an entirely separate case study.
“Oh, Sam’s different.”
“Different how?”
“He doesn’t hover,” she says. “He observes.”
You narrow your eyes slightly. “That sounds worse.”
“It is,” she agrees. “Because he won’t say anything at first. He’ll just be watching. Taking mental notes. Researching.”
You groan softly. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” Jess says, delighted. “You’ll wake up one morning, and suddenly there are books.”
“Books?”
“Stacks of them,” she confirms. “Every surface. Titles like ‘Understanding Prenatal Development’ and ‘Nutritional Needs During Pregnancy.’”
You laugh again, softer this time but just as genuine.
“That is so him.”
“And then,” she continues, warming to it, “he’ll start casually bringing up facts.”
You snort. “Casually.”
“‘Did you know that at week six—’” she mimics, her tone eerily accurate.
You cover your face, laughing. “Stop.”
“He won’t even realize he’s doing it,” she adds. “He’ll think he’s being subtle.”
“That man has never been subtle a day in his life.”
“Correct.”
The two of you sit there for a moment, the laughter easing into something softer but still present, still lingering in the air between you.
Jess watches you again—but this time, there’s a hint of satisfaction in it.
Like she knows exactly what she just did.
Your chest feels lighter now.
Not because the thoughts are gone.
But because they’re not sitting so heavy anymore.
Because you can see it from another angle now—not just the fear, not just the uncertainty… but the life inside of it. The way it would look. The way it would feel.
Messy.
Loud.
Full.
You let out a quieter breath, the last of the tension slipping out of your shoulders as you meet her gaze again.
“Okay,” you admit, a small smile still tugging at your mouth. “That helped.”
Jess’s grin softens into something warmer, more familiar.
“Yeah,” she says lightly. “I know.”
Then, after a beat, she nudges your foot gently under the table.
“And for the record,” she adds, “no matter what happens… you’re not doing any of it alone.”
This time, when the words settle, they don’t feel heavy.
They feel steady.
Like something you can stand on.
Chapter 62 ------- Chapter 64 - coming soon
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Summary: While on a witch hunt you watch your husband, Dean die. When strange things start to happen around the bunker Sam, tries to convince you that it's partially grief, but you start to think something else is up. Did Dean follow you back to the bunker as a ghost, or is something else happening?
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy, Jody Mills, Donna Hanscum, Claire Novak, Alex Jones, Robert Winchester (OMC), Regina Winchester (OFC), Mary Jean Winchester (OFC), reader Y/N "Tally" Winchester
A/N: This fic was written for the @storytellers-contest-tjac
If you enjoy this fic or any others that you find on this wretched site please reblog so others can have the chance to see it too!
A/N 2: The cover image for this fic was created with 3 edited screenshots I took while watching the show plus common use images found on Canva.
A/N 3: Last but not least I want to thank my Alpha reader @mysticdeliciouskitty and my Beta reader @deans-baby-momma You two helped reign me in, keep my POV and grammar in line... THANK YOU bunches!!!
“NOO!” I screamed rushing toward the witch, well more accurately the spot where she once stood. Dropping to my knees where both she and Dean vanished into a purple ball of light, I cried his name, "Deeann! Please no!!!!!!!!!!"
His wedding band and the blessed blade he'd used to stab the witch had both tinked as they hit the ground in front of me. I scooted forward, scooped the ring up, nearly dropping it because of how hot the metal was. It made sense with the amount of power it would have taken for this to happen. I bobbled it between my hands, blowing on it, in an attempt to cool the metal.
I was holding it gingerly between my thumb and forefinger, still blowing on it, when Sam pushed out of the cage the witch had him locked in, her powers having faded out with her death.
It wasn't logical and yet all I could think of was cooling the ring and keeping it safe.
Sam ran around the corner and into the large room halting at my side, “W-what happened?!”
“He killed her,” I pointed to the small pile of dust that laid where she’d been standing.
But there was nothing left of my husband except his silver wedding band – devastated didn’t even feel like a strong enough word to describe how I felt.
I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak, I wasn’t even sure if I was breathing or not. I felt as though I was trapped in a fog, sounds felt muffled.
Sam was amazing, though. He cleaned up the scene so no one would know we’d been there; I was aware of him moving about but when I tried to help him clean up all I did was shake and make things worse.
After cleaning up inside, Sam took the time to search the property; making sure Dean hadn’t just been snapped somewhere else. He was methodical, searching every inch of the place for another hidden cage or room - he of course, found nothing.
Sam found me right where he’d placed me before going to investigate the property, the only change being that I’d managed to put Dean’s ring on my necklace and reclasp it. I had been sitting there contemplating everything.
The room was gross, covered in dust and a layer of grime I didn’t want to think about. Sam had led me over to an old metal desk that wasn’t directly in the witch’s workspace, it was the cleanest spot in the room. I remember him telling me to sit and wait, promising he’d be back in a minute. I thought about the layout of the room, a large L-shaped space. Some of the janky cages she’d put together were directly across from where I sat while the different workstations dotted the floor in either direction. The one wall of the cage Sam had been held in was nothing more than an old bed frame that was somehow tied to the brackets that had once held some piece of equipment. If she hadn’t cast a spell on that cage a toy poodle could have torn it down.
Then I went over the facts of the hunt - replaying every moment that had gone wrong. We'd spent weeks tracking her down, across three states. We had a suspicion she'd made Sam a few days prior but there was nobody close enough to get to us and help out so we pushed forward. We figured out where her hideout was and nearly got caught doing recon on the second night. Then we'd spent the afternoon planning and taking a nap so we'd be alert enough to actually carry out the hunt.
When the witch had caught Sam in her lair she'd tossed some dust at him and snapped her fingers, zapping him somewhere. I was hidden but had seen it happen. She knew we were there and we had to rush - find Sammy, kill the witch who had already killed three in this town alone, and get the hell out of there without drawing attention.
Sam had been trapped in the cell just around the corner of the big open room she seemed to be using as storage for her supplies and her main workspace for creating the spells. While I'd searched for a way to open Sam's cage, the witch had entered the main room where Dean was looking for keys or some type of electric switch.
She screeched when she saw Dean and charged him just as I returned to the room but before I could do anything to help him, Dean lunged forward and stabbed her - ending her reign of terror thankfully, but also taking Dean from me.
Sam explained that each time he called Dean's phone the line would ring once and then he'd get an automated message that the phone was out of its service area. Putting his phone on speaker he tried Dean a few more times. All I did was let out a little sob when I heard it the third time, but I just as quickly returned to the odd silence - staring straight ahead, eyes glossy and unfocused. I'm sure I looked a total mess because I felt so hopeless, and utterly useless.
When he couldn’t get me to respond, Sam had scooped me up and carried me out to Baby, so he could get us both back to the safety of the bunker.
I was aware that I was laying in the backseat but I was numb and couldn’t respond when Sam stopped for fuel and snacks, so kindly asking if I wanted something. He waited for a response but I couldn't do anything but shift my eyes to look at him.
"OK, I'll bring you a water," he whispered before disappearing from my view.
I felt bad, he'd lost his brother - the least I could do would be to acknowledge him. Yet I felt trapped in my body - as though I couldn't make it do the things it should have been. My limbs were heavy and it felt like my lips wouldn't work - I couldn't even force words past them.
Six hours passed with me simply laying on the seat waiting – I felt like I might die before we even arrived home. I prayed for death because I didn't want to do this without Dean.
When Sam parked in the garage, I finally sobbed out a shuddering breath and nearly fell out of the passenger door as I tried to escape the pain that had been building in my chest.
My vision speckled and I stopped and bent down, resting my hands on my knees; I gasped what was probably the first lung filling breath I'd taken since I'd watched my love vanish.
Sam was my rock, he steadied me and took my hand, leading me into the war room where I could prop myself against the lighted map table. I literally couldn't keep myself upright without something to help hold me up.
I have no idea how long I just stood there staring blankly at the table before I decided that I should get cleaned up. I didn’t even remember Sam carrying my backpack in, it was just there on the map table.
When I showered I thought for a split second that I could feel Dean’s hand brush my hair behind my ear. I told myself I was losing it. It was my brain wishing Dean was there to do that oh so familiar action.
For as much as the man said he wasn't a chick-flick guy he was always touching or hugging me and I already missed that. Dean was constantly tucking this one spot of hair back for me. It didn't matter if my hair had been short or long, I had one spot that was wild. I missed him, I missed that touch - it was always comforting no matter what was happening, and the last time I'd ever gotten to experience it was two hours before I lost him forever.
As I showered I thought of all the ways I could try to get him back - I really only came up with one idea and I doubted it would even work. No demon was going to bring Dean Winchester back and Dean would be so disappointed in me for even thinking of that. That thought had me so upset, I nearly collapsed.
Slumping against the shower wall for support I decided I’d been in there long enough and forced myself to exit, dress and head for bed, even though I knew I wouldn’t sleep. I stood outside of room 11 for probably ten minutes just staring at that damn little number 11 glinting at me, taunting me with how pretty and comforting it once felt. Behind that door was nothing but the ghost of my life waiting to mock me.
I only left my room the next day a handful of times; I forced myself to eat one meal but that had been all because it had upset my stomach. I couldn’t make eye contact with Sam so I’d sulked back to my room.
On the third morning after losing Dean I stood in the kitchen blearily sweeping my eyes around the room wondering where the hell I put my coffee mug. I swore I had set it on the island but it was gone.
It wasn’t on the table or any of the counter space. I even checked the shelving where Dean kept his sugary cereals and in the fridge. Just when I was about to give up and make another cup Sam walked into the kitchen.
“Were you researching?” he asked somewhat grumpily, holding my coffee mug. I looked at the image of a pie and the words printed above it, "We go together like coffee and pie.”
“No, I’ve been in the kitchen since I woke up,” I answered, giving the kitchen one more glance that’s when it clicked in my brain… Sam was holding my mug.
“Why do you have my mug?”
“I sat down to read the newspaper and knocked it onto my phone,” he scowled.
“Oh no!” I turned and grabbed the nearest dish towel.
“I got it dried off,” he told me, “It’ll be fine, but I was trying to figure out when you came in there?”
“I didn’t,” I answered flatly, “I made coffee, prepped my cup, and took a few sips before I started the bacon,” I gestured at the cooking bacon only to notice that the stove was now off.
“Are you OK?” he asked.
I glared at him as if to say, ‘no my husband is dead,’ but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything, and after several beats he just turned on his heel and walked away.
I couldn’t blame him. Sam had lost Dean too and I’d been pretty shitty and avoidant.
Later that day I sat in my chair researching and trying to make sense of what had happened to Dean – part of me felt like he’d been snapped away. I was worried we had a situation where Dean had been zapped to a different dimension or world. I didn’t want another Purgatory situation on our hands.
Dean had been so hurt that we hadn’t looked for him. Well, I’d tried a little but all signs pointed to him being dead and I’d sunk into a deep depression. I'd checked with psychics, a voodoo priestess, and had done my own soul tracking spell.
I even got help to cross over temporarily to meet with a reaper who'd been somewhat helpful to me in the past. Everyone told me the same thing . . . if I couldn't track him by any of the means I'd already used, then he was gone. Dean was nowhere to be found and after a few weeks, I'd given up.
I was reliving it all over again; I could already feel the tendrils wrapping slowly around me, ready to suck me into the darkness. I pictured it as vines that had looped around my feet beginning to squeeze and slither further up my ankles and legs. It was worming its way into me waiting to take hold and drown me in despair.
For the next two weeks I would make breakfast and settle in at a table in the library to research and each day I’d come up with nothing and my heart would shatter all over again. I’d cry myself to sleep or at least into a comatose stage and then begin again the next morning.
‘Why did I have to be head over heels for the one man who died as often as I got new shoes?!’
The random touches started to freak me out - I'd be sitting in my chair in the library and feel like a hand had dragged across my shoulders, but when I'd look Sam and Eileen were nowhere to be seen.
Every single day I would lose things, but not in the normal way one does when they misplace their keys or forget where they placed the grocery list.
I knew it sounded crazy but when my things vanished it felt more like I was being toyed with and not just misplacing things. I would set my coffee mug down in the kitchen and find it in the library or laundry room later. One day I spent twenty minutes looking around the bunker - I'd been in the kitchen, the laundry room, and the library, so I checked each of those rooms. Not only that I also checked the dungeon, the gym, and the infirmary even though I hadn't stepped foot in any of those rooms that morning. I gave up and decided I’d step into room 11 and grab the flannel off the chair… the missing cup would show up but I needed the comfort of my favorite flannel and I was ready to push myself to retrieve it. I froze at the doorway when I saw my cup sitting on Dean’s night stand.
“Sammy!” I shouted.
He came running, calling out, “Where are you?”
“Room 11,” I yelled, still unable to call it my room or even Dean's room. I still couldn't say his name out loud without sobbing - not that I'd tried more than once.
I didn’t know what else to say; that room was Dean’s room, then it was ours. However without Dean it became nothing more than a mausoleum of memories I had shared with him.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asked, pulling me into a hug.
“D-did you put my mug in there? B-because if you did that was really shitty of you!” I yelled as I smacked his chest halfheartedly.
“I would never!” Sam defended. “I know you don’t like that I told you to take a break from research on trying to find Dean, but I’m not cruel," Sam pointed out.
I broke, “I know, but every day I’m losing things,” I pushed away from Sam and began to pace like a raving lunatic.
“Things are moving, it’s not like I’m setting it on one table and then moving to the other and forgetting! Sam you have to believe me, I didn’t do that,” I pointed toward the night stand that held my mug.
"I had it with me in the library and the kitchen," I told him, "I did go to the laundry room to put stuff in the dryer so I even checked there and it wasn't there."
I looked back at the night stand on Dean’s side of the bed, and I began to sob.
"I haven't even been in there since we left for that hunt."
I’d made it two days without crying at that point and it yet again felt like I might never stop - I was honestly starting to wonder if I'd drown from my own tears.
Sam pulled me close, rubbing his hand up and down my back, “I know this is hard,” he whispered and kissed the top of my head, “I’ll bring it to you,” he stepped through the doorway and brought the mug to me, like it was the easiest task.
“While you’re in there can you grab the flannel off the chair?” I sniffled.
Sam obliged, grabbing the flannel and holding my coffee while I pulled Dean’s old shirt on. I’d given up on the coffee search and had been going to get the flannel and that was how I found my mug. I had worked up the courage to go grab that flannel but seeing the coffee mug there had nearly ruined me, at least that's how it felt.
Things continued in a similar manner for several more days.
Sam came to the laundry room one afternoon and asked if I’d moved his phone to the kitchen, which of course I hadn’t and told him just that.
“Maybe you carried it in there and forgot,” I offered him the same answer he’d given me multiple times over the past few weeks.
He shot me a glare and left the room.
I have to admit I was slightly amused by the pout that flashed on his face before it turned to a full glare. I pulled my laundry from the dryer and placed it in my basket before stating, “God Dean, I don’t know if you can hear me. I miss you and I’m going to get you back.”
Grabbing my basket I took a step before jumping when a bottle I swore I'd thrown down in the trash can clattered to the floor. I stared at it for a moment before setting the basket down and moving to pick up the empty bottle.
I inspected it and told myself that I had to have made a mistake and not gotten it into the bin, ‘It must have been balancing on the lip of the can.’
Two days later I woke up from an incredibly steamy, very realistic dream – so real that I’d soaked my panties and pj shorts.
I was instantly saddened when I realized that Dean wasn’t there, he hadn’t actually made me feel that way, and he never would again. All I had left were my dreams and memories.
I pretty much kept myself locked away that day - I just kept remembering the dream and how I felt when I woke up; how I could have sworn I could feel Dean's hands on me. It got me all bothered and feeling too embarrassed to be around Sam in my condition - I was either horny or crying.
That evening when I did go to the kitchen to cook, I found Eileen and Sam already making dinner. As we sat down to eat I took my normal seat and watched as the spoon I'd placed on the table next to my spot flew off and hit the floor - it reminded me of the way a cat swipes things off of flat surfaces.
We all convinced ourselves that my shirt sleeve had somehow caught it and thus flung it to the floor and we dug into our bowls of chili.
The chili reminded me of Dean and how much I missed his cooking, which wasn't helping me at all. I know Eileen noticed the tear trailing down my face but I was grateful that she didn't say anything about it.
As we finished eating Sam's phone rang - another hunter was struggling with a banshee hunt.
I dreaded what Sam was about to say when he hung up.
Sam softened his expression and explained that they were leaving to help this guy - he offered for me to go with them if I wanted to - I did not want to. A hunt was the last thing I wanted to be anywhere near.
"I can't do a hunt right now Sam, it wouldn't be safe."
He nodded and gave me his big puppy eyes.
"I'm not ready and I don't sleep anymore - not well enough to be helpful," I added, knowing full well I should be helping people, not making excuses and being sad.
Dean would have gone and helped.
"I get it," he rose from his seat and left to gather his gear.
This had been a reoccurring conversation; Sam telling me he understood that I wasn't ready or couldn't deal with certain things and I knew that he was trying to be helpful and caring but sometimes I wanted to scream, "You don't fucking know what it's like!" or "You could never understand!"
But then I had to stop and think about the fact that he kind of did understand - he'd lost Jess to a monster too! Yes, the circumstances were different but he wanted to marry her and never got to so he understood the loss of that kind of love and the pain of feeling stuck in some type of way.
The difference was he'd jumped into hunting because that was the catalyst for his anger - it fueled him to move forward and kill the demon. The monster that took Dean out was already dead. Without Dean, I had nothing left but some fragile friendships and being Sam's sister-in-law. Hell, a vampire had stolen my car and wrecked the shit out of it - I didn't even have my own car after that!
I packed some snacks for them to take on the road and then I sat back at my spot and waited for them to be ready. After handing them off some food and water, we said our goodbyes and they left - I was completely alone in the bunker for the first time in years.
I felt as though I might be swallowed up by the vast silence of it all.
I went back to the kitchen to clean, ‘maybe if I kept busy I wouldn't notice the void as much,’ I thought.
Twice as I scrubbed pans and counters I swore I felt Dean's hand on my shoulder or hip. I couldn't have of course because nobody was there but me; it almost felt real enough to be believable.
When the kitchen was sparkling clean I made my way to the TV room, I couldn't even think of it as the Dean Cave anymore. I stepped across the threshold and was thrown back into a memory of Dean first showing Sam and I this very room - Dean had been working on some little project for a few weeks but insisted I couldn't know about it, and I'd been a good wife and ignored the sounds and curses that came from behind that door.
I still to this day don't know how he got some of the things into that room by himself. I remember we'd been given a large flat screen TV as a thank you for saving a pawn shop owner. When Dean hit the power button on the TV remote a violet light had come from the TV and the next thing we knew we were in an episode of Scooby-Doo.
I couldn't help but chuckle as I remembered Dean's lame attempt at flirting with Daphne, right up until he thought both the server at the malt shop and Fred were flirting with me.
I looked around the room and marveled as I thought of how each corner of that room held so many memories - so many memories condensed in that one little part of the bunker.
I turned on the TV to whatever seemed funny and wouldn't make me cry and I laid on the little love seat we'd acquired a few years back when I decided we needed something to cuddle on when he made me watch certain scary movies.
As I began to doze off I had the most realistic dream that someone had been rubbing my feet, but when I pushed myself up to look around, the room was empty - as I expected it to be - I was after all just having a dream.
Dean's POV
I couldn't figure out what had happened to me - I was there but neither Sammy nor Tally seemed to notice me.
I tried to comfort her but she just stared straight ahead like she couldn't see me. Sam was cleaning the area up and that's when I realized that I must be dead. The thing was, no reaper had shown up and for someone like me you'd think the reaper would be on the fast track to gather me and scoot my soul off this mortal coil.
None of it made sense, Tally just sat or stood wherever Sam placed her and shook slightly - her silent cries were killing me - or would have if I wasn't already dead.
Once it was all said and done and Sam was carrying my widow back to what once was my car I realized something was seriously wrong.
'Maybe the reapers don't want my soul,' I thought. 'Maybe it's too far gone and they are just going to leave me here.'
I decided to jump into the front seat but I couldn't get the passenger door open so I had to rush to the driver's side and slide across the bench seat.
I sat angled somewhat sideways in Sam's spot watching as he drove home, careful to stop and fill up the car and offer Tally something to eat and drink.
She was almost catatonic and I hated every second of it - I felt like I was trapped in my own body with no way to communicate.
I even tried to reach over the seat and push her hair from her beautiful face but it was as if I'd done nothing. Every time I tried to do something it was another reminder that I'd failed. Sure, the witch was dead but I wasn't there to protect my family now. I hated myself for getting killed on the easiest of hunts.
It took me nearly an hour to get into the bunker and by the time I did Tally was just heading into the bathroom. She sobbed and whimpered through her whole shower.
I wanted to comfort her so I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the shower with her - I kissed her cheek and told her I loved her and then I brushed that one wild piece of hair out of her face. She paused almost like she felt it and I got hopeful that maybe she'd realized I was standing right by her and we could have some kind of moment, but she simply shut the water off and stepped out to get dressed.
When she finished with her shower and went to her old room things started to sink in.
This was it - I had to figure out how to get her attention. If I didn't, eventually I'd go vengeful and hurt her and Sammy.
That first day home she hid in her old room for most of the day - couldn't get enough energy to walk through the wall or door so I had to wait until she came out to go get something and then I went in and sat on the chair in the corner of her room.
She had long ago put up some old string lights around the top of the walls because she said they made her feel happy after a bad hunt.
The only light on in her room was the string lights and it stayed that way for three days. I'm pretty sure the only reason she turned the regular light on is because I moved my wedding band to try and get her to realize I was there. All I succeeded in doing was upsetting her because she thought she lost it.
That did nothing but make me feel even more guilty.
I started spending time in my room practicing moving things but I'd have to exert so much energy I'd have to lay or sit down for long periods of time. It was also becoming very hard to keep track of day time versus night and how many days had passed. I was fairly certain my phone had been destroyed when I stabbed the witch. I simply didn’t have it.
Tally and Sam went rounds about her things going missing, neither of them thought to get out an EMF reader - I was really starting to wonder about their sanity and capability in hunting at this point.
I tried everything I could think of to get her attention - I'd walk past her randomly and run my hand across her shoulders, or touch her shoulder when I peeked over it to see what she was working on or reading about.
Each day she'd been getting into some pretty heavy scientific stuff - quantum theories, alternate dimensions, and even time travel. One day she pulled out a book, ‘Beyond the Grave,’ she was starting to get to the correct conclusion but it was taking too long.
I wasn't experiencing hunger like I should have either but when I realized that I was getting hungry I did manage to get ahold of some of the leftovers after a couple of meals.
Once I'd mastered moving small things, I started moving her coffee mug further away - finally putting it in our bedroom. My plan failed because she walked up to the door and immediately yelled for Sam.
She'd scolded him for moving her mug into room 11 and he'd dutifully gone in and grabbed it, along with stepping back over to grab one of my flannels off my chair for her. He really was trying to keep her company and help her after losing me.
I stood there in my room completely helpless and totally invisible to the two most important people in my life - or past life.
It took some powering up but I managed to move Sam's phone then rush to the laundry room where she was working. Sam came looking for her to ask if she'd moved his phone and I tried to get Sam's attention but I wasn't charged up enough.
When he left the room she looked up and stated, “God Dean, I don’t know if you can hear me. I miss you and I’m going to get you back.”
Then she grabbed her laundry basket and I grabbed the empty soap bottle from the trash can and threw it as hard as I could at the ground.
Although it wasn't as loud as I'd liked it did make her jump and return to inspect the bottle and the trash bin. She didn't get the clue though.
It took me two days to realize I could make certain things happen for her. I've always enjoyed bringing pleasure to the woman I'm with and pleasing my wife has made me especially proud of myself. I never leave her wanting and being buried in her makes me just as happy, obviously so I climbed in bed with her.
She was wearing a tee shirt and a pair of sleep shorts I'd picked out for her years ago. I pulled her against me and whispered in her ear, "I'm right here, can you feel me?"
She moaned and pushed back against me so I did something we'd done when we were younger - we called it the, "special wake-up call."
The actual term is somnophilia and that might not even be the most correct term but we took turns waking each other up with sex - thus the wake-up call. I was hoping to bring her some physical release so her body could truly rest, or if she woke up maybe she'd figure out I was right there with her.
I worked my hand into her shorts and carefully rubbed and touched her until she was melting into me. I carefully tested inserting one finger and working it in and out of her slowly for several minutes before adding a second digit.
She shifted her body so she was laying on her back which gave me more room to work and I had laid there next to her fingering her to full climax. I honestly loved the way her body clinched around me - even if it was just my fingers. She moaned and whined as she writhed about the bed. I think the amount of booze she'd had that night was the only thing keeping her from waking up fully.
She'd been so frustrated with the state of her clothing and bed it was kind of funny to watch her strip and change the bedding all the while muttering and cursing at the stupid horny state of her mind.
Then that night when Sam's phone rang at dinner time I could see how the color drained from her lips - she was already panicking and probably feeling guilty as fuck when she told Sam she wouldn't be going with them.
I needed to try harder to get her attention!
I watched as she packed up some snacks and bottles of water for Sam and Eileen to go help another hunter with a Banshee hunt - ‘there probably isn't a more capable duo for that in the US.’
It did make me proud of her to see her taking care of Sam and Eileen. I knew she didn’t think she was being good to them since I’d died but she was doing her best.
When she stepped out to the garage to see them off I ate the rest of the chili in Sam's bowl. I still hadn't been able to cook my own food or even dish it up, and I was so hungry. I'd figured out that I could eat leftovers that were sitting out, and it meant she wouldn't have to scrape the bowl clean before washing it.
Being a ghost was weird - I still couldn't figure out why or how I was getting hungry.
When Tally came back to the kitchen I watched her scratch her head and mutter, "I swore there was chili left in that dish," but after looking in the trash can she ultimately gave up and just cleaned the kitchen.
I felt bad because I had to go lie down - I'd interacted too much and needed to re-charge. When I got up from my "ghost nap" I walked to the Dean Cave and I found Tally frozen in place looking around the room as if it were filled with ghosts - and in a way I suppose the whole bunker was filled with ghosts to her. That was why she wouldn't step foot in our bedroom - she acted as if the bedroom was a personal attack on her.
That made my heart ache for her - another thing I didn't know ghosts could do or experience.
I watched her stare at the bar in the corner - I wondered if she was thinking the same thing as me, because the sight of it reminded me of the time I had her laid out on top of it just eating her out. We'd done it in many rooms in the bunker - sometimes you gotta release some pressure between hunts or arguments and there's a lot of space in the bunker.
She moved to the little love seat she insisted we needed for movie nights and she laid across it pulling the blanket off the back of the couch and snuggling under it.
Once she was settled I moved over to the end and sat down, she was curled in a half fetal position so there was a little room. Without thinking I reached out and started to rub her foot. She seemed to be dozing off into a pretty deep sleep but then jerked up and looked around the room.
I realized that she had felt what I was doing and she looked a little freaked out.
"It was just a dream. You're freaking yourself out over nothing," she muttered and turned off the TV before walking quickly back to the library and pulling out a book to research.
I hated it but I had to sit down - I was exhausted after that.
Summary: You finally catch up with Dean, but being alone with him proves much more dangerous than you anticipated.
CHAPTER 7 MASTERLIST
Story tags: Demon!Dean, Plus-Size reader, Reader is from a different reality, Action, Violence, Angst, Drama, Blood Magic, Blood play, Smut, Rough sex, Emotional strain, Moral conflict, POV Dean Winchester, Canon Divergence, Married Dean Winchester, POV Second person, POV Alternating, No use of y/n, Ordinary sequel
A/N: Here we go. Let me know if I got that Demon Dean character right.
Dean was living his best life.
About damn time, too.
He had no idea how the hell he woke up with black eyes after Ramiel beat his ass into the floor of Hell and sliced him open, and he didn’t really care. There was probably some big answer. Some cosmic crap. Maybe he’d punched his card enough times downstairs to get the upgrade.
Whatever.
Worked out pretty damn good from where he was sitting.
Being a demon had perks. The healing? Awesome. Getting punched, cut, burned, shot, all of it went away before it could turn into a real problem. The strength wasn’t half bad either. He could drop a grown man with one hit if he felt like it. And yeah, most days he felt like it.
The black eyes were a nice touch too. Scared the hell out of people. Saved time.
Best part, though? No guilt.
No shame. No voice in his head asking what Sam would think, no damn lecture about doing the right thing. No saving people, hunting things, family business sitting on his back every second of the day, weighing him down.
That had been the real joke, hadn’t it? All those years thinking he was free because he had the car and a road in front of him. Bullshit. He’d been chained to everybody else's problems since he was four years old. Dad’s orders. Sammy’s life. The world ending every other damn Tuesday. Angels. Demons. Prophets. Hell. Heaven. Purgatory.
Her.
His wife looking at him with those eyes every time she thought he was one bad day away from losing it.
Exhausting.
Now? Now he did whatever the hell he wanted. Drank until the bottle ran dry, then grabbed another. Ate when he felt like it. Slept when he bothered. Picked fights because some asshole looked at him wrong, breathed too loud, or because Dean was bored and wanted to feel bones crack under his fist.
And people got in his way. A lot. Bartenders with opinions. Bouncers with hero complexes. Some jackass at a gas station waving a gun around before Dean had even finished reading his morning papers.
Yeah, Dean liked fixing that.
Liked how fast a room changed when everybody realized he wasn’t playing by the same rules. Liked the fear, and the silence after. That look people got when their brains finally caught up and told them they’d made a real bad call.
Mostly, though, he liked being left the fuck alone. No wife, no brother, no friends breathing down his neck.
Yeah. Dean was having the time of his life.
Except that was a load of crap.
Because the truth was, he was pissed.
Goddamn furious, actually. It sat under his skin, all day, every day. He drank, fought, laughed, sang bad karaoke just to piss off a whole bar. He let women smile at him, touch his arm, lean in close and make promises they thought sounded dirty.
He hit strip clubs because why the hell wouldn’t he? Cheap booze, loud music, naked women. And nobody asking him what he was feeling after.
Should’ve been perfect.
It wasn’t.
He tried anyway. Let a blonde in a red dress drag her nails down his chest. Let a brunette breathe filthy crap into his ear. Sat close enough to the stage that some dancer’s perfume stuck to his jacket, her thighs right there, bare and open because he had cash in his hand.
Nothing.
A whole lot of nothing.
His body worked fine. Better than fine, actually. His brain was the problem. His stupid, stubborn, son of a bitch brain kept looking at every woman in front of him and picking her apart. Lining her up against the one that wouldn’t get the hell out of his head.
Too tall. Too thin. Too loud. Wrong mouth. Wrong laugh. Wrong hands. Wrong eyes.
Wrong everything.
And why the fuck should he chase other guys’ scraps when he already had the good stuff?
That was the part that pissed him off. He could have anyone. That should’ve been the whole damn point. Take what he wanted and move on. Except every time some woman got close, all he could think was that she wasn’t his. Didn’t know where to put her hands. Didn’t know when to push, when to shut up and let him get his mouth on her. Didn’t know what made him lose his goddamn mind.
His wife knew.
Yeah, his wife burned him now, which was a real pain in the ass, but she knew.
And that was the problem.
He’d been in a strip club a few nights ago. The dancer had leaned down, all fake smile and practiced moves. She was good. Dean would give her that. Had the whole room watching. Men sitting there with their mouths open, ready to empty their wallets because a pretty girl looked at them for five damn minutes.
Dean watched her and got annoyed.
Because she wasn’t his wife.
Then his brain did something stupid. He pictured her up there instead. Her body under the lights. Her hips moving. Her eyes on him. That nervous little look she got when she wanted to be bold and hated being watched at the same time. All those men staring at her. Wanting her. Thinking about her.
His hand tightened around his glass until it cracked.
He reached for the dancer, and some bouncer decided to be a hero. Dean barely remembered what the idiot said. Something about hands off. Something about taking it outside. Then the guy touched the dancer’s arm, guiding her back. And Dean saw that hand on his wife.
That was it. Lights out.
He had the guy’s face smashed against the edge of the stage before the poor bastard even understood he was in a fight. Blood hit the floor. Somebody screamed. The dancer stumbled back so fast she almost ate shit in her heels. Dean kept hitting him. Again and again, because the picture wouldn’t get out of his head.
Another man’s hand on his wife. Another man thinking he could tell her what to do.
Hell no.
Nobody touched what belonged to him.
And she belonged to him.
Yeah, okay. He left her. That one was on him. He walked out of the bunker because he could. Left Sam on the floor with his girlfriend scrambling for him. Left his wife standing there with his gun in her hands and that broken look on her face.
Because she shot him.
His sweet, bleeding-heart, please-let-me-save-you wife put a bullet in his chest because he pushed her hard enough and she broke right where he wanted her to. He could still feel it. Her hand under his. The kick of the gun. The way her whole face went empty after, like he’d made her do something she could never take back.
Yeah. He had.
And damn, had it felt good.
Dean was pretty sure he could make her do anything. Because she loved him that much.
He didn’t love her like that anymore. That soft crap was gone. The hand-holding, wedding-vow, die-for-you garbage. Human Dean could keep all that. Dean wasn’t sitting around missing candlelight or pillow talk or that look she gave him when she thought he was still good underneath.
Screw that. He didn’t want to be fixed. He didn’t want her telling him he was sick, or Sam looking at him with that kicked-puppy face and talking about cures.
But her love?
That was fun.
She loved him so much she couldn’t think straight when he was in the room. She loved him so much she followed him even after he dropped Sam. She aimed a gun at him with both hands shaking and still needed him to make the call.
His wife loved him so much he could stand in front of her with someone else’s blood on his hands, and she’d still search his face for her husband.
That was devotion. That was power and she had handed it to him. Just like that. The only irritating part was the burn.
Because she was his.
And Dean wanted her.
That was where everything kept jamming up. He wanted his hands on his wife. Wanted her under him, over him, against him. Wanted her breathing hard, trying to hate how much she still reacted. Wanted her mouth, her thighs, her hands grabbing at him because, for one second, she forgot she was supposed to be scared.
Yeah, he wanted that part where she stopped thinking. Always his favorite.
And now he couldn’t touch her.
Every time he thought about that, he wanted to break something. So he did. Trashed a motel room one night just because there wasn’t anybody around worth hitting. Broke the mirror, smashed a chair through the TV, tore the place apart until his knuckles were bloody and healed again.
Didn’t help.
Cheap girls didn’t help. Drinking didn’t help. Porn didn’t help. The fights got boring. Even the fear started tasting the same.
His mind kept going back to her.
Every damn time.
So he started calling. At first, it was funny. Just a little game. Let the phone ring once, maybe twice in the middle of the night. Hang up before she could answer. Picture her jolting awake, scared and hopeful, reaching for the phone with his side of the bed cold beside her.
Yeah, that was good. But then she called back and that changed things.
The first time he heard her voice through the line, rough with sleep and fear, Dean had to close his eyes. That pissed him off, too, because it worked on him. Not in some sad, soft way. It didn’t make him want to apologize or crawl back home and beg her to forgive him.
Fuck that.
No, it made him want to be there. In the room with her. In their bed. Close enough to watch her say his name with that crack in her voice. Close enough to see if she’d reach for him before she remembered she shouldn’t.
So he said nothing.
Let her ask who it was. Let her breathe too hard into the phone. Let her finally whisper his name. Dean didn’t answer. He just listened. And well… maybe he enjoyed that more than he should have.
He knew they’d been chasing him for three weeks.
Sam, because Sam was predictable as hell. He’d hunt until he dropped. Make that tight, miserable face and talk about saving Dean because Sammy never knew when to quit. Charlie helped for sure. Eileen too, trying to keep Sam from losing it. Cas probably hovered around being useless, feeling guilty.
Dean let the whole Scooby gang catch enough to keep them moving. Left crumbs when it suited him. Let them get close, then walked away. Again and again.
But all he wanted was to get his wife away from them.
Dean wanted her alone. With him. Long enough to stop focusing on a pointless cure and admit she still wanted him. Even like this. Especially like this. She admitted once, a long time ago, she had a thing for dangerous Dean. Well, it didn't get more dangerous than this.
He just needed to figure out how to shut that damn burn off, because Dean was done watching from a distance. Done listening to her voice through a phone. Done pretending any woman who wasn’t her was worth his time.
He smiled behind the wheel of a stolen car and turned toward the gas station ahead.
Time to pick up his wife.
He waited until Sam got out of the car.
