hello! you can call me S. welcome to my humble abode, I do hope you'll enjoy my multiple reblogs a day and need to share my many thoughts.
a little bit about me: a mostly introverted, slightly extroverted, redhead with a fat ass n amazing tits who’s obsessed with her cat, new girl, and books!
I don't write anything on here (although I may change that, idk), but I am in the field of writing in my daily life! I do, however, read fics on here like it's my job, and the proof is in my 'fic recs' link.
also! this might be stupid and ignored, but I am always here to edit/proofread/beta any of my mutual's work. it's an interest of mine, and I can always use the practice! so my dm's are open for that! ♡
*all moodboards I post are my own, unless stated otherwise!
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fic recs
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please embed into your brain that this blog is eighteen plus (18+) only. all minors, blank blogs, and blogs with no age displayed somewhere on their blog will be blocked immediately.
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ROCK-A-BYE BABY
college professor!bucky barnes x single mom!reader [4k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: when you have no choice but to bring your baby to lectures, mr. barnes reluctantly allows it. what follows is a semester of confused students, increasingly suspicious acts of kindness, one very attached baby, and a strict professor who becomes far too invested for anyone’s peace of mind.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: MDNI (this story doesn’t contain smut but my blog is 18+); grumpy!bucky; whipped!bucky; it’s implied that they start dating once reader is not his student anymore; fluff; the baby has a name.
A/N: well well well... what a cute way to launch the requests for my 1.5k followers celebration 🥹 (already 40 followers away from 2k, this is insane thank you so much 🫂). this one is especially dear to me because it comes from a real-life friend of mine and is actually inspired by a true story (minus the love story part lol). one of their classmates has a baby and would occasionally bring her along to lectures, and knowing that I often take inspiration from real life, my friend suggested it could make for a cute bucky fic 😭
you may also notice that the layout for requests (and shorter stories in general) is a little different. partly because I’m running out of pictures for moodboards 🥲 but also because I want to differentiate them from my longer stories since I’m trying to improve my summarizing skills 😭
I really hope you’ll enjoy my shorter one-shots as well!
Universities function on rumor as much as fact, and Professor Barnes has acquired a reputation long before many of his students ever stepped into one of his lectures. He is demanding, precise, uninterested in excuses. Assignments submitted late are graded late, if they are graded at all, but questions are always answered thoroughly—provided they aren’t an attempt to compensate for poor preparation.
By the middle of September, punctuality has become an unspoken rule in his class. Late arrivals are met without comment, only a brief pause and a solemn look that lingers just long enough to make the entire room shiver.
It’s therefore difficult to imagine a classroom less suited to your situation.
Your son fell asleep in the car. That, in itself, is quite unfortunate. Had he remained awake, you would have sat outside with him a little longer, gathered your thoughts, considered whether attending at all was worth the anxiety currently twisting your stomach. Instead, Milo sleeps peacefully against your shoulder while you stand in the corridor outside the lecture hall, alone, staring at the door and trying to not think about the fact that you are carrying a diaper bag covered in cute cartoonish lions, and moments away from walking into a room filled with people who would undoubtedly have opinions and speculations about you and your son.
Everyone’s eyes fall on you the moment the door opens subtly beneath your careful hand. As much as you try to be silent, it would have been impossible to not notice you.
Curiosity proves far more common than judgement, though. Students glance up from laptops and conversations, register the baby, and immediately start wondering whether Professor Barnes had already been informed.
The answer becomes obvious a few minutes later.
He stops just inside the doorway, gaze moving across the room only to land on you almost immediately. His blue eyes remain there long enough that several students abandon any pretense of looking away.
You rise before he can speak.
“I’m so sorry.” Your voice carries farther than you intend in the suddenly silent room. “My babysitter quitted.”
You swallow. “I couldn’t find anyone else.”