His wife sat in the passenger seat with the laptop open across her knees, head down, working hard. Probably blaming herself for every bad thing Dean had done since he walked out of the bunker.
Yeah. This was gonna be fun.
Dean watched from the side of the building, out of view of the pumps and the store windows. Sam went inside to pay for gas and that was all Dean needed.
He slid in behind the wheel and shut the door. She didn't even look up. He was right beside her and she had no damn clue.
He took one second to look at her before she noticed. She looked tired as hell. Pale, dark circles under her eyes. Hair pulled back too tight. His ring still on her finger.
Dean smiled.
Then he turned the key.
Impala woke up under his hands with that familiar rumble and his smile got wider because she still didn’t look up.
Eyes moving fast over the screen, one hand near the trackpad, the other resting against the side of the laptop. He could see the tension in her shoulders, the stubborn set of her mouth. Even worn down, she was still working the problem. Still trying to find him. That was that devotion again. Right there. Stupid and dangerous, making her careless because she was too busy trying to save the guy she married.
Adorable, really.
Dean let his eyes drag over her slowly. The FBI fit was a test of his goddamn willpower. The white shirt was holding on for dear life, buttons straining, fabric pulled tight across her chest. Dark slacks hugged her thighs where the laptop rested. She had probably thrown the outfit on without the second thought. To look official while they ran around the crime scene.
Dean wanted to haul her across the seat and ruin the whole crisp little fed suit. Ruin her. He had missed that body more than he wanted to admit and now it was sitting inches away from him.
His fingers tightened on the wheel. The burn was the only thing stopping him. The fact that if he grabbed her now, she might scorch half his damn skin off before they made it out of the parking lot.
Fucking annoying.
He bit his bottom lip hard enough to feel the sting, dragged his eyes back up, and finally gave her the courtesy of letting her know their little game had changed.
‘Hey, sweetheart.’
Her whole body went still. Just for a split second.
Then her head snapped up fast enough for him to see the shock hit. Her eyes went wide. The last bit of color drained out of her face, and Dean watched fear kick through. Then disbelief.
He stayed relaxed behind the wheel, one hand resting low, the other near the gearshift. Her gaze moved over his face before she could stop herself. She took in the hair, the scruff, his hands. Took him in sitting there in his own damn car, grinning at her, and he saw the exact second her panic got tangled with something messier.
Dean caught that, of course.
Fear was there, a lot of it. Smart. He was dangerous, and she knew it. But her eyes dropped to his mouth, and he could tell by the way her lips pressed together right after… she hated that she looked.
Yeah, she definitely liked what she saw. He always knew when she liked what she saw.
Dean’s grin sharpened.
Her hand twitched toward the door and he didn’t move to stop her. He didn't have to.
She looked toward the store. Toward the open lot outside the windshield. He could practically see the thoughts lining up in that big brain of hers. Open the door. Scream for Sam. Burn him if he grabbed her. Maybe jump out before he pulled away. Good plan, a real solid hunter move.
She didn’t do any of it.
Because she had been searching for him for three weeks, and now he was right there. Because she wasn’t stupid enough to throw away the first real shot she’d had since he walked out of the bunker.
Dean looked at her and smirked. ‘How ’bout we go for a ride?’
She didn’t answer. Her throat moved when she swallowed.
Dean kept his eyes on hers for another beat, because he wanted her to know exactly what was happening. ‘Just you and me.’
Then he shifted into reverse and backed the Impala away from the pump.
That finally broke something loose in her. ‘Dean.’
God, that voice. Rough from exhaustion. Careful as hell. Trying so hard not to shake.
‘What are you doing?’
Dean turned the wheel, eased Baby toward the exit, and smiled at the road.
‘Oh, whatever I want.’
Her breathing changed. Just a little. Not enough for a human to catch. Human Dean probably would’ve missed it too, busy being torn up about feelings.
But now, Dean caught everything.
Her eyes flicked toward the gas station doors again. Of course, Sam was still inside. Dean didn’t even look. Didn’t care enough to. What he cared about was having her eyes back on him. He liked them there. And three weeks of watching from a distance had made him meaner about it. He wanted her looking. Wanted her scared, wanted her mad. Wanted all that attention aimed at him where it fucking should be.
In the rearview mirror, the station door burst open. Sam came running out, face going slack with panic when he saw the Impala moving. Poor Sammy. Always a step too late and making the same pathetic expression every damn time.
His wife turned in the seat, looking back through the rear window.
‘Sam,’ she breathed.
Dean gave the gas a little more pressure.
The engine opened up and the car surged forward fast. Sam ran, chasing them for a few useless seconds. Dean watched him in the mirror, long legs rushing through the lot, one hand already reaching for his phone. He shouted something Dean couldn’t hear. Then he slowed. Stopped. Stood there in the lot, getting smaller by the second.
Dean chuckled. ‘Attaboy.’
Her phone buzzed almost immediately.
Dean held out his hand, palm up, eyes on the road. ‘Your phone.’
She didn’t move. The phone buzzed again.
His fingers curled once in the air. ‘Sweetheart?’
Dean glanced over. She had pulled it from her pocket, and Sam’s name lit up the screen. Her thumb hovered close, but she didn’t answer. She looked at Dean instead, fear tighter now.
He could see the defiance sit under the fear. Small, stubborn, right in her eyes. She knew the phone mattered. She knew why he wanted it. And she didn't want to give it up easily.
‘Give me the damn phone!’
The snap of his voice made her flinch. His mouth twitched, because he didn’t care. She wanted to play tough, she could deal with him running short on patience.
She chewed the inside of her cheek. Weighing her options. Then she slapped the phone into his palm, hard. And made damn sure her fingers dragged across his skin when she did it.
Pain shot through his hand, hot and mean. His palm hissed. Smoke curled up between his fingers for half a second before the contact broke. Dean’s grip tightened around the phone, and his jaw clenched before he could stop it.
Son of a bitch.
She watched him, chin lifted, eyes bright with terrified satisfaction.
Dean laughed under his breath, flexing his burned fingers around the phone. The skin was already stitching itself back together, but the sting stayed long enough to piss him off. And turn him on at the same time.
So that was how she wanted to play.
‘Good girl.’
Her expression twisted.
Dean crushed the phone in his fist. Plastic cracked, glass popped. The screen shattered inward, buzzing once in a pathetic little rattle before going dark. Dean rolled down the window and tossed the pieces out onto the road.
She watched them scatter behind the car. For one second, her face slipped. Fear came up again, sharp and real. She looked out the windshield, then toward the side mirror. Tracking the route. Counting turns. Trying to figure out where Sam was behind them and how long before he got a car.
Dean could almost respect it.
‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, jaw flexing.
Dean didn’t answer. Silence bothered her more. He knew it would.
She shifted in the seat, anger taking over. Good. He always liked her with some fire in her. Her breathing had picked up again, and that damn shirt was still doing its best to keep his attention.
Dean forced his eyes back to the road.
She stayed quiet for a while.
Not because she had nothing to say. Dean knew better. Her mouth was tight, her hands clenched around the laptop, and her pulse jumped at her neck. She was holding back. He could almost see her building and rebuilding the plan. If she jumped out, she got hurt. If she burned him, he might crash the car. If she pushed too hard, Dean might disappear again.
That was the part holding her still. He knew it. She knew it.
She wasn’t backing down because she trusted him. No, she was doing it because leaving meant losing him all over again.
Dean dragged his teeth over his bottom lip, because damn if that didn’t work for him.
He reached over and closed the laptop with two fingers. His arm passed close enough that her breath hitched and she jerked it away from his reach. His eyes flicked down. That shirt pulled tighter, the fabric straining across her boobs with the sudden movement. His grip tightened on the wheel until the old leather creaked.
‘Put that in the back.’
‘It’s not connected to anything because you crushed my fucking phone,' she mouthed off. That pleased him more than it should have.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘And I also told you to put the damn thing in the back.’
She didn’t move fast enough.
Dean let the smile drop.
‘Now.’
That did it. Her eyes flicked to his face, and this time she must have seen something there she didn’t want to push. She turned carefully, set the laptop on the back seat, then faced front again with both hands in her lap.
Dean glanced down.
‘Look at you,’ he said with a little smirk. ‘Still wearing the ring.’
Her left hand tightened before she looked down. Then she covered it with her right.
Dean huffed a quiet laugh. ‘That’s cute.’
Her gaze moved to his hands on the wheel.
He flexed his left hand, letting her see the bare finger. No ring. He hadn’t really thrown it away, he just didn’t need it on his hand. Didn’t need the silver and her blood sitting there pretending they meant the same thing now.
Her face cracked for one second before she forced it down.
‘Aw,’ he said, smiling. ‘You don’t like that, do you?’
She stared out the windshield.
Dean leaned back, one hand loose on the wheel. ‘I can hear your breathing change, sweetheart. It's, uh, cute little tell you’ve got there.’
‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked again, voice firmer now.
She was pulling herself back together. He could practically see her trying to keep her breathing under control.
‘Already told you. For a ride.’
She turned toward him, lifting her hand a few inches between them, palm angled toward him. A warning. Her fingers were steady enough to look almost impressive.
‘I won’t ask again.’
Dean glanced at her hand, then back at the road.
‘Or what? Hm? You gonna touch me?' he smiled, flashing his black eyes. 'Go ahead, make a move. See how it ends.’
He expected her to recoil at that. She didn't. Her hand stayed there.
Brave little act, sure. But now it was kinda starting to get on his nerves. Also making his blood heat in a way that had nothing to do with rage.
‘You still think your touch scares me?’ he asked. ‘That’s great.’
He checked the mirror, took the next turn with easy speed, and watched the empty road ahead.
Every second sitting this close to her was starting to grind under his skin. She smelled the same. That was the real problem. Same shampoo, same skin, same warm, sweet scent. Close enough to touch and still completely out of reach.
Three weeks of cheap liquor and even cheaper women, and now she was right there.
He wanted his hand on her knee. Wanted his fingers under that shirt, popping those buttons one by one because they were already fighting a losing battle. Wanted to lay her down on the bench seat and remind her how fast he could make her stop thinking.
His palm still stung from the phone, reminding him her magic sat between them like a goddamn wall.
Dean flexed his burned fingers around the wheel and smiled because the alternative was putting his fist through the dash.
‘Look, we both know you ain’t gonna do it. Not while you still think your Dean’s coming back.’
Her mouth tightened.
‘The only reason I’m holding back,’ she said through her teeth, ‘is because I don’t want to accidentally kill you.'
‘Uh-huh.’
‘But believe me, I have no problem hurting you.’
Dean’s smile widened. Because that right there, that was something worth playing with.
‘Yeah, I bet you don’t,’ he said. ‘Gun worked just fine, right?’
Yep, perfect hit.
Her reaction was exactly what he expected. Anger dropped out of her face so fast it was almost funny. Pain was there now, real pain. She tried to hide it by turning toward the window, jaw tight, one hand curling against her thigh.
Dean remembered the sound of that shot like it had happened five minutes ago. He had pushed and pushed until she broke, and part of him still liked knowing he could do that.
‘That one still keeping you up?’ he asked, knowing damn well what he was doing to her.
She didn't answer right away, just kept staring at the road outside. Then she looked at him slowly.
‘Fuck you.’
Her eyes flashed and for a second, he thought she might actually touch him. Slap him, burn him, make him swerve straight off the damn road. And part of him wanted her to. Part of him wanted her to stop pretending she was nice and sweet, and finally hit back.
Instead, she curled the hand on her thigh tighter. She breathed in through her nose, slow, careful. Trying to calm down, to hold herself back. Dean watched the way her chest rose and hated the goddamn shirt again.
The want came up hard enough to make his teeth clench. He wanted to grab the back of her neck and make her look up at him.
He didn’t.
Couldn’t.
Because of the fucking magic.
Dean turned down another road. Less traffic now, fewer houses, more trees crowding the edge of the pavement. He knew where he was going. Had picked the place a couple days ago. Sam wouldn’t find it fast. Cas might not find it at all if Dean got the angel proofing right.
She noticed the turn and her posture changed. Shoulders tighter. Right hand moving toward the door again, very slow this time.
‘Relax,’ he said and his voice came out a little strained. Dean forced his hand loose on the wheel before the leather cracked under his grip. ‘I’m not gonna hurt you.’
She scoffed, but there was no humor in it. ‘You expect me to believe that?’
‘I’m serious.’ He glanced at her, voice dropping. ‘If I wanted you dead, sweetheart, you wouldn’t be sitting there glaring at me.’
She swallowed. Then her eyes narrowed, because the road closed in ahead. Dean slowed just enough to take the turn, then cut the wheel hard onto a smaller road half-hidden between trees.
‘Then what do you want?’
Dean smiled again. He heard the shake under the words. She tried hard to bury it under anger. She always did that when she was scared and trying not to give anyone the satisfaction.
‘I want my wife,’ he said simply.
That made her flinch again.
Then she straightened, pulling herself back together.
‘Your wife is sitting right here,’ she said carefully. ‘So what happens now?’
Dean’s smile sharpened, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned his attention back to the road, because staring at her too long was making the hunger worse. She kept breathing too hard and he could hear every damn rise of her chest. He knew the difference between fear and wanting. Knew her body too well to buy the whole act.
Gravel cracked under the tires. The road behind them vanished fast, swallowed by the woods and the low growl of the engine. She looked out the windshield, then back at him, alarm rising fast now.
The trees closed in around them, thick and dark on both sides of the narrow road. Branches scraped along the car. Beside him, she grabbed the edge of the seat, eyes wide.
Dean kept one hand on the wheel and watched her from the corner of his eye.
She was scared now. Really scared.
Dean smiled and drove them deeper into the woods.
Every part of your body was screaming at you to do something.
Burn him. Grab him. Throw yourself out of the car and run for your life before he got you anywhere farther from Sam, farther from cameras and witnesses.
But your mind wouldn’t let you.
You had spent three weeks trying to find him. Three weeks staring at security footage until your eyes burned, chasing dead ends, listening to silent calls in the middle of the night, trying to push through grief and terror. And now he was here. Right next to you. Driving with one hand on the wheel and that awful smile on his face, taking you God knows where, while the broken pieces of your phone were scattered somewhere on the road behind you.
You couldn’t screw this up by panicking.
That was always how it went, wasn’t it? You thought you could fix something by acting fast, by throwing yourself into the worst part of the situation and trusting that courage would carry you through. Then it turned into something complicated and even more dangerous.
So no. You had to be smart.
You were scared out of your damn mind, of course you were. You were trapped in a car with a demon. You knew what demons were, what they did. What he had done.
Still, he had not killed you. He hadn’t even hurt you, not physically at least. He had crushed your phone, mocked you, scared you, and pushed every painful button he could reach, but he had still kept both hands to himself. That meant he needed something from you. Dean wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of taking you from under Sam’s nose just to leave a body in the woods. He wouldn’t risk Sam following, wouldn’t risk your magic against his skin unless there was a reason.
That was the part that made your blood boil.
He knew you wouldn’t hurt him unless you had no choice, and that every time you imagined using your hands on him like that, something inside you twisted. It made you so angry you almost wanted to hurt him just to wipe that certainty off his face.
But your husband was still inside him. Somewhere. Twisted, trapped, whatever the hell happened to his soul down there. And if you wanted to bring him home, if you wanted to cure him, you needed to be careful.
That didn’t mean seeing him drive you deeper into the forest wasn’t freaking you the hell out.
You had no idea what he was planning or why he had suddenly decided to come after you now. It sure as hell wasn’t love. You doubted demons loved anything besides saving their own filthy skins.
And power.
They loved power. You had learned that the hard way. With Abaddon, with Crowley, with every black-eyed son of a bitch that had ever smiled while trying to tear someone apart from the inside out.
So maybe that was what this was. Power.
This demonic version of your husband wanted control, and who better to practice on than his wife? The woman who still wore his ring, who could burn demons alive but couldn’t burn him without losing sleep over it?
Your hands curled around the edge of the seat. If he thought you were going to bow down and do whatever the hell he wanted, he was in for a rough ride.
At least, that was what you kept telling yourself while trying to ignore the insane fear blooming in your chest.
The road had barely been a road for the last few minutes. Gravel and dirt crunched under the tires, branches scraping against the Impala’s windows and roof with soft, ugly sounds that made your skin crawl. Baby was built for highways, back roads, long drives with music too loud and Dean’s hand warm on your thigh. She was not supposed to be here, carrying you deeper into a place where no one could see what happened next.
Trees pressed in on both sides, thick enough to block most of the fading light, and your pulse jumped again.
You hated that, so much, because apparently Dean could hear it now. Or sense it, or whatever creepy demon thing he had been using since he got into the car. He caught every hitch in your breathing, every time your body betrayed you by reacting to him, because he looked good. Terrifying, sure, but incredibly hot.
God, that part made you want to crawl out of your own skin.
Your husband had become the same thing that destroyed your family. The thing your great-grandfather had sacrificed himself to protect his wife and child from. The thing your bloodline had been built to burn.
And still your heart kicked too hard every time your body remembered how big and strong and confident he was beside you.
Fucking disgrace.
You forced your fingers to uncurl from the seat.
You were going to pull yourself together. You were going to focus on getting Dean back. You were going to keep him from hurting anyone else.
You were going to keep him from hurting you.
Dean made a slow turn through the trees, careful enough that it told you he had been here before. The road dipped, then climbed slightly, and the branches parted just enough for you to see the cabin ahead.
It was small, old, beat-up, with dark windows and a porch that looked one heavy step away from giving out. It was nothing like the lodge your great-grandfather had left you by the lake. This looked closer to the places Sam and Dean had been forced to use after Bobby’s house burned down.
Your throat tightened.
Dean rolled the Impala to a stop right in front of it and shut the engine off. The sudden silence pressed hard against your ears.
For a second, you couldn’t move. Your eyes stayed fixed on the cabin, trying to make sense of it. Part of you had expected this the moment he turned into the woods, because of course he wouldn’t take you somewhere public.
That still didn’t tell you what he wanted.
‘I know what you’re thinkin’.’
Dean's voice snapped you out of it, low and close enough to make your shoulders tense.
You turned your head to look at him.
He was already watching you. Leaned back in the driver's seat, his body angled toward you now, one arm draped over the wheel. His mouth curved with lazy satisfaction.
‘I’m not gonna rip your throat out and bury the body behind the shack.’
His eyes moved over you slowly. He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, and the look on his face made heat crawl up your neck despite the cold fear in your gut.
‘I might bite, though.’
Anger snapped through you so fast you almost snarled at him. He looked so pleased with himself. So careless and full of himself, making jokes while your pulse was still trying to beat its way through your throat.
Then the practical part of your brain finally caught up and you realized…
He wasn’t driving anymore.
The engine was off. The keys were still there. The wheel was right there.
You could threaten him. Burn him just enough to force him back. Incapacitate him, maybe. Get behind the wheel. Drive straight back to the bunker, lock him down, and start the cure before he had time to disappear again.
You didn’t give yourself time to think it through.
You threw yourself across the seat at him.
The space was tight. Your knee landed hard against his thigh, your ass slammed into the steering wheel, and the edge of the seat dug into you sharply enough to hurt. You didn’t care. One hand braced against the backrest behind his shoulder, and you forced yourself over him, straddling him awkwardly in the driver’s seat before he had time to react.
For once, Dean’s eyes went wide.
Not from pain or strain under your weight.
From pure shock.
For one glorious second, you had caught him off guard.
That gave you the opening.
You shoved your forearm under his jaw, pressing it hard against his throat and forcing his head back against the seat. Your sleeve kept your skin from touching his directly, which meant you weren’t burning him yet. Your fist stayed close to the side of his neck, bare knuckles barely an inch from his skin.
You leaned over him, breathing hard, face almost level with his.
‘Enough,’ you growled and your voice almost didn’t sound like yours.
Dean stared up at you. No smirk now.
‘If you think you can toy with me,’ you said, pressing your forearm harder into his throat, ‘if you think you can just kidnap me and I’ll follow like some lovesick puppy, you’re out of your damn mind.’
Dean stayed completely silent. His eyes were locked on yours.
You were shaking now, but rage made it easier to hide.
‘I will burn the fuck out of you.’
The words came fast, pulled out of grief and loss and every sleepless night, every nightmare, every silent call, every crime scene, every second you spent staring at his empty side of the bed, wondering what he was doing.
‘I swear to God, Dean, I will do it. I will cut my skin open and bleed on you if I have to, and trust me, that will hurt worse than anything you have ever felt.’ Your breath dragged through your teeth. ‘So unless you want to find out exactly how much of you I can burn off before you stop healing, you’re going to move your black-eyed ass out of the driver’s seat and let me take you home.’
You held him there.
Your forearm stayed hard against his throat. Your fist hovered close to his skin. Your heart slammed so violently you were sure he could hear it. His eyes sharpened under you.
Then his hands came up slowly and stopped at your sides, hovering just inches from your body. Not touching. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him through your shirt and the space between you. For one second, you braced for him to grab you.
He didn’t.
Heat started building under your sleeve where your arm pinned his neck. The fabric softened the burn, but it didn’t block it. Your magic pushed through anyway, and Dean’s jaw tightened just enough to tell you he felt it.
Good. Let him.
You expected him to fight. To throw you off. To slam you into the dash or grab your wrist and twist until something broke. You were ready for it. Terrified, but ready. If he hurt you, you would stop holding back.
But instead, his eyes narrowed.
His lips parted, and the tip of his tongue pressed briefly against his teeth.
Then the amusement came back. Slow. Awful.
Dean's hands lifted a little higher in mock surrender, smile spreading.
‘Oh, baby,’ he said, voice rough around the pressure on his throat, ‘I’m right where I wanna be.’
His eyes dropped.
You followed the look before you could stop yourself.
The sudden lunge had popped several buttons on your shirt free, leaving your bra and the heavy swell of your breasts exposed in the narrow space between you. Right in his line of sight.
‘Fuck,’ you snapped under your breath.
Heat rushed into your face, but you refused to move. This was not the time. You were not going to let him make you flustered enough to retreat.
You opened your mouth to repeat the demand. One last warning before things got ugly.
Then you felt him. Hard. Pressed right up against you where you were straddling his lap.
The realization hit so sharply that your hand almost slipped from its place near his throat.
Your face burned hotter. You were straddling him, threatening to burn him alive, and apparently this just counted as goddamn foreplay to him. Your whole body went rigid, heat rushing into places you should not be thinking about right now.
Dean felt you freeze. His smile turned filthy.
For one stupid second, embarrassment lowered your guard.
That was all he needed.
He moved with a strength you weren’t prepared for, even after everything you knew. One moment you had him pinned under your arm, and the next his hands closed on your waist, burning under the fabric as he hauled you off him and shoved you down across the front bench seat.
Air punched out of your lungs.
Your back hit the old vinyl upholstery. Your hip slammed against the edge of the seat. Before you could get your hand up, Dean was over you, one knee braced between yours, one hand planted near your ribs, the other gripping your shoulder, pinning you in place.
The fabric kept him from direct skin, but the burn still flared between you. You smelled it almost immediately. His skin blistering under his own grip. His jaw clenched, eyes black now, but he didn’t let go.
He leaned over you with a smile that made your chest seize.
‘You wanna play hunter with me?’ he asked, voice low and dangerous. ‘Fine. We can play all you want.’
You tried to twist under him. His grip tightened, and the burn got worse. Still, he didn’t move.
‘But if you keep pushin', sweetheart, eventually I’m gonna push back.’
You shoved against him with your forearm, trying to get enough space to bring your bare hand up. He shifted his weight down before you could, trapping your arm between your bodies. You kicked once, knee scraping against the underside of the dash, and he pressed his hips down harder to stop you.
Your breath caught.
You hated the tiny pull that answered low in your stomach. Hated it so much it made your eyes burn.
‘Get off me,’ you forced out.
Dean’s eyes dropped to your mouth, then back to your face. His smile widened just enough to tell you he had felt the change in your body.
The burn was getting worse. His jaw clenched, and a faint tremor moved through his fingers, but he still didn’t let go.
Then his expression shifted. The amusement faded. His eyes dropped to his hands, to the red, ruined skin already trying to heal, and for the first time since he pinned you, irritation cut clean through.
‘I want my wife,’ he said, quieter now. ‘Your magic’s gettin’ in the damn way.’
Your heart kicked.
The reason he had brought you here was suddenly clear, and it made your stomach turn.
Dean’s eyes came back to yours.
‘So now you’re gonna be a good little pet,’ he said, every word deliberate, ‘get out of the car, get inside the damn cabin, and handle it.’
Your mouth had gone dry.
You had known he needed something. You had known there had to be a reason he took you alive, a reason he called, a reason he played this game for three weeks and then finally came for you himself.
He wanted your protection gone. He wanted access to you without the burn.
Your voice scraped out of your throat. ‘How?’
Dean stared at you for a beat, then slowly pulled his hands away from your body. He still didn’t let you up. His palms braced against the seat on either side of you.
He was looking down at you with black eyes, his face hovering above yours so close you could see your own stunned expression in them.
‘I’m sure that big brain of yours can figure it out,’ he said. ‘But you’re not leavin’ this place until I can touch you.’
A/N: I hope I made Dean’s motivation clear enough. I was really trying to capture the obsession and the wanting, not him needing his wife because of some deep love he still feels for her.
Anyway, I struggled with this so much I almost dropped the whole story. The excitement kind of gave way to frustration because I just couldn’t get what was in my head down on the page the right way. Well… I guess that happens sometimes.
Summary: When the reader is released from captivity by Homelander, she's reunited with a familiar face. Soldier Boy. Her childhood friend. Her true love. The loss of her life. The man she was taken from in 1957. Sixty eight years later and Soldier Boy is baffled not only by her being alive but her young age and apparent powers. Old memories resurface as the pair try to navigate what truly happened all those years ago. New fears emerge as they come to terms with who they now are in a frightening modern world. All the while, Homelander poses a looming threat to not only the two of them but the entire world. Hard truths must be faced. Lines must be drawn. Two fated souls must make an impossible choice. Run or fight. Monster or anti-hero. Soldier Boy or Ben. Alone or together, once and for all...
Pairing: Soldier Boy x reader
Word Count: ~80K
Warnings: spoilers through S4, language, violence, smut, captivity, mention of torture/miscarriage/parental abuse, supes vs. humans, death, illness, adultery, threats of violence against a child, attempted murder/murder, vigilantism, mention of drug use/drinking/WW2 violence and more
PAIRINGS: Dean Winchester/Fem!Reader, Demon!Dean Winchester/Fem!Reader, Mark of Cain!Dean Winchester/Fem!Reader
CHARACTERS: Female Reader Insert Character, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Rowena MacLeod, Charlie Bradbury, Crowley, Castiel, Claire Novak, Cain, Death the Horseman, Donatello Redfield, Amara
TO NOTE/WARNINGS: Angst, Smut, Spoilers for S9 & S10, Established Relationship, Demon Dean Winchester Being an Asshole, Dean Winchester Bears the Mark of Cain, Cure for the Mark of Cain, Minor Character Death, Temporary Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt No Comfort, Torture, Injury, Needles, Implied Cheating, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Rough Sex, Vaginal Sex, Biting, Alcohol, Nightmares, Grief/Mourning, Canon-Typical Violence, Robbery, Attempted Sexual Assault, Murder, Mildly Dubious Consent, Angry Sex, Cunnilingus, Spanking, Arguing, Vomitting, Miscommunication, Betrayal, Blood, Depression, Makeup Sex, Emotional Sex, Gentle Sex, Shower Sex, Self-Destructive Dean Winchester, Led Zeppelin Reference, Angst with a Happy Ending(?), Not Canon Compliant, Fingering, Cowgirl Position
A/N: Demon!Dean and MOC!Dean hold my heart. I've been wanting to write an angsty fanfiction about the Mark of Cain arc for a while now, and the @jacklesversebingo challenge has inspired me to finally go for it. I haven't written a multichapter fanfiction in years, so I'm both nervous and excited. This is a longer project, bear with me. Be mindful of the warnings for each chapter, please. Feedback is always appreciated. <3
SUMMARY: As his nightmares get worse, Dean realizes he’s turning into something he’s terrified of; he needs his girlfriend’s help. The corruption of the Mark of Cain leads to a heart-wrenching promise. Can the curse be lifted or will it leave scars?
PLAYLIST
Chapter 1: Practice My Confession
Chapter 2: Breathe Me In, Bleed Me Out
Chapter 3: Bruised Fruits & Rotten Cores [PODFIC]
Chapter 4: You're Stained
Chapter 5: Fan Fiction
Chapter 6: Drown My Demons
Chapter 7: Love Is the Death of Peace of Mind
Chapter 8: I'm a Winged Insect, You're a Funeral Pyre
Chapter 9: Matador
Chapter 10: Rain On My Parade
Chapter 11: Babe, I'm Gonna Leave You
Epilogue: Daybreak
LISTEN TO THE PODFIC OF CHAPTER 3 ON YOUTUBE OR SPOTIFY:
Podfic Narration Time – Excerpt of “Tainted” by xReikaLiane (AKA ChevroletDean on tumblr, xReika on AO3) loves the Mark of Cain and DemonDea
Chapter Summary: After the Winchesters stormed your life, you try your hardest to ignore the whole “a demon wants to kill you” thing. You were absolutely not going to dig deeper into your past, and you definitely weren’t going to call a hunter. Unfortunately, poor decision-making is kind of your thing. And in Sleepy Hollow, people aren’t the only ones losing their heads. Dean is, too – so, you know… good job.
Warnings: 18+ language, canon-divergence, set after 2x05, enemies to friends to lovers, slow burn, angst, humor, monster of the week (Sleepy Hollow version), family mysteries, Dean spiraling hard
Word Count: 16.6k
A/N: Grab the popcorn, folks! You're about to witness Dean spiraling into emotional turmoil! 🤓🍿 We're riding at dawn (and can hopefully keep our heads) as we dive deeper into some witchy family mysteries here. Count this into the category of "Sam meeting women Dean hates behind his back" lol. You might also have some grievances with me about that dreamy start of this part... 👀
Well, obviously, he is. Everyone is somewhere all the time. That’s not the point he’s trying to make. He also knows that, in reality, he’s in that old creaking twin bed in Bobby’s guest bedroom upstairs. At least, his body is there.
His mind, though? That’s a different story.
Judging by the fuzzy edges in his vision and the milky filter that makes everything glow slightly orange, he seems to be currently stuck in a dream.
Dean’s not exactly sure, though, where in the dream he is. But the air feels cleaner and softer around here. It hasn’t been scraped raw yet by exhaust fumes and motel bleach. It smells like forest and sun-warmed grass and lake water as the Impala drives along a winding dirt road, leading up a small hill.
He’s not the one driving, though. His father is, while him and Sammy are cramped into the backseat.
His shoulders dig into the worn leather as he stares out the window. He’s about twelve, maybe a little younger or older as the leg space in the back seems to be a tiny bit tighter than it used to.
And then, a house comes into view.
Faded blue in places where the sun’s kissed it too much and lived-in. Old but sturdy. It sits on a gentle rise, a green hill rolling up toward it, tucked between trees that stretch tall into the sky. He almost gasps at its beauty. It’s not polished in the perfect way of magazine homes, but in the way something real is beautiful.
And it’s big – bigger than anything Dean’s used to calling home.
It looks like something taken straight out of a storybook. There’s a wide wrap-around porch hugging the entire ground floor, railings painted white, steps worn smooth in the middle from years of use. One side of the house rises into an octagonal tower, tall and narrow, with windows glinting in the bright light.
His gaze lingers on the attic without knowing why.
There’s a window set into the peak of the roof, a colorful mosaic of stained glass. A birch tree delicately stretches across it, its branches protectively fanning outward. The glass glows, even from down here.
Dean feels it then before he understands it. He’s been here before.
He doesn’t know why, but he knows how the porch creaks under his weight and how the front door sticks just a little in the summer heat.
A smile rises on his lips before he can stop it. Before he can question it. Before anything in this life can weigh it down again.
He likes it here.
The Impala rolls to a stop in front of the house. It doesn’t have a driveway or even a road. There’s just a small dirt path leading up to the porch. Otherwise, there’s only nature surrounding it, grass greener than he’s ever seen anywhere before and stretching out endlessly. No neighbors. Not a single roofline in sight.
The entire place feels like a magical secret in another realm.
The driver’s door creaks open as his dad steps out, already all business, already moving toward the house like he’s got somewhere to be, already focused on whatever brought them here in the first place. Sammy scrambles after him, no more than eight, tripping over his own eagerness as usual.
“Watch your brother,” his dad throws over his shoulder.
Dean rolls his eyes automatically and mutters a “yeah, yeah,” pushing the door open and stepping out into the blinding sun. The air is warm against his skin, and everything feels already lighter here. And for a second, just a second, there’s nothing sharp or dangerous about the world for once. No monsters.
“Dean!”
He turns at the sound of his name and sees her running toward him.
Small. Fast. All bright energy and wind-tangled hair. The way she’s storming at full speed feels like she’s already been waiting the whole damn day for this exact moment. Maybe even longer. It does something weird in his chest that he can’t name at twelve yet, but he decides he likes that feeling as well.
There’s dirt on her knees and something wild and alive in the way she moves. It seems like she belongs more out here than inside any house. She doesn’t slow down until she’s right in front of him, practically bouncing where she stands.
And Dean? He grins.
It’s easy. Natural. This is what he’s supposed to do.
She’s a little breathless and flushed, but her eyes are shining and there’s something bright and untamed in her grin.
“You’re back!” she blurts, looking up at him like he painted the sky mesmerizingly blue just for her.
She says it like it matters – like he matters. There’s something warm and familiar about that.
Important.
“Yeah,” he says and shrugs like it’s no big deal, even though it sort of is. A part of him has been looking forward to this without realizing it.
She steps closer then, lowering her voice like she’s about to share the greatest secret in the world. “I got it,” she whispers.
Dean’s brow furrows the slightest bit. “Got what?”
“My magic.”
The word drops between them and lands wrong, tilting everything on its axis.
It doesn’t fit with the sunlight or the trees or the way this place felt like something safe just a minute ago. It sits heavily in the air, sharp-edged now where everything else used to be so damn soft.
Something in Dean shifts then.
It’s small at first. Just a flicker. A hitch in his chest. A loss of warmth. Barely noticeable. But it spreads quickly, like a crack through glass.
Magic. Witch.
The smile fades before he can stop it because he doesn’t like that. Not one bit. Doesn’t like the way it sounds, the way it feels, the way it suddenly changes everything about her without actually changing the way she looks, or the way it instantly makes everything here… different. Off.
Before, she was normal. There wasn’t anything weird about her. Nothing to worry about. Nothing that reminded him of the things that go bump in the dark.
But now, the ground under his feet isn’t as steady as it was a moment ago. Now, she’s something else. Something closer to the things he’s been taught to hate.
He looks at her again and really looks this time. And something clicks into place in a way that doesn’t make sense – not for twelve-year-old Dean standing in the tall grass at least. But it makes sense for the version of him watching through older eyes as something else threads through the dream.
He knows that little girl. Not the way a kid knows another kid, though. It’s something deeper. Something that doesn’t belong to this moment alone.
That little girl is… you.
The realization hits quiet but certain, settling under his skin like it’s always been there, just waiting to be noticed. And somehow, that only makes it worse. Makes the disappointment sink deeper and take root.
Because now the word witch doesn’t just sit wrong – it twists.
You’re still talking, still glowing with excitement, completely unaware of the way his expression’s changed.
“I can show you,” you offer keenly, reaching for the sleeve of his jacket like you’re afraid he might disappear if you don’t anchor him there. “It’s really cool, I promise. I’ve been practicing and–”
Dean pulls back his arm.
Not hard. Not enough to be obvious. But enough to draw a line. The space between the two of you expands to a canyon in a millisecond.
He shrugs it off, eyes already drifting past you, toward the trees, toward the edge of the hill where the land dips down toward the pond, toward anything that isn’t this.
“Maybe later,” he mutters.
Your face falters, confusion replacing the earlier joy.
“You don’t wanna see?” you ask with a slight wobbling pout on your lips.
He exhales through his nose, like you’re asking something annoying instead of something that matters.
“I said maybe later,” he snaps and averts his eyes when you flinch. “Go play with Sammy or somethin’.”
He doesn’t wait for you to respond this time. Doesn’t look at you again, either. He just turns, shoving his hands into his pockets as he heads down the slope toward the water glinting through the trees. Each step feels easier than the last because distance is the only thing that makes sense right now.
Behind him, your voice echoes for half a heartbeat before it fades into the silence. But Dean keeps walking and doesn’t stop.
Sioux Falls, South Dakota
Dean’s eyes crack open to the dim, familiar ceiling of Bobby’s guest room, the wood panels stained and slightly warped with age. For a moment, he doesn’t move. He just lies there in the narrow twin bed, watching the soft morning light seep through the yellowed curtains.
The room is quiet in that particular way old houses tend to be – never truly silent but filled with the creaks and cracks of wood that has seen too many years. Bobby’s place has always been like that. Warm. Chaotic. A little rundown. Grounded. Home.
And yet, Dean feels… off.
A part of him hasn’t quite made it back to reality yet. Part of him is still somewhere else. Still standing in a field that shouldn’t exist. Still watching a blue house glow in the sunlight like something out of a story he doesn’t remember reading. Still hearing your damn voice – bright, excited, and too fucking real.
He exhales slowly and drags a hand down his face, the rough scrape of his palm against his skin anchoring him a little more firmly in the present. But the dream sticks, stubborn in a way most aren’t. It’s too coherent to be dismissed entirely, even as he tries his damn hardest to forget it.
There’s no immediate adrenaline in his veins, no hand flying under his pillow for a gun, and no sharp inhale of air like he’s startling straight out of another nightmare. It’s not the usual gist when it comes to dreams. Resurfacing feels slower than that. Feels more like he’s wading through something thick, something that clings.
My magic.
Dean squeezes his eyes shut for another second before letting out a quiet, irritated breath.
Yeah… nope. He’s not dealing with that. He’s already got enough on his plate as is. It’s just a dream. A stupid, stupid, meaningless dream. A weird, persistent, too-detailed dream, but still just that.
That’s the only explanation that makes any kind of sense. Because the alternative – that it’s something else, something real – isn’t even worth entertaining. He’s never been to that place. Never seen that house. Never–
Dean’s frown deepens slightly.
There’s a strange familiarity to it, though. Not the kind that comes from memory exactly, but something adjacent to it, like his mind is filling in details it shouldn’t have, smoothing over gaps that shouldn’t exist in the first place.
He huffs under his breath and shifts on the mattress, which creaks in loud protest. The sheet’s half-twisted around his legs, the pillow shoved somewhere under his shoulder at an awkward angle. His fingers push back through his hair and make it worse, dirty blond tufts sticking up in every direction like he stuck his finger in a damn socket.
It’s been like this for weeks now.
Ever since Salem.
Ever since you.
Same kind of dream. Same feeling. Same place, more or less. Bits and pieces shifting and morphing but always circling back to that house, that hill, that–
He cuts the thought off again because it just doesn’t make sense. None of it does. Dean Winchester does not have childhood memories of some random blue house in the middle of nowhere New Hampshire. He doesn’t have memories of running around with some girl in a field, playing house like everything’s normal and safe and–
His brain’s just screwing with him, cooking up whatever the hell that was, stitching things together that don’t fucking belong together. That’s all.
He probably just picked something up in your apartment when they met you – something tiny and unimportant. Something he didn’t even consciously notice. Something small enough that it didn’t register at the time but still got stuck somewhere in the back of his head. Maybe a detail at your place. A book. A picture on the wall.
Yeah, that must be it. That’s what brains do, right? Take pieces, scraps, things picked up without noticing, and turn them into something bigger and personal, filling in non-existent blanks. Didn’t Freud write a whole-ass book about this?
It doesn’t mean those dreams are real in any way, shape, or form.
Except–
Dean doesn’t remember seeing anything like that in your home. No pictures of a house. No hints. Nothing that should’ve given his brain that kind of material to work with.
His jaw tightens slightly at that, something restless seeping under his skin. The timing alone is strange enough to irritate him. Apparently, his stupid brain has decided to latch onto you and just run with it in the most inconvenient way possible.
Maybe you’re a metaphor for something or a ghost of his Christmas past. Maybe you cursed him or hexed him or did whatever dumb, evil stuff witches do. Wouldn’t that be something? He gets on your bad side and threatens your life once and suddenly he’s stuck reliving some odd, fake childhood memories on a loop. Petty revenge does kind of fit your usual M.O., considering all the dicks you broke before him.
Sure, the idea is slightly ridiculous, but it’s easier to digest than admitting to the fact that all this stupid and weird crap is coming directly from him.
Dean exhales another harsh breath through his nose and finally pushes himself upright. The bed creaks once more under his weight, old springs squeaking as he swings his legs over the side. The floorboards are cool under his feet when he rises. As he glances across the room, he finds Sam’s bed empty.
His little brother’s already up. Figures.
Sam’s side is neat in that half-assed way whenever he’s in a hurry – blanket pushed back, pillow slightly indented, but otherwise abandoned. He’s probably downstairs already. Buried in books. Researching. Again.
Chasing ghosts that don’t wanna be caught. Chasing answers that don’t exist. Chasing that damn demon.
Sam doesn’t let things go. Not anymore, at least. God knows it was real easy for his little brother to let things go when he left everything behind for Stanford, including Dean. But somehow, Sam can’t do him the same courtesy now and let it go again.
Now, after everything – after Jess, after Dad, after hunters like Gordon being immoral and wicked like monsters, after vampires and witches suddenly not fitting the mold anymore, and after psychic kids like Max and Andy – there’s no stopping Sam anymore.
Nothing fits anymore. That’s the goddamn problem. The lines aren’t where they’re supposed to be. The rules don’t hold the way they used to. Monsters aren’t always monsters. Psychic kids aren’t always ticking time bombs waiting to go off.
And maybe the last one isn’t the worst possible outcome. It’s that little shimmer of hope flickering in the distance that Dean’s been focusing on lately. Because maybe it means his father’s insane request doesn’t have to come true. Maybe it means he won’t have to kill the last member of his family with his own hands.
Dean sighs as he trudges down the old stairs. When did his life get so damn complicated? How the hell did he end up here?
The smell of coffee then hits him halfway down the steps. Strong. Bitter. Bobby’s special brand of hospitality.
As he rounds the corner to the kitchen, Sam’s already there. Of course he is.
Sitting at the small table, hunched forward slightly, a mug of coffee in one hand and a book in the other, with about six more spread out around him like he’s building some kind of paper fortress.
Dean pauses in the doorway for a beat, watching him. Andy was just another reminder that Sam’s not normal. That none of this is going away.
Sam then glances up briefly before focusing back on his book. “Morning.”
Dean pretends to stroll in without hesitation or having wasted a single thought on it, aiming for casualness as he heads straight for the coffee pot and grunts something that passes as a response.
If he’s going to deal with this, any of this, he needs some caffeine first. And the thing is, he knows he will have to deal with it at some point. He knows there’s no outrunning this, even though most days he’d like to take his chances and still try.
This particular day, however, doesn’t seem to be one of those. So, he pours himself a cup of the blackest coffee and leans against the counter as the bitter smell curls around him like all the other bitterness.
He winces at his first sip and decides to break the silence. “Bobby still makin’ this stuff strong enough to wake the dead, huh?”
Sam huffs a light chuckle in agreement but doesn’t look up, hazel eyes glued to the pages in front of him.
Dean watches him for another minute over the rim of his mug. God, he wants to ignore it. Wants to just drink his coffee, maybe make some joke, and then avoid the whole fucking thing. Because the last thing he truly wants to do is dive into demon lore first thing in the goddamn morning and psychic kids and destiny and all the bad ways this could end in blood and death and horror.
But Sam’s already there and neck-deep in it, so alas, what other choice does Dean really have than be in it, too?
“Found anything?” Dean asks finally, more out of obligation than genuine interest.
“Working on it.”
He sighs quietly, pushing off the counter, pacing a few steps across the kitchen. “Sam–” he starts but doesn’t finish. Because what is he supposed to say?
Stop?
Yeah, right. Like that’s ever worked. The kid’s stubborn like that.
But Dean doesn’t get really worried till Sam starts grinding his molars and biting the insides of his cheeks, his fingers playing with the edge of a page. That’s never a good sign. When his little brother’s chewing on something, Dean knows he gets the leftovers.
“You know, I’ve been thinking–”
But Dean already shakes his head in warning. “Don’t even say it.”
Sam still does, though. Your name falls from his lips.
Dean freezes imperceptibly for a heartbeat, because the timing of this feels too deliberate to be a coincidence. Remnants of his latest dream flood back into his mind in the same breath, and he already hates where this conversation’s inevitably headed.
“Don’t you think we should call her?” Sam finishes his delusion.
Dean schools his expression quickly, taking another sip of coffee. “No, Sam, I don’t think that,” he replies dryly and keeps the annoyance locked behind his teeth.
Sam’s frown is already forming. “Dean–”
“I said no,” he snaps with more sharpness and watches Sam’s mouth close in frustration.
He refuses to drag you into this. Because that’s what this is – dragging people into a mess they can’t get out of. He dragged Sam back into it and look what happened. Dean’s not doing that again.
Sam then leans back in his chair, studying him, far from giving up, judging by the determination gleaming in his eyes. “She might have answers.”
“Or she might be another problem,” Dean shoots back, although a small and annoying part of him knows Sam’s right.
You probably would have answers. But Dean’s not sure he necessarily wants to hear them.
Sam does, however. The obsession and urgency isn’t entirely new, but it’s definitely getting worse. Lately, it feels like Sam isn’t just looking for answers anymore but actually needs them like people need oxygen to live. This whole thing has become more intense and less… optional.
Before Sam can push further, footsteps sound behind them. Bobby walks in, coffee already in hand, eyes flicking knowingly between them.
“What’re you two idjits arguin’ about this time, huh?” he prompts.
“Nothin’,” Dean mutters into his mug. But when his eyes find Sam in his periphery, he can already see the idea forming on his little brother’s face. He shoots Sam a warning look.
“Actually, uhm–” Sam starts, gaze flicking briefly to Dean’s glare before he apparently decides to ignore it. “Hey, uh, Bobby, have you ever heard of the Berkano witches?”
Dean closes his eyes briefly to let the anger and frustration pass through his body without tearing the house down. Of course Sam can’t resist. Of course he fucking goes there. Of course he has to drag Bobby into it, too.
Bobby halts his movements mid-pour on the counter and slowly turns around, raising a high brow. “Now, where the hell did you boys hear that name?”
“Dad’s journal,” Sam replies without missing a beat.
Bobby lets out a scoff, shaking his head as he sets the mug down. “Yeah, you could say I’ve heard of ‘em,” he replies. “I was actually the one who sent your daddy up to New Hampshire in the first place.”
Dean’s brow knits. “Wait… You did?”
“So Dad really worked with them?” Sam checks curiously, leaning forward on the table.
“Yup, he sure did,” Bobby confirms with a nod. “Figured they could help him with the demon, y’know? They’re kinda experts on all that stuff. Were at least…”
Sam shoots Dean a small I told you so glare that he fends off with an eye roll.
Dean then focuses back on Bobby. “You know if he ever took us up there with him?”
The question clearly confuses Sam. Admittedly, it comes a little out of the blue, but Dean figures he can always excuse it with natural curiosity. He was a kid back then, too. What the hell did he truly know? And judging by Sam’s creased brow, his little brother clearly doesn’t have weird dreams about a place he’s never been to.
A part of Dean is relieved about that because it means those dreams are really just that. Because even when Sam was younger than him, Dean knows his little brother would’ve never forgotten a beautiful place like that because he surely would’ve never forgotten it either if it truly existed, which means all of it is just some strange, surreal fantasy. Sam’s never been there. He’s never been there. It was never real.
“Don’t know.” Bobby shakes his head slowly. “Your dad didn’t exactly always give me the play-by-play.”
Dean nods once, pretends to be satisfied, and considers the issue settled, even though it’s not.
“How did you know about them?” Dean asks the older hunter then.
“Met ‘em in the late ‘80s through another hunter who lived close to ‘em,” Bobby replies without elaborating the why of it all. “Mostly worked with Aine. She was the matriarch. Sometimes worked with her daughter, Freya, too. She had a little girl as well. Sweet kid. Couldn’t’ve been more than three or four when I met her.” He chuckles fondly before his expression turns more somber. “Too bad they’re all gone. Surely coulda helped you boys. ’S sad what happened to ‘em. Demons got ‘em in ’95. They were the last of their line.”
Dean’s jaw tightens at that, locking eyes with Sam. So Bobby clearly doesn’t know about their father’s plan, either. Doesn’t know you’re still alive. Last one standing.
For some reason, the thought curdles acid in Dean’s stomach. If he knows demons as well as he thinks he does, they surely wouldn’t like that. Maybe even take it as a challenge.
Who can make a powerful witch bloodline go extinct first?
And for all Dean knows, he almost had.
While Bobby doesn’t have a clue about John Winchester’s secrets, the old man’s at least perceptive enough to catch the silent conversation between the brothers. His eyes flick back and forth between them and narrow.
“Alright, what’s going on here? One of you gonna tell me?” Bobby prompts, stance both challenging and somehow scolding.
“They’re not all dead,” Dean says then. “The girl…” The word tastes strange on his tongue. The girl from his dreams. “She–, uh, she’s still alive.”
“Yeah, uhm, Dad got her out of that fire and hid her in Salem,” Sam adds.
“Put her up with a cop,” Dean scoffs.
Bobby exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters, frustration with a hint of anger lacing his tone. Dean doesn’t entirely blame him. His father had a way of bringing that side out in people. “That stubborn bastard. Figures he’d keep somethin’ like that to himself.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Dean huffs in faint agreement. His father always had to keep his secrets.
“Wait…” Bobby frowns then, tilting his head. “Was that why you boys went to Salem a couple of weeks ago?”
Both of them nod.
“Dammit,” the old man grunts. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Bobby doesn’t wait for either of them to answer, though. He just spins on his heel and heads out of the kitchen. Dean can hear the basement door opening a second later and Bobby’s footsteps trudging down the stairs. He shares a quizzical look with Sam before the old man stomps back into the room with a giant, ancient book in his hands. He dusts it off before slapping it down on the small table in front of their noses.
“Coulda given you boys this before,” is all he says before he opens it and flips through it till he finds the page he’s looking for. He taps his finger on the brittle parchment. “Here.”
Dean and Sam both lean closer, their eyes focusing on the hand-painted letters of the title. It almost looks like a fairytale in a storybook.
The Legend of Eira
“Long before hunters had names for what they were doing,” Bobby begins, “before there were journals and rules and all that, people didn’t know what the hell they were up against. Humans still lived in tribes when the first demons began to walk the earth. They didn’t have the right names for ‘em yet, but crops started to fail, diseases spread, nights became unsafe…”
Dean’s eyes drop to the page in front of him, reading the first paragraphs.
Before the old gods had names, before the world was carved into realms, there was a current that moved beneath all living things.
It had no voice, no will, no master.
It simply was.
It lived in the roots of trees and the pull of the tide, in the breath between heartbeats and the quiet spaces where light did not reach. It did not belong to heaven, nor to darkness. It existed beside them, as old as both, untouched by their designs.
For a long time, it remained undisturbed until something else began to walk the earth.
They came without being born, without growing. They wore the shapes of men but moved like smoke trapped in skin, hollowed and hungry, leaving ruin in their wake. They whispered sickness into the land and twisted animals into frenzy.
“According to legend, Eira was the first witch known to mankind. Real one, at least,” Bobby says. “She was said to have had a special bond with nature. Could feel things others couldn’t. Nowadays, you’d probably call her a psychic.”
Dean feels Sam’s eyes burning a hole into the side of his face, but he keeps his gaze trained on Bobby and the book in front of him.
The tribes did not understand what they were, only that they did not belong. They feared these creatures of the dark.
Among them was a young woman named Eira. She was not the strongest, nor the loudest, nor the one others looked to for war. But born during a blood moon on spring equinox, the gods bestowed a special gift upon her, and she was given the ability to listen.
She listened to the wind through the trees, to the silence beneath the soil, to the stream beneath the world that bound every living thing together.
“When demons came and killed half her tribe in one night, the goddess Freyja appeared to her in a dream,” Bobby continues. “Afterward, Eira wandered three days through the forest alone, claiming Freyja told her about a way to fight back. If you ask me, the girl might’ve just been high outta her mind on too much Henbane.” He chuckles lightly, scratching his beard. “But Freyja told her the power she was lookin’ for was already there. She just had to reach for it.”
“How?” Sam asks, fully swept up by Bobby’s storytelling skills.
Dean, on the other hand, can barely concentrate on the old man’s words. His green eyes are glued to the foxed page in front of him, eight little words sticking out like a sore thumb.
Born during a blood moon on spring equinox.
Can he still mindfully chalk that off as a mere coincidence?
Shit. As soon as Sam reads this, his ass will be on fire. Dean’s, too.
“She performed a ritual. Tapped into it, took that power into herself, and then bound it,” Bobby replies. “After that, she returned to her tribe. But she didn’t just use that power to fight back. She taught the men in her camp how to kill demons, banish dark spirits.”
“Hunters,” Sam murmurs. Dean shoots him a sideways glance.
“First ones.” Bobby nods. “She passed it down her line. Kept protectin’ people. When they came over here with the first colonies, they did the same. Helped hunters – didn’t matter where they came from. But Christianity was high on the rise at this point as you can imagine. Didn’t take kindly to them. People got scared and started seein’ ‘em as the enemy. Puritans turned on ’em. Started huntin’ ’em instead, so they went into hiding. Built that place up north like a magical fortress.”
Dean huffs under his breath. Figures.
“Demons didn’t just sit back, either,” Bobby continues. “They twisted that magic. Found ways to corrupt it. That’s where the witches you’re used to come from. Deals. Blood magic. All that ugly crap.”
Sam sits back slightly, head tilted in thought and a glimmer of hope twinkling in his hazel eyes. Meanwhile, Dean feels more off-balance than ever.
Even Bobby is saying it – not all of them are bad.
“Sam.” Dean draws his little brother’s attention to him, his finger tapping the particular line on the page that caught his eyes earlier.
Better he tells Sam now before he finds it out for himself later. Doesn’t really make a difference. At least this way, Dean can still pretend he’s helping and not actively obstructing Sam’s way to justice or revenge or whatever.
Sam reads the words carefully for a moment before the creases in his brow begin to deepen. He then looks at Dean.
“Dude.”
Dean rolls his eyes once more. “I know, Sam.”
Bobby’s gaze flicks between them, confused and surely partially frustrated. “What now?”
Dean licks his lips as he finds the old man’s eyes. “Looks like, uhm, our little fire survivor shares a birthday with this Eira chick.”
“Including the blood moon,” Sam adds.
Bobby’s frown deepens. “Balls…”
“‘M guessing you didn’t know about that one, either,” Dean deduces by the older hunter’s darkened expression.
“Bet Dad did,” Sam mutters under his breath, earning himself a glare from his brother.
Dean looks up at Bobby. “Probably not a coincidence, right?”
“What d’you think, idjit? Do I really need to spell it out for ya?” Bobby snaps with a deadpan look.
Dean purses his lips.
Jesus. He was just asking a simple, clarifying question. Can’t even do that anymore around here without getting attacked.
“Dean, maybe we should call her now,” Sam says, his earlier stern expression softened to a bleeding heart.
“Still nope,” Dean shoots him down fast.
“Dean, the demon could find her. She might not be safe where she is anymore,” Sam argues.
Shit. Dean hasn’t thought of that. At least, he didn’t want to ruminate in that idea for too long, not liking the slight pang it always caused behind his ribs. But that probably was just heartburn, not care.
“Tough luck,” Dean scoffs.
“Dean–”
“Do you even understand the meaning of the word no?” he cuts in sharply. Then his jaw begins to grind with something close to guilt. He forces himself to calm with a slight sigh but doesn’t cave. “We don’t need her, alright?”
“Even Bobby says she can help us,” Sam says, still not budging either.
“No, he said they could’ve. Not freakin’ Sabrina, the Teenage Witch,” Dean counters cleverly.
They both then look at Bobby for confirmation of either side.
“No offense, but I’m stayin’ outta this one,” the old man murmurs, raising his hands in surrender.
Dean sighs and turns back to his little brother. “Sammy, c’mon, the girl we met was a far cry from some powerful, demon-banishing witch, alright? She barely knew anything. You heard her. She never went back there after the fire and didn’t want anything to do with this crap.”
Sam at least considers this for a moment.
“She done the ritual yet?” Bobby chimes in then.
The brothers share a perplexed look before their heads swirl back to Bobby, speaking simultaneously, “What ritual?”
Salem, Massachusetts
Mia’s house never changes.
As you step inside, your keys still warm in your palm from unlocking the door, the same creak of floorboards greets you beneath your feet, the old pipes humming somewhere deep in the walls as they always do. Even the air smells the same – lavender cleaner, old wood, and something sweet and cinnamon that always clings to Mia’s place.
This house used to be your home once, too. From eleven to eighteen, every corner of this place had known you. Every wall has watched you grow into the woman you are today.
“Hey, you’re home early,” Mia calls from the kitchen, her voice warm as she flips a page of the newspaper.
You shrug off your jacket, forcing something that resembles normalcy into your tone. “Slow day at work,” you sigh. “No exciting murders for me to poke at.”
“Give it time. This town never disappoints,” she mutters dryly, not even looking up. “You picked the right job for that.”
You huff a laugh and step closer, your eyes drifting to the paper in her hands more out of habit than interest. The headline catches your attention, though.
Sleepy Hollow Beheadings Continue: Third Victim Found
You furrow your brow, leaning slightly over her shoulder. “Beheadings? Seriously? What is this, 1692 again?”
Mia snorts lightly. “Right? That town’s living up to its brand too, I guess. Three victims in two weeks. All decapitated. No suspects. No weapons found.” She finally glances up at you, brows raised. “Your kind of nightmare.”
“Or dream.” You grin, already scanning the short article. Your brain starts cataloguing details on autopilot. Clean cuts? Jagged edges? Angle of severance? Man, you never get any cool cases like that around here. You’d kill to see a crime scene of someone who was decapitated.
But then you force yourself to stop. You’re not here for work. Well, not that kind of work at least.
You straighten and casually purse your lips. “You got any plans today?”
Mia eyes you for a second, suspicious in a way only someone who raised you half your life can be. “Why?”
You shrug again, entirely nonchalant. At least, you hope you pull it off. God knows it’s hard work to trick a cop, especially one as perceptive as your adoptive mother. “Just wondering. Thought I might hang out here for a bit.”
It’s not that uncommon as of late that you’re seeking out her company. Ever since those brothers barged into your life, you’ve been around her more. Somehow, being near someone who knows how to handle a gun brings you comfort, considering you stared down the barrel of one only a few weeks ago.
Mia studies you a moment longer, then sighs, her alarm bells luckily staying silent. “I’ve gotta run some errands. Grocery store, dry cleaning, the usual. You wanna come with me like old times? I’ll let you push the cart again,” she teases.
“Nah,” you huff perfectly casual. “Kinda beat. Think I’m just gonna curl up on the couch and watch reruns of Buffy.”
“Alright.” She nods but then finds your eyes with a hint of worry in hers. “You’ll be okay here alone?”
She never says it out loud, but she’s been concerned about you for the past weeks. The fact someone threatened your life clearly doesn’t sit right with her either.
“I’ll be fine,” you assure her. “I’ve lived here before, you know.”
She huffs a laugh, rising from her stool by the island, folding the paper. “Alright, kid,” she sighs softly. “There’s still some leftover lasagna in the fridge if you’re hungry.”
You smile teasingly and arch a brow. “Did you put vitamins in it again?”
“That was one time.” Mia frowns. “You were a picky eater. I was worried you weren’t getting enough nutrients.”
“Nothing like vitamin C powder in hot chocolate,” you deadpan.
“Yes, and I apologized for that,” Mia huffs, chuckling. “It’s not always easy being a parent. You’ll see.”
“It tasted like feet.”
“You’re still alive. I call that a win,” Mia says as she puts on her jacket and grabs her purse and keys, heading for the door. “I’ll be back in a couple hours. Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”
“No promises.” You smirk.
And then, you wait.
Not just until the door closes, the noise of the lock clicking like a starting gun, but until the sound of her car fades all the way down the street and the house settles back into that serene, watchful stillness.
Only then do you move.
You hesitate for half a second at the basement door, fingers hovering over the knob. It’s not fear, exactly. More like… awareness. You’re about to cross a line you’ve spent years carefully avoiding.
You never wanted to dig into this. Never needed to. Your life was fine. Good, even. You had a job you liked, friends and family you loved, and a boyfriend calling you whenever he could from whatever classified corner of the world he was stationed in. You had normal – or at least something damn close to it.
Then, the stupid Winchesters showed up on your doorstep and tore a hole straight through it. Now, nothing fits the way it used to anymore.
Upon your next deep breath for some courage, you finally twist the knob.
Now or never, you suppose.
The basement greets you with a soft flicker of light as you flip the switch, the bulb buzzing for a second before it steadies. The air is cooler and heavier down here, carrying a scent of dust motes and time. Cardboard boxes along the walls. Old furniture draped in sheets. Stacked memories. Forgotten pieces of a life packed away and left behind.
Your life.
If there’s anything left of who you were before, it has to be here.
You wander around carefully at first, afraid something might jump out at you (which, honestly, isn’t even that ridiculous of a notion anymore). It’s not just demons and monsters, but spiders count, too. Then you pull your hair into a bun, slip on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, and get to work. But as minutes tick away on the clock and you keep coming up empty, finding less than nothing, your movements grow quicker and more impatient.
You open box after box, drawer after drawer.
Yearbooks. Report cards. Old school papers. Trophies from high school – track, debate, that one science fair you still think you shouldn’t have won. There are sketchbooks as well, filled with half-finished drawings and doodles you vaguely remember making during boring classes. There’s also a badly painted clay sculpture you made when you were fourteen.
Normal. All of it. Painfully, frustratingly normal.
There’s nothing here. No symbols. No books. No trace of anything even remotely… witchy. It’s just a life carefully curated to look ordinary.
You shove the lid back onto another box a little harder than necessary this time, irritation prickling under your skin. “Seriously?” you mutter under your breath. “That’s it? That’s what you hid from me? My stellar academic career?”
Nothing here answers anything. Nothing explains the things the Winchesters said – the demon, the fire, your family.
Your magic.
Your jaw tightens as you glance around the basement again, slower and more deliberate this time. If Mia hid something down here, it wouldn’t be obvious. She’s by far not that careless. She’d hide it somewhere safe, somewhere out of reach and out of sight.
Fine. You can work with that.
You reach into your bag and pull out your notebook, flipping it open to a blank page. The glitter pen follows in orange because orange is for practical magic – the general ‘make life run more smoothly’ category. It’s the one you seek out when you need to get stuff done. As a teen, you probably used the cleaning spell the most whenever Mia would tell you to get your room in order before going out. And hey, even when you’re breaking into your own past with magic, you’re still committed to the aesthetic.
You tap the pen against the page once, twice, thinking. Then you write.
What is hidden, lost from sight,Buried deep in shadowed night,Show your place and make it known,Call me to what’s mine alone.
Satisfied, you softly mutter the words and then wait. It doesn’t take long before you notice a subtle flicker in your periphery. Your head then turns slowly toward the far corner of the basement, drawn to it by an almost magnetic pull.
There’s an old safe there. You’ve seen it a hundred times before and never thought twice about it. Now, though, it hums, a soft glow threading through its metal seams, light trying to breathe through steel.
“Well, that’s new,” you murmur, lips twitching slightly.
You push yourself to your feet and cross the room, crouching in front of it. Up close, the glow nearly dramatically screams here.
Your heart hammers wildly against your ribs as you inspect the lock. Knowing Mia, it’s probably useless trying to guess the code. She’s too smart to use birthdays or any other important numbers. It’s probably some made-up combination she just forced herself to remember by heart.
“Alright, round two,” you sigh, flipping your notebook open again.
Metal sealed and secrets kept,Guarded where the past has slept,By my will, reveal, undo,What is hidden, I claim true.
Once the words leave your mouth, the safe’s lock clicks just like that. No resistance. No fight. The door simply creaks open without theatrics.
You stare at the crack for a second before letting out an incredulous breath. “Okay, that was way too easy.”
Man, you’d make an excellent bank robber. The world is truly lucky you’re a good person and not some homicidal maniac, considering the sheer damage you could do. Although, if you probably asked Dean Winchester, he’d still insist you were a homicidal maniac.
As you then reach inside the safe, the first thing you pull out is a photograph. Your breath catches in the same second your eyes land on it and fully take it in. It’s been forever since you’ve seen it. Too long.
It’s the house you were born and grew up in. Your old family home. A blue, two-story Queen Anne perched on a hill like something out of a dream you never forgot – the white wrap-around porch, the octagonal tower, the stained-glass attic window still glowing even in the picture.
Your fingers tighten around the edges. You remember this. Not in fragments, not distorted, but clearly. Completely.
The smell of the grass. The sound of your mom laughing somewhere behind you. Your grandma’s protective voice calling from the porch.
God, you’ve missed it. You miss them. It’s one of the reasons, probably even the biggest one, why you never had the urge to set a foot down here before and marinate in a past life you lost and could never get back.
You swallow as you set the photo aside and reach deeper.
There are more documents like birth records but tons of family pictures as well. You, smaller and grinning with missing teeth. Your mother beside you, soft-eyed and radiant. Your grandmother, stern but warm, a steady presence at your other side.
You carefully look and sort through all of them, more and more memories flooding back into your mind. Every new picture forces a sad smile onto your face. Every good memory hurts like hell.
You hate this. You don’t want to do this. Not because you don’t want to remember, but because you never forgot any of it in the first place. After all, how could you ever possibly forget a place like that?
Your childhood was magical, filled with days playing in the sun and nights spent chasing fireflies.
You remember the weekly tea parties your grandma used to throw in the attic when your aunties came to visit. You would dress up in your mom’s old clothes and quietly play on the floor next to them as the sunlight shone through the stained glass, a colorful mosaic of a birch tree stretching along the boards.
You can also recall all the afternoons you spent with your mom in the garden as she taught you how to take care of plants. You’d learned what each herb can do and knew the name of every flower by the time you were six years old.
As you grow curiouser and curiouser, you soon find yourself in your own rabbit hole till you stumble upon a sealed envelope with your name on it. Your heart winces when you recognize the handwriting. It’s from your mother.
You’ve never seen this before. Mia never gave this to you.
Slowly and carefully, you slide your finger under the seal and pry it open. The paper inside is aged but still intact. You unfold it with shaky hands that don’t quite feel like your own and then begin to read.
My dearest daughter,
If you are reading this, then time has carried you to a day I always dreamed of witnessing myself.
Your twenty-first birthday.
I wish I could be there with you. I wish I could see the woman you’ve become, hear your voice again, hold your hands and tell you how proud I am. There are no words for the ache of knowing I won’t be there for this moment, but there is comfort in knowing that you at least made it here.
That you lived.
That you are still standing.
My sweet girl, you were born beneath a blood moon on the spring equinox, a rare and sacred convergence. From the moment you came into this world, your grandmother and I knew you were special – not because of power, but because of the balance you carry within you. Light and shadow. Creation and destruction. You were never meant to be ordinary, my love.
And for that, I am so sorry.
Because today marks more than just your birthday. It is your awakening.
In our family, the twenty-first year is when a witch comes fully into her power. The magic you have touched until now – the small spells, the flickers, the instincts – that is only the beginning. There is more within you. So much more. And it has been waiting, patiently, for you to be ready.
But with power comes danger.
There are forces in this world that will seek you out, that will want to use what you are or destroy it entirely. Be careful. Trust your instincts, even when they lead you down paths you don't understand quite yet – especially then.
You come from a long line of protectors. Witches who stood beside people, who fought to keep balance in a world that constantly tries to tip toward darkness. That legacy lives in you now.
Please remember: you are never alone in this, even if it feels like you are. We’re always here to watch over you. And no matter what happens, no matter what choices you make or where your path leads, you are loved beyond measure.
Always,
Mom
The silence in the basement suddenly feels suffocating as you lower the letter. For a long moment, you just sit there, the paper trembling in your hands, your thoughts moving too fast and somehow not at all.
Twenty-one. Awakening. More power.
You let out a slow breath, your grip tightening slightly on the letter.
Well, alright, that’s a lot to dump on someone. This is bigger than you thought. Bigger than a few weird conversations and vague warnings about demons.
This is something else entirely.
What does it all mean? Why is your mother giving you the Spider-Man speech from beyond the grave? And why the hell has Mia never shown this to you?
Deep down, you know she just wants to protect you and keep you safe. Before the night of the fire, she had never faced anything evil like this. Her natural instinct was to stay out of this world. She wanted you to have a normal childhood, a normal job, a normal life.
But you? You’ve grown up with the knowledge that there is more out there than meets the eye. You have always walked the line between ordinary and weird and tiptoed carefully between both worlds. And you know if something is truly coming for you, you can’t just ignore it.
You know you can’t simply turn your back and run away from this.
And for the first time since the Winchesters left, the fear you felt back then morphs into focus. Your gaze drifts toward the stairs, toward the world up there that suddenly feels too small for everything you’re holding now.
You need answers.
Your hands are shaking as you reach for your purse and pull out your phone. You hesitate as your thumb hovers over the contact – a name you never thought you’d call. But then, you dial the number.
Sam picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”
You press your lips together for a second before speaking. “Is this Sam Winchester?” you check. “It’s–, uhm, it’s me. Salem witch you tried to kill?”
There’s a brief pause before he speaks again, his voice more alert than before. “Hey, uh, I’m surprised you called. Honestly didn’t expect it after the way we left.”
“Makes two of us,” you sigh. You still can’t believe you actually called him. It feels like you’re only following the white rabbit even deeper into the hole.
“Yeah, uhm, I can’t blame you,” he chuckles lightly. “But I’m glad you called. Sorry again how things went down. That wasn’t our intention.”
“Yeah? Does your brother share that sentiment?” you retort.
Sam’s silent for a moment, which is an answer in itself.
“Dean’s, uh–… It’s complicated,” is all Sam says. “You–, uh, you okay?”
“Define okay,” you huff under your breath, staring down at the letter in your lap again.
“Did something happen?”
You shake your head, swallowing. “No, uh, nothing like that,” you assure him and can hear a small sigh of relief on the other line. Is he actually concerned about you? “I just–, uhm… I looked through some of my old stuff in Mia’s basement and might have found something. I honestly don’t know if it even is anything, I just–… well, you said I should call if I did, so…”
“No, uh, that’s fine. Anything helps. Big or small. We’re kinda desperate here,” Sam says, laughing a little, which makes you huff a laugh as well.
What a weird fucking day…
“We found some things, too,” he adds. “There’s more going on than we thought.”
Great. Of course there is.
You close your eyes briefly and exhale a deep breath, steeling yourself. “What–, uh, what did you find?”
Sam hesitates for a moment, the line falling silent. “I’m not sure we should do this over the phone. Might not be safe.”
You swallow thickly. You haven’t thought about that. Do demons do wire-taps?
“You–, uhm, you wanna meet somewhere?” you ask reluctantly. You’re not sure you truly ever want to see either of them again in your life. The plan was to tell Sam what you know, so he could handle it and you could go back to your same old boredom.
“Yeah, uhm, we’re in South Dakota right now, but we can drive to Salem to meet you there,” Sam suggests.
Somehow, you don’t like that idea. Last time they came to town, you felt paranoid for an entire week, double-checking locks and dark corners, your skin prickling with terror that the brothers might come back to finish the job or maybe even send some other hunter your way. Their visit left you feeling like you had a red-painted target on your back, not to mention that you were sure his brother still didn’t take too kindly to you, judging by Sam’s own hesitation.
“You think you can come alone?” you ask then, chewing on your bottom lip. “I don’t wanna see your brother again. No offense.”
Sam chuckles a little. “None taken. Trust me, I get it. Dean doesn’t need to know,” he says, which brings you some relief. “I can keep him occupied. Just need to find a case in your area. Would that work for you?”
You pause for a moment, contemplating his suggestion. Unlike his brother, Sam hasn’t tried to kill you. He hasn’t even said a single bad word to you. Hasn’t threatened you or even pulled a gun. But can you really trust him?
“Actually, I think I might have a case for you guys,” you say musingly. “You ever heard about Sleepy Hollow, New York?”
Sam barks an amused laugh at that. “Sleepy Hollow, huh?”
“Yeah, they had three beheadings over the last two weeks. It’s been on the news. I don’t know a lot about hunting, but that sounds like your area of expertise. It’s only a four-hour drive from Salem. I could meet you there,” you suggest.
“That actually sounds perfect,” Sam agrees.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “Dean won’t pass that up. It’ll keep him busy.”