Professor Barnes listens in complete silence and that only makes the exchange incredibly uncomfortable. He doesn’t interrupt, nor does he reassure you. Instead, he stands with both hands by his sides, his expression giving away so little that half the room starts preparing for the worst on your behalf.
Perhaps he expects more explanation. Perhaps you feel compelled to provide it.
“I didn’t want to miss another lecture.” The admission seems to embarrass you as your voice wavers a little.
The baby shifts slightly against your shoulder at that exact moment and you adjust him instinctively.
“If it’s a problem, I’ll leave.”
Professor Barnes glances toward the child with plain reluctance, then back toward you.
“How long?”
You blink. “Pardon?”
“How long is this arrangement supposed to last?”
The question seems reasonable enough. Unfortunately, even reasonable questions occasionally require uncomfortable answers.
You look down, almost in shame.
“I don’t know.” The honesty escapes before you can soften it. “I’ve called a few places, but most of them have waiting lists.”
Nobody in the room appears particularly eager to be in your position. And Professor Barnes seems to find this information exactly as inconvenient as everyone expected him to.
The slight tightening of his jaw suggests a man being presented with circumstances he neither likes nor approves of, yet can’t argue against. For a few moments he says nothing at all. Then, he finally exhales quietly.
“Sit down.”
You stare at him in disbelief.
“What?”
“You can stay, but take the baby outside if he starts fussing.”
Your lips part in relief so quickly that it’s almost painful to witness.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Barnes.”
The Professor gives no indication that gratitude interests him and simply glances at the digital clock above his desk.
“Class started thirty seconds ago.” He states louder, throwing a stern look at the rest of the class, too busy staring at you.
The soft murmur reprises normally as everyone frantically starts reaching for their notes.
The matter, as far as he seems concerned, is closed.
At first, your presence in the lecture hall attracts attention. People look up when you arrive, track your progress toward your usual seat near the front, and observe with a curiosity they rarely bother hiding. A baby simply isn’t something anybody anticipates finding in Professor Barnes’ lectures, and for the first couple of weeks there is the persistent conviction that things would soon return to whatever passed for normal.
Instead, Milo keeps showing up and the lecture hall adapts accordingly.
Your classmates learn to move their bags when they see you approaching with your arms already full; somebody always seems to have a spare pen when yours disappears into the seemingly endless depths of the diaper bag, and more than one person has kindly shared lecture notes after discovering that trying to write while simultaneously preventing an increasingly fast infant from eating paper is a task bordering on impossible.
Milo, meanwhile, thrives under the attention.
He likes brightly colored pens and would become completely absorbed by them, tracking their movement with remarkable concentration as soon as the familiar clicks reaches his small ears. He inevitably falls asleep about twenty minutes into every lecture, regardless of how noisy the room happens to be. Your classmates also learn that laughter produces immediate excitement, his legs kicking enthusiastically while he looks around in search of whatever seems to be making everybody so happy.
Most notably, however, they learn that Milo has developed a favorite.
The first sign is the smiles. At seven months old, he smiles frequently enough that nobody considers it unusual. Babies smile at strangers, at ceiling lights, at absolutely nothing at all... but soon the pattern becomes difficult to ignore.
Every morning, without fail, Milo’s attention drifts toward the door shortly before Professor Barnes arrives. Sometimes he is playing with his favorite plushie—a small, soft bunny your best friend gifted him when he was born. Sometimes he is busy trying to pull your notebook from your hands. Sometimes he is halfway through a bottle.
None of that matters, though. The moment Mr. Barnes appears, Milo’s face lights up.
Every. Damn. Time.
“Oh, no.” You mutter one morning as your son nearly twists himself out of your arms trying to watch Mr. Barnes cross the room. “We’re not doing this.”
Milo responds by grinning even harder.
“You don’t even know him!”
False. At this point, Milo sees Professor Barnes with more consistency than he sees his own grandparents.
The problem is that his interest doesn’t stop at smiling.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, the focus of that fascination appears to be Mr. Barnes’ vibranium arm.