You nod slowly, even though he can’t see it. “Alright.”
“We’ll head out right away. Probably will be there by tomorrow,” he continues.
“Works for me,” you say, even though your nerves are exploding. “Guess I’ll see you there then.”
“Yeah, see you,” Sam replies warmly.
You then hang up and stare at your phone for a moment longer before storing it back in your purse. Then your gaze drifts back to the open safe. To the photographs. To the letter still resting in your lap.
Your life was simple once – or at least simpler. But now it feels like the ground has cracked open beneath your feet, revealing a depth you didn’t know was there.
All you can hope for now is that you don’t fall down too far.
Sleepy Hollow, New York
This town almost feels like home to you. Because, much like Salem, Sleepy Hollow leans heavily into its reputation.
The streets are lined with old colonial houses that look like they’ve survived three centuries out of sheer stubbornness, their crooked fences and deep porches casting long shadows in the late afternoon sun. There are wrought-iron signs swinging above shop doors, carved pumpkins already appearing in windows despite it being still summer, and in the distance, an old church bell tolls ominously. You’re sure if you looked hard enough, you could even find a murder of ravens lurking around somewhere.
As soon as you’d passed the town sign, you felt like you stepped into Edgar Allan Poe’s wet dream.
Sam texted you this morning when they passed Cleveland, stating they’d be here in a couple of hours. And now, you’re standing on the sidewalk across from a small diner, sunglasses perched on your nose, the warmth of the sun settling against your skin, and it should feel pleasant. Casual. Normal.
But instead, your brain is busy running through worst-case scenarios. Because, really, what in the living hell are you doing here?
You’re not just about to have coffee with an old friend and catch up on life. You’re here to meet a hunter. Voluntarily. As in, not under duress, not with a gun pointed at you, not as part of some life-threatening interrogation. No, it’s just a normal Thursday afternoon (and maybe a deeply questionable life choice).
Your gaze drifts to the shop window of a small bookstore to your right and catches your reflection. You look ordinary, like everyone else around you, although your magic hums in your blood and you seriously contemplate walking straight back to your car and pretending this entire situation never escalated past mildly concerning.
You could still leave.
No consequences. No one chasing after you. No one would even know you came.
You could just turn around, drive back to Salem, and go back to your job, your apartment, your very sane and evidence-based existence where magic is something you use to occasionally clean your kitchen faster – not to unlock family secrets or hunt evil. You could just let the Winchesters keep chasing their demons, literal and otherwise, while you go back to your lab and your carefully constructed version of normal.
Tempting. Very tempting.
But then your mind, traitorous thing that it is, conjures your mom’s letter again. The careful curve of her handwriting. The words that refuse to remain muted in the back of your head.
It is your awakening.
You make a face. Right. No pressure. But what if you don’t even want to awaken anything at all? What if you just want to stay at home, eat ice cream on the couch, and not deal with any of this?
You exhale a deep sigh and finally push off the curb to cross the street before you can overthink this whole meeting into oblivion. It doesn’t hurt to hear him out and find out what’s really going on. Whether you want to or not, a door has opened and you’re forced to step through it. Doesn’t mean you can’t always still bolt back out later on when you don’t like what’s inside, though.
The bell above the diner door chimes as you stroll inside, a wave of cool air from the AC greeting you along with the rich scent of coffee, sugar, and grease. The place is busy but not too crowded, only a few locals lingering over iced drinks and tourists snapping photos like they’re expecting the Headless Horseman himself to ride past the window at any second.
Of course tourists and reporters flooded this town as soon as the first victim dropped their head and turned it into a media circus.
Your eyes then cautiously scan the room for a minute before you spot Sam Winchester. You feel the relief flooding your veins when you find him alone and without the company of his bloodthirsty, bull-headed brother.
While Sam swore he’d come solo, you didn’t quite trust his word, considering he’s technically supposed to be your arch nemesis. That’s how the story goes, right? The hunter and the fox.
Sam sits in a corner booth near the back, long legs tucked under a small table. The furniture in here clearly wasn’t designed with a guy over six foot four in mind. Two coffees are placed in front of him, steam still rising from the cups. He looks less intense than the night you met him, but not exactly relaxed either. However, he definitely seems just as out of place here as you feel. You recognize a nervous energy in his aura, the yellow more butterscotch than buttercup this time.
His gaze lifts at the sound of the bell and then lands on you instantly. Recognition flashes on his face for a second before it softens, clearly relieved you decided to come.
You still hesitate for half a heartbeat before you can convince your feet to finally move his way.
“Hey,” he says, straightening slightly as you approach. There’s a tentative smile on his lips as if he’s not entirely sure how this meeting is supposed to go either. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“Yeah, I almost didn’t,” you reply too honestly, sliding into the seat across from him.
It earns a small huff of amusement from him, and he nudges one of the drinks toward you. “Got you a coffee. Didn’t know how you like it, but I figured I can’t go wrong with black.”
You glance at it, then back at him. “Well, at least you have more manners than your brother.”
Whoops. That one slipped out before you could stop yourself.
Luckily, Sam only chuckles. “It’s kind of a low bar.”
You take the coffee, more for something to do with your hands than anything else before your gaze drifts toward the windows for a moment with a little hint of wariness in your eyes, maybe even a touch of lingering anger. You half-expect his brother to lurk in the bushes outside somewhere. He seems to be the type to do something like that.
“So… where is your homicidal brother?”
Again, Sam doesn’t seem offended. If anything, he looks at you like he expected that question (and that tone).
“Dean’s at the morgue, looking into the case,” he assures you quickly. “Don’t worry. He won’t show up. I made sure of that.”
Your eyes narrow slightly. “And he’s just… fine with you meeting me here alone?”
Granted, you’ve only met the guy once, but that scenario seems highly unlikely by the controlling energy he was giving off.
“Not exactly,” Sam admits and grimaces slightly. He leans back a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “He doesn’t know I’m here. Told him I was going to the library. To be honest with you, he’d probably kill me if he found out.”
You give him a dry look, taking a slow sip of your coffee. “You or me?” You arch an eyebrow. “Good to know your survival instincts are questionable. Happy to be a part of a potentially lethal secret.”
“Yeah, uh, I’m sorry,” he says with a sheepish smile. “I just figured this was worth the risk, you know? And Dean, well… he doesn’t need answers like I do. Actually, I’m pretty sure he’s terrified about finding out more.”
Good, you think. Let that guy be as terrified as you were when he pointed a gun at you. Is it wrong that little bit of information only motivates you more to dig deeper and find answers just to spite that asshole?
Admittedly, this whole situation is ridiculous. It’s strange to sit here like this – like you and Sam are suddenly allies. And yet, somehow, it’s a lot less hostile than the last time you saw him. Only three weeks ago, the two of you were still on opposite sides of a loaded gun.
Sure, it’s till weird. Still dangerous. It’s just less… immediately life-threatening.
Sam shifts slightly in his seat and leans forward then, his expression turning more serious. “So… what did you find?”
Right. Straight to business.
Your fingers tighten briefly around the mug before you reach into your bag and pull out the folded letter. The paper feels more fragile now than it did in the basement, as if it could disintegrate under too much scrutiny.
For a heartbeat, you hesitate.
Because this is personal. Painfully so. And Sam, as nice and kind as he may seem, is still someone you met under less than ideal circumstances. He’s a complete stranger to you.
You study him for a second, weighing it. Trust versus instinct. Curiosity versus caution.
And then, slowly, you slide the letter across the table.
“It’s from my mom,” you share. “She wrote it for my twenty-first birthday. Mia never gave it to me, though. I found it in her safe in the basement. I–, uh, I may have broken into it.”
Sam shoots you a surprised look, a smile rising on his lips. “You know how to pick locks?”
“I know how to write spells,” you counter.
Sam huffs a small laugh at that. “Got it.” He then focuses back on the letter in front of him but doesn’t touch it immediately. His eyes meet yours instead. “You sure you want me to read this?”
Nope, not at all, you want to respond but find yourself nodding despite of it.
“Yeah, uhm… I think you should.”
He accepts that, picking it up carefully as if he understands it’s more than just paper.
You watch him read, tracking every subtle shift on his face – the slight furrow of his brows and the way his focus sharpens when he reaches certain parts as his hazel eyes move steadily over the page. It feels oddly intimate – letting someone else into your life like this. There are only three people in the world you ever entrusted with your secrets: Paige, Cameron, and Mia.
You even told Paige you were coming here to meet one of the fake FBI guys who tried to murder you not that long ago (and you both agree that sentence sounds insane). But you mostly told her so at least one person knows your whereabouts in case you go missing here (or someone has an itchy trigger finger again).
You obviously haven’t told Mia – not about the meeting or the letter. You’re kind of dreading that conversation, scared of answers.
And Cameron… well, he doesn’t exactly know yet that someone tried to kill you in the first place, let alone that you’re willingly meeting them again to dig deeper into your witchy family history that possibly involves demons. That’s probably a face-to-face conversation and not something you share over Skype with fifteen other guys sitting around your boyfriend in a tent.
When Sam then finally looks up, his whiskey-colored eyes are more piercing than before. There’s a razor-sharp glint in them now.
“The blood moon,” he says. “Spring equinox.”
You nod slowly. “Yeah, I have no idea what that means. The letter didn’t exactly explain it. You were the first person that told me about that.”
“Your mom never mentioned it before this?”
“No.” You shake your head sadly, but there’s a thread of anger underneath it.
Sure, you were a kid and only eleven when they died, but your mom and grandma prepared you and taught you so many other things, and they couldn’t mention that? A little heads-up about being born into a magical nuclear disaster would’ve been appreciated.
Sam exhales, leaning back in the booth. “Well, uhm, according to the lore, it’s supposed to amplify your magic,” he says. “But we actually found another connection from a hunter who knew your family. He’s, uh, a family friend of ours, too.”
You tilt your head. “He knew my mom and grandma?”
“Yeah, uh, he worked with them,” Sam says. “Your grandmother mostly. Sometimes your mom. They helped him on hunts. He’s actually the one who sent our dad to them.”
You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, I didn’t know that. I mean, I knew they tried helping your dad, and sometimes other people would come by the house, too. But I didn’t know how far it went…”
As a kid, you caught glimpses here and there, but they mostly sent you away whenever a visitor would come around. You just never realized they’d been running an entire secret operation right under your nose.
You recall the words in your mom’s letter again, what your grandma always taught you as well, remembering you’re supposed to help people. Hunters. It’s the family legacy.
But honestly? You have no idea how to do that. Defeating monsters isn’t exactly in your wheelhouse. You’re not equipped for it. There’s nothing you can offer them in terms of demon hunting aside from a few party tricks.
“He told us this story about the first witch,” Sam continues.
Your head snaps up, realization dawning on you. “The Legend of Eira,” you breathe.
“Yeah.” Sam blinks in surprise, then nods. “You know it?”
A small, nostalgic smile tugs at your lips. “My grandma used to tell it to me before bed almost every night,” you share and then tilt your head slightly. “Though I’m pretty sure I got the Disney version and not the Grimm one.”
Sam huffs a chuckle. “Yeah, probably.”
Your fingers tap lightly against the coffee cup as the pieces shift in your mind, rearranging themselves into something new. Something bigger. There’s a lot you don’t know about your own family. Too damn much. But there’s some things you still remember well.
“At the foot of a birch tree, Frejya gave Eira a symbol, one not yet known to mankind. One of growth, of protection, of life that endures and begins again – Bjarkan. Eira carved it into her skin, just above her heart, and pressed her blood into the bark of the tree, binding flesh to root, life to life. She did not take the power but became a part of it.”
Your grandma’s voice floods your mind like it was yesterday and not more than a decade ago. Your hand automatically wanders to your collarbone on the left side, where a birthmark rests just above your heart, but it’s not just a random shape. It’s a symbol. A rune.
ᛒ
Sam seems to notice the motion, his eyes flicking briefly to the spot where your fingers touch the fabric of your shirt, the symbol hidden just underneath it, but he refrains from commenting on it.
“The demon you talked about, the one that killed my family,” you say with a clear of your throat to snap his focus back. “What do you actually know about it? I mean, was your dad hunting it?”
Sam nods slowly, his fingers tightening around the mug in his hands. “Yeah, uhm, he’d been hunting it for a long time,” he shares. “We’ve been tracking a pattern. It visited babies the night they turned six months old. Said it had plans for… special kids. Kids like me. Their mothers would usually die in a fire after.”
You swallow thickly, your stomach tightening. “Because of your abilities?”
Sam gives you another nod. “Yeah, all kids usually started developing abilities after their twenty-second birthday. At least, it did for me and the others we’ve met so far. It’s mostly psychic stuff. Visions, telekinesis, mind control… It’s been different for everyone.”
A quiet breath escapes your lips as you sink back into the booth’s worn leather. “Is that why you guys were asking so many questions about the fire in Sugar Hill? Because you believed I was one of those kids?”
“Yeah,” Sam admits, then chuckles lightly. “Clearly, we were wrong about that one.”
“Because I don’t fit the pattern?” you question. You’ve heard the brothers mention it when they were in your living room that night. It’s only now starting to make sense.
“Yeah, but to be fair, there doesn’t seem to be a pattern, after all,” Sam says. “We recently discovered there might be kids out there whose mothers didn’t die in a fire. Could just be anyone at this point. We don’t know how many there are, either. You’re probably not one of them, but I still think you’re connected somehow. There’s a reason this thing came after your family. After you.”
You let the words sink in and study him for a second, something clicking into place. “Your mom,” you say carefully. “She died like that too, didn’t she? In a fire?”
Sam nods once, the blue in his aura expanding and overtaking the yellow. “Yeah, she did.”
Your head bobs softly. That explains a lot about both of these boys, actually. “I’m really sorry, Sam.”
Sam licks his lips contemplatively for a moment before leaning forward, the yellow glistening slightly. “Look, our dad thought you might be the key to killing this thing.”
Your brow shoots up, eyes widening. “I’m sorry, what?” A nervous laugh bubbles out of you. “You’re joking, right?”
Sam shakes his head, serious as ever. “We don’t exactly know how yet, but he seemed pretty sure.”
“Well, I’m not,” you protest. Can you close this goddamn door again?
Sam doesn’t even flinch, though, and stays focused. “The hunter who worked with your family – his name is Bobby Singer. He told us about a ritual, too.”
Your brow scrunches. “What kind of ritual?”
Sam chuckles a little. “Honestly? I was hoping you could tell me. We don’t know either. Your family never shared the details with him,” he explains. “But, uhm, your mom mentioned something about getting your full powers after your twenty-first birthday in the letter. You know anything about what she could mean?”
You shake your head slowly. “No clue,” you huff, frustration lacing your tone. Then a frown slowly starts to form. “They did tell me once my twenty-first birthday was special, but I don’t remember anything specifically. At least there was no mention of some big, magical fireworks moment. And I didn’t wake up differently that day either, if that’s what you were gonna ask next. It wasn’t like when I turned seven and first got my magic. It’s been the same ever since.”
“Probably because you haven’t done the ritual yet,” Sam muses, then finds your eyes. “You think there’s still anything at your old house in Sugar Hill?”
“There might be,” you admit, your jaw tightening slightly. “But just to be clear, I’m still not going back there. I don’t even know if I wanna do this. I’m kinda happy with my magic the way it is. I didn’t sign up for any of this, alright? I don’t want more power, I don’t want to kill some scary demon, and I definitely don’t want to perform some weird, ancient ritual that could go horribly wrong for all we know. I have a job. A life, okay? I was honestly doing just fine before you guys showed up.”
Sam doesn’t seem to be utterly fazed by your rant. “Look, I get it,” he levels with you. “Really, I do. Trust me.”
You hold his gaze patiently, waiting for the argument. Because judging by the determination in both his eyes and aura, you already know there’s one coming.
“But it doesn’t matter if you want it or not,” he continues contrastingly gently to the meaning of his words. “If the demon’s connected to you… it’s not just gonna leave you alone. And if it comes for you, it won’t just be you at risk. It could go after people around you, too. Your family. Friends.”
You fall silent as his words seep under your skin and avert your eyes to the window, watching people stroll past it, none the wiser of your conversation in here. You see Mia, Paige, and Cameron in their faces. You’d very much like to keep them off a demon’s radar.
What if it comes for them, and you’re not strong enough to protect them?
“It happened to me,” Sam adds, drawing your attention back to him. “I–, uh, I was at Stanford a year ago.”
You quirk a brow at that. “You went to Stanford?”
Sam smiles, chuckling a little at your bewilderment. “Yeah, pre-law. Had a girlfriend, too.”
You smile a little too before it fades again when you notice his use of the past tense. “What happened?”
Sam pauses for a moment, his eyes focused on the coffee in his hands. “The demon came and killed her,” he says quietly. “That’s when I hit the road and started hunting with Dean again.”
You swallow harshly. “I’m sorry, Sam.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m trying to warn you,” he says and meets your eyes again. “I tried running away from this thing once, too. Hell, I’m still planning on leaving all this behind as soon as that demon is dead. But as long as that thing’s alive, it’s gonna find you whether you wanna face it or not. Trust me.”
“Great,” you mutter under your breath, nodding. “So my options are ‘get involved’ or ‘get everyone I love potentially murdered.’ Love that.”
“Yeah, it sucks,” Sam agrees with a hint of sympathy in his voice.
You scoff a dry laugh, because that might be the understatement of the goddamn century.
The silence lingers for a moment before you finally dare to glance back at him. “So… what now?”
Sam exhales a long breath, leaning back in his seat. “I don’t know yet, but we keep digging. Together,” he replies. “I’ll look into the ritual. See if I can find out more about it. I can update you if I find anything. If that’s what you want…”
Oh, you’re not sure about any of this at all. It feels like Sam has just shown you a steep cliff and then told you to jump in the same breath.
“I’ll think about it, okay? Not gonna promise anything, though,” you say. “But we can keep in touch.”
Sam’s jaw locks slightly, but he eventually gives you a nod. “Deal.”
Welp, it’s not vampires, Dean thinks as he puts the last victim’s head back into its plastic container. At least, that means crazy-ass Gordon is nowhere around. When Sam first told him about this case, Dean was almost sure they’d run into the nut job again. But as it turns out, it’s just regular people dying an irregular death.
No second set of teeth descending from their gums. No visible bite marks. And no one was drained of their blood either.
Which, somehow, isn’t as comforting as it should be.
He exhales slowly through his nose, green eyes lingering on the headless body splayed out on the metal table in front of him. There’s a clean line where flesh meets absence – where something precise carved through bone and sinew, but it’s not surgical in the doctor-with-a-scalpel kind of way. It’s an efficient removal, but not jagged, not messy, and not the sort of hack job he expects from something feral or hungry.
Three bodies. Three heads. No real answers.
Dean straightens and pulls off the nitrile gloves with a practiced flick, tossing them into the trash nearby.
Sleepy Hollow of all places. The irony isn’t lost on him.
Town built on a ghost story about a headless horseman, and now the people here are actually losing theirs? Yeah, he’s sure Washington Irving is having a field day in his grave right about now. All that’s missing is a flaming pumpkin and a dramatic thunderstorm. There’s probably even a tour guide out there spinning this into a story already.
The Horseman rides again, folks – buy your tickets, bring your kids!
Dean utters a light scoff and rubs a hand down his face. He didn’t find traces of sulfur, signs of possession, or any ritual markings either. But the EMF? That spiked. Which tells him at least that he’s either dealing with a ghost or maybe even a cursed object.
The question of the who, when, where, what, and why remains, though. Awesome. Who doesn’t love a good mystery, right?
Admittedly, not knowing wouldn’t bother him as much if his little brother hadn’t been acting weird as hell on top of it. That part, annoyingly, sticks with Dean the most.
Something’s been off since yesterday. It’s subtle. It always is with Sam, but Dean knows his little brother better than anyone. He knows when that kid is being shifty and lying. Sam’s brain is clearly already ten steps ahead and not sharing the map. The question is about what.
At first, Dean didn’t second-guess Sam’s strange insistence on taking this case. Why would he? Three headless bodies in a town famous for that sort of thing? That’s practically an invitation for hunters. It’s cool. It’s weird. It’s exactly their kind of thing.
Now, though, he smells something fishy. And Dean? Well, he ain’t stupid. It doesn’t take a genius to realize Sleepy Hollow is only a nice, neat four-hour drive away from Salem. But Sam wouldn’t go behind his back and seek you out after Dean explicitly told him not to.
…Right?
Shit.
Dean should’ve clocked it sooner that something was up when Sam suggested to “divide and conquer” this morning, making Dean check out the morgue while Sam decided to hit the local library. It sounded logical. But that was code for I’m about to do something you won’t like, wasn’t it?
Divide and conquer my ass.
He scoffs under his breath again, pacing a few steps across the cold tiles before he completely heads out of the morgue.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise that a good ten minutes later, Dean’s storming the library on a mission, still willing to give his little brother the benefit of the doubt. His eyes scan the rows of books, the scattered tables, and the couple of locals minding their own business in one quick sweep.
As expected, there’s no Sam. No flannel. No furrowed brow. No nothing.
Dean doesn’t even bother asking the older librarian at the front desk if she’s seen a six-foot-four nerd hunched over a stack of lore books, practically absorbing ancient text through osmosis. He knows Sam’s not here and probably has never even set a foot inside this place.
His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, the irritation creeping in.
Called it.
Dean turns on his heel and stomps back out into the afternoon sun hitting him in the face to a blinding degree as he makes his way down the busy street, bustling with reporters and tourists already in town for the big show.
And then, there it is – the sign he’s been looking for. In the corner of his eye, a flicker of Bimini-blue glints in the sunshine.
He knows that color. And he knows that car. Your Aveo sticks out like a sore thumb, parked neatly by the curb among the others. Needless to say, he doesn’t need more proof than that to confirm his theory.
Of course Sam wouldn’t let it go. Of course he’d sneak around, go behind Dean’s back, meet up with you like some damn teenager meeting his girlfriend after curfew instead of another potential disaster waiting to happen.
And for what? To chat? To compare fucking notes? To bond over witchy nonsense and goddamn demon bedtime stories?
The anger and frustration simmer under his skin as he heads further down the street in search of his little brother and the surely witchy companion. He follows the line of sight instinctively from your car to whatever place would set a good location for a meeting like that till his gaze lands on a small diner two blocks down.
And sure enough, he spots Sam and you through the window, sitting and chatting in a booth like old goddamn friends.
Dean’s going to kill him. It’s done.
But Sam knows what he’s doing, or he wouldn’t have picked a public place in broad daylight. He knows Dean can’t very well pull out his gun here and start shootin’ even if he does catch them (which point for Dean for proving Sam wrong).
Sam should also very well know, though, that Dean doesn’t really care about any of that – not the people, not the sunlight – if push comes to shove. And, well, it’s shoving pretty damn hard right now.
However, Dean decides not to storm the diner right away, guns blazing. Instead, he watches, green eyes fixed on the window, and waits those two out. That’s what good hunters do, after all.
They set traps for their foxes.
Sam’s leaning forward on the table, focused and listening. Of course he is. He’s probably trying to score points, give you some sad stories and puppy dog eyes, and then boom – he’s got you hooked on whatever crazy plan he’s trying to talk you into.
Dean knows how that one goes. He’s been on the receiving end of it a few times now.
You’re talking, hands moving as you explain something, your expression soft and yet animated in a way that’s… different from what he remembers when he last saw you. Not scared. Not defensive. Just… engaged.
Sam says something then, you respond, and then there’s a beat before you laugh – actually laugh, like his little brother suddenly is the funniest person on the planet. For the record, Dean knows for a fact that ain’t true.
What the hell is this?
Is Sam… flirting with you? Is that what Sam’s flirting looks like? Is this what this whole thing is about? Sam wanting to get laid?
Honestly, Dean can’t tell for sure if that’s what’s happening or not. Because, while he knows his little brother pretty damn well, he doesn’t know that much about Sam’s skills in that department. Dean didn’t really see Sam date a lot in high school and then he went off to Stanford. And now, well, Sam’s not really been an outgoing person so far, so not a lot of references there either.
Sure, Dean supposes his little brother landed Jess, and she was a damn ten, so Sammy’s gotta have some game, right? On the other hand, there was also Sarah not that long ago, a chick from a case, and that seemed admittedly a little… bumpy (and not in the way you want something like that to be bumpy).
Jesus, is that what Dean’s witnessing right now? His little brother dipping a toe into the dating pool? And why the hell is he even thinking about Sam’s flirting attempts in the first place? It shouldn’t bother him.
It doesn’t.
Awesome. Now he feels like a creep who’s watching something not meant for his eyes. It’s like there’s a piece of a puzzle here that’s not supposed to fit, except it does, and that’s the goddamn problem.
Why does it have to be a witch? Why does it have to be you?
Why are you laughing?
Why is Sam–
Dean’s thoughts tangle, frustration spiking as something else sneaks in beneath it. It’s quiet but no less insistent. It’s familiar, almost like déjà-vu, although he’s sure he’s never felt this strange little tingle, this tiny prick in his chest, before in his life.
And yeah, okay, he’s noticed it before – not the feeling but the cause of it. Hard not to. You’ve got that… thing, whatever the hell it is, that makes people look twice. He looked twice. He can admit as much. He’s gonna be a grown-up about it (not out loud to other people, though. Especially not you. No, no, that’s not–).
But it’s not just that you’re pretty, not just attractive, though yeah, there’s that too, obviously. Again, he’s not blind, either. But it’s something else – something he can’t quite pin down or even put his little finger on (and the thought of you and his finger definitely shouldn’t give him, well… other thoughts).
There’s something wrong with him, isn’t there? He just can’t figure out what, though.
It’s probably just a you thing. Yeah, that’s gotta be it. It’s you. He’s blaming you.
There’s an edge to you that doesn’t line up with anything he knows how to categorize. And that, God, that fucking bugs him.
Because he likes things that fit. Things that make sense. Things he can label and move on from.
You fucking don’t do any of these things.
This whole scene in front of him reminds Dean of another one of those weird dreams he’s had a couple of nights ago. There have actually been a few of those with one common theme:
It’s always you and Sammy, both little and close in age, laughing and running around, unburdened and weightless, catching frogs and butterflies, whispering secrets in the tall grass…
One gets the idea.
And Dean? He’d be off somewhere, isolated, outcast, excluded and far away, but not out of reach. He’s very much reachable. But no one ever reaches for him.
Maybe you put something in his drink. Date-raped him with some witchy love potion or sex potion and that’s causing all these bizarre feelings now. Hell, maybe that’s what you did to Sam, too. You probably snuck a few drops of something cursed into his vanilla soy latte or whatever the hell his little brother’s drinking in there.
Dean shakes his head clear and rolls his shoulders. This is ridiculous. He doesn’t care if you’re getting along with Sam. He doesn’t care that you’re sitting there like you belong at that table, acting like you’re part of something you’re definitely not a part of. He doesn’t care that Sam looks… comfortable. Open. The way he hasn’t in a while.
That’s not the point.
The point is that Sam lied. The point is that you’re a wildcard. The point is that Dean told him not to call you.
And yet, here you fucking are.
A minute later, both you and Sammy then finally rise and head for the door. Still talking vividly. Still laughing like old buddies. Still wrapped up in whatever the fuck this is.
And Dean? He steps out of the shadows before either of you can register what’s happening, irritation rushing through his blood when he sees the stupid smile on his brother’s face.
“Really, Sam?!”
Both of you freeze in your tracks. It’s like a switch flipped, and your smiles fall abruptly. Sam’s head snaps up, your eyes go wide, and the two of you look like two baby deers in headlights. But Dean doesn’t even give either of you a second to recover.
“Lying? Meeting up with the enemy?” he snaps, deep voice raspy enough to grate on anyone. “I told you not to call her!”
Sam straightens, already having steeled himself for the inevitable lecture. “And I didn’t,” he argues. “She called me, alright?”
“A loophole, Sam? Really?” Dean raises his brows, then scowls. “That’s what you’re going with?”
You, on the other hand, are hiding halfway behind Sam’s broad back, deciding to use him as your shield. You blink between the brothers, caught in the crossfire.
“You know what? I’m gonna go,” you mumble with a clear of your throat, already taking a tentative step back. “Let you guys figure this out–”
“Whoa, whoa–” Dean moves in an instant and blocks your path to freedom. “Not so fast, Sabrina.”
Your brow scrunches as you glance up at him. “Sabrina?” A beat passes before realization clicks, your expression darkening a smidge, clearly unimpressed with his nickname game. “Oh… Funny.”
A tiny smirk tugs on Dean’s lips. Antagonizing you is admittedly sort of fun.
“Puritan,” you scoff under your breath and cross your arms.
But Dean? Oh, he still heard that.
“What did you just call me?”
“You heard me,” you grit, the defiance gleaming in your eyes.
Now, Dean can take an insult. You’re not the first person that threw something at him and hoped it would stick. But puritan? He’s never gotten that one before. Everyone who knows him would probably agree that he’s the least strait-laced prude there is. There’s nothing pure about him.
And just like that, his smirk morphs to a scowl.
“Oh, you stay right there, Stevie Nicks Junior,” he warns, pointing a finger at you. “You’re not going anywhere.”
You, however, aren’t scared of him this time or even backing down. Instead of flinching, you square your shoulders and meet his glare head-on.
“Or what? You’re gonna shoot me in a busy street during daylight?” You tilt your head cockily, lips twitching. “You know that’s a red flag, right? I mean, Jesus, you’re every dating site’s worst nightmare. It’s like a full catfish situation.”
What the–
What the hell does that mean now?!
Dean blinks, mouth agape, thrown just enough by the comment to be noticeable. Sam snorts in obvious amusement, earning himself a glare. Then Dean looks back at you, sterner than before as he tries (and fails) to fully track whatever the hell you just said. It sounded like a compliment wrapped in an insult.
“Well, consider yourself catfished then,” he retorts with a huff and prays it makes sense. Your brow wrinkles, so it probably didn’t, but Dean ignores it skillfully. “You’re in this now.” His gaze then flicks expectantly between you and his little brother. “Well? Somebody gonna fill me in on what’s going on here?”
Sam exhales a long and deep breath. “Dean, look, I was just catching her up on what we know so far about the demon and what Bobby told us about her family.”
“What?!” Dean snaps, shaking his head furiously. “You told her all of that?! First Ellen, now her? Why don’t you go ahead and put it out in an email newsletter next time, huh? Save us all some time, man.”
Sam sighs and rolls his eyes. “Dean–”
“No!” Dean cuts him right off, voice rising. “You can’t trust her, Sam! You know that.”
“Still standing right here,” you chime in dryly and wave your hand in mock. “You know, where you told me to stand…”
Dean smacks his lips and shoots you a sharp look, then points a finger at you again. “You’re a bad influence on him.”
“Dude–” Sam starts, but this time you cut in first.
“You know what? I don’t need this,” you announce with a tight smile. “You guys are on your own with this. I’m going. So if you plan on still shooting me in front of at least twenty witnesses, do it now because I’m walking away.” You turn on your heel, then throw a glimpse back at Sam over your shoulder. “Good luck with the case.”
Dean’s jaw clenches hard as soon as you take that first step.
“So what?” he throws after you. “You’re just gonna ditch while people are dying in this town? Real class act.”
Alright, sure, Dean doesn’t want you on this hunt. Doesn’t want you anywhere near him or Sam. But alas, you’re here already – no thanks to his little brother dragging you into their mess. Sam may as well have painted a blinking red target on your back. And now, well, you’re Dean’s fucking responsibility.
Luckily, Dean’s good at finding buttons. And certainly, he’s found yours and knows where to push down.
You stop in your tracks and spin on your heel, the irritation sparking your eyes like a wildfire. “I’m not a hunter. That’s your specialty,” you shoot back. “I’m gonna go home, watch Buffy slay some vampires, and then think of you in spirit, alright?”
Dean studies you for a second, then sighs, forcing some of the heat out of his voice. “It’s not vampires,” he says, more grounded now, catching Sam’s attention as well. “Checked all three bodies. No second set of teeth, no bites, no feeding, nothing. Clean cuts.”
“So what are you thinking?” Sam asks, focusing immediately on the case. Maybe he’s just happy about the distraction. “Ghost? Cursed object?”
Dean shrugs lightly. “Would be my best guess.”
Sam nods slowly before his eyes drift toward you, the familiar look that Dean knows all too well already forming. He’s going full puppy on you. No one can resist that. It’s like his little brother’s superpower.
“Which means we might need another perspective,” Sam muses, gaze flicking to you without hiding his intentions.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you grumble, eyes narrowing. “It’s not my job.”
“People are still dying,” Dean repeats because he can read you well enough to know that’s your kryptonite.
And yeah, he wasn’t a fan at first of the witchy disappearing act you pulled back in Salem, but he can admit that he might have overreacted back then and pulled the trigger a little too soon (metaphorically speaking). You’re doing a good thing there, helping people, even though Dean doesn’t really approve of the methods. He’s not going to admit that to your face, though. Can’t let you have that win. That probably would only go to your head.
“People are dying everywhere every day,” you point out and throw your arms up. “What do you want me to do next? Perform open-heart surgery without a medical degree?”
Damn, that’s a good point. You’re admittedly quick on the draw and sharp as a tack. But Dean? He’s got some tricks up his sleeve, too. He’s used to that kind of argument from Sam, so he’s got some repartee of his own. Otherwise, God knows he’d never win a single fight.
“Look, we could use your help,” Sam adds, pulling on the gentle kid gloves before Dean can interject. You hesitate, clearly torn, your gaze wandering back and forth between them. “We’re staying at a bed and breakfast down the road. We can get you a room. You don’t have to drive back tonight. Just sleep on it.”
“Whoa, no, that’s not gonna happen,” Dean cuts in sternly. “Not gonna risk her disappearing on us, man.” His eyes lock onto yours, unyielding. “You’re staying where we can see you in case you pull somethin’.”
“What? No!” you protest firmly. “I’m not playing summer camp with you two. Where would I even go? You know where I live. You know where I work. Hell, Sam has my number.”
“Yeah, and you also got a little disappearing spell in your repertoire. I haven’t forgotten about that one,” Dean counters cleverly. God, he has to bite back the rising smirk because he can see on your face that he’s got you with that one.
You scowl and cross your arms. “How do I know you’re not gonna shoot me when I sleep?”
“Guess you don’t.”
“Dean,” Sam warns with a hint of frustration in his tone. “He’s not gonna shoot you,” he assures you gently, then glares back at Dean and grits, “Right?”
“Well–”
“Dean.”
Dean rolls his eyes back and sighs. “Fine, whatever.”
You stare at him for another second, then let out a short, incredulous laugh, lifting a brow. “Do you actually hate me that much?”
Dean opens his mouth, already halfway to some snarky comeback. Something easy. Something cutting. But then he stops.
Because the answer that comes up first isn’t any of that. It’s something messier. More complicated. Something he doesn’t have a name for yet and doesn’t particularly want one.
So, he shoves it down. Deep, deep down.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he shoots back dryly instead. “You’re just easier to deal with when you’re not sneaking around.”
Your eyes narrow to a glare, and for a minute, it seems like you’re going to walk away anyway, but then you exhale a deep sigh, shoulders dropping just a little bit.
“Fine,” you mutter. “But I’m not doing this because you told me to.”
Dean scoffs, unimpressed. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Sabrina.”
And just like that, the three of you stand there – tense, mismatched, and somehow stuck in the same mess whether any of you like it or not.
▶️ Chapter 4: Do You Hate Me? – June 19
Ready to storm the comments? I'm so excited to hear your best guesses and theories as to what the hell is going on here with that crazy, emotional, and possibly fake (?) childhood dream 👀🔮 (And yes, I did hurt my own heart writing this one, and there might be more in the next parts lol). Also don't ask me how long it took to craft those spells, letter, and ancient legend. I went full LOTR (and the rhyming for those spells is haaard) 😂
In other news, how did you like Sabrina and Sam's secret meeting and all the revelations in this part? Of course it's not that easy to trick Dean. Shame on them for trying lmao. How long do you think it will take till their bonding annoys him, though? A minute? 😝
🔮 Series Masterlist
Coming Up:
“Okay,” Sam sighs and scratches the back of his neck. “I think we should head to the library next. I mean, the whole hooves thing makes me think we might actually be dealing with the Headless Horseman. Maybe we can find out who it is, because this thing’s definitely mobile.”
Dean nods, still hung up on that whole red-green thing, but you shake your head slightly, brows creasing. Figures.
“Actually, I wanna process the evidence first. Might give us a clue about the weapon and where to find it,” you say.
Dean then finally dares to look at you again, brow furrowing lightly. “Thought you already did that with that whole horsey aura thing.”
“That’s not–… You know what? Never mind.” You press your lips together, biting back whatever comment you wanted to make, and simply turn to Sam. “Point is, I need a lab. Don’t exactly have one here. The rust, the hair… There’s more there.” Then you smack your lips, musingly looking between the brothers. “You guys do breaking and entering, right?”
Sam and Dean exchange a look.
Of course.
Dean sighs. “Yup, we do.”
“You guys go. I’ll hit the library,” Sam says, not even arguing (or volunteering).
“Fine. I’ll go with her.” Dean nods and rolls his eyes slightly.
But you? You immediately grimace and wrinkle your nose.
“Do you have to?” you question and then tone down the hostility a little by clearing your throat. “I mean, can’t Sam come to the lab with me, and you can go to the library?”
Dean’s lips rise to a smirk at that. “Not a chance in hell, Sabrina.”
Summary: As Tommy leaves England on business, old wounds begin to surface at Arrow House. And as distance grows between husband and wife, fate treacherously changes course upon the Irish Sea.
Warnings: Language, angst, arranged marriage.
Word Count: 4K
[Masterlist] [Previous Part] [Trailer]
What would you call it?
What word would you use to summarise it?
Because as I sit here, the narrator to this shifting saga, finger flicking through a rolodex of words, trying to find the right one that would fit the fickleness of your life. A childhood spent waiting between departures and returns. Held in constant suspension after each marital spat.
Only a handful of words are worthy enough to describe the damage of one fathers fuckery.
Sharpnel. The emotional injuries a child collects in the crossfire between two warring parents.
Wreckage. What's left after anger has finished throwing its weight around a room.
Turmoil. How life is lived in the echo of each battle.
And what word should we give the current state of affairs?
Because I'm trying to be gentle, my dear. Trying to guide you far away from the fallout of your father's misgivings, even now, even after all these years.
But the one word that just won't let me be, that keeps pushing its way through my pen no matter how many times I try to erase it from your history is…
Inheritance.
Not the inheritance of wealth or wisdom, but the inheritance of wounds. Deep, painful ones.
The sins of a father. The misery of a mother. A cycle handed down like an heirloom. An ugly thing that had circled back to the present. Back to this very moment, where you stood on the steps of Arrow House watching Tommy and his brothers pack their bags into the Bentley.
For as dawn broke through the mist, settling on the marigolds that once became the burying ground of your waging war on Tommy’s wrongdoings, you looked absolutely fucking miserable.
Gone was the girl who fired back as fast as a gunshot, as she watched her husband sling his suitcase into the boot of his car.
Gone was the girl who stood poised and perfected, with the pettiness of a woman who knew her wit could outsmart her husband’s stubborn will.
Gone was you, and in your place stood the ghost of your mother, watching your father fuck off to God knows where to do God knows what.
But the difference is, darling, that bastard, the one right there, eyes flicking back to you as he stood beside his Bentley, jaw working into something that looked an awful lot like regret, wasn’t your father.
Now don’t get me wrong. He’s a bloody idiot, that much we're well aware of. But he's also a man of his word. One who, I might add, has yet to tell you his dalliances in downtown London are a thing of the past.
Straighten up, girl. Quick now. He’s heading this way.
Shift that slouch into the stance of the strong woman I know you are.
“ Ship leaves Liverpool docks for Holyhead, nine sharp” he murmured around his cigarette as he stopped in front of you, eyes dragging over your silk dressing gown rippling wistfully in the Warwickshire winds.“ Then it's straight to Ireland”
Yes, yes. We know all this.
Now what about that other matter?
That rather significant decision you made yesterday.
The one where you, the philandering fuckboy, finally hung up your bachelor belt.
“ We'll port sometime tonight…” he added, as John and Arthur shifted behind him, grimacing through the painful spectacle of their brother attempting basic human interaction. “ Weather permitted”
Christ on a tricycle.
And, Thomas?
And…
“And...” he murmured through a wisp of smoke, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he searched for his bearings. For his footing. For where exactly he stood on your emotional barometer.
For Tommy could negotiate with gangsters, politicians and murderers, but seemingly couldn't find the words to tell his wife that despite the thousands she'd spent practising her pyrotechnics with his money, despite the warfare she'd waged on his beloved whiskey, and despite every single headache she'd gifted him since the day they married...
He was going to miss her.
He was going to miss his wife.
“ …Tell the gardeners not to touch the south hedge. They've butchered it twice already" he finally finished, completely fucking up his long awaited thought as his eyes drifted across the lawn to said hedge looking nothing the butchered bush, and everything a perfectly pruned privet.
“ The south hedge…” you repeated quietly, eyes fixed on his, squinting through the rising sun stretching over Arrow House's sprawling grounds.
“Aye” he doubled down, blowing a stream of smoke heavenward, the only tell to his masterful mind currently berating him for every stupid syllable, was the way his gaze kept cutting to you in the corner of his eye as he silently willed his words out of existence.“ South hedge”
The bloody hedge.
He knew it was stupid. His brothers knew it was stupid. You knew it was stupid. And I wouldn't put it past the hedge itself, victim of these heinous accusations, knowing it was stupid.
Oh, Thomas.
God help you. Someone bloody help you.
“ Tom. We need to get move on…” Arthur, the unlikely hero to his brother's helplessness, stepped in, saving Tommy from further self-inflicted torment. “ Long drive and all”
“ Right” your husband cleared his throat of the morning gravel, taking a final drag, a final stolen glance at you through the smoke as he turned to leave, when…
“ You not gonna kiss your husband goodbye, love?”
Arthur. Bloody Arthur.
That conniving, conspiring, gangly gangster I would bet every penny I possessed had colluded with our little chubby cherub up in heartbreak heaven.
Alright, ladies. I hear you. Loud and bloody clear. Your screams for me to scribble out a snog are ringing at a rather murderous pitch in my ears.
You’re right. The bastard doesn’t deserve an ounce of affection. But before you decide I’m daft, before you damn me to kingdom come, just hear me out.
You and Tommy have a lifetime together. And although your husband had failed to inform you he wanted more than an arrangement. More than any business deal. You had to start from somewhere, had to move past your stubbornness and his stupidity if you were ever going to make something of a marriage made from a snowstorm and a scandal.
“ Arthur…” Tommy muttered, now the one to save you, to step in before the pressure of performing as his wife led to your embarrassment.
But even then, even as he gave his brother a murderous look to quit his mithering, he couldn't help but cast a curious glance your way.
Would you? Would you give your husband the simplest of things? A kiss?
Caught between Arthur’s stupid grin, chewing a chunk of gum, and John’s smirk as he twirled a toothpick between his teeth, your eyes landed on Tommy.
It was just a gesture. You told yourself as you stepped forward.
Something to shut the Shelby brothers up. To stop another mouthy maid from flooding the West Midlands with your marital woes.
Just procedure. Part of being the dutiful wife who sees her husband off at the doorstep before he ventures beyond the borders of your home.
Just a kiss.
But when you came foot to foot with your husband, you felt your resolve falter under the weight of his unwavering stare, watching every fraction of movement as he waited for you to close the gap.
Leaning in, your mouth hovered a hesitant breath, before a brush became a kiss. A soft locking of lips became an embrace. And as Tommy's body folded into yours, a gentle hand to your cheek, became one man's hope as he deepened his desire for you.
“ There we go. That wasn't so bad, eh?” The eldest Shelby broke the spell, hands slapping together like a thunderclap, as your lips parted and Tommy silently prayed for the hammer-wielding God himself, to strike his brother down where he stood.
“ Right. Come on then, kids. Chop chop” Arthur’s mischief knew no limits as he landed a heavy hand on Tommy’s shoulder before swaggering towards the four-seater and an amused John.
Hand fixed firmly against your cheek, a breath of frustration left Tommy as he traced your bottom lip with a sweep of his thumb. A frustration born of his brother's interruption, but one that had quickly tangled into a man's frustration with himself, that he could read everyone's mind but yours.
For as your husband looked down at you, he still didn’t know where he stood. Still didn’t know what he was to you beyond ink on a marriage certificate locked away safely in his study.
And for a man like Thomas Shelby that was a very fucking frustrating thing.
“ Go inside” he murmured, the words coming out like orders he hadn’t meant to give, one after another in a chain of command he couldn’t seem to stop.
“ Frances has the code for the safe. Hotel number is on my desk. And…eat. Eat something”
Ah, there he is. The Tommy we all know and begrudgingly love. Expecting his wife of one month to somehow decipher the workings of his mind and everything it refused to say out loud.
Allow me…
Go inside – it's freezing, and I don't want you to catch your death on me.
Frances has the codes – there’s money in the safe, and I feel guilty as sin. Spend it.
Hotel number on the desk – ring me…please.
And eat – don’t you dare waste away and make me a widower before I’ve even learnt how to be your husband.
There we are, dear. Deciphered by yours truly.
Now, where were we…
“ Hurry up, Romeo! We've got a boat to board” John boy called out, the jeering jokester to every meaningful moment as Tommy gave one last lingering gaze over your features before letting go.
Boots moving, coat tails catching the cool morning breeze, your husband turned for the car without a single glance back until he was seated. Until the wheels ground down the drives gravel. Until he was halfway down the lane, far enough away for distance to soften the sting of rejection, did his eyes drift to the rear-view mirror. Just in case. Just in case you were still there…
And there you were. There was his wife.
The route to Liverpool had been a long drive for Tommy as he sat in silence, dwelling on your doorstep kiss.
The crossing to Holyhead had been smooth sailing, allowing him ample opportunity to slip away from the herd of families, labourers and farm workers making their way home across the Irish Sea.
And as he boarded the vessel bound for Ireland, to meet with his contacts outside of England, outside of politics and the precipice of a gang war with the Billy Boys who'd steadily been choking the Liverpool routes, he sat in solitude with a sour whiskey and an equally sour mood.
For a month, a battle had waged between you. A month of routine, of reckless words, of refusing to consider one another anything more than unwilling companions bound by the terms of a contract.
And now, as Tommy sat at the bar with a long week of meetings ahead of him to unfuck the fuckery the Scots had made of his orderly world, the liquor turning in his hand felt tasteless compared to his wife's clever little war on his whiskey.
“ Another, sir?” the barman gestured with a rag towards the mahogany bar, giving it a rough wipe down as Tommy watched the amber liquid slosh against the sides of his tumbler.
“No” the answer came easy enough as he settled the crystal glass down with a steady clink. “Pressed apple”
It was a highly unexpected order from a man who looked like he'd murder you for making his Martini wrong, but one that made complete sense to you and I. To your husband, whose lips twitched with amusement as he slowly swirled the freshly poured drink around his glass.
Apple juice.
Christ.
After all the threats, all the arguments, all the warfare you'd waged upon his drinks cabinet, your menacing little mind had somehow managed to ruin whiskey for him.
But as he raised the glass to his lips, offering a silent toast to his beautiful wife's brilliance, his quiet moment of contemplation was suddenly interrupted by an invasion of perfume and the sound of sky-high heels.
“ Do you have light?” Came the sultry sound of a woman's voice beside him, stood draped in fur and diamonds, looking every inch the Dublin-born debutante.
No. Be gone, woman! Leave the brooding bastard to us and strut your stilettos elsewhere.
For Thomas has become a born-again husband, and I refuse to watch some diamond-draped Jezebel drag him back to the sins we've spent seven chapters trying to beat out of him.
Eyes flicking over the rim of his glass, Tommy’s gaze settled on her batting lashes and red-stained lips smiling back at him with an offer of a discreet dalliance below decks. A shag with no strings attached.
A month ago he would have. Hell, two weeks ago he would have, if it meant he could muffle the relentless whirling of thoughts in his mind.
But Tommy wasn’t thinking about ways he could numb himself from the chaos within. He was thinking about the way back to his wife, and the chaos you’d created together.
“ Keep it” he murmured, tossing his lighter onto the counter, dragging his drink along the weathered wood into his hand as she headed for his cabin.
“ Stay for a drink?” she called out, hopeful for a distraction from her boredom before the ship docked.
Coming to a stop, Tommy’s eyes cast over his shoulder, not to her, not to the triumph prematurely tilting at the corner of her lips, but to the barman stood beside a long line of liquor.
“A whiskey for the lady”
“ And for you, sir?” she cooed, already basking in the idea she’d bagged herself a Brummie gangster for the night, as Tommy turned to face her fully.
“ Oh, I've already got a drink, love” he drawled, raising his glass, watching her practiced smile slip clean out of its debutante charm.
“ And a wife, that'll expect a letter from me on her bedside table when she wakes”
And with that, your husband turned out of the bar, up the stairs, and into the quiet of his room, shutting himself away into the routine he’d built since the morning after your wedding.
Except this time, he'd sign his note…
“Yours Sincerely, Tommy”
Back at Arrow House, it had been four days since Tommy left for Dublin. Four days since the King had abandoned his castle, entrusting the reign of power to his Queen, who, quite frankly, was doing a rather shit job of it.
You see, whilst you may be masterful when it came to marital warfare, to holding Arrow House under siege through flying flowerpots, the humans under your employment unfortunately did not survive on spite alone.
Substance was, in fact, required for basic survival.
Cupid, for the love of your cheruby cheeks, please shoot an arrow into the arse of our precious protagonist before she withers away in her wallowing.
Because that's exactly what you were doing, currently perched on the edge of your bed, trying to decipher the ending of Tommy's letter that had arrived the day prior, whilst the people under your roof cried out for something heartier than half a day old bread.
“Yours sincerely” had somehow become "Yours when I'm guilty”
“Yours when I'm out the county”
“Yours when it suits me”
There felt nothing sincere about it as fear took hold and you found yourself missing the marital warfare that kept him coming back. Missing the witty words that kept him on his toes. Missing him.
Shit. You missed him.
Well, this was a catastrophic marital miscommunication. Written sincerely by Tommy, and read as another confession of sin by you.
Yet as your finger traced over your husband's name, you didn't toss the letter aside. Didn't shove it out of sight and out of mind. Instead, you folded it neatly and nestled it into the drawer of your bedside table, where a month's worth of notes sat stacked together like a paper trail of your marriage.
Downstairs however, command had already taken control, a different way of doing things steadily etching itself into the foundations of Arrow House.
“Have the deliveries come through the back road” your father instructed Frances as he stood in the foyer, taking the helm of a household left to its own devices. “ Front drives no good in this weather”
“ Mr Shelby has always insisted on deliveries be brought to the front of the house, sir. Where he can see who's coming and going” Frances' professional veneer didn't so much as flicker as she remained steadfast to the rules your husband had put in place.
“ Mr Shelby ain't here though, is he Francesca?” Your fathers charm curdled as it met the resistance of your housekeeper and where her loyalties lay.
“ Gravel up front is fifty percent mud. Tyres will get stuck. It's basic mathematics, pet” Arney insisted, chewing the inside of his cheek, a wide smile of disbelief spreading across his face at your headstrong housekeeper, when the sound of your heels descended the staircase.
“ Poppet!” Your father swiveled on his Derbys, arms opening as he closed the gap, drawing you into the fold of your own bloody foyer.
“ What's going on?” you murmured, caught between two very strong opinions on how Arrow House ought to be run.
“ The grocer's delivery Ma'am. Mr Shelby…”
“ Is a sensible man, Franny” your father cut in, butchering your housekeeper's name for a second time as he continued to hold court in a home that wasn't his.
“ Best they come through the back, Poppet. Saves Shelby the hassle of gritting the drive again”
“ Right…” you muttered quietly, looking between them over what felt like the most mundane of matters. “ Have them pull up behind the house, Frances”
“ Yes, Ma'am” Your housekeeper replied with poise and professionalism, in no position to argue with the lady of the house whose word became law in the absence of her husband.
And just like that the great debacle over Arrow House's driveway had been settled. Or so you thought.
Because just as Frances stepped out the foyer, another pair of steady feet stepped in.
Richie. Uncle Richie.
“ Gravel can be gritted for pennies. Tyres can be replaced” Your uncle's voice came quiet as his boots breached the marble flooring, carrying him further into the foyer.“ People slipping in through blind spots however…”
“ Those are a lot harder to account for” he paused, stopping directly in front of your father with a steadiness about him that rarely splintered.
“ Brewery waste needs checking back in Smethwick, Arney” Richie directed your father away from Arrow House, from the helm of command he'd begun to commandeer.
“ Already sorted, Rich” your father pushed back, turning the temperature ten degrees colder into something dangerous as the tension between brothers-in-law began to freeze.
Stance unflinching, your uncle didn’t just lock onto your father with the eyes of a man who held half the West Midlands brewery rights, he locked on with the discipline of a soldier waiting for the opposing side to tread further into enemy territory.
And as that lone penny of Arney’s turned like a talisman born out of habit in his tweed pocket, Richie’s attention shifted to you.
“ Go take tea in the drawing room. I'll join you when I'm done”
“ Uncle” Your voice cut through before you could check it, before the politeness you were raised on had time to surface.
You were tired. So fucking tired.
A grown woman being ushered out of every room your uncle had ever chosen to control, since he took you in after your mother died.
“ She can't be controlled, Richie. Just like her…”
“ Now” Your uncle cut straight through your father’s words, killing them before they were born as he nodded for you to leave.
Your steps were hesitant, the unfinished revelation hanging in the air behind you, curiosity denied its answer as you were quietly ushered out of the room.
And once the door was shut, once Richie was certain you were safely out of earshot, he turned on your father.
“ You don't ever think you can utter my sister's name in front of me, or my niece again” his voice was cold, clipped of any remaining courtesy, any trace of the fragile bond that once existed between men tied by marriage.
For a long breath neither of them spoke. And as Arney exhaled a slow breath between them, penny pausing in his pocket, cruelty dressed itself up as concern.
“ You're cracking at the seams, Richie. Cracking, in the head. Just like she was”
It was only when the engine changed that Tommy looked up from his tumbler aboard the LMS crossing back to Britain.
The room didn’t register it as glasses still clinked, cigar smoke still curled into the air, laughter still lingered over the bar like nothing in the world outside the hull mattered more than the heat of whiskey warming cold bones.
But for three men, sat still and silent, born on narrow boats, raised around machinery, the gentle halt of a coal-fuelled lullaby that once would’ve sent them to sleep, couldn’t have been louder.
“ Something's wrong” Arthur murmured lowly, glass pausing midway to his lips as his eyes scanned the room, landing on the small painted porthole window.
“ Can't see for shit” John muttered, brow creasing as he squinted out into the Irish Sea now swallowed by a heavy fog.
“ We've stopped” Tommy's voice came quiet, controlled, as he lowered his glass, and lifted his eyes toward the sound of boots above deck, dozens moving in the dead calm of the night.
Oh, fuck.
Within seconds he was on his feet, his brothers following a fraction behind as their boots hammered up the stairs and onto the deck.
It wasn't mayhem. There was no frantic rushing of bodies, no passengers succumbing to panic, trampling on one another in their desperation to understand what the hell was happening.
But there was an eerie stillness. A sheath of white wrapping itself around the vessel, swallowing both sea and sky until the ship seemed suspended in nothingness.
“Oi” Arthur caught a passing sailor by the collar, shiny black boots and a pressed uniform suddenly making the lad the most important man aboard the ship.
“Why've we stopped?” Tommy stepped forward before the sailor could stammer out some rehearsed reassurance, the air of authority making it abundantly clear he didn't want the shite they'd feed the socialites to keep them drinking their shandy. Nor the stories they'd tell frightened children to keep them calm.
He wanted facts. Because facts drew the line between surviving and succumbing.
And with a wife waiting at home, he now desperately wanted to return to, facts were the only thing that would get him safely back to her.
“ Come on, lad. Spit it out. We sinking or not?” Arthur encouraged, giving the boy, barely past his teens, a chance to offer something more than the stuttering one-word syllables he'd managed so far in the face of three gangsters.
“ Strand-ed…sir”
“ Stranded…” Tommy repeated, the word barely more than a whisper as the first fact was put forward, and his first thought went straight to you.
“ Nah, fuck this. I've got a wife a five thousand bloody kids at home” John piped up, temper flaring as Arthur finally released the grey-faced lad from his grip.
“ We've all got wives, John boy” Arthur muttered, as the sailor all but bolted across the deck before one of the Shelby brothers decided to throw him overboard as the first casualty of the maritime mess, while Tommy stood there silently…thinking.
But morning would come. The skies would clear. The sea would settle.
He'd step off the gangway, find the nearest telephone, and call you before your imagination could put miles between you and places he couldn't reach. Before you convinced yourself he'd abandoned you for some hotel room. Some brothel. Some stranger's body that wasn't yours.
It was a good plan. A good bloody plan.
So why were the sailors panicking?
Why were officers moving across the deck like men racing against the clock?
I'll tell you why, my dear.
Because the LMS service from Dublin to Holyhead wasn't the only vessel stranded in the Irish Sea that night.
And as a fog so thick it swallowed the horizon whole, currents shifted dangerously beneath black water and visibility was measured in mere yards, another ship was out there somewhere, moving blindly through the darkness.
God help them all.
*I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter in the comments below 🖤*
[Next Part] coming soon!
Tag list: @imyourlittlechaos @cillianinlove @kmc1989 @awanood @lycanbeks92
Summary: The reader receives an anonymous text from a new client needing an off the books patch job. However he's annoyingly good looking and the last thing you need is some ex-special ops guy hanging around. Unfortunately for you, Russell Shaw isn't the kind of guy to walk away when he knows something's wrong...
Summary: Working with the Boys was already dangerous enough before you met Soldier Boy. But somewhere between gunfights, safe houses and near-death missions, the line between protecting each other and wanting each other starts getting dangerously blurred.
-requested-
(prequel to "Fucking Brats") But you can totally read both stories on their own)
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language, Underage Reader
Word Count: 5154
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
You heard him before you saw him. He was the kind of noise that didn’t fit the shitty dockside warehouse you were crouched in.
“Stay down, munchkin”, Butcher barked over his shoulder, voice rough with impatience.
You were already down, pressed behind a stack of damp cardboard boxes that smelled like mold and old fish. Bullets chewed through the metal shipping container opposite you, sparks spitting off like fireworks. Your heart hammered in your ears, a too-fast drum that almost drowned out everything else. Almost.
Because then came the second sound. Not a gunshot. Not an explosion. Something heavier.
A man screamed, then cut off halfway through like someone had hit a mute button, followed by the wet crunch of bone and the screech of twisting metal.
Frenchie swore in French from somewhere to your left. MM’s voice came controlled, calling positions and counting heads. You only caught pieces of it because your brain was too busy cataloguing how your hands were shaking and how the gun in your grip suddenly felt like a toy. You hadn’t signed up for this level of chaos.
Okay, technically you had. But you thought “simple handoff” meant… less bullets. More walking away alive.
“Oi!”, Butcher shouted, loud enough to slice through the chaos. “Took your sweet fuckin’ time, didn’t ya?”.
Another clank, closer now, and something big moved just out of your line of sight.
You risked a quick peek around the edge of the boxes and the first thing you saw was the shield.
It wasn’t shiny like in the old footage, the propaganda reels you’d grown up seeing on cheap cable reruns. It used to gleam, back when they color-corrected everything to make America look golden. Now, under the warehouse’s stuttering lights, the thing looked battered. Dented at the rim. Scratched to hell.
The second thing you saw was the man carrying it.
He wore green, thick fabric and armor plates, the kind of suit designed by someone who didn’t care if you could breathe as long as you looked like a poster. Broad shoulders, heavy boots, the star on his chest dulled and scuffed but still unmistakable.
Soldier Boy.
For half a second your brain refused to believe it. He was a history meme. An old Vought relic. That one guy your generation used as a joke whenever someone said “real men don’t complain”.
And yet there he was, in the middle of the warehouse, standing like the gunfire was background noise and the dead guy at his feet was an inconvenience.
The corpse twitched once, arm bent the wrong way around a metal support pole. The pole itself was bent too, like it had been hit by something very fast and very heavy.
Soldier Boy rolled his shoulder, adjusting his grip on the shield. “Thought you said this was a quick in-and-out”, he called to Butcher without turning around.
“Was, till these tossers brought party favors”, Butcher called back. “You’re welcome”.
Another burst of bullets crackled from the catwalk above. You flinched instinctively. Soldier Boy didn’t. The rounds pinged off the shield and the metal pillar behind him, dropping uselessly to the floor.
He sighed. Actually sighed. Like someone had made him get up during the best part of a movie.
Then he moved.
You’d watched supes fight before, mostly through screens, the curated Vought clips and shaky phone footage. It never felt real. Too edited and too clean. Even the messy stuff had jump cuts. This was not clean.
He launched himself forward with that shield up, boots pounding concrete and suddenly the guy on the catwalk was flailing, firing wildly. Soldier Boy flicked his arm, not even a full throw, just a lazy snap of his wrist. The shield flew. It hit the railing first, snapping it like a twig, then rebounded into the gunman’s chest with a sickening crack. The guy’s body folded over the edge, half his weight dangling. You heard him choking on his own breath as Soldier Boy caught the returning shield one-handed without looking, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
You realized your mouth was a little open. You closed it quickly. “Are we just gonna let him do all the work?”, you muttered, more to yourself than anyone.
MM answered anyway from behind a stack of pallets. “If he wants it, he can have it. Less paperwork for us”.
Another gunman popped up from behind a crate, aiming not at Soldier Boy but at where you knew Butcher was pinned down. Before you could think, your body moved. You leaned out, bringing your pistol up with both hands, thumb brushing the safety you’d triple-checked a dozen times before leaving the van. One breath in. You squeezed the trigger.
The recoil jumped up your arms, familiar and still jarring. The guy dropped, bullet catching his shoulder and spinning him sideways. He slammed into the crate and didn’t get back up.
“(Y/N)!”, MM snapped. “Cover!”.
You yanked yourself back behind the boxes, shoulders colliding with soggy cardboard, adrenaline fizzing in your veins. Your palms were slick, your fingers tingling.
“Nice shot, ma petite”, Frenchie called over. “But maybe we do not stick our heads out like… how do you say… whack-a-mole, yes?”.
“Couldn’t see you doing anything from here”, you shot back, because your mouth always worked fine when you were scared.
Butcher’s laugh came from somewhere across the floor, sharp and vicious. “She’s pulling more weight than you, Frenchie. Try not to let the kid show you up”.
“Do not call her—”.
The word “kid” hung in the air, unfinished and oddly heavy, because Soldier Boy had turned.
He was closer now, maybe twenty feet away, chest heaving just a little, hair a mess of sweat and dust. Up close, he didn’t look like the airbrushed posters. His beard was a day or two past “intentional” and there were deep lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there in the vintage footage.
His gaze slid across the warehouse, taking in bodies, the Boys’ positions, exits, the still-open loading bay where the weapons deal had gone to shit. Then, for the first time, his eyes landed on you.
You had been looked at by dangerous people before. Dealers, mid-level supes, creeps in alleys who measured your wallet against the chance of witnesses. You recognized that weight. The evaluation. The quick, cold math.
This was different. Not softer. Not kinder. Just… different.
His gaze dragged over your too-large jacket, your scuffed boots, the gun in your hands. It flicked to the stack of boxes you were using as cover, the terrible choice of it, really, and you saw his jaw tighten by a fraction. “Christ”, he muttered. “This what passes for a crew now?”.
“Nice to see you too, grandpa”, Butcher said as he stepped out from behind a forklift, shotgun resting on his shoulder. Blood spatter dotted his coat. None of it looked like his. “Deal’s buggered, but we got what we came for. Mostly”.
You did a quick mental inventory, fingers patting down the inside of your jacket. The flash drive was still there, tucked against your ribs, warm from your skin.
“Oi, short stack”, Butcher called to you without looking. “You still got our little present?”.
You nodded before remembering he couldn’t see that from his angle. “Yeah”, you said, voice steadier than you felt. “Safe and unperforated”.
Soldier Boy’s brows ticked up, just a little. “You brought a kid as your courier?”.
“She’s cheap”, Butcher said with a shrug. “And she bites”.
His eyes stayed on you a beat too long. You felt your shoulders square up on instinct. You hated that the word “kid” still stung, even when you knew, objectively, that’s what you were to people like them. You were the errand runner. The one who fit through ventilation shafts. The one nobody really noticed until you made them.
“I’m right here, you know”, you said. “And I can hear you. Old age hitting the ears already or…?”.
Frenchie made a soft choking noise. MM muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “oh, hell no”. Butcher grinned, wide and wolfish. “Told you. Bites”.
Soldier Boy’s gaze sharpened. Not angry, exactly. More… curious. Like you’d just done something unexpected in a game where he already thought he knew all the moves.
He took a few steps closer, boots echoing in the sudden quiet. Most of the gunfire had died out, either the remaining goons had run, or they were in pieces on the floor somewhere behind him.
Up close, you could see scrapes along the side of his face, a smear of someone else’s blood just beneath his ear. His eyes were greener than they looked on screen. You’d always thought they were blue.
He stopped a few feet from your makeshift cardboard bunker, looking down at you. You resisted the urge to stand up just so you weren’t craning your neck. Pride and survival had always fought a stupid little war inside you. “Name?”, he asked.
You opened your mouth, paused, and then gave him your name. “Y/N”.
He hummed, like he was filing that away somewhere he might need later. “How old are you, Y/N?”. The question had teeth. You felt them.
Butcher stepped in before you could answer. “Old enough to hold a gun and not piss herself, that’s all you need to know”. Soldier Boy didn’t look at him. Didn’t move his eyes from you. “Didn’t ask you”.
The air around you seemed to shrink, like the whole warehouse had taken a breath and was waiting to see what you’d do. You swallowed. “Seventeen”, you said. You didn’t add the “and three-quarters”, because that sounded pathetic even in your own head. “For now”.
His eyes cooled a degree. Not in a way anyone else would’ve caught, maybe. But you were close enough, watching close enough, that you saw it.
“Fuckin’ hell”, he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone. He straightened, rolling his shoulder again, shield shifting on his arm. “You drag me out here, tell me it’s a clean job, and you’ve got a teenager running point?”.
“Relax, grandpa”, you snapped before you could stop yourself. “I’m not made of glass”.
“Could’ve fooled me, hiding behind fucking cardboard”, he shot back.
Heat crawled up your neck. You glanced at the boxes, at the pathetic damp corners, and forced yourself not to squirm. "It worked, didn’t it? I’m not dead”.
“Yet”, he said. “Give it time. Stupid gets you there faster than bullets”.
“Alright, you two”, MM cut in, voice carrying that tired edge he got when everyone around him was being especially stupid. “Save the bonding for later. We need to move before more of these idiots show up, or Vought decides to send someone who can actually shoot”.
Butcher jerked his chin toward the far exit. “Frenchie, clear the way. Shortstack, you’re glued to my hip. If you wander off, I’m not wasting gas money coming back for you”.
You rolled your eyes but pushed yourself to your feet, legs shaky but functional. The room tilted for a second, then settled. You holstered your pistol with fingers that finally started to remember what not shaking felt like.
As the group moved, you found yourself falling in beside Soldier Boy without meaning to. It was just where the path naturally funneled you, the space between pallets and overturned crates narrowing into a corridor.
He was taller than you’d thought from the old videos. Or maybe you were just shorter than you liked to imagine. Up close, you could hear the faint jangle of gear on his belt, the creak of worn leather under the armor.
“He always bring children to gunfights?”, he asked, voice low enough that Butcher up ahead probably wouldn’t catch it.
You stared straight ahead, boots crunching over broken glass. “You always show up late enough that the ‘children’ have to do all the work?”.
His mouth twitched in something close to a smile for a man who probably didn’t remember how to do the real thing without cameras on him. “You get that mouth from him or is that original material?”, he asked.
“Who, Butcher?”, you snorted. “Please. He wishes he was this funny”.
Soldier Boy huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh. It sounded rusty, like it hadn’t been used in a while.
You didn’t know then that you’d remember that sound years later, in kitchens and warm living rooms and hospital corridors, in spaces where there were no gunshots and no moldy cardboard boxes, just worn-out blankets and girls with his eyes.
Right then, it was just a strange, short noise from a stranger who’d stepped out of your childhood TV and into your very fucked up night.
As you reached the side door, Butcher threw it open and the thick warehouse air gave way to the cold bite of the docks. Rain misted down from a heavy sky, turning everything slick and reflective.
“You”, Butcher jerked his chin at you, “van. Now. Don’t touch anything that looks important”. You rolled your eyes again for good measure and started toward the parked vehicle, the drive in your pocket feeling heavier with every step.
Behind you, Soldier Boy said, “You got her running jobs regular?”.
“Why, you planning on filing a complaint with child services?”, Butcher sneered. “What’s it to you?”.
You didn’t hear his answer. The wind swallowed it as you jogged across the cracked asphalt, jacket flapping, rain needling your face.
You didn’t know what he’d said later either, back in the warehouse after you were shut away in the van, fingers worrying at the drive in your pocket while Frenchie argued about playlists and MM grumbled about gas.
You only knew this: When the side door slid open again and they all climbed in, Soldier Boy paused for half a second before stepping up. His eyes flicked to you, one quick, assessing glance. And whatever he’d decided in that moment, you felt it like a line being drawn somewhere you couldn’t quite see yet.
You were seventeen.
You’d just watched a man bend steel with his shoulder and kill three people with a shield like it was nothing.
You told yourself the way your chest felt tight, the way your skin buzzed, was just adrenaline.
You were wrong. But you wouldn’t realize that for a well, a while.
-
Two weeks later, you were late.
Not “the mission’s blown, we’re all going to die” late. More “Butcher’s going to call you something creative and you’re going to have to pretend it doesn’t get under your skin” late.
The stairwell reeked of piss and cheap cleaner as you took the steps two at a time, breath puffing in short bursts. Your boots slapped concrete, the sound echoing up the narrow shaft, too loud in your own ears.
Fourth floor, left, end of the hallway. That’s what Frenchie had texted back then… after eight spelling errors and one picture of a cat for no reason.
The door at the end of the hall looked like all the others: flaking paint, crooked numbers, someone’s attempt at graffiti half scrubbed off. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it was just another apartment where someone yelled at reality TV at three in the morning. You knew better.
You didn’t bother knocking. Butcher hated knocking. Said it made people feel like they had a choice about seeing you. The door stuck at first, swollen from humidity, then jerked open with a protesting creak. The smell of stale cigarette smoke, burned coffee and the lingering tang of… frenchies creepy chemicals hit you instantly.
The room used to be someone’s living room. The landlord had probably rented it out as “cozy” and “full of character”. Now the only character it had was bullet holes in the plaster and a spiderweb of cracks near the boarded-up window.
Frenchie was perched on the arm of a stained sofa, disassembling a handgun with the kind of care most people reserved for fine jewelry. MM sat at the rickety table with a notebook, pen tapping in a slow, irritated rhythm.
And at the far corner of the room, in the only chair that wasn’t falling apart, sat Soldier Boy.
You stopped just inside the doorway, momentum dying all at once.
He had his boots propped on an overturned coke crate, leaning back like a king on a very shitty throne. The green suit was half there. Chest armor off, gloves off, sleeves shoved up forearms corded with muscle and scattered scars. A cigarette burned low between his fingers, ash long and fragile.
There was a phone in his other hand. A modern one, sleek and black, looking wrong in fingers that had once wrapped around rotary dials. He held it like it might bite, thumb poking at the screen with exaggerated suspicion.
“You broke it yet?”, MM asked without looking up from his notes.
“Feels broken”, Soldier Boy muttered. “Damn thing doesn’t even have buttons. How’s that an improvement?”.
“That’s what I been telling the kids”, Butcher said dryly. “All this swiping. No respect for a good dial tone”.
You closed the door a little too loudly. A few heads turned. Soldier Boy’s eyes went to you, quick and precise, like they’d been waiting for something to do that wasn’t losing a fight with touchscreens.
“You’re late”, MM said, giving you the dad stare over the top of his notebook.
“Bus broke down”, you lied easily, shrugging out of your jacket. “Also there was a grandma crossing the street with, like, twelve dogs and—”. Butcher snorted. “Save the stand-up routine for open mic night. Get in. Door, shut”.
“It is shut”, you said, then realized it had bounced back open a crack from the warped frame. You kicked it gently with your heel until it clicked.
Soldier Boy watched the whole thing, eyes tracking your movements like he was cataloguing them. Not in a hungry way tho. None of the gross, lingering attention you were used to from men who thought your age was an invitation. Just… taking stock. “Where’s your vest?”, he asked.
You blinked. “My.. what?”.