At first, the fixation seems harmless: Milo watches it move whenever the Professor gestures, his big eyes following it in awe even as he writes across the whiteboard. If he passes nearby, your son instantly tracks the motion with the unwavering concentration of somebody witnessing a miracle unfold in real time.
“Oh my God.” You whisper exasperated one afternoon after catching him staring openly for nearly ten minutes. “Stop looking at him like that, baby.”
Milo ignores you, of course, and Professor Barnes remains apparently oblivious.
Or, perhaps, chooses to not acknowledge it.
Weeks pass and the fascination only intensifies.
By the middle of October, Milo has started leaning toward Mr. Barnes whenever he walks past your row. By the beginning of November, he is actively attempting to reach for him whenever the opportunity presents itself.
The inevitable finally happens on a rainy Thursday afternoon.
The lecture has been underway for nearly half an hour, most people having settled into the comfortable rhythm of note-taking and occasional distraction. Professor Barnes is moving through a complicated explanation that occupies nearly the entire whiteboard, his handwriting spreading neatly from one side to the other while students hurry to keep pace.
You are trying to copy a diagram one-handed while your son, who has apparently decided sleep is no longer part of his afternoon plans, occupies your lap and often attempts to interfere with your efforts.
The moment Mr. Barnes approaches the front row, his attention shifts completely.
His eyes immediately lock onto the vibranium hand and a few nearby students notice immediately.
Milo leans forward and you adjust your grip automatically. He only leans farther. Only then do you glance up from your notebook and realize exactly what has captured his attention.
The embarrassment makes your neck burn.
“Oh, baby.”
Several students look away in a futile attempt to hide their grin.
“Don’t do that.” You feel like crying, but Milo doesn’t care at all. His entire focus remains on the arm.
Professor Barnes, noticing the unusual silence that has settled across the room, finally looks over.
His gaze follows the direction of Milo’s, landing directly on his left arm.
You really hope the floor could open beneath your chair.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Barnes.”
The apology emerges instant and desperate.
“He’s… a very curious baby.” You try to go for a smile but you are pretty sure it resembles a grimace.
Professor Barnes says nothing.
Milo, encouraged by the fact that his target is finally looking at him, immediately stretches both chubby hands forward.
The gesture is so earnest, so hopeful, that a few people can’t fight back their smiles anymore.
You look horrified.
“Milo.” You choke out, eyes wide and scared.
For a brief moment, Professor Barnes simply stares down at him. Until your son smiles: a proper curve of his lips that lights up his entire face. The kind that makes complete strangers smile back without meaning to.
The whole class gasps collectively, because Mr. Barnes nonchalantly extends his hand, allowing Milo to grab his fingers at once.
The victory is apparently everything he has hoped for as his delighted squeals echo through the lecture hall.
You drag your unoccupied hand down your face.
“Jesus Christ.”
Professor Barnes glances at you. “He’s fine.”
The statement should not, under any reasonable circumstances, make the situation more embarrassing, but somehow it does.
Milo continues holding onto the offered finger with obvious satisfaction, until the Professor turns back toward the whiteboard.
“As I was saying…” He clears his throat lightly, gesturing at the diagrams.
The lecture resumes, Professor Barnes continues teaching as though a toddler hasn’t just left traces of his own saliva across his hand… and Milo keeps clutching his fingers whenever he wanders close enough.
You spend the next forty minutes with mortification written all over your face.
By the time class ends, not a single person can confidently explain what the lecture has actually been about.
Everybody has become used to a version of Milo that rarely causes any trouble. He babbles, certainly. He occasionally attempts to steal pens. Once he managed to grab an entire page of somebody’s notes and crumple it beyond recognition before anyone could stop him.
Actual tears, however, are rare enough that the sound draws every eye toward the front row.
You want to disappear.
Your eyes widen so fast that it’s obvious you have been dreading this exact moment since the first day you brought him to class.
“No no no, please wait just a second.” You mutter, frantically gathering your things.