“Vest”, he repeated. “Bulletproof? Looks like shit? Smells worse? That one”.
You glanced at the back of the chair near the table, where your vest hung in a sad, crumpled heap. “There”.
“Not on you”, he said. “Which was the fucking point of it”.
“I walked here”, you argued. “Last I checked, buses don’t usually open fire on passengers”.
“You live in this city”, MM said without looking up. “Give it time”.
Frenchie giggled softly. “Maybe next month we do a field test, eh? See how many rounds it takes to improve the public transit system”.
You rolled your eyes and went to grab the vest, shrugging it on. It was too big in the shoulders, the straps double-folded and taped down so it wouldn’t slide off. It made you feel smaller every time you put it on, like you were playing dress-up in someone else’s apocalypse. “Happy now?”, you asked.
“Marginally”, Soldier Boy said.
“Butcher”, you said, turning to him. “You didn’t say he was going to be here”.
“I didn’t say he wasn’t”, Butcher answered. “That’s how surprises work”.
“You got a problem?”, Soldier Boy asked, flicking ash into an overflowing tray on the crate. “I can wait outside if your playdate rules don’t allow R-rated guests”.
The retort was right there, sharp and stupid, perched on the tip of your tongue. You swallowed it.
“I just like to know when history’s going to be in the room”, you said instead. “Could’ve worn something more patriotic”. Frenchie made a soft oooo sound under his breath, like a kid at a playground fight. MM sighed.
Soldier Boy looked at you for a beat, then huffed out that not-quite-laugh again. “Yeah, well. History doesn’t dress up for you, sweetheart”.
You hated the way your stomach did a little flip at the endearment. It wasn’t special. He probably called everyone that. Waitresses. Enemies. The mirror.
But he hadn’t called you “kid” today, so…
You took the chair nearest the door, a cheap plastic thing that wobbled if you breathed too hard. You hooked your foot around one of its legs to keep it steady and leaned forward on your elbows, eyes flicking to the map spread out on the table. “You dragged me across town”, you said. “What’s the crisis?”.
Butcher tapped a spot on the map with the end of a pen. “Vought’s running a little side project outta this building. Lab rats, Compound V knockoffs, you know the drill. We’re going for a look-see. Frenchie’s bringing the toys, MM’s babysitting the exits, and our guest star here—”, he jerked his chin at Soldier Boy “—plays battering ram”.
“Typecasting”, Soldier Boy muttered, but he didn’t argue.
“And me?”, you asked.
“You”, Butcher said, “are going to sit your arse in the van, keep the engine running, and be ready to drive like hell if this all goes tits-up”.
You opened your mouth to protest immediately. “I can do recon, you said—”.
“I said you could learn to do recon”, he cut in. “Today, you learn how to keep a vehicle warm and your head down. We clear?”.
It stung more than you wanted it to. Two weeks ago you’d taken a shot in a warehouse and he’d bragged about you showing up Frenchie. Now suddenly you were relegated to car warmer. You forced your voice to stay even. “Clear”.
Soldier Boy watched that whole exchange, smoke curling from his cigarette in lazy spirals. “She got eyes”, he said after a moment. “Use them”.
Butcher’s head snapped toward him. “Pardon?”.
He nodded at you. “Kid saw that gunman at the docks before you did. Took him out. She’s jumpy, but she’s not blind”.
You stared at him. The room went a little quieter around the edges. Even Frenchie paused in his weapon surgery. Butcher squinted. “Wasn’t aware you’d developed a mentoring program”.
“I didn’t”. Soldier Boy shrugged. “Just saying. You want her to stay alive, don’t treat her like luggage. Shit goes sideways, she’s gonna need more than a driver’s ed certificate”.
You should have been insulted. The words “kid” and “jumpy” weren’t exactly compliments. But for some stupid, traitorous reason, warmth fizzed in your chest.
He’d noticed you. He’d remembered.
“She’s seventeen”, Butcher said flatly. “Not keen on taking parenting tips from a man whose idea of child care is giving ‘em a grenade and a pat on the back”.
Did they just switched roles??
“Relax”, Soldier Boy said, flicking his ash again. “I’m not asking you to give her a gun”.
“I already have one”, you pointed out.
He gave you a once-over. “Yeah. I noticed”.
The air in your lungs suddenly felt too thin. You looked down at the map to avoid that green gaze, tracing the black lines of streets you half recognized.
“So what do you suggest?”, MM asked, like he was indulging a bad idea. “Since you suddenly care so much”.
“Window duty”, Soldier Boy said. “She stays upstairs, outta the main mess. She spots anything weird, cops, extra muscle, capes, we hear about it before it’s too late”.
Butcher stared at him for a long second, jaw grinding like there was something he wanted to say and was swallowing instead.
“Fine”, he said eventually. “She stays high, no heroics, no wandering. You see her anywhere near the main entrance, you drag her back by the scruff. Clear?”. He said it to Soldier Boy, but his eyes were on you.
“Clear”, you echoed.
Soldier Boy leaned back, the cheap chair creaking under his weight. “You hear that, kid? Congratulations. You get to be a security camera”.
You rolled your eyes. “Wow. My dreams. My ambitions”.
His lips quirked. “Don’t say we never gave you anything”.
The meeting dissolved then into the usual noise. Frenchie listing explosives like he was reciting a love poem, MM going over exit strategies, Butcher poking holes in everything just to see what held. You listened, chin propped on your hand, trying to ink the plan into your brain. The building was an old office block repurposed into something uglier: lab floors, security stations, a basement they didn’t have blueprints for. Your perch would be on the fifth floor, in an empty office facing the street.
“Gets you line of sight on both roads”, MM said, tapping the window icon with his pen. “And one staircase down if we have to bolt”. You nodded. “Got it”.
Across the room, Soldier Boy had gone back to his phone. He frowned at it like it had personally insulted him, thumb smearing across the glass.
“What are you even trying to do?”, you asked finally, unable to help yourself.
“Call somebody”, he said. “What the hell else do you do with a phone?”.
“Plenty”, you muttered. You pushed your chair back and crossed the room before you could decide against it.
Standing next to him, you saw what the problem was immediately. The phone was open on the home screen, icons scattered across it. He’d managed to swipe to the second page somehow and looked personally betrayed by the presence of an app labeled “Settings”.
You held out your hand. “Here”.
He arched a brow. “I know how to make a call”.
“Sure”, you said. “And that’s why you’ve been glaring at the calculator for ten minutes”.
Frenchie snorted behind you. “She got you there, mon ami”.
Soldier Boy looked down at the little calculator icon, then back at you. For a heartbeat, stubbornness warred with something else in his expression.
But eventually, he put the phone in your palm. It was warm from his hand, the case slightly tacky with wear. You swiped back to the main page, tapped the green phone symbol, and brought up the contacts list. “There”, you said. “Now you just tap the name”.
He leaned in a little, shoulder brushing your arm. His cologne, if you could call it that, was faint under layers of smoke and sweat and boring soap. Something woodsy. Something that tried very hard to cover up the fact that he’d probably been fighting in that outfit for twelve hours at a time.
“You got, like, four contacts”, you said, scrolling. “MM, French bitch, and… ‘Fuckface’. Which one is that supposed to be?”. He grunted. “Butcher".
You blinked, then laughed before you could stop yourself. It slipped out, quick and bright. His mouth twitched like he’d just scored a point.
“You never had a smartphone before?”, you asked.
He gave you a look. “Last time I checked, phones were attached to walls and had cords you could strangle a man with. This thing feels like it oughta be illegal”.
“So you were there when people used pigeons”, you said. “That explains a lot”.
He snorted. “You’re not old enough to be this mouthy”.
“You’re not young enough to be this bad at technology”.
His eyes met yours, direct and unflinching. “How old are you now?”.
The question dropped between you like a stone.
Nothing in his tone had changed. It was almost casual. But you remembered the warehouse, the way his face had gone still when you’d said “seventeen”, the way his gaze had cooled off like someone had turned down a dimmer switch.
You swallowed. “Still seventeen”, you said. “Birthday’s in… three weeks”.
His jaw flexed. That was all. No lecture, no comment, no “Jesus Christ” this time. But you felt something shift. Just a small tightening of the distance he kept coiled around himself like a second skin.
He took the phone back gently, his fingers brushing yours for a fraction of a second. Your pulse jumped stupidly.
“Three weeks”, he said. “Whole lifetime at that age”.
You forced a shrug. “Depends how many gunfights you’re in”.
He huffed under his breath and leaned back, tucking the phone away in a pocket as if the conversation was over.
Later, when the planning was done and Butcher sent everyone home with instructions to “sleep like you’re not all on Vought’s shit list”, you were pulling your jacket on. Your fingers were fumbling with the zipper, when you heard your name.
“Y/N”.
You looked up. Soldier Boy stood by the door, one hand on the knob, the other gripping his shield strap.
“Yeah?”, you asked.
He studied you for a second, eyes flicking from your face to the too-big vest under your jacket, to the scuffed toes of your boots. “Tomorrow”, he said slowly, “you stay near the door. You see anything, and I mean anything, that feels off, you move. You do not wait for orders. You do not wait for us to confirm. You move”.
You frowned. “That’s the plan, isn’t it? MM already said—”.
“I’m not MM”, he cut in. “I’m telling you myself”.
There was something in his voice you hadn’t heard before. Not mockery. Not impatience. Just experience, worn down to something hard and heavy.
You shifted your weight, fingers curling into your sleeves. “Okay”, you said quietly. “I will”.
He held your gaze another second, then nodded once. “Good”.
Butcher whistled from the hallway. “You two done having your little heart-to-heart? Some of us’ve got an early day of mayhem tomorrow”.
“Yeah, yeah”, Soldier Boy muttered, pulling the door open. Cold, wet air washed in. He stepped out first, his bulk filling the doorway for a moment, blocking the weak white light from the hall. You followed, pulling the door shut behind you until it clicked.
It was only then, in that dim hallway that smelled like boiled cabbage and dust, that you realized something simple and stupid and terrifying.
Two weeks ago, he’d been a living piece of propaganda on a cracked TV in your head. Tonight, he knew your name. And tomorrow, he’d be the one between you and whatever waited in that Vought building.
You told yourself that tightness in your chest was just nerves. You were good at lying to yourself. You’d have plenty of practice.
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Babylon Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Part 8✦
✦pairing: Dean Winchester x female!reader✦
✦summary: dean meets your dad✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action, implied smut, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: bobby content for all my babylon people bc we're still in mourning✦
You’re worried about Dean. He woke up too early, rolling out of bed around five with a kiss of your brow and mumbled order to go back to sleep. You’d tried, but the cold of the bed had wormed it’s way into your dreams, and you shuffled into the kitchen to find him with damp, mussed hair and tensed shoulders. He’d been pacing all morning, busying himself with things that don’t really need attention. It started with doing clean dishes, then folding and unfolding laundry, then making a third breakfast that was a little more burnt that the last two. By eight he was sweating through his shirt. By nine he’d taken it off altogether—that part you weren’t worried about—and by ten he was outside to look at your perfectly maintained car.
“De, it’s fine-“
“Could have something wrong in the ignition,” he’d muttered, poking around under the hood of the car. “Or- When was the last time I checked out your brakes-“
“Last week.” You’d rubbed his shoulders, fighting an affectionate smile. “I told you they were fine, and you said I’m gonna check anyways, and I said you really didn’t need to, and you said you did, and then-“
“Yeah, yeah, alright.” Dean had drawn himself up, wiping his hands on his jeans. “I get it, I’m being an ass.”
You’d giggled, stood up on your toes, and kissed his cheek. His scowl had deepened, but he’d leaned into your touch.
“I just- I’m thinkin’ about how quickly brakes can get messed up, then you don’t know until it’s too late-“
“It’s not too late. My brakes are fine.”
“Until they’re not.”
“But they are. Right now.”
“Right, ‘cause I’m checkin’ them-“
“Dean Winchester.” You’d given him a stern look, and he’d bowed his head. You’d sidled fully up against him, ducking under his arm to put a barrier between him and your car. If you hadn’t, you think he would’ve been out there until the heat got to him, and you found him passed out with tanned skin and sunstroked eyes.
He’d looked a little like he was already there, when you’d been only inches away. Blown out eyes and sweat on his brow, ducked down to press against yours. The tip of his nose on the bridge of yours, his breath minty and warm over your cheeks, his hands gripping your hips like a lifeline.
“Let’s go inside,” you’d murmured.
His tongue had flicked over his lips, and you’d seen the protest forming. He needed something to do, or he’d just pace and worry all damn day.
“We can go up to that car show in Sinoma.”
He’d let out a sharp, tired breath. “Sweetheart, you don’t gotta-“
“My dad isn’t going to be here until, like, seven. And the airport is up north anyway-“
“You don’t like car shows.”
You’d shrugged. “I like you.”
Dean had worked his jaw. You’d given him your sweetest smile, and leaned up to kiss his nose. He’d cupped your cheek, let out another heavy breath, and given in.
The car show had distracted him for most of the day. You’d—tragically—made him put on a clean shirt and greaseless pants, then let him drag you around, pointing out different models and makes and saying a bunch of words that sounded fake to you, but clearly made perfect sense to the dork on your arm.
“Look at this one.” He breathes, and sometimes the only way you’re sure he loves you is the way he looks at you the same way he looks at cars. “Jesus, that’s a beaute. Gear shift- Those were common in the year, but this one’s clean, it took a while to get ‘em clean- Safer like this, too, ‘cause if you’re drivin’ with someone who knows stick it means they give a shit, instead of just cruising at 80 without thinking about it-“
“You drive at 80.” You say, and Dean shrugs.
“Yeah. But I’m thinkin’ about it.”
You laugh, and Dean grins, ducking down to kiss your cheek.
“I’d never drive fast enough to hurt you, baby. You know that.”
“Hm.” You squint in mock doubt. “What if I asked you to?”
“Asked me to?”
“Mhm.” You bounce on your toes, beaming up at his adorably scrunched face. “What if I asked you to drive unsafely?”
“Why the hell would you ask me that-“
“For fun.”
“For fun.”
You nod, leaning your chin up against his chest, and Dean chuckles.
“I’d do it if you wore a helmet.”
Your nose wrinkles. “That would be ugly-“
“Then I guess I’m not doin’ it.”
“But I said please-“
“And I said wear a helmet.”
“It would mess up my hair-“
“You’d look pretty anyway.” He squeezes your side, and you try to roll your eyes, but it just comes out with another breathy giggle. “C’mon, speedy. They got ice cream.”
Dean grabs your hand, and you let him pull you to the crowded food truck. He steals quick glances at the cars—he’s already see all of them, but that doesn’t really matter—and you watch him with a soft, ditzy smile on your face. You know you look hopeless. It’s probably sickening to watch, but you don’t really care. It’s sweet on your tongue, sticky like honey and poured down your throat with ease. Dean’s the only thing in the world that doesn’t get rancid or sour from your exposure. You dig your nails into his palm and hang off his arm, and refuse to let go.
“Thanks.” He mumbles in your car, staring at his empty paper bowl. “For- Y’know.”
You smile around your spoon and don’t bother to say you’re welcome. It isn’t some favor you’re doing him, or treat that he’s earned for good behavior. You like seeing him happy. It makes you feel lighter. Filled up with helium, just to the right of your heart, forcing that dazed smile and all those giggles you’ve forgotten how to bite down.
“You think he’s gonna like me?” Dean mumbles, and you nod, your spoon still in your mouth. Dean sighs, giving you a pleading, puppy-like look.
You reach over the bench and run your fingers through his hair. He takes the spoon out of your mouth, raising his brows, and you pretend to bite at his hand. “I was eating that-“
“C’mon, Princess.” He taps your nose with the spoon. “Humor a guy. Tell me he’ll adore me or whatever.”
“He will adore you,” you shrug, and Dean chuckles.
“Convincing.”
“I’m being serious-“
“Sure you are-“
“I am.” You grab your end of the spoon, pulling down his hand. “He’s going to love you, De.”
Dean’s throat bobs, and you know he doesn’t really believe you. You’re not too worried about it. When you told Bobby that you wanted him to meet your boyfriend, he’d grunted and made a face you could hear through the speaker phone.
“Boyfriend, huh.”
“Yeah. He’s sweet, dad. You’ll like him.”
He’d sighed, heavy and tired through the phone. You hadn’t read too much into it. He was always sighing a lot. “How long you been together, that you’re askin’ me to meet him.”
“Seven months.”
“Kiddo-“
“But we’ve known each other for two years.” You’d added quickly. “And he’s a really good guy. He’s a mechanic, for cars- You can bond about that, and-“
“Mechanic?” Bobby had cut you off with short words. “He got a job?”
You’d hummed. “And he’s really good at it.”
Bobby had snorted. “How do you know he’s good, you don’t know nothin’ about cars-“
“I know enough. I paid attention-“
“No, you didn’t. You’d sit in the mud and talk to the birds ‘till I dragged you inside-“
“Well- It was boring-“
“I know. But that ain’t knowin’ enough, kiddo. This guy could be shit, and- I’ll meet him, but if he’s a bum-“
“He’s not a bum.” You’d said, gripping the phone tight in your hands.
Bobby had paused, and you’d chewed on the inside of your cheek. It would be fine, if they didn’t get along. Perfectly fine. You’d just have the two most important people in your life at odds, and holidays would be horrible, and Bobby would try to talk you out of marrying Dean—which simply wasn’t going to happen, because if you so much as picture an alter, Dean always materializes like a vision straight from heaven—but it would be fine, you’d get through it, you always get through it-
“He treat you well?” Bobby had asked, and you’d nodded quickly, so eager to agree that you forgot he couldn’t see you.
“Yes. It’s- He-“
You’d glanced at the bathroom door, where you could still hear the water running from Dean’s shower. You’d stumbled over the words, because there weren’t any that were good enough. That could possibly have the size and gravity to explain how Dean was like a symbiotic limb, a moss that had grown over your heart, a shell that you’d crawled into and hidden all your fears and loathing in the cavity of his chest. He’d taken it, and you’d taken his, and you didn’t know love could be like breathing until he put his hand on your throat and reminded you to try.
“Really well,” you’d settled on. “You’ll like him, daddy. Just- Please don’t scare him.”
Bobby had grunted, but you knew all this grunts. And that was the one that meant he was really willing to try. “He scare easy?”
And you’d told him no. Dean doesn’t scare easily. He’s the bravest person you know, with the small exception of planes. You’d twisted a ring on your finger and said with loud, sheer confidence that Dean was just going to want to make a good impression.
Which was, technically, true. Dean did just want to make a good impression.
He was just also terrified of making a bad one.
“How old’s your dad again?”
“I don’t know, fifty?”
Dean shoots you a disbelieving look. “You don’t know?”
You shrug weakly, and he chuckles.
“Jesus, sweetheart-“
“He’s old! That’s all I have to know, is that he’s old. He’s not sixty yet!”
“You sure?”
You nod, tracing over the lines of Dean’s palm in your lap. “We can’t use the senior discount at the diner downtown.”
Dean snorts, shaking his head. “That’s how you measure it, huh.”
“Yeah, because- Don’t make that face.” You whack his arm. “When we’re old you’re going to be so excited for that 15% off, Winchester.”
“When we’re old?”
Shit. “Well- It- It happens to everyone-“
“But we’re gonna do it together.”
“I- I mean, if you- I’d- You-“
You’re babbling, flushed and wound up at the top of your chest. You do want to be old with Dean. You want to be fifty and still driving with him, just like this. You want to see his smile turn into crows feet, and count the gray hairs in his beard—you’re trying to make him grow a beard—and hold his hand all the way to the senior home, then the grave.
But that sounds insane. You’ve been together seven months, that’s hardly a fraction of a lifetime, but it’s also the clearest horizon you’ve ever seen. The only path that doesn’t lead to Dean is the one behind you, and it’s all a one-way road.
Dean kisses the back of your hand, smirking against your skin. “Breathe, Princess.”
You do, averting your gaze to collect yourself. Dean’s fingers brush over the nape of your neck, a silent command to look back his way. You obey, and find him grinning at the road. He meets your pleading, wide eyes, and rumbles a deep, almost enchanting laugh from his chest.
“Can you share your old person pudding with me, when I eat all of mine?”
You scoff, slumping back into the bench. “No. I only get one.”
“What if I offer my Jell-O? I hear the really good old homes got both.”
“I don’t like Jell-O. And- You don’t like pudding.”
Dean shrugs. “I like things that you put your mouth on.”
“I- Dean.”
You flush, and he grins, squeezing your hand three times. You relax into his side, your head on his shoulder, and he shifts to kiss your brow.
“You put your mouth on me, think it might be better than therapy.”
You press your thighs tight, core throbbing more violently than should be allowed, and roll your eyes. “That’s not true.”
“I’m serious, I like me more when you wanna touch me-“
“I know you’re serious.” You give him a flat look. “But that’s not how therapy works.”
“We dunno,” Dean dismisses, tangling his fingers with yours. “No ones tried it yet.”
“People have tried blowjobs-“
“Not from you, pretty girl.”
Your face is burning. You suppose it’s good that he’s getting it out of his system, before you get to the airport. You’re still worried you’re going to explode. “You won’t even let me blow you,” you grumble, and Dean chuckles.
“You’re not ready, Princess.”
“Don’t tell me what I’m ready for-“
“Last night I let you touch it,” Dean drawls. “And you got so fuckin’ horny you started humping my knee.”
You flush, and glare out the window. That’s not fair. He’d been hard and thick, and his hips had jumped up when you’d stroked your thumb over the bead of pre-cum leaking from his angry, red head. He’d watched you under lidded eyes, chest heaving and blunt nails digging into your hips, and you’d felt powerful. Powerful in a way you didn’t know how to handle. It had been a stabbing rush of relief, when Dean had grabbed your wrist and dragged you fully into his lap. You’d been guided down onto his cock and rocked your hips back and forth, your face buried in his neck. He’d yanked you back by your hair and rutted up like an animal, forcing cries of his name from your lips.
But he could do that same kind of thing, if he’d just let you use your mouth. You’d been poking around, and men usually liked that. Dean had practically said as much, even if it was a teasing joke.
“Men like blowjobs, right?” You’d asked Sam at lunch yesterday, and he’d choked on his bread.
“I- I mean- Yes, but- Why-“ He’d hit his own chest, forcing himself to swallow. “Why the hell would you ask me that?”
You’d shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”
“How the- I mean,” Sam had sighed your name. “I think I have to worry about it? Is your boyfriend tryig to make you go down on him, because- That’s not okay-“
“It’s not that.”
“Then what-“
“He won’t let me go down on him.” You’d glowered at your own sandwich, poking the poking out meat with a finger. “He says that-“
You’d cut yourself off, glanced up at Sam’s red face, and decided that maybe it wasn’t the best idea to tell him that his older brother kept insisting that he eat you out every night.
“Never mind.”
Sam had thought about protesting for a second—brow pinched and mouth fish-like—but had just grumbled something under his breath and returned to his food. You’d asked Jess the same question later, and she’d told you that yes, men did like blowjobs, but if you were going to give Dean one he should deserve it.
You think he deserves it. The problem seems to be convincing him of that.
“Princess,” he coos, rubbing the back of your neck. “C’mon, don’t get pissy about this-“
“I’m not pissy.”
“I can see the freakin’ steam coming out of your ears-“
“You’re hallucinating.”
Dean sighs your name, and you shoot him a glare.
“I can give you head, Dean-“
“I know you can, sweetheart,” he gives you an exasperated smile. “That ain’t the part I’m worried about.”
You wrinkle your nose, ready to look back out the window and keep sulking. It’s a stupid, bratty thing to be angry about, but it’s burrowing itself deeper than just your and empty throat. “I’d be good at it,” you grumble, hugging yourself tight. “If you- You’d just have to show me what I’m supposed to do, and I’d do it.”
Dean groans, fingers flexing against the sensitive skin of you neck. “Jesus, baby, you can’t just say that-“
“But I’d listen!” You whip around glare at him, and he shakes his head.
“Yeah. I know you would.”
“What’s that supposed to mean-“
“Nothin’-“
“Dean.” You shift closer, planting a hand on his thigh. He tenses, shooting you an almost worried look, his tongue darting over his lips. “I told you I would for normal sex, and I did, so- I don’t understand why- Do you just not like blowjobs?” You frown, trying to read the way he works his jaw, the way his ears turn red and his mouth pressed into a thin line. “It’s okay if you don’t like blowjobs-“
Dean plants a hand over your mouth, and you blink in surprise. You’re about to drag it away and snap at him—you’re trying to have an open conversation like he always tells you to, he doesn’t get to shut you up—when he gives you a pleading, blown out look. He rasps your name, and your eyes flick down. To his knuckles, white on the wheel, and his jeans, tented and straining.
Oh.
“Please stop sayin’ blowjob,” he rasps, and you nod a little stupidly, attention fixed on that bulge. “I really don’t wanna be popping a boner when I shake your dad’s hand.”
That’s a good point, but there’s still a sour taste on your tongue. You try to pucker your lips and ignore it, but Dean knows you too well. His thumb traces the curves of your mouth, and his eyes shine on yours.
“For the record, I love a blowjob. Big fan. Always have been.”
You glare at him, and he flicks your nose.
“We’re just takin’ our time, Princess-“
“I don’t-“
“And.” Dean gives you a stern look. “If you’re really that set on giving me head, I ain’t that big a masochist. We’ll work it out.”
You sit up a little taller, and Dean snorts.
“Jesus, woman-“
“Shut up.”
“I’m worried you’re gonna lock us in a sex room-“
“That’s- I- I’m just- It feels good.” You try to glare out the window, but Dean catches your jaw and holds your face in place.
“What feels good?” He teases, and heat starts to pool in your core.
“Dean…”
“Me?” He shoots you that boyish, charming grin. “I feel good?”
God, he does. His big hand and light fingers and all that heat, radiating off his body. “No.”
Dean chuckles, pressing his thumb up against your lips. “Liar.”
You’re embarrassingly close to sucking on his fingers. You only don’t because he pulls them away, resting his hand back on your thigh and asking a question about your thesis. You indulge him—even though it always feels like he’s indulging you—and he hum, tapping his fingers on your knee as he drives, then holding your hand as you walk from the airport to the terminal.
“Because it’s- Well- Art is our oldest form of documentation,” you tell him, staring at the pretty profile of his jaw as he guides you through the crowd. “It’s not that oldest form of art, but it’s the best preserved-“
“Back up.” Dean frowns at you over his shoulder. “Art ain’t the oldest form of art?”
“Art, as in drawing, isn’t the oldest form of art as in- Like creative expression.”
“What’s the oldest form of that, then?”
“Storytelling.”
“So- Writing-“
“No. Storytelling. It was verbal, before we invented writing, and a while after too.”
Dean nods slowly, slinging his arm around your waist as you stop near the edge of the crowd. “Like- Uh- The Illiad.”
You beam at him. “Just like the Iliad.”
Dean grunts, gaze still fixed on the milling people, but you can see the puff of his chest. You kiss his cheek, and his gaze falls to you.
“Hi,” you whisper, and he sighs.
“Hey, Princess.”
You tug on the collar of his shirt, and he gives you that disbelieving, almost dazed expression. Like he can’t believe that you’re real. He presses his lips against yours, and you push up on your toes, trying to drag him as close as the laws of the world will allow, before you just absorb each other and become one-
A familiar voice clears his throat from behind you, and Dean’s head shoots up. He goes ridged in a second, the color draining from his face with his smile, and you sigh.
“Don’t stop of my account,” Bobby grunts, and you roll your eyes, spinning around in Dean’s arms.
His glare is fixed on the sweating, frozen man around. You try to step forward, but Dean yanks you back like he think’s he’ll sink into the ground without your touch.
“De-“
“De, huh.” Bobby looks him up and down, and maybe you’re going to have to smack both of them. “That short for something?”
“It’s short for Dean, and- Don’t be mean to him, he’s nervous-“
“I’m not nervous.” Dean says quickly, and you give him a flat look. “I’m not. I’m-“ He squares his shoulder, pushing out a hand for Bobby to shake. “Dean Winchester, sir. I- Uh- I graduted from highschool, I make ‘bout 80k a year right now, but I’m up for a promotion-“
“You are?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly.
“Yeah, Chip loved the tourin’ idea-“ He glances back to Bobby. “Chip’s my boss, he’s thinkin’ about letting me open a branch out in California, so I’ll be able to be ‘round more-“
“De,” you hit his chest, and he blinks like a cornered animal. “Why didn’t you tell me that-“
“Found out like an hour ago, was gonna tell you in the car, but-“ He swallows, still looking at Bobby like a cornered animal. “Uh- You know.”
Bobby raises his brows. “What happened in the car?”
Dean opens and closes his mouth, pallid and panting, and you sigh.
“Nothing.”
Bobby eyes Dean suspiciously. “He ain’t lookin’ like it’s nothing-“
“I told you, he’s nervous.” You rub Dean’s back, and he just keeps blinking. You’re a little worried he’s broken. “Dean, baby-“
“I’m CPR certified!” He blurts, and Bobby blinks. “I can swim and drive and- And I know how to handle a gun- In a safe way, the rootin’ tootin’ way- Not the NRA way- ‘Less you’re- I mean- I’m pro-women-“
“Dean.” You pat his shoulder. “Shh.”
He nods, giving you a grateful look. His hand is still outstretched. Bobby hasn’t taken it.
You jerk your head, and Bobby makes a face, looking Dean up and down.
“80k, huh.”
“Yes, sir-“
“How old are you-“
“Twenty-five, sir-“
“Stop callin’ me sir.” Bobby grunts, and Dean nods frantically.
“Yes, s-“ He cuts himself off with wide eyes. “S’okay.”
You’d laugh, if you weren’t worried about his heart giving out. When you catch Bobby’s eye, there’s an unreadable glint in it that you don’t care to disset. You nod to Dean’s hand again, and Bobby sighs, and takes it.
“I heard you’re takin’ me to dinner, big shot,” Bobby says, and you sigh.
“Bobby-“
“I’m hungry, kiddo-“
“Why didn’t you eat on the plane-“
“All they had were crackers and stale Pepsi. Didn’t wanna spoil my damn appetite.”
You sigh, but let it go. Your goal is to get through the evening without Dean talking himself into a hole, or Bobby giving your poor, lovely boyfriend a panic attack so bad he dies.
“Don’t be mean to him, dad,” you murmur while Dean pays for the parking, and Bobby shrugs lazily.
“I ain’t being mean-“
“He’s really trying, okay. Just- If you don’t like him, pretend to. I’m worried he’ll commit ritual suicide if you don’t.”
“Hm. Good to know.”
“That’s- Don’t-“
“He’s pretty.” Bobby shrugs, ignoring your protests. “Birthin’ hips.”
You snort. “God, don’t tell him that-“
“Why not? He got a problem with kids?”
“No, he- He loves kids, he basically raised his brother-“
“So he’s tryin’ to knock you up-“
“Dad-“
“So you ain’t able to see a future with ‘im? Don’t want that guy carryin’ your kids?”
You cross your arms over your chest. “No. I’m worried that if you tell him he’s got birthing hips he’ll start to worry about getting pregnant.”
“Ah. So he’s stupid.”
“He’s whimsical-“
“Just another word for stupid-“
“He’s sweet.” You say defensively. “And I- I’m joking-“
“I know,” Bobby chuckles, giving you an amused look. “I missed you, kiddo.”
Your lips twitch up, and when he offers a hug, you take it quickly. “I missed you too,” you mumble against his chest. “Please don’t scare Dean.”
“I’ll do my best,” Bobby grunts. “But that boy seems jumpy.”
“Because you’re scaring him-“
Dean calls your name—you have the parking ticket—and you pull away with a sigh.
“Is he tellin’ you to leave me?” Dean whispers as you feed the machine. “’Cause I can turn this around, sweetheart, just gimme a day-“
“You don’t have to turn anything around.” You murmur. “He likes you.”
“He does?”
You nod, and Dean narrows his eyes.
“You better not be lyin’ to make me feel better.”
“I’d never do that,” you hum, and he grunts.
“How about- What if I do this,” he holds a thumbs down, slowly turning it up. “And you tell me where he’s standing on me right now. Then I know what ground I gotta make up for.”
“You don’t have to make up for anything, De.”
“Uh huh.” He starts to move his thumb back down. “Just tell me when.”
You stare at him, flat and bored, and he sighs.
“C’mon-“
“Can we get Chinese?” You ask, pulling the stamped ticket out of the machine. “He likes Chinese.”
“Yeah, we can go to the place off Fillmore, just-“
“And can we get ice cream after?”
“We can get whatever you want, Princess, just-“
You kiss his cheek, and almost watch the blush bloom from where your lips brushed his jaw. He looks back to Bobby, panicked and tall again, and you take his hand.
“Let’s go.”
Dean stumbles after you, but doesn’t protest. He nods at Bobby like they’re passig businessmen, and Bobby nods back, and you miss Sam for a long moment. He wouldn’t be this stoic about getting dinner.
You slide into shotgun, while Dean helps Bobby load the truck, and watch them carefully in the rearview mirror. No one seems to be throwing punches or dying. You count that as a real, small victory. Bobby says something, and Dean nods. Dean walks around the car, and his knees are shaking less.
“What did he-“
“Just askin’ if he was staying at your place or a hotel.”
You blink, and look back to the rearview mirror, then Dean. “And you told him no, right?”
Dean grunts, and your jaw goes slack.
“Dean-“
“Your couch is comfortable-“
“You’re staying at my place-“
“I can sleep on the floor.”
“You’re not sleepig on the floor-“
“Alright, I’ll sleep in the car-“
“You’re not sleeping in the car, either-“
“Sammy knows I’m in town-“
“Sam thinks you have a hotel-“
“Then I’ll get a hotel-“
“Don’t, just- Bobby.” You twist around in your seat, as Bobby slides in the back. “You got a hotel, didn’t you?”
“I did.” Bobby shrugs. “But if you got room-“
“I don’t have room-“
“Dean said ya did.”
Dean cringes, and you rub his knee, giving Bobby a taut glare. He sighs, and rolls his eyes.
“Fine. You can ship me off to the home.”
“I can pay for it, dad-“
“No. ‘S fine.”
Dean opens his mouth, closes it, then chokes out, “I can sleep in the car-“
“No, you can’t.” You grab his hand, and move it to the gear shift. “Drive.”
Dean listens, and you give Bobby a silent, angry look. He, at least, looks a little ashamed. When you get to the restaurant, he compliments Dean’s parking and lets him take the seat next to you. It’s the small victories.
The place is loud. Bustling and full, forcing the three of you to a booth in the back. Dean’s still stiff, but he relaxes when you hold his hand. You look between him and Bobby, but they both seem determined to make as little eye contact as possible. You clear your throat, and they both turn to you with something close to hope in their eyes. As if you’ll just talk the whole time, and save them the pain of having to know each other.
“Dean works in auto mechanics,” you say casually, holding his hand under the table. “Dad, what do you do?”
Bobby gives you a flat, you know damn well what I do look. You smile innocently, nodding in prompt.
“I run a junkyard,” he grunts, and you hum.
“What kind of junkyard.”
“Cars.”
Dean’s eyes widen slightly. “Wow, that’s pretty awesome. Is it like- Your own junkyard?”
“My name’s on the license.” Bobby shrugs. “Got it from a buddy, when he moved to Denver for his girl. Served me well, and it’s sure as shit cheaper to run it outta my yard than anything else.”
“Out of-“ Dean glances at you. “You grew up in a car yard?”
You snort. “Yeah, I’ve told you that-“
“Yeah, but- You didn’t say cars.” He looks back to Bobby. “What’s the best one you had, comin’ through the yard?”
“Hm.” Bobby tilts his head, actually thinking about the question. That’s a good sign. “Benz. Classic.”
Dean whistles, and you’re not really following the conversation anymore. You know they’re getting along, more and more with every second. Bobby asks Dean what kind of car he drives, and Dean gets to talk about the Impala, and it’s impossible not to fall in love with him when he gets like that. Lit up like a child, feet bouncing and every word more eager than the last.
“Got her from my dad.” He says proudly. “Wasn’t in the best shape, when he passed her off, but I keep her going. She purrs now. Always does.”
Bobby hums, drumming his fingers on the table. “You bring her here?”
“Usually, yeah. But right now she’s parked back in Chicago. Had to take a flight, for this one.”
He squeezes you, and you flush. Bobby gives you a questioning, guarded look. Like he already knows why Dean had to take the flight. You avoid his gaze, and his shoulders heave.
“You do that a lot?” He asks Dean, still looking at you, and Dean shrugs.
“Only when she needs me.”