Milo only cries harder.
The notebook on your desk snaps shut, one hand reaching for the diaper bag while the other tries to soothe a baby who has apparently decided that nothing short of complete misery would properly express his feelings.
“I’m really sorry,” you fret, rising from your seat. “I’ll take him outside.”
Professor Barnes sets down the marker calmly. In a room currently distracted by a crying infant and an increasingly distressed mother, the movement attracts considerably more attention.
“Where are you going?”
You freeze at the sound of his deep baritone.
“Outside.”
“Why?”
The question catches you completely off guard.
“Because he’s… crying?” You reply unsure.
Mr. Barnes glances at Milo’s crumpled features and fat tears wetting his cheeks, then looks back at you, before sighing and simply holding out his arms.
“Give him here.”
You stare at him with your jaw slack.
“What?” You squeak out.
“Give him here. He’s clearly tired of sitting for hours.”
The rest of the students watch the scene unfold in disbelief.
“And you need to take notes.”
You are still staring at him as if he just started speaking another language.
Mr. Barnes lifts an eyebrow. “Unless you’ve suddenly decided you don’t need them to pass my exam.”
Your mouth opens and closes helplessly, before carefully transferring Milo into his arms.
The crying doesn’t stop immediately. It does, however, begin losing conviction.
Mr. Barnes adjusts his grip with surprising familiarity, settling Milo against his right side before turning back toward the whiteboard.
“The problem with this interpretation is that it assumes the conclusion before the evidence has actually established it.”
The marker moves steadily across the board, and Milo hiccups.
A few minutes later, your son has reduced his complaints to occasional sniffles, until he falls completely silent, his head tucked against Mr. Barnes’ shoulder while he discusses course material with the same seriousness he brings to every lecture.
Nobody recovers.
The sight of Professor Barnes pacing slowly across the front of the lecture hall with a sleeping baby resting against his shoulder is significantly less unsettling than how natural he makes it look.
Once the semester has reached its final stretch, the idea that Professor Barnes merely tolerates Milo has quietly stopped making sense to anyone who was lucky enough to see the three of you interact.
It’s no longer unusual to hear him use the baby’s name as part of the natural rhythm of his speech.
“Milo,” he would say without looking up from the board when the baby starts to wriggle too close to the edge of your lap.
The sound alone is enough to calm him, which in itself has become one of those things students notice but don’t quite understand how to talk about.
Several colorful objects start appearing around his usually dull desk without comment. A teething ring in a muted blue kept inside the top drawer, pulled out automatically whenever Milo grows restless. A small cloth elephant with one ear slightly bent, usually resting near the stack of graded papers, which your son would immediately reach for the moment he is close enough to see it. A soft book with stiff pages and bright illustrations that makes a faint crinkling sound when handled with curiosity by his chubby hands.
Sometimes, he knows what’s happening to Milo before you do.
The lecture has ended five minutes ago, but you are still at the front desk with your latest assignment. Milo keeps squirming in your arms, not settling no matter how you shift him. Your eyes squint at the corrected paper, not really understanding what your professor did to reach the right result.
Mr. Barnes stands beside you, one hand on the desk while skimming the paper without any urgency. The room is mostly empty now, just the three of you and the faint sound of chairs being dragged somewhere down the hall.
You point at the problem set. “I kept ending up with two different answers here depending on how I handled this step, but I don’t understand where I went wrong.”
He gently leans forward and places his index finger on the sign he’d circled.
“Here.” He taps the bracket. “You’re only applying the minus to the first term. It has to go across everything inside.”
You exhale through your nose, half frustration, half acceptance.
“Right. Okay.”
He doesn’t comment and just slides the paper slightly back toward you.
Milo twists again in your arms, letting out a small irritated sound and your hand smoothes his back without looking away from the paper.
Barnes glances down at him.
“He’s uncomfortable.”
“Yeah,” you murmur, still focused on the problem set. “He’s been like this for days.”
“He’s teething.” Mr. Barnes states calmly.
You finally look up at that, eyebrows lifting slightly. “How are you so sure, Professor?”
He looks at Milo for a second longer this time, then back at the assignment as if the answer isn’t complicated enough to deserve emphasis.
“He’s always chewing his hand and drooling a lot more than usual because his gums are probably swollen.”
You shift Milo higher against your shoulder again, watching him stare at your professor as he settles briefly. “That’s… annoyingly observant.”
That earns you the faintest glance from him, like he isn’t sure if you are complaining or just acknowledging a fact.
“Cold cloths help,” he adds eventually. “Not ice, just cool water. Wring them out properly.”
You go still, briefly throwing him a curious glance.
“You’ve dealt with this a lot.” You mention off-handedly.
He doesn’t look up immediately.
“No,” then, after a beat, “just paid attention when it happened to my younger sister.”
The chair beside his desk appears the following week without announcement, and nobody would have thought much of it if it hadn’t immediately become the place you end up during breaks, sitting with Milo while trying to breathe for a moment between lectures.
The first time it happens, you look at it uncertainly, hovering for a second too long before Mr. Barnes simply looks up from his papers and repeats, without hesitation, “Sit.”
He doesn’t speak much while you are there, but he doesn’t shut you out either. When you say something, he answers without looking up right away, usually just a few words before going back to what he is doing.
Sometimes you speak more loosely, just thinking out loud about how tired you are or how your day has gone, and he’d respond with a short comment or a quiet hum of acknowledgement. A bottle of water would be set within reach without comment, a granola bar placed beside your notebook as if it had been part of the desk arrangement from the beginning. When Milo squirms too much or reaches toward him from your lap, Mr. Barnes would take him without waiting for you to offer.
If he calms down, he would keep him there. If he starts fussing again, Mr. Barnes would walk a few slow steps around the desk area, still listening to your voice.
Most of the building has already emptied out, the usual echo of footsteps and distant conversations fading into a soft murmur. A new academic year has begun a few weeks earlier, bringing new classes, new students, and different routines to adapt to.
Kate is only passing through on her way back to the library after a quick coffee break when she notices that Professor Barnes’ office door isn’t fully closed, which in itself isn’t unusual during the day, but feels slightly different now, at this hour, when most doors have already been shut and locked into the night.
It stands ajar just enough to let the light spill out into the corridor in a thin line, and something about it makes her slow down without quite knowing why.
You are on the couch near the window, turned toward the coffee table, a stack of notes spread across your lap and the space beside you like you have tried to organize them into something manageable and then given up halfway. Your pen moves every so often, pausing in your fingers while your gaze drifts across the same line over and over again.
Milo is asleep against Professor Barnes’ chest, finally surrendered to exhaustion. One small hand is curled into the fabric of his white shirt as though even unconscious he has to make sure he’s still there.
Mr. Barnes is sitting beside you on the couch rather than at his desk, leaned back enough to give himself space while still holding your son securely, his other hand busy grading a stack of papers balanced across his knee.
Every so often his fingers adjust slightly against Milo’s back without looking down—small, automatic corrections that come too naturally, like his body has memorized the child’s weight by now.
Kate should have left then. Finding the three of you together isn’t particularly surprising. She has spent most of the previous semester sitting beside you, and after a while it became impossible to not notice things.
Mr. Barnes knew which songs made Milo stop crying, which foods he would immediately throw on the floor, and exactly how long he could sit through a lecture before getting bored. More impressively, he knew when you hadn’t slept. Kate had seen him arrive more than once, take a single look at you, and set a coffee beside your notebook before he’d even taken attendance.
She is ready to walk away, but Milo shifts.
A small movement, a restless ripple through sleep, followed by a soft whine tinged with the faintest edge of discomfort. His face tightens, brows drawing together, and his grip on Mr. Barnes’ shirt instinctively changes, fingers curling a little more firmly as if searching for something safe.