Bobby grunts, and you chew your lower lip.
“Bobby-“
“You got any family, Dean?” Bobby looks back to Dean, who nods, still oblivious.
“Yep. Younger brother, and- Mom and Dad. Obviously.”
Bobby nods tightly. “You close with them?”
“Uh- Yeah.” Dean’s throat bobs. “’Specially my brother.”
“Dean’s paying for him to go to college,” you add, and Dean waves you off.
“It ain’t that big a deal-“
“Your brother is Sam, ain’t it?” Bobby cuts him off shortly, and Dean swallows.
“Uh- Yeah. Yeah, he is.”
“That’s how we met,” you say, mostly just trying to run interference at this point. “Dean came down to visit Sam, and we kept in touch after.”
“Hm,” Bobby still hasn’t looked away from Dean. “Stanford isn’t cheap.”
Dean shrugs. “Worth it, for Sammy to get his fancy degree.”
“You ever think of goin’ to college yourself?”
“No, si-“
Dean cuts himself off from another sir, and Bobby hums.
“Bad grades?”
“Couldn’t sit still. Liked actually doin’ things better than talking about doing them,” he nudges your shoulder with an affectionate smile. “We can’t all be as good at thinking as this one.”
You flush, but roll your eyes and fold your napkin over and over in your hands. Bobby’s lips twitch, when you risk a glance up. Progress.
“You live in Chicago?” Bobby asks, and Dean nods again.
“Share a place with my best friend. Charlie.”
“Hm. What’s he do?”
“She works in tech,” Dean says smoothly. “Makes a hell of a lot more than I do. Think she only houses me ‘cause I cook a mean lasanage and she likes tryin’ to steal my girl.”
You laugh softly, and Bobby’s smile pulls a little taller.
“What about your folks?”
“Dad was a marine. Mom stayed home with me and Sammy ‘till he was in elementary, then she started workin’ at a woman’s shelter.”
Bobby gives you a curious frown, and you shake your head. Their parents were around. Doesn’t mean Dean didn’t help bring Sammy up more than he should’ve.
“Winchester, huh.” Bobby looks Dean up and down, and Dean nods.
“Like the gun.”
“Not a common last name.”
“Well, it’s no Smith, but there’s enough of us.” Dean smiles, and Bobby hums.
There’s something in his eyes that you can’t read again. He’s looking Dean over too carefully, and you’re about to ask something—you’re not sure what—when Bobby clears his throat.
“You like spicy food?”
“Love it.”
“You make a burger.”
“My brother says they’re the best he has.”
Bobby’s lip twitch, in something dangerously close to approval. You squeeze Dean’s hand under the table, and smile. It’s going fine.
By the time the food is out, Dean’s stopped tensing at every other word, and Bobby isn’t looking at him like he’s going say on the side, I axe murder young women. They’re laughing and chatting like they’re known each other for years. Dean’s arm finds its way over your shoulder, and Bobby doesn’t even seem to notice. You’re happy with this development, until they start to talk about you.
“She’s twelve.” Bobby grins, sipping a beer between every word. “Scrawny kid, but mean. Sharp.”
“Toothy,” Dean offers, and Bobby snorts.
“Toothy as a Beaver.”
“Hey-“
“C’mon, kiddo, you looked like you wanted to bite everything that got in ten feet.” Bobby smiles at the air, reminiscing too loud for your taste. “Was a fuckin’ miracle, when you started talkin’ to Jo. I was worried you were gonna become one of those weird wolf-kids.”
You scowl, and Dean—obviously less worried with his safety than he should be—snorts.
“Sorry,” he says to your glare. He doesn’t sound it. “Bet you were cute though.”
“Oh, she was cute alright.” Bobby grumbles. “She’d give me big waterworks and I’d fold like that.” He snaps, and you scoff.
“When did that ever happen-“
“Remember when Rufus tried to get you to join that music thing? You broke down every day ‘till I just stopped tryin’ to make you go.”
“Well, it was- I didn’t even want to go-“
“I know you didn’t. You made that real clear.”
You wrinkle your nose at your rice. “I did the summer thing with Jo, though. So- It wasn’t like I was just- Boring.”
Dean chuckles, kissing the side of your head, and you slump against him. Bobby watches you, silent but—at least—not angry.
“You met Jo, Dean?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“She came to visit me,” you explain. “And he was already here.”
Bobby nods, and you know he’s already planning to ask Jo what she thinks of this. Of you and Dean. She’ll say something good. Liking Dean isn’t the kind of thing she’d lie to you about.
“You like her?” Bobby asks Dean, and Dean nods, eyes darting nervously over to you.
“She’s, uh- Good friend. Close.”
Bobby grunts. “You can say that again. Caught her sneakin’ in and out of my window so they could have sleepovers without askin’ us. We woulda said yes, kiddo-“
“No, you wouldn’t have. You would’ve told me to do homework-“
“Like me tellin’ you to do homework ever did anything-“
“Didn’t stop you from trying to make it do something,” you huff. “And I did more homework when Jo was there.”
Bobby just looks straight to Dean. “She was a brilliant kid, but I’d go to every damn parent-teacher conference, and they’d tell me the same shit.”
You sigh. “Dad-“
“You got a bright one,” Bobby echoes. “She’d be a straight shot up, if she could just do her fucking homework.”
“They did not say fucking.”
“They might’ve. You weren’t in the room.”
You roll your eyes, and Dean laughs.
“You are stubborn, baby-“
“The homework was stupid!” You blurt. “It was all- What’s this word and read this book, and I’d finish the book in a day then get in trouble for it, was fuckin’- So stupid-“
You huff, sinking in your seat, and Dean rubs your upper arm. He kisses the top of your head again, then glances to Bobby. And something silent passes between them. Something mused and affectionate.
You won.
“You like him,” you say to Bobby, while Dean grabs the car. Bobby grunts, waving you off.
“I don’t hate him.”
“No, you like him.”
“You coulda done worse.”
“Daddy.”
Bobby sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Fine. He’s got a level head, good heart, good values-“
“He cooks.”
“Good thing, ‘cause you couldn’t find your way out of an oven top.”
“And who’s fault is that?”
Bobby chuckles. “You could ask ‘im to teach you some shit, you know.”
“I have.” You smile at Dean’s silhouette, wandering between the cars. “But he likes doing it.”
Bobby hums. For a second, the silence lingers. Then-
“ I like ‘im.”
“I knew it-“
“Don’t get smart with me, kid, it ain’t a big thing-“
“You don’t like anyone-“
“Well, he’s alright.”
You beam. Alright, from Bobby, is basically a glowing, thrilled endorsement. You’d been hoping for just a fine, but Dean’s just that amazing.
Your phone buzzes, and Bobby gives you a curious look as you pull it out of your pocket.
“Dean?”
“Sam,” you mutter, frowning at the screen. “He’s asking if you landed.”
You type back a yes, and Bobby watches you carefully.
“He really doesn’t know, does he?”
“Know?” You say absently, and Bobby grunts.
“’Bout you and Dean.”
You freeze. Bobby’s gaze isn’t judgmental. Just… Silent.
Almost judgmental.
“Bobby...”
“You think he ain’t gonna like it?”
You shake your head, and Bobby sighs.
“You or Dean?”
“Um- I’m- I think- both.”
“I ask Dean, he gonna say the same thing.”
You glare at him, and he just holds your gaze. You sigh.
“He told Dean not to ask me out. He had a kind of… habit,” you chose your words carefully. “Of his relationships. Before me.”
“Hm,” Bobby’s face is unreadable. “He break that habit.”
“The second we met.”
“He tell you that?”
You nod. “And Charlie backed him up.”
“Charlie.” Bobby hums. “You met her?”
“Over the phone. She’s really nice, she- She talked him into getting a new computer so we could call more.”
Bobby raises his brows. “More?”
“We spent like- A year and a half,” you smile at your shoes. “Just talking. Before he asked me out.”
“Ah.” Bobby stares out at the parking lot, and you sigh.
“He’s really good to me, dad-“
“I can tell.” He mutters, not looking down. “You didn’t tell me you had another episode.”
You swallow, feeling rather small. “I didn’t want to bother you,” you mumble, and Bobby sighs.
“Kiddo-“
“I feel a lot better now,” you give him a pleading smile. “Really.”
Bobby scans over your features, mouth in a thin line, and lets out a sharp breath through his nose. He looks back out the parking lot, pulling a vape pen out of his jacket. You sigh.
“Dad-“
“Relax, I ain’t gonna do it in the hotel.”
“It’s bad for you-“
“Better than the cigarettes.”
“Jody-“
“She’s the one who put me on ‘em,” his lips twitch. “Got tired of me putting them out on the porch before I came in, I guess. Claire showed me, they got all kinds of flavors-“
“Is Claire vaping?!” You stand a little taller, and Bobby snorts.
“Christ, no. Jody would kill her.” Bobby smiles at your worried, pinched expression. “I’m gonna kick these too, kiddo. Don’t worry about me.”
“I’m not worried about you.” You mutter. “I’m worried about your lungs.”
Bobby snorts, and nods to your phone. “What’d Sam want?”
“Um-“ You glance back to your phone, and the half-typed message. “His family, they’re in town-“
“I know, we got his brother playin’ valet-“
“His mom and dad, Bobby,” you say flatly. “And Jess’ family is up too. They’re getting tomorrow, but he was wondering if I wanted to bring you and Jody and Claire to Graduation.” You pause. “That’s- If they’re- They don’t have to-“
“Claire’s got school ‘till Friday. They’re flyin’ out after.” Bobby gives you a softer smile. “We’re proud of you, kiddo. We ain’t missin’ this.”
You smile to yourself, looking back to your phone. “So, yes?”
“Why not,” Bobby shrugs. “Dean gonna be there?”
“Yeah, but-“
“You two ain’t gonna be dating.”
You swallow. “We’re telling Sam after.”
“Alright,” Bobby glances back at your phone. “You got his parents names?”
“Um- John and Mary.”
“John,” Bobby echoes, and you nod.
“And Mary.”
“Hm.”
You frown at Bobby—at his wired, almost sunken expression—but before you can ask why, Dean’s pulling around with the car. Bobby walks around the hood, putting away his vape, and Dean squints at him through the window shield.
“Is that a fuckin’-“
“Yeah,” you sigh, leaning your head on his shoulder. “Used to be cigarettes. Old army habit, I guess.”
“Oh. Right. Dad does that too,” Dean shrugs, slinging his arm around your shoulders. “Old marine thing, I guess.”
Bobby slides into the backseat of the car, and there isn’t much talk as Dean drives him to the hotel. The music is low, the lights of the highway hazy, and your eyes are drooping by the time you’re parking in front of the hotel. Dean helps with the bags, and at the end, you see him stretch out a hand to Bobby.
They shake, and you smile.
Dean kisses your forehead, as he pulls out of the parking lot. You know you’re looking at him with dazed, starry eyes. But it makes his smile widen and all his features soften, and you hope he knows. That you think of him like this, always. The start of every beginning and end of every line. You love him all the time, you’re just letting it pour out of you like a waterfall, all over him like a prayer.
“You wanna get ice cream, Princess?” He murmurs, and you smile, and nod.
Dean brings you to the quiet place, a few blocks from your apartment, pulling the Impala a distance from all the other cars. His leather jacket gets wrapped around your shoulders before the wind can even hit your skin, and he kisses your brow when you squint at the fluorescent lights. You rest your head on his shoulder, hugging him around the middle while he orders. There’s a little family by the benches, and a gaggle of teenage boys with bleach broccoli hair around the Jeep. One of them meets your eyes and whispers to his friends. Dean glares at them over your head, pulling you closer into his chest.
“Hooligans,” he mutters, and you giggle, tracing over his chest.
“You’re gonna make a good old man one day, De.”
He rolls his eyes, and it means nothing at all. “You bet your ass I am, sweetheart. Our lawn isn’t gonna have a single messed up patch.”
You both realize what he said at the same time. Dean looks down at you. You take a shallow breath, and blink slowly. The wind blows and the lights turn a heavenly white. Dean opens his mouth, and-
“Dean?” The ice cream attendant calls, and he sighs, going to grab the ice cream. He got your favorite. You didn’t expect anything else.
You sit in the backseat of the car, between Dean’s legs. He plays with the hair at the nape of your neck, ignoring his ice cream until your remind him it’s going to melt. The silence is easy, but it circles around in your head, over and over and over, a bird of prey looking to latch it’s claws into something and never let go.
“Do you think we’re going to stay in California?” You ask casually, and Dean’s fingers still.
“Maybe,” he says. Slowly. Carefully. “If- You know. You wanna stay here?”
You hum, taking his hand in yours. “I don’t want to go to Chicago.”
“That’s alright, I can go anywhere.”
“Would Chip let you go anywhere?”
“Anywhere that’s got cars, yeah.”
You hum, playing with one of his bracelets. “California has cars.”
“So we’re stayin’ in California?”
“I like Maine.”
“I can work with Maine-“
“What about Louisiana?”
“We could stay with Benny-“
You twist, pressing a hand on his chest. “Where do you want to go?” You demand, and he blinks at you.
“Princess, I’ve told you, I’m happy wherever you are.”
You sigh, collapsing onto his chest. He holds you there, rubbing up and down your spine. He sets his ice cream on the floor to cradle your head, and you hold him tighter.
“I’d like somewhere with parks,” he mutters softly. “Know you’re gonna wanna a dog, and I’m gonna have to walk it-“
“I’d help walk it.”
“Nah. You’re gonna be the breadwinner, baby. Too busy.”
You laugh, wet and amused, and Dean rocks you both back and forth.
“You know, they got some good programs for PhD’s in New York,” he says. “Or we could go abroad. They got better Zoology programs there.”
“They do?”
“Mhm.”
You push up on his chest, and he grins. Quiet and roguish and all yours.
“We could go to London, Brazil, or Japan, or- Just somewhere. Figure out where we’re getting old later,” he reaches up, tracing the line of your cheek. “When we’re old.”
“We’re gonna get old?” You ask softly, and Dean smiles.
“Yeah, we are. Together.”
✦Part 10✦
✦End note: he's so silly. i need him biblically. ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
CWs Referenced child abuse. Broken bones. Hospitals.
6k words
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You meet Sam and Dean Winchester on a hot summer afternoon when you’re seven. You don’t know it yet, but they will become the most important part of your life.
Wind whips through your hair as you drive down the long country road to Bobby’s house. Your butt bumps against the saddle as you pedal, hurts your crotch, since the bike is too big for you. Your mother said she didn’t want to waste money on something she would need to buy over and over - you couldn’t care less, because you managed to beg enough for her to buy it in blue rather than the pink she originally insisted on.
You take the final curve before Singer Salvage comes into view. Pedal harder. You let the bike steer just a little onto the other lane, cutting the curve tighter than you need to. Riding over to Bobby’s always feels like freedom.
Not that you have many other places to go. You’ve managed to make friends in school, but you’re not allowed to visit them. They’re not part of the church, and one of them even has divorced parents, an environment your mother does not want you to be a part of, lest your young mind pick up any ideas. Instead she tells you to play with your cousins, over at your grandfather’s place. But you don’t like it there. You never did.
You slow down as you make it onto the salvage yard. Bobby’s house is a strange medium, neutral ground you and your mother can agree on. He’s not in the church, and you’re pretty sure he’d spit at the idea, but he was your father’s friend and colleague. Hunters, both of them, but it wasn’t until you started visiting Bobby earlier this summer that you understood what kind. You’re pretty sure you played over the realization pretty well, the realization that you didn’t know your father hunted demons and monsters, rather than elk or coyote, or whatever kind of animals there are to hunt – you wouldn’t know, since you’re a vegetarian this year.
Another reason you keep going back to Bobby’s - you were young when your father died, don’t remember him. At Bobby’s, there are things he’s touched, places he stood in that you can stand in now. Sometimes Bobby tells you stories about him, and you hunger for them, lock them away inside yourself for when you return home, because your mother might as well pretend he never existed. She acts like you were an immaculate conception. You learned about that in bible school. Also learned about hell and demons and the devil. It terrified you. Bobby’s books are, in a way, the antidote to that.
In front of the house, you get off your bike, barely noticing the beautiful Chevrolet parked there as well. There’s constantly new cars showing up at Bobby’s, but if you were a little older, you might notice that this one doesn’t belong in a salvage yard. It’s meticulously clean, unlike anything at Bobby’s.
As you more jump than walk up the stairs to the small porch, you don’t think much of it. The door opens just as you reach it, and you almost run into the man leaving the house. You jump back at the last second, but he still gives you a look like you just stepped on his new shoes. He’s tall, dark hair and a lot of scruff, a worn, brown leather jacket covering a broad frame, and he has an irritated expression on his face. He frowns at you, and you quickly lower your gaze.
“Bob,” he says over his shoulder, “there’s a kid here.”
Without waiting for Bobby to reply, the man walks past you, off the porch. You dare to look after him, see him get into the black car parked in front of the house without another look back. You’re distracted when you hear Bobby’s slightly off-kilter footsteps. When you turn around, he’s standing in the hallway of his house, waving you over.
“Come in,” he says in that perpetually frustrated tone of his, “you’re letting all the cool air out.” You walk inside, push the door closed behind you, then stop in your tracks when you walk into the kitchen.
At Bobby’s table, the one you and him sometimes sit around when he has the time, eating spaghetti with thick tomato sauce, the only thing Bobby can cook, are two boys.
Jealousy and territorialism are immediately thick in your throat – Bobby’s house is supposed to be your escape. Other people being there, especially boys, makes it feel like just any other place. The sadness at the perceived loss that follows is so intense it startles you. Bobby walks up next to you.
“That’s Sam and Dean, honey,” he says, before introducing you. “They’re gonna be staying with me this summer.” Bobby makes a noise, something huffing, followed by a clearing of his throat. If you were outside, you know he’d spit on the ground now, something you have, unsuccessfully, tried to copy.
“I got some work to do,” Bobby continues, “you kids get along now, you hear?” You nod, just a little, and then Bobby pats your shoulder and leaves the room.
Slowly, without saying anything else, you walk over to one of the piles of books Bobby has strewn all over his house. You grab the book at the top of the pile, not caring what it is, open it, but then you’re not sure where to sit, what with the two boys at the dining table. You’re not about to retreat into the other room, Bobby’s office, give up the terrain, so you collect all your bravery, walk towards the table.
You pull out one of the unoccupied chairs, then sit in it, the book in your lap. You look down at it, but out of the corner of your eye, you’re studying the two intruders.
One of them is basically a baby, or what you, at the ripe age of seven, consider a baby, which is anyone even slightly younger than you. He has a dark brown mop of hair that could use a brush and a trim, and he’s staring down at the picture he’s drawing, crayon held in a fist, which tells you he probably isn’t in school yet, because you learned how to hold a pencil in first grade. He doesn’t seem bothered by your presence, deeply absorbed in his work.
The other one is a little older than you, but it’s hard to say by how much – a year? Two? There’s a spattering of freckles on his nose and cheeks, he has lighter hair and he’s reading a magazine – Hot Rod, you can just see on the cover before he flips it around. He looks up at you and you quickly look down, but you’re pretty sure he saw you. You keep reading, or rather, keep pretending you’re reading, until you hear one of them speak up.
“You read a lot?” he says, he being the older of the two, which you see when you look up and he’s looking straight at you. You shrug.
“Yeah,” you say, unsure how to seem cool just with that one word, so you add: “I’m gonna be a hunter when I grow up, so I need to learn.” The boy makes a face, raises his eyebrows in a way that is intensely practiced, like someone put an adult face over his real one.
“Our dad’s a hunter,” he says, and you think of the man you nearly walked into earlier. “He’s gonna take me on cases with him when I’m older.”
The jealousy his words spark in you is immediate, painful. No one in your family hunts and from the moment you decided you were going to follow in your father’s footsteps earlier this summer, you have known that you would have to do it on your own. But you’re not going to let this boy see how much that scares you, so you shrug again.
“My dad was a hunter too,” you say, trying to keep your voice light, “but he died.”
The freckled boy nods slowly. He considers you for a second, then swallows. To your surprise, it’s the younger one who speaks up.
“Our mom died when I was a baby,” he says matter-of-factly, like you’re talking about the weather. You look at him, but he hasn’t looked up from his drawing.
For a brief moment, you envy them – how different your life could be if your father was alive and your mother dead. The fear and nervousness you feel around her. You imagine a life with him to be easy, simple. Quiet. She slapped you once, in the winter. She seemed to feel bad about it, but it didn’t stop her from doing it again a few weeks later. She says it’s your fault, that you’re starting to act out and forcing her hand. You’re not sure what you’ve done, but it must be bad.
“I’m sorry,” you say, because you’re not sure what else to say, “about your mom.”
Your eyes go back to the older boy, and his face tenses for a second. You get it. It’s not often that someone mentions your father, but when they do, it’s a toss-up on how it makes you feel. Most of the time, you just want them to shut up. You never met him, but he’s yours. No one else should be allowed to touch him.
Luckily, to distract you from your thoughts and that boy’s serious expression, just then the younger one drops the crayon.
“I’m thirsty, Dean,” he says, “can I have some juice?”
He’s polite for a baby, you think, and then you watch as the older of the two gets up. He walks to the fridge, pulls out a carton of orange juice. Then he steadies his hands on the kitchen counter, pushes himself up, and when he’s up, opens the cupboard with the glasses. You always get a chair to get up there. Bobby’s told you not to climb the furniture.
Kneeling there on the counter, the boy – Dean? – turns around to you.
“You want a glass too?” he asks.
“Y-yes,” you stutter.
He turns back, grabs three glasses, puts them on the counter, closes the cupboard and then jumps back down to the floor. He looks cool doing it, you have to admit. He brings everything to the table, and when he pours the glass for his brother, he turns to him.
“Are you hungry, Sammy?” he asks and Sammy, already consumed by his picture again, shakes his head. Dean returns the orange juice to the fridge, and then all three of you sit there for a long time, reading and drawing, sipping orange juice, in companionable silence.
Bobby doesn't come back for a while. After about half an hour, the younger brother, Sammy, decides to shove some of his paper and some crayons towards you. You think about pretending you're too old to be interested in drawing, but the truth is the book you picked up at random is the most boring thing you've ever laid eyes on. So after battling your young ego for a second, you put it down and grab some of Sammy's crayons.
You decide to draw a house, but you're struggling to decide which one. There’s your grandfather’s house, large and imposing at the end of a long lawn. It’s beautiful, has more rooms than you can count, but you hate thinking about it. There’s something whisper-y about it, something quiet, but in a bad way. Like everyone is constantly holding their breath. When your mother and you moved out, you were happy, despite how young you were.
There’s the house the two of you live in now. It’s bright, large windows that you can stand in front of, and on sunny days, you feel like an ant under a magnifying glass. All heated up, like your body is buzzing, but nice. The house feels empty, though. Your mother doesn’t like having guests, says they give her a headache. She always touches the side of her face when she says this. Like she can feel it coming on. She says that. I can feel it coming on. The only person who comes by is a woman who cleans twice a week. Your mother watches her, smoking in the kitchen. Neck craning when she leaves the room. You think the woman is nice. She smells good, and she smiles at you when she sees you.
You could draw Bobby’s house. It’s a little bit dirty, and a little bit messy, but it’s the only place you remember ever feeling fully comfortable. Not just comfortable, but safe. There's something warm about it, even if in the winter the wind comes through the gaps in the windows, whistling like someone calling their dog.
Bobby's house is safe because Bobby doesn't yell, he doesn't get angry when you spill juice or when, while drawing, like you are now, you accidentally draw on the table. He might grumble a bit, but then he gets a cloth, wets it and cleans up your mess without making you feel like you have done permanent damage. You could gift him the drawing and you think Bobby would probably like it, or at least he would pretend to, which is just as good.
You start drawing and before you know it you have the outlines done and the windows.
“Is that Bobby’s house?” Sammy asks, peering over at the piece of paper in front of you. You look at him, almost having forgotten that you're not there on your own. The sound of his crayons has been lulling you in, and Dean has been perfectly quiet. He must have turned the pages of his magazine at some point but you didn't hear him. You look back at your drawing.
“It is,” you say as you keep studying your masterpiece.
“The windows look like eyes,” he says, “like wide open eyes. Like they saw something scary.” You frown at him.
“What do you know about seeing scary things?” you ask. The boy looks at you for the first time. His eyes are dark, really dark, almost as dark as his hair, almost black in the low light of Bobby’s kitchen. You think he’s gonna answer you, but then he just looks back at his drawing, focuses on it again.
Without meaning to, you throw his older brother a questioning look. He’s been studying the exchange, watching both of you like a hawk, as if he’s ready to jump in at any point. He looks at you, then turns back to his magazine, not saying anything.
The three of you remain like this until you need to leave. You slip off the chair, then stand there for a moment, unsure if you should say goodbye or if that would make it seem like you cared, like you even noticed that they were there. You swing your arms a little before turning to the younger of the two.
“I’ll be back here tomorrow,” you say to him and he looks up again, face slack, dark eyes watching you. “I have some gel pens I can bring that you can draw with.”
Heat rises to your cheeks immediately, and you realize that gel pens might be way too girly for him. But he just nods.
“Okay,” he says, then turns back to his drawing. You look at the floor, turn and walk outside without looking at either of them again. While you’re riding home air rushes into your eyes, making them water with how fast you’re pedaling.
Bobby’s truck isn’t out front when you return the next day and drop your bike down in front of the house. You know where the spare key is, but then you hear sounds from somewhere. You walk around the house, looking for their source.
Sam and Dean are there. Sam has what you’re pretty sure is a black t-shirt tied around his neck like a cape, while Dean has a red one. Sam is running back and forth in short sprints, trying to be fast enough for the t-shirt to fly up behind him. Dean is holding a camcorder, you see as you approach. It must be Bobby’s, but you had no idea he owned something like this, much less knew how to operate it.
“What are you doing?” you say and Dean looks up. He looks a little surprised.
“You’re back,” he says and you set your jaw. You’re back? You were here first. He has no right to say this to you.
“Said I would be,” you shoot back, sounding a little meaner than you intend to. Sam comes to a stop next to you, breathing hard from his running.
“Did you bring the pens?” he asks. You look at him, then shake your head.
“My mom didn’t let me,” you reply. Sam nods, then turns, starts walking on an invisible line, arms extended out to the sides. You turn back to Dean.
“What are you doing with the camcorder?” you ask, challenge in your voice because while you don’t want to be a square you also don’t like the idea that he might be touching Bobby’s things without asking first.
“Sam’s gonna film me jumping off that shed,” he says, then looks at you and you raise your eyebrows in question. He indicates the t-shirt around his shoulders. “I’m Superman. Sammy’s Batman.”
Just then, Sam starts running again, making one big jump that must seem huge to him but looks tiny to you. You look at him, then back at Dean, swat at a fly circling you.
“Who’s Superman?” you ask. Dean stops playing around with the camera, frowns at you.
“You don’t know Superman?” he asks, voice unbelieving. Damn it, you should have just pretended. But it’s too late now, so you shrug.
“He’s an alien who’s a superhero,” Dean explains. “He can fly and he can shoot lasers out of his eyes.” You nod, like everything he’s saying makes perfect sense.
“Oh,” you say, like the information is just whatever. Dean studies you, then looks over at his brother who is still running around.
“Hey, maybe you can film it instead,” he says and your eyes shoot up to his face. “Sam doesn’t know how to work the camera.” Your heart flutters. You also don’t know how to work the camera. But to your relief, Dean turns a little, shows you the buttons.
“You press here to start recording,” he explains and you lean in, make sure you catch what he’s saying. “And then here to stop.” You nod, and then he hands the camcorder to you. It’s heavier than it looks.
Dean walks over to the shed. There’s a car parked next to it that’s mostly scrap and he climbs up on the hood, then the roof and then the shed. Sam comes to a stop next to you, breathing hard.
“Can you bring the pens tomorrow?” he asks, but all that leaves you is an uh huh. Because you’re busy watching Dean. He’s effortless, like he’s climbed that shed a hundred times. When he’s on top he looks down, over the edge. He doesn’t seem scared at all.
“Okay, ready?” he calls down and you raise the camera, push your face against it. Your lashes are in the way a little but you’re sure you have him in frame. You press record.
Dean does a weird thing where he sticks out his arm, hand balled into fist.
“Up, up,” he says, voice forced deep, “and away!” He lowers his arm, bends at the knees, then jumps. Your heart beats hard in your chest as you try to concentrate on keeping him in frame as he falls closer and closer to the ground.
He lands on his feet, crouched down, both hands going out to keep his balance for a moment. He doesn’t fall. You open your eyes wide. It’s the coolest thing you’ve ever seen. You can’t help the sound of wonder that comes out of you as you jump up and down a few times. Dean has the broadest grin on his face as he walks towards you.
“Did you get it?” he asks and you look down at the camera, stop recording, then nod at him. “Did it look cool?”
“It looked awesome!” you say, your enthusiasm carrying you away. Dean looks at you for a moment longer, then down. He kicks a rock, scratches the sole of his shoe over the ground a few times before he continues.
“If you want to I can, like, lend you my Superman comics,” he says, like he’s just making an off-hand comment. You press your lips together.
“Yeah,” you say, then quickly add: “Are there any girl heroes?” Dean nods.
“There’s Wonder Woman,” he says. “She’s super strong and fast.” You nod.
“Okay,” you say, a funny feeling spreading in your stomach. You know you can’t borrow the comics. There’s no way your mother would allow you to read something about aliens and superheroes. But for some reason, you don’t want Dean to know that. That all you get is stuff for girls, because he probably thinks girl stuff is dumb.
“I can give them to you later,” he says, nodding along. You open your mouth to reply, when your eyes go up, then wide, as you look behind Dean. He turns around immediately.
Sam is up on the shed. You open your mouth to shout something and in that moment, he bends his short legs and jumps.
He’s tiny. The shed is a million times his size. It’s like he falls in slow motion, his dark cape fluttering behind him. He finally got it to do what he wanted.
He falls on his side. There’s a crunch that makes you want to throw up. Dean is by his side the next second.
“Sammy–” he says, pulling him up but Sam starts wailing, low in his throat. Thick tears explode out of his eyes. You and Dean look down at his arm at the same time. He’s holding it close to his body.
“Sam, it’s okay,” Dean’s saying, but he doesn’t sound very convincing. Sam’s sounds are still low and you wonder if he’ll scream, but he doesn’t. It’s a horrible sound.
“We need to call Bobby, get him to the hospital,” Dean says, to no one in particular. But you have no idea where Bobby is, or how you could reach him even if you did. You could walk down to the road, try to get some car to stop to find an adult you can ask for help. You could call an ambulance, you know that number, or your home, but no, your mother’s head would probably explode and you’d be grounded forever. The scrapyard is a little bit outside of the city, down a country road, so not many cars pass by. It’s perfect for when you want to drive your bike really fast.
Your bike.
You start running, kicking up stones on your way as you pump your legs, come to a hard stop at the front of the house. You grab the handlebars, pull it up and then start pushing it towards the back of the house again. The handling is awkward due to its size, but you make it.
Dean looks up when he hears you approach. He’s managed to get Sam to his feet, and it looks like he was about to make him walk. You could be wrong, but you think he looks a little surprised. Maybe he thought you ran off.
You stop the bike next to him, look at his face.
“You can ride him to the hospital,” you say, trying to steady your voice. “That’s the quickest way.”
Dean nods, then grabs for the bike before, to your surprise, rendering control of Sam over to you. You wrap one arm around his small frame. He’s skinny, and you can feel his ribs. He’s shaking, small whimpering sounds still coming from him.
Dean swings his leg over the bike, and then you help him hoist Sam up on the handlebars. It’s awkward, but you manage. When he’s sitting there, legs slung over, back pressed against his brother’s chest, lower lip still shaking, you take a step back. But Dean doesn’t start pedaling, so you look at his face. There’s still some wide-eyed panic there, but also something expectant.
“What are you waiting for?” he asks, his voice a little rough. “Get on.”
Riding on the back of the bike has your butt hurting and you’re feeling awkward where you’re holding on to Dean’s shirt over his shoulders. Sam has gone quiet, which is somehow more scary than when he was crying. Still, you can’t help feeling what you’re feeling.
Dean drives at a breakneck speed. You drive fast too, but not this fast. It’s like the three of you are flying.
It turns out Dean doesn’t know where the hospital is. You only know it because you can always see it when you drive to Bobby’s. That’s probably why he wanted you to come along, although you prefer to think he’s just as nervous and scared as you.
The bike clatters to the ground in front of the ER as the two of you lead Sam inside. The nurse at reception looks at you wide-eyed.
“Where the heck are your parents?” she asks. Dean doesn’t answer, so neither do you. They take Sam away, and then Dean and you sit on red plastic chairs in the waiting area, both of you staring straight ahead. Your heart is beating fast, and there’s a weird tightness in your stomach and chest.
Dean’s not saying anything. He’s leaned forward, elbows on his knees, one leg bouncing up and down. You look at him, then look away. He seemed so cool before, and now he seems terrified. It’s fascinating to see.
You push your hand into the pocket of your pants, find the coins you always carry with you. You stand up, walk over to the vending machine. You wonder what Dean likes, if he prefers one soft drink over the other, but then you simply get two Cokes. You walk back to where you were sitting, hold one out to him, wordless. His bouncing stops, and he looks up at you.
He has startling green eyes, and right then, you don’t think you’ve seen any person ever look so scared. He blinks, like he’s waking himself, looks at the glass bottle in your hand, then reaches out and takes it without saying anything. You sit down next to him again.
Bobby’s loud, and you can hear him before you see him. Both of you had to give your home numbers, and it looks like they finally managed to reach him.
“What in the hell happened?” he says as he walks up, voice deep and rough. His brow is low and his eyes wide, but he doesn’t seem angry, despite saying “hell”. He drops into a squat in front of the both of you.
“We were playing,” you say, before Dean has the chance to answer. “Sam fell.” It’s technically true, but it hides the fact that Sam was copying his brother, jumped off the shed on purpose. Bobby’s hands go out, and he puts his hands on your and Dean’s shoulders - one on yours, one on his. Squeezes.
“Thought my heart was gonna stop when they got a hold of me,” he says. “Had me scared shi– had me worried when you weren’t there when I came back.”
You nod. You know Bobby wanted to curse again, but stopped himself.
You can go and see Sam not long after. He looks tiny on the hospital bed but he gives you a tight-lipped smile when you enter.
“Look,” he says to Dean who steps close to him, “I got juice and dinosaurs to color.” Dean nods. He still looks terrified. He puts his hands on the bed, but without touching his brother.
“How’s your arm?” he asks, swallows. Sam shrugs.
“It’s okay,” he answers. Dean nods slowly, then looks at the dinosaur Sam’s coloring.
“Looks nice,” he says. You’re pretty sure you can hear tears in his voice, the way it goes all thick. They don’t reach his face though.
You’re so used to the way your mother’s footsteps sound, so used to avoiding them when you need to, or making it immediately known where you are on other days, that afterwards you’re sure you hear her the moment she enters the hospital, although you don’t think that’s technically possible.
But you do hear her, and when you turn around she’s just entering the room, the door left open. She has her bag slung over her arm, is wearing one of her nice dresses with the cardigan buttoned high. From the fine line of her lipstick, you know she reapplied it in the car.
“There you are,” she says, walking over to you. She throws a quick look at Sam, maybe at Dean, then grabs your arm around the wrist. “Do you know how worried I was? Getting a call from the hospital?” She squeezes hard where she’s holding you and you can’t help but make a face. She doesn’t see it, because she turns to Bobby.
“Where were you?” she asks, voice slightly raised. The familiarity between them always freaks you out a little. They feel like they should be from different planets. You know your mother doesn’t like Bobby, sometimes says he’s dirty. But not dirty enough to not let you go to play at his house.
“It was an accident,” Bobby replies. His voice is calm. Distantly, you think maybe he shouldn’t have left all of you alone, but he’s done it a million times. You once fell in your kitchen at home, the floor wet from mopping. Your shoulder hurt for three days, but you didn’t tell your mother, because you’re not supposed to run in the house. She was only upstairs, and it still happened. Adults like to pretend that they can stop bad things from happening, but the truth you’re figuring out is that they actually can’t.
“Look, it happens, children hurt themselves,” Bobby says, but you can tell he’s sweating a little under your mother’s angry stare. “They did good, got Sam to the hospital. You should be proud, if anything.” She’s still squeezing your wrist, shakes it absent-mindedly with her own movement when she speaks, and it feels like she’s gonna dislodge all the bones in it.