The Professor moves at once.
“Hey buddy,” he says quietly, voice dropping to a mere whisper. “It’s alright.”
He brings Milo closer against his chest, his other palm settling between the baby’s shoulders in a slow, steady rhythm. The papers on his knee remain untouched, his pen resting loosely between his fingers as he focuses entirely on the small toddler in his arms.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs again, almost absently. “You’re fine. I’ve got you.”
The tension leaves his body in gradual stages until there is nothing left, except the faintest lingering sound of his steady breathing. He doesn’t immediately go back to his task, instead gently leaning down to press a brief kiss to the top of Milo’s head.
That should have definitely been her cue to leave.
But Mr. Barnes stays like that for a moment longer, eyes on Milo as if confirming it has actually worked, then leans back into the couch.
“You are staring.” He mentions, but there is no edge to it.
You roll your eyes but it doesn’t land properly because there is still a soft smile on your lips. “You’re imagining things again.”
Mr. Barnes tilts his head just enough to look at you properly.
“Yeah?” He murmurs with a little amused smirk.
Milo decides to make a small sound in his sleep again, and Professor Barnes promptly glances at him, before looking back up.
At that point, his arm comes around your waist as he moves closer, pulling you in until your head lands on his free shoulder. His thumb brushes your belly once.
“You’re tired.” He mumbles.
“I’m fine.” Your answer is automatic, too quick.
That gets you a small, disappointed exhale from him.
“Hey.” He whispers, his fingers squeezing your hip once, causing you to slowly look up. Mr. Barnes just nudges his nose lightly against yours—an absent, almost teasing gesture that brings a hint of a smile on your pretty features.
Before you can open your mouth, though, he is already leaning closer, his forehead brushing against yours.
Your breath hitches at that, yet your hand still rises, cupping his jaw as your thumb lightly strokes the stubble on his cheek.
“What?” You whisper, softer now.
His eyes watch yours for a moment—shiny with exhaustion yet still so beautiful—then they flick down to your mouth, the lipstick from this morning now completely gone.
“C’mere, sweetheart.”
The kiss is very different from the one you shared last night in your bed—a simple, warm press of lips that gradually deepens as the grip on your waist tightens in response to your cute, soft breaths. Your fingers curve more firmly against his face, holding him there as his mouth languidly move against yours.
The moment you slightly pull back, Mr. Barnes follows your lips once more, your faint giggle muffled against his mouth as he kisses you again, firmly.
His forehead rests on yours when he finally relents, his thumb gently stroking the sliver of skin that peaked out as the hem of your shirt shifted with you.
Your hands eventually wrap around his forearm, squeezing the muscle slightly before relaxing again. It’s only then that Mr. Barnes lets out a little relieved sigh as your head falls back on his shoulder and you finally allow your eyes to flutter shut.
Kate purses her lips in a poor attempt to hide her smile, and finally keeps walking.
— ⟢ END NOTES: I guess if I get better at this I might open requests for some of my stories! thank you so much for reading 🤍
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Ouch! Your boyfriend cheated on you! What’s there to do other than day drink and text stale Hinge dates? That is, until your best friend’s dad enters the picture (accidentally) and shows you how a real man should treat a lady.
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ / ᴛᴀɢꜱ: 18+, MDNI, smut, angst, alcohol use, bad decisions in general, kinda proofread and kinda not, porn with some plot, age gap (reader is mid-20s, Bucky is 40s) Rogers!reader (on accident), kinda dbf!Bucky too???, oral (f!receiving), unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it, folks), creampie, mating press, kinda belly bulge for just a second, brief choking, some overstimulation, slight praise kink, Bucky is a gentleman, and (of course) big dick!Bucky
ɴᴏʙʟᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇꜱ: I have been lost to the void for two months and only recently felt the urge to let the muses take over me once again. Thanks to Sabrina for the MBF album because honestly I’m obsessed and need to write a fic for every song but we all know that won’t happen. Enjoy whatever the fuck this is and I guess I’m back?? Thanks to my wifey @laufeydottirs-writings for beta reading part of this because I am insecure in my writing abilities and crave validation - ily <3.