“That’s not the point,” she butts in. “They should be watched. And you didn’t tell me there would be other children, that–”
“Stop it, you’re hurting her!”
All eyes in the room go to Dean. His brows are pushed low and he’s staring down your mother. You feel your eyes widen as you watch Dean’s go down to where she’s holding your wrist. Your mother does the same, like she’s unsure what he’s talking about for a moment.
You expect her to yell at him, tell him to have some dang manners, not to talk to an adult like that. But she’s either surprised enough to not think of that, or the fact that he raised his voice quiets her. She always gets nervous when someone’s loud around her, whether it’s your grandfather or one of her brothers or cousins. She opens her mouth, lips moving like she’s going to say something, but then she simply drops your hand. You make a fist, feel the pull of your skin.
“Come on, we’re leaving,” she says. She turns and starts walking, without so much as looking back at Bobby. You follow after her, needing to hurry a few steps to keep up with her.
You look back before you leave the room. Bobby’s dropping his shoulders, and then walks over to Sam’s bedside. Dean looks after you for a moment, then turns to his brother as well. But you can’t quite look away yet, at least not until you leave the room and they disappear from sight.
Your mother leads you to the car, both of you getting in wordlessly. She drops her handbag on your lap, then reaches in, finds her cigarettes. It’s a vice she sometimes indulges in, although she shouldn’t. Her words.
She starts the car, says something that you answer with a non-committal sound. She starts driving, through the town, and you look out the window.
A few months ago, a bird flew into the house. Flapped around, wings brushing the windows and walls like crazy. You didn’t know how it got there, but the woman who comes to clean helped it get out.
You’re thinking about what just happened. Stop it, you’re hurting her. And your mother let go. Listened, dropped your wrist. It feels like the bird is in your chest now, flapping around there. Because, as far as you can remember, no one has ever, ever stood up for you.
Except Dean Winchester.
Your mother brought your bike, had it put into the back of the car before leaving, and so the next morning, after breakfast, you slowly and carefully walk outside, grab it and get on it. Your mother hasn’t said that you’re not allowed back at Bobby’s, so you simply go. If your mother says you weren’t supposed to, you can feign ignorance. It’s worth the risk.
You drive down the long country road extra fast. Pedal until the muscles in your legs burn, until the scrapyard comes into view.
Sam is on the couch, watching TV, a cartoon. He looks up when you walk in. You drop your backpack to the floor, rummage around in it, then hold up what you were looking for - the gel pens. You simply took them. Felt daring when you did.
You walk over to Sam, drop down on the couch next to him. He leans forward, looks at all the colors.
“You can write on my arm with them,” he says, indicating his cast. “Dean already wrote something last night.” You look at where he’s pointing. AC/DC rocks, it says, in what you’re pretty sure is ballpoint pen, the way it’s been almost scratched in there.
“Cool,” you say. You take one of the pens, a darker blue so it shows on the white, hold it up to Sam’s arm. You’re not sure what to write, but then you grin, start scribbling. Sam watches as you work, but it’s upside down for him.
“What is it?” he says. Your drawing skills aren’t great, but you’re still proud of what you did. You brush some hair out of your face.
“A bat,” you say, and smile at him. “Like Batboy.” Sam grins, toothy and wide.
“Batman,” you hear a voice from behind you. You turn, and it’s Dean, maybe coming from upstairs. He’s watching you two.
“I know,” you reply quickly. There’s a moment of silence, as neither of you three says anything. You lean back slowly, look at the TV.
It takes a few seconds, but finally Dean moves too. He plops down on the couch next to you, and then the three of you watch. Not speaking, at least not until Dean decides to get a snack for all of you.
You come back the next day, and the next, and then the entire week. Mostly, you play with Sam, but Dean is always there, watching, sometimes joining.
When you come back on the Thursday, Sam and Dean are gone. Picked up by their father, Bobby says. You stand in the living room, look around. The territory you felt so defensive over is yours again, but it doesn’t feel like a victory. They took everything they have with them, and you’re pretty sure Sam took the gel pens. To someone else, it might look like they were never even there.
But you know they were. You know.
Next time on SUN BLEACHED FLIES:
The first postcard arrives when you’re eight years old. It’s from Salt Lake City. You take it up to your room, sit on your bed, and read it.
There are a lot of churches here. Dad works all the time. There is a snack machine at the motel. Dean ate a whole thing of sour candy and got a stoumech stomach ache. I’m reading Huckleberry Finn and I like it, I like that he tries to be a good person.
Sam W.
And then scribbled below that:
We watched monster trucks on TV and Dad has been hunting. I nearly fired a shotgun, but then didn’t have to. He says he’s gonna drop us off at Bobby’s while he finishes the hunt.
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⧼ older sub ! dean x fem ! reader . . . sex in the impala. ⧽
📬 ! guys. apologies for the delay. the past 2 weeks, the universe (and tumblr) have been… reallyyy fucking Testing me. like no other. but nonetheless i prevail. with sub!dean in hand.
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it’s raining as you drive the impala back to the bunker.
you insisted on driving, since dean had been doing all the driving for the two of you the entirety of the hunt. he’s been acting a little needy since you both finished up. both of you decided to go back to the bunker tonight since your own bed in your own… somewhat house couldn’t compare to anything a motel had to offer.
as he’s gotten older, you’ve noticed, dean has somehow gotten simultaneously more shamless and more reserved. he’s still horny as fuck a lot—he’ll basically hump you like a dog in public sometimes with no reservations, or he’ll blush like a schoolgirl when you squeeze his bicep at a bar before sitting down next to him. it’s a tightrope that dean balances on daily, how much he can get away with, but also how much he can take.
dean’s been keeping his hands to himself so far—but before you’d both gotten in the car, he begged for a quickie before you left. almost got down on his knees in the motel room, too. you hadn’t had a chance to have sex this entire hunt, which is rare, but it comes with the job.
so dean’s needy.
for you.
you’d coaxed him enough, you’d thought, to last until you both got home. but even though you’re focusing on the road, you can still feel him. looking at you, shifting on the impala’s bench every so often. he’s already closer to you, because that’s just who dean is—always wanting to be as close as possible to you. he’s much further away from the passenger side window than he was before when you initially started driving, and you can feel the heat eminatng off his body.
you want to say something, but the truth is, you want dean to be close to you, too. maybe just as much as he does with you.
you haven’t been talking much. dean’s dozed off a couple times since you started driving, but he doesn’t sleep for long. you steal glances at him when you hear his breathing get deeper, more slow. sleep breathing. most of the times you look over, his lips are parted just a little.
he looks younger like this, with all his lines on his face smoothed out, his brows only a little furrowed instead of being deeply set like they seem to be permanently stationed at when he’s awake. you imagine a younger dean when you see him, imagine what he looked like when it was just him and his brother back in the day. you wonder if he preferred being young over the life he’s living now. it was probably easier, you think. maybe not easier, but less of a toll.
you’ll never know the answer.
dean’s chin rests on your shoulder, at some point. he relaxes into you, slumping into your side. you take your right hand off the wheel and wrap your arm around him, which causes him to further nuzzle himself into you, too. he sighs softly, but he’s not annoyed. he’s just safe. he dozes off again, the rain hitting the top of the car lulling him under. he snores, but just a little—it sounds more like a cat purring on you than anything else. you sometimes call him your ‘little personal lawn mower’.
he stirs once more, and his hand rests on your thigh after a little bit of him being awake. it’s not too high up on your jeans that you’re raising a brow, but you know he’s getting ansty from being so close to you. he lets his mind wander, especially when you’re alone together, or just when he’s alone. you assume he’s doing that right now.
and he is.
dean fantasizes often about you, sometimes and most of the time when you’re literally right in front of him. it’s a little humiliating for him, though, because you’d coaxed the information out of him a while ago, and he was so embarrassed telling you that he daydreams about you when you’re right next to him he almost ran out into traffic. now, he’s still aware he’s pathetic for it, but he just doesn’t really care all that much.
the most recent daydream he’s been fixating on lately is you in a dress. the dress changes color and fabric type often, since you look good in anything, but what doesn’t change is you sitting on his car, waiting for him. sometimes he takes you right on the hood of the impala, right out in the open. sometimes it’s in the backseat, sometimes it’s in the front—but it always starts the same. the sun’s behind you, and you look like a dream, looking back at him. well, obviously, it is a dream—but dean knows one day, it’ll be real: just you, him, baby, and an open road.
kind of like now, actually.
minus the dress.
he’s mostly wanting to kiss you, currently, he thinks. just a few pecks. and maybe a little tounge. okay, maybe some over-the-clothes action, too. okay, maybe he just wants you to pull the car over and ride him into next week. whatever. he shifts his legs, trying to ignore what his thoughts are doing to his body, but it’s not really working. he nuzzles his face further into your neck, breathing you in. his hand on your thigh moves up a little higher, and he lifts his head off your shoulder just enough so his nose brushes your neck.
dean doesn’t say anything. you freeze up when his nose grazes on a sensitive spot, shivering a little as his hand simultaneously gets closer to the inside seam of your jeans. you almost say something to him, but you don’t. you just tighten your grip on the steering wheel, trying not to melt in a puddle. dean notices, of course. he nudges his nose against your neck a little more, inhaling deeply. it sends another, more heated shiver down your spine.
he murmurs your name into your neck, while his hand reaches the seam of your waistband, tugging on it gently. you shiver again, leaning into dean subconsciously—and he takes advantage of it, the bastard, mouthing at the sensitive spot behind your ear he knows makes you dizzy.
“baby,” he almost moans into your neck, shifting against the leather of the seat. “…need ya.”
“dean, we—”
“please.”
and dean winchester doesn’t say please. not to anyone.
except you.
so after an embarrassingly short amount of time contemplating, you glance in the rearview mirror before pulling off the main road, taking the dirt road running parallel to it until you reach a more secluded spot. you don’t think twice after you put the car in park, the windshield wipers pausing halfway through the motion—because you know he’s really going through it to be this needy.
dean’s on you before you can turn to face him, making it his personal mission to kiss your breath away, it seems. his lips mold over yours immediately, your hands going to his face and the back of his head as he pulls you into his lap. you let him deepen the kiss, straddling him. he’s getting squeamish already, you can tell—because he’s fumbling for your waistband.
dean makes quick work of your clothes—probably the quickest he’s ever been, and that’s saying something—and soon enough, your bra is the last to go. he mouths at your left breast, then shoves his face in your chest, kissing whatever skin his lips reach first. his rough, warm hands trail up your waist, sending tingles throughout your skin. he nuzzles his face further in between your boobs before kissing up your chest and neck, finally finding your lips again briefly before pulling you closer to him.
“can’t believe y’re mine,” dean murmurs quietly. he says it just for you. he looks up at you—and you can’t see him very well due to the rain and it being pitch-black outside the impala, but you can see the way his eyes shine at you, even now.
and you know what he means by that.
you know it means dean doesn’t believe he actually deserves you. you know it means he feels like he has to prove himself to you, over and over again, in order to be worthy of your love and attention. it’s just how he’s wired. how he compartmentalizes things, how he deals with everything. and it won’t change.
but you won’t stop trying to make it change.
you take dean’s face in your hands, and he immediately softens more, sighing and melting between your palms like you’re a warm pan. your thumbs brush his cheeks, and you press a quick kiss to his lips before tugging at his shirt. dean buffers for a second, still caught up in the kiss before realizing you want his flannel off. he pauses after you remove his flannel, almost hesitating before putting his arms up for his shirt underneath.
you know why. the past few years, dean had been… more filled out, recently, in his torso. nothing crazy, but you noticed. some punk-ass kid said something stupid to him on a case a few weeks ago, nothing worth repeating. and you know despite his gruff, uncaring exterior, he takes those things to heart. you know he’s been spiraling over it, over the fear of losing you not because of something out of his control—but because he wasn’t good enough, wasn’t fit enough to make you stay.
after tugging his shirt off, you don’t let dean shy away from you, even though you know that’s where his instinct goes. he looks down almost immediately, but your hands return to his face, keeping him steady. keeping him looking at you.
“m’yours,” you assure dean. and you know he needed to hear it, based on the way his entire body shakes when he closes his eyes.
you know it’s not an ownership thing, at least not completely. you know dean just needs to hear that something, someone is just his to keep for his own, and no one else’s. he nods once, then buries his face in bewteen your boobs again, inhales like he needs you to breathe. he sighs, pulling you flush against him, and your hands leave his face to wrap around his shoulders. you stay like that in his lap, holding each other for what feels like a century.
eventually, dean pulls away—just enough to look up at you again. his hands brush their way down to your hips, and you know where they’re going: to get you ready. your own hands find his wrists, stop them in their tracks. he tilts his head back up to you, confused.
“not tonight,” you murmur to him, releasing your grip as you shake your head. your hands go to his jeans that are unfortunately still on and start to undo his belt.
dean wants to protest. usually, he always gets you ready. it almost feels weird to not eat you out, or at least finger you. not do something. he really wants to say something—jesus, he needs to get you ready before he can be inside you—but you’re already tugging down his jeans enough so that his dick springs out, so all his attention is immediately focused on the throbbing in his lower region. he almost forgot how hard he was. up until now.
it is then that it dawns on him that you’re doing this for him. he was so needy for you all this time, and you’re not teasing him about it, or making him suffer. not that you ever did, but dean willingly suffers in silence with pretty much everything else. he always expects you to do the same, but you never do. you almost always give him what you want.
he thought you might give him a handjob. but you don’t—you just stroke him a few times, and notch him to where he’s been dying to go for the past two weeks. no teasing, no witholding. dean could cry, from how it feels to just be inside you. and he has cried, more than once, while buried deep inside you.
he can’t belive that you just let him have you like this. he would’ve been proud to get you ready, get you soaking, dripping wet for him like you always are after he’s through with you. but you don’t let him, this time. he didn’t have to really do much to get you, even though that’s how he’s lived his life all this time. he’s always had to sacrifice something, always had to give something up in order to get what he wants. and more than half the time, it’s not even what he wants at all. but he’s never done that with you—or never had to, that is. you always just… give him what he wants when it comes to you. sometimes it’s sex, but it’s really just you he wants. just to be near you, to see you, to hold you.
just like he’s doing now.
you found out dean was a whimperer on beleive it or not, the first sexual encounter you both had together. he’d been eating you out, humping the mattress like a dog in heat, and whimpering right into your pussy. his eyes were all glazed over, and he looked a little drunk—but most importantly, he looked at peace. like this was what he was meant to do his whole life: lick and suck on your folds and clit for the rest of his days.
he spends so much time down there, worshipping you, night after night, day after day—and you know that while it comes from a place of devotion, it also stems from needing to provide you with something so you’ll have a reason to stay. you also know that while you are unable to rewire dean’s brain, it won’t stop you from keeping him close to your heart. it won’t stop you from loving him right back, the way you know he craves to be loved.
dean’s face is buried in your chest as you start to slowly grind down on him, and he lets out his first whimper. it’s gotten a little deeper, rougher over the years you’ve been together, but it still sounds natural. it sounds like dean. his big arms tighten around your waist, then unloosen again so he can look up at you. he gets like this sometimes—like he’s unsure where to look or put his hands when you’re in control like this. he settles on your hips, not guiding, just holding as you move them. you take the oppurtunity to lean down just a little as you grind again, kissing a few freckles dusting on his cheeks. they’re starting to show more, with the sun being out longer. a broken, beautiful sound leaves him, and you know he’s already close, just from a few passes of your hips.
he feels like a young man again sometimes, already so close to blowing his load this early, but his age is also daunting on him, looming in the darkness like a bunch of clothes over a chair. he’s nearing his father’s age when he died—and in a few years, he’ll be older than his father ever was. older than most hunters ever came to be. it’s a terrifying thought—but knowing that you’ll be there beside him is a comfort no one else can satiate. nothing could come close.
because dean feels safest with you. it’s a known fact—it’s like his body can relax a little. like he can hang up whatever he’s dealing with at the door, and dive into the warmth and comfort that is you, and actually feel like the weight’s off him, just for a brief moment. even in sex, he’s safest with you.
it’s indescribable, how he’s able to just let go when he’s with you. he doesn’t have to put on a show, even though he usually does—and he doesn’t have to worry about sounding ‘manly’ when you’re milking him for all he’s worth. he can let himself be as loud as he wants, as shameless as he wants, and he knows you won’t judge him. he knows you’ll just hold him like he’s always wanted to be held. like he’s one of a kind. like he actually matters.
like he’s actually loved by someone.
it’s astonishing, really, how dean has given up on love so many times, yet continues to have hope in it. he had his reservations, when first getting with you. the usual: that you’ll finally peek behind the curtian and see the real dean, then leave once you figure out who he truly is inside. or maybe that you’ll realize he’s too much work. yet, he still wanted to know. what if this thing with you worked out? so once more, he decided to try and love again. he decided to stay instead of go, and it seemed like it worked in his favor. you’re still here beside him. he has those doubts, of course, and the fear that one day, you’ll be taken from him by something that’s out of his control—but the love, finally, finally outweighs the pain. it’s worth being with you now, than have never been with you at all.
dean’s holding off on coming. he wants this heavenly feeling to last as long as possible, but it’s starting to hurt now. he’s holding you in spurts—your hips, then your waist, then the curve of your back. you notice, obviously, that he’s holding back.
your hands find his face once more, leaning down to kiss his freckles on the bridge of his nose this time, clenching around him as you do so. dean whines, nuzzling his face into yours as you continue to press kisses to wherever your lips land. your hands remain on his face, keeping up your rythym as dean slowly starts to unravel below you.
he finally comes, loudly—but the sound is buried in your skin as you ride him over the edge. his arms had found their way around you again, holding on for dear life, whimpering and panting and groaning into your damp skin as he spills into you.
he blinks hard a few times, still breathing heavy as he moves his head to look up at you, eyes hazy and half-lidded from his orgasm. usually, he’d stay close, face nuzzled into you—but he needs to look at you right now. the impala’s windows are all fogged up from your activities, but dean can still make out your face in the dark. not that he needs to really see your face—he’s memorized it, by this point. he knows every dip and curve of your face and your entire body. he can name every scar, every divot.
he knows his home.
he knows every part of you he can hide away in, just for a little while. just enough to keep his head above water.
you look down at dean, too, and you want to be somehow closer to him, even though it’s not possible. you’re as close as can be—he’s literally inside you. so you settle for nudging his nose with yours, then wrapping your arms around his shoulders.
A/N: hii :3 I am so excited to finally like show y'all this, i got like reeaallyyy drunk one weekend and i wrote like 3 parts in one night lol. There is a doggie character in this but PLEASE don't worry - the dog will not be harmed, as a mommy to a kitty-cat i couldn't take it. enjoy lovelies!!
song inspo here ←
If there was one thing you hated, it was driving at night. Especially in the middle of nowhere Texas.
Unfortunately for you luck just hasn’t been on your side these past few years. Things weren’t always so bad but after dad died everything just sorta…tailspinned. When your now ex boyfriend offered to let you crash with him, it was sorta the only choice you had, given being alone felt unbearable. Sure, he was lazy. Sure, he spent your money like his own and somehow always had an excuse for why he couldn’t hold a job. But splitting rent was easier than paying it alone.
Then the yelling started. Then the holes in the wall. Then the apologies, and then one day he put his hands on you. A mere twenty-four hours ago you were at work and cooking dinner, now you were on the road, your entire life thrown into your trunk. By midnight, Texas was in your rearview mirror. And for the first time in years, you had no idea what the endpoint would be.
The only guiding light through this was Murphy, the mutt you adopted years ago. Despite being sixty-five pounds of drool and fur, he was your best friend. He’d been through it all with you. He was there through the screaming matches, through the nights of sleeping in your car, through every kick and punch.
Sometimes you’d wake up in the middle of the night just to find the dog stretched across the bedroom floor, positioned between you and the bedroom door like a barricade, poor pup tried.
He watched and he guarded. He reminded you that there was always one thing to love you without conditions. Which is hilarious, considering Murphy looked intimidating as hell. Most people saw the shepherd mix and crossed the street.
You saw the puppy who wanted to be tucked into your sheets during the winter and didnt like to step on wet grass.
Driving from Odessa to Chicago was no small feat, and unfortunately for your, the trip had just begun.
Just four hours ago you were throwing your entire life into the backseat. You hadn’t exactly left with a plan. Now you were somewhere in North Texas, inching closer to the Oklahoma border with a dog in the passenger seat and absolutely no idea what your life would look like in a week from now.
It should have terrified you.
Maybe it did.
But every mile that appeared in your rearview felt a little lighter than the one before it.
The radio crackled, filling the car with a burst of static before cutting out completely.. "Of course! Just what I was wanting to happen." You smacked the steering dashboard. Nothing. You smacked it again. Still nothing. Murphy picked his head up from the passenger seat, watching you with a tilted head, "Don't judge me.” His ears went up. With a sigh, you reached over and switched the radio off entirely. The silence was somehow worse. At least the static had been something. Now all you had was the steady hum of the engine, the occasional rattle from somewhere in the backseat, and your own thoughts were so determined to be the loudest thing in the car.
The road stretched endlessly ahead of you, surrounded by fields that seemed to go on forever. Darkness swallowed everything beyond your headlights, leaving nothing but empty highways and the occasional road sign to remind you civilization still existed. There wasn't another car in sight. Then you gas light came on. You just stared right at it, “No”. the little orange light remained illuminated. “No, no, no.” As if arguing with the machinery would somehow make it disappear. The dashboard, unfortunately, wasn’t interested in negotiations. You tightened your grip on the steering wheel. “Dont do this to me.” You let out a frustrated groan. You glanced back at the gas gauge and immediately regretted it.The needle was hanging on for dear life.You were running on fumes, blind optimism, and whatever prayers your grandmother had taught you as a kid."Okay," you muttered, sitting up a little straighter. "That's fine. Totally fine."
It was not fine.
Not even a little.
By the time you were able to make out what appeared to be a gas station, your engine was sputtering every few minutes and your gauge had been in the red for about 30 miles.Your road map wasn’t much help anymore either. Somewhere between Odessa and wherever the hell you were now, it had become covered in coffee stains, crumpled corners and muddy paw prints courtesy of Murphy. At this point, your best course of action was prayer. And maybe a little luck.
The gas station slowly came into focus as you pulled off the highway. The building looked ancient, illuminated by a handful of flickering lights. You rolled into your pump and killed the engine. The sudden silence was almost deafening. For a moment, neither you or Murphy moved. Then you look across the car at him and he looks back, you sigh and grab your purse, “Okay Murph, please protect the car. Its a very important job” His tail thumps on the leather seat. Leaning over, you pressed a quick kiss to the top of his head before climbing out of the car.
You glanced toward the gas station and silently prayed there was something inside worth eating. You wandered aimlessly through the tiny gas station, dragging your feetin down each aisle as you searched for something that could remotely qualify as dinner. Your stomach growled, loudly. At this point Murphy’s dog food was starting to sound appetizing. With a sigh, you made your way over to the hot food station, if you can even call it that. The ancient roller grill spun beneath a heat lamp that looked older than you. A handful of hot dogs rotated endlessly while several corn dogs sat beside them, looking like they;d been in rotation since the Clinton administration.
You stared at the selection. The selection stared back.
“Wow”
A hot dog or a corn dog. How nutritious. How balanced. How absolutely terrible. The hot dog won. Mostly because it looked less likely to kill you. You grabbed a pair of tongs and inspected it suspiciously.
“Congratulations,” you mutter to yourself. “You’ve officially hit rock bottom.” The hot dog, thankfully, offered no opinion. You dropped it into a paper tray and headed toward the register.
“Hey, Hon. Whatcha lookin’ for?” the older gentlemen behind the counter looked up from a crossword puzzle, glasses perched low on his nose. You answered with a shrug. You set your hot dog on the counter, going back to the cold freezers for some water and a coke. “You don't happen to have any maps, do ya?” The man chuckled. “Maps? Now there’s somethin’ I haven’t heard somebody ask for in a while” He bent down behind the counter and rummaged through a drawer. “Course I got maps. Where ya headed?”
“Chicago, I think.” The cashier let out a low whistle. “Chicago?” you nodded in response, ”Thats’a long drive” Something about the old man reminded you of your dad. Maybe it was the concern in his voice, the deep set eyes or mauve the way he looked worried instead of judgmental. Either way it made your heart ache. “I'd be careful out there in I were you,” the man slid a folded road map across the counter.
“Well,” you said, lifting up the hem of your shirt, barely enough to show your small black handgun tucked into your waistband, “my daddy made sure his only child had some protection”. The cashier nodded approvingly, “Smart man.” The man behind the register shook his head in approval, “Total’s $6.12, girlie”. You handed over the cash, gathered your map, drinks and hot dog. As he handed over the receipt, his expression was soft. “Whatever’s waiting for you up there,” he said softly “ I hope it' s kinder than whatever you're leavin’ behind.”
For a moment the air felt thick. You had forgotten about your face, the bruise that's slowly taking over your left cheek. You just nodded.
“Me too”
Instantly, the summer air hit you. Thick and swampy. The parking lot wasn't empty anymore, you in your accord, a black sleek car and a rusty van all gathered. You make your way to your accord, trying to balance the drinks while managing to fish your keys out of your pocket. The second the doors unlocked, a large head popped up from the passenger seat, "There's my good boy” You let Murphy out, letting him stretch his legs trusting him to still remain by you.
You poured him some water in a makeshift bowl you made out of a saucepan you found while you were throwing all of your belongings into your car. You set the water down and scratched behind his ears, then focused your attention on the gas pump. The nozzle had set in place. You barely had started pumping when the side of the van slid open. Three men climbed out, the immediate sensation of your hair standing up and shoulders tensing puts your nervous system into over-drive. “Well look’it over here” You kept your eyes locked on the gas pump, why can't these things go faster? Another one of the men laughed, “You look a little far from home, ain’t ya?” You ignored them. You would rather die than give any men like them a lick of attention. Years of being a woman taught you a lot of things, one of them being that usually no response, is the best response. Apparently, they didn't appreciate that.
They inched closer, so close you can smell the cigarettes and cheap beer leaking from their clothes. The one closest to you narrowed his eyes at you “Jesus.” You stiffened, Murphy attending your side, eyes locked on all three men. He pointed at your face, “What the hell got ahold of you?”
Instinctively, your hand traced your cheek. The bruises had faded from the angry fist print to a bruise beginning to form. Your left cheek was already swollen, you can feel heat radiating on the side. The question alone made your stomach turn, not because of them asking but from how interested they seemed.
You dropped your hand, “Mind your fuckin’ business.” The first man held up his hands. “Sorry lady, just askin’” you cross your arms, leaning on your car. “Then stop.”
For a split second you recognized his facial expression, you learned it long ago, the kind when a man wasn’t getting the reaction he wanted. “Feisty bitch.” he muttered. Another one laughed, “maybe thats how she got the black eye.”
Murphy jumped up from sitting onto all four paws, a low growl penetrated from his chest. The men all shifted their gaze to him “Aw thats cute” and the three men laughed, “Damn dog thinks its so scary.”
You shift your weight in your heels, “I would be careful y’know.” Your grip on the gas handle gets tighter and tighter. “My dog bites.” You said evenly, trying to be unaffected. Murph’s ears go flat, another deeper, more threatening growl rumbled. The tallest man took a step towards the car, immediately Murphy lunged at him, he would have bit the poor man if he wasn't so glued to your hip. Dog would never leave your side. “Jesus Christ” all three men take a few steps back.
"Yeah," you said dryly. “I told you he bites.” The tallest man, who had previously tried to take a step towards you twitched his head, “you mouthy fuckin’ female.” your stomach twisted, you hated that sentence, that tone, the cocky-ness. All of it just reminded you of the horror movie you just ran from. “Why are you alone anyways? Pretty thing like you, with nobody to watch you.” he licks his lips. As if being alone pumping gas was some kind of invitation.
You looked away to the gas pump, focusing solely on the numbers climbing up. Almost done, almost at a full tank. Then you can get the hell out of here.
“She’s not alone.” the voice came from somewhere beside you, all three of those men turned around, facing the accusation.You looked between the gas pump and the trio to see the black car you’d taken note of earlier. Two men were standing outside of it now.
One was tall, really freakishly tall, shaggy flat hair that pressed down to his brow. He held a bottle of water in one hand and was staring daggers through each of the men in front of you, thoroughly unimpressed.
The other one, leaning so casually against the drivers side door, blondish hair and green eyes sporting a leather jacket. He was relaxed, like he couldn’t care less about this situation at all.
“Murphy, get.”
You swing the driver's side door open, and Murphy immediately obeyed, assuming his position in the front seat. The second he was settled, the dog planted himself behind the wheel, ears pinned and teeth bared through the window. The tallest man scoffed, finally taking a step back from your car. His attention shifted past you and toward the two strangers standing near the black impala. “And who the hell are you?” he asked.
“Sam.” the taller one answered, so matter of fact, so simple.
The men looked between themselves, “yeah, and what about you?” chin gesturing to the driver.
“Dean.” The driver said, smiling.
Something about the way he said it made it sound like you were supposed to know him instead of complete strangers standing in a gas station parking lot.. Judging by the confused look on the other man's face, y'all were total strangers. Dean whistled dramatically, “Yeesh, alright i think it's pretty obvious our friend here wants nothin’ to with y’all. Now go.”
His green eyes flickered towards you for a second, just long enough for your spine to be on fire. He looked back at the trio.
He saw it, the bruises. The bright lights above the gas pumps were definitely not doing your face any favors.
“I think y'all should do everyone a favor and get back in your van.” He dipped his head and adjusted his stance on the car, standing up fully.
“Or what?”
Dean’s smile sharpened, not enough to be threatening but enough to make you think it wouldn’t be a hard switch to turn on. Dean tilted his head towards your car. Murphy immediately lets out a string of barks, deep and throaty. “Or he gets a chance to properly introduce himself.” Murphy punctuated that statement with a bark that echoed in the lot. The trio of men lingered before finally backing off, “Whatever” the tallest one muttered. Dean nodded,”good choice.”
The van doors slammed shut one after another, the engine roaring to life as the vehicle pulled out of the station. You didn't realize just how tense you had gotten until those particular taillights disappeared down the highway. The parking lot fell into silence again, Murphy let out a grumble as he made himself comfortable in the passenger seat.
“Y’know that dog thinks he just saved your life.” Dean chuckled. You spin towards him. Dean had moved closer to you, sliding his hands into his leather jacket. Somehow relaxed, not a single indicator of being fresh out of a confrontation. “He did save my life,” you smile. Dean just raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips together. “No, I'm pretty sure all he did was yell.”
“Suprised a man like you doesn't know intimidation is a skill.” Your head sits cocked to the side. The gas pump clicked, signaling your tank was finally full. A filthy grin spread on his face, “Trust me, sweetheart, I know.” Sam groaned from across the car, rolling his eyes “Here we go.”
You couldn't help the laugh that slipped but looking down at the total of your gas bill you winced, forty-two dollars. Bye-Bye the rest of your gas budget. With a sigh, you face back to Dean and Sam. “Are you really driving all the way to Chicago?” Dean asked, watching you. Eyebrows raised “How’d you know that?”
“Cashier talks.”
You groaned, “Yeah, of course he does.” Dean grins even wider, "that's one hell of a drive,” he walks his way around to you, closing the distance between yall, “You're not driving alone, are you?” You nodded. His expression changed for a slight moment, a short flash of concern. But replaced quickly just as soon as it appeared. “That’s one hell of a drive.” Sam shifted his weight and offered a small smile, first time the kid looked at you in the eyes, “yeah, tell me about it.” Sam gestured towards Murphy. “Well uh, least you got him.”
You shook your head.”Yeah” you said smiling looking over your shoulder at your boy. “Hes not exactly incognito.” Dean laughed and flashed his teeth. You could tell what kind of man he was, a charmer. A man used to getting everything he wants handed to him. Something about these boys seemed dangerous.
As you tossed your map onto the dash, you noticed out of the corner of your eye the men standing up straight. Sam’s phone was ringing. Sam glanced at the small screen before passing a look to Dean.
Someone serious must have called. Dean sighed, “Damn it,” Neither one of the two looked amused. Whatever they had going on clearly wasn’t something they shared with strangers, so when you looked back, Dean was already climbing into the drivers side but he paused. “Well, Chicago.” You frowned. “My name isn’t Chicago.” Dean just smirked. “I think it suits you.”
Before you could stand any sort of protest, he slipped into the car. Seconds later the car's engine screamed alive, Sam gave you a small wave and a smile before climbing into the passenger seat before peeling out of the station and disappearing onto the highway.
Only when the headlights became faint little twinkles did you climb into your Accord. Murphy immediately shoved his head onto the arm rest. You gave him a big pat on the butt and started your engine. You looked toward the empty highway.
As you drive, you relax. The pain of your cheek and eye throbbed. The warmth of the bruise stretching across your face.
Thats all you could feel as you passed through the deserted highway. You adjusted your grip on the wheel. Just twenty-four hours ago, you were in your apartment. You were coming home from work. Murphy was waiting by the door. You knew every pothole, every streetlight, every short cut. Now, that was all in your rearview mirror.
Just keep driving.
The words repeated in your brain like a prayer.
Just keep driving.
You had your plan: Chicago, apartment, fresh start. That was all you needed. A city where nobody knew you. An apartment where nobody could hurt you. A life without living on egg-shells. The bruise on your face throbbed. The bruises hidden beneath your clothes hurt worse.
You swallowed hard.
No. You couldn't do this.
The second your mind drifts back to him, back to your ex, you immediately try to show those thoughts away. You weren’ t doing this tonight, especially when you're driving at 85 miles per hour on the darkest stretch of highway. You’d spent enough nights crying over him. Enough nights curled up in bed wondering why everything hurt so much. Enough nights staring at the ceiling trying to convince yourself that he really didn’t mean to hit you, that he does love you, and somehow he would be different tomorrow.
Just keep driving.
Everything hurts. Your back hurts, your neck hurts, and your wallet definitely hurts. Two days after you left Texas, you were beginning to understand the deep hatred people have for road trips.And if you had to eat one more gas station hot dog, you were fairly certain it would send you into the ER.
Above you the motel sign flickered overhead as you pulled into the parking lot.
VACANCY!
One of the letters buzzed more aggressively than the others, threatening to give up at any moment. The perfect establishment a woman traveling alone should be staying in! “Oh, don't look at me like that,” Murphy glanced up from the passenger seat.”You don't get an opinion. You didn't have to spend forty-three dollars on gas today.” His tail thumped against the seat.
The motel itself wasn’t better than the sign. A long row of identical doors stretched across the building, each one painted a faded shade of blue. The parking lot was half empty, illuminated by the buzzing yellow lights. This whole place looked sick but still, a bed and shower. Standards were rock bottom.
Twenty minutes later, your standing inside room fourteen. Murphy immediately claiming the bed nearest the window, the entire bed. The oversized shepherd mix spun in three circles before going onto his back. “Thats my bed.” Murphy stops, turning over to look at you, tail wagging. “Move” you pointed towards the second bed, “That one is literally empty.” Murphy just rested his head on his paws. Conversation over.
Somehow the motel room looked exactly how you;d expected, the floral comforters, questionable artwork, a television that only works on two of the channels. Home sweet home.
After grabbing some clothes and dog food from the car, you were finally able to shower. The motel bathroom wasnt much to look at, cracked tiles and a mirror with a weird ring of brown around it. For twenty glorious minutes, you stood beneath the steaming water and let it wash away two days worth of road grime, sweat and exhaustion.
Your eyes drifted toward the mirror.
The bruising on your cheek had started to fade-ish. Yellow, purple, and green stretched across the left side of your face like someone had taken a paintbrush to your skin. The swelling had gone down some, but it was still there. Still visible, still a reminder.
You looked away, putting your oversized hoodie and sleep shorts before stepping back into the motel room. Murphy was already waiting by the door. The second he saw you his tail was thumping against the carpet. You huffed, “Fine.”
Ten minutes go by and you found yourself wandering across the motel parking lot while Murphy sniffed every square inch of grass he could find.
The motel wasn't exactly bustling with energy, a few scattered cars, a flickering neon sign and the sounds of a television from someone's window. You shoved your hands deeper into your hoodie pocket, then froze.
A black car sat parked three doors down. You stared at it. The longer you looked at it the more familiar it felt. Black paint, chrome and a long body.
“What the hell?” Murphy lifted his head while you stood and stared at the car ,then the motel, then the car again. "Looks familiar don'it?"
@ashlizabeth - hope you enjoy!! part two is coming sooner than you think!! *wink wink nudge nudge*