Divider credit to @/cursed-carmine & @/squirrelstone!
You honestly couldn’t blame yourself for sending the text. After all, you were already buzzed off a few dirty martinis and it was only 10 A.M. What else were you supposed to do when Gossip Girl reruns no longer held your attention and your vibrator just wasn’t doing it for you?
You had scrolled through the backed-up list of numbers in your phone, most not even named and countless stale conversations having died after a horrendous first date. You never actually expected to receive a text back from any of them - so, when your phone finally buzzed against the stained wood of the coffee table, a fistful of popcorn halfway to your mouth, you froze.
The fluffy, white kernels slowly fell back in the bowl as you set it aside and you leaned forward to grab your phone. Your hand was shaking, and your heart was pounding. Who in the hell was crazy enough to text you back?
Someone horny enough, you supposed.
You sighed, opening your texts and staring at the grey bubble longer than you needed to, the white letters slurring together from the excess of alcohol.
Everything okay?
You laughed - like, actually laughed aloud. The sound, sharp and sudden, echoed off your living room walls. Why the fuck did this man care if everything was okay? You were looking for a hookup, not therapy. You texted back, autocorrect doing the heavy lifting for you.
I just asked if you wanted to come over. Could use the company.
It marked ‘read’ instantly and your heart stopped for just a second. And then he was typing…For a long damn time. Finally, a little ‘whoosh’ came across as his response popped into the chat.
Why don’t I, instead, take you to dinner while Becca is at volleyball practice?
You blinked. Your brain was running on booze and a crippling fear of meeting God. You had to reread it a few times. Becca…Becca…Becca…What the hell did your best friend have to- Oh. Oh no. No, no, and hell no. You panicked, instantly sobering up at least halfway. Your fingers were quick to type.
Oh! Wrong number, sorry!
Okay. Deep breaths. Maybe that would work. Ping. Or not.
What’s going on, doll? You and Becca not friends anymore? She was just talking about you the other day and finals…
Oh god. Yeah. No way to ‘wrong number’ this one. Okay, no problem. Just another deep fucking breath…Ping.
I insist. Dinner. I’ll pick you up. You still live just off campus? Birch and 44th?
You let out the bundle of oxygen you’d been hoarding in your lungs. You had just wanted a good time and now your best friend’s dad was offering to take you out. On what? A date? How old was he again?
Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard so long your screen shut off. You looked at yourself in the dark reflection of the glass - hair messy, cheeks tear-stained, eyes puffy and dark. Fuck. Maybe you did just need to get out of the house for a little while.
You tapped your screen back awake.
Yeah, that’s still the address. What time?
Your finger was shaking as you hit ‘send’.
He started to type.
Be ready by 6 P.M. Make yourself feel pretty :)
Your heart fluttered a little. Oh. He wanted you to make yourself look pretty. Well…Alright then! You had quite a lot of work to do so you switched off the TV and headed straight for your bedroom. It was time to put yourself first and have a hell of a time doing it.
6 P.M. rolls around. A steady knock on the door.
You were just securing your final diamond earring and slipping on your last heel. You felt very…Nice. Cocktail dress, stockings, heels, and the only diamond set you owned. Makeup and hair done to the nines with a spritz of your favorite perfume. As you grabbed your clutch, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was a little too much.
You opened the door, eyes widening a little as Becca’s father, Bucky, stood there just outside the doorway looking mighty damn fine. Gray slacks, white dress shirt unbuttoned in a casual yet polished manner. Gray sport jacket slung over his shoulder and that beautiful salt-and-pepper hair brushed back. You’d never really given him much of a second thought before - I mean, how could you? He was your best friend’s dad, and you and Becca had been friends since senior year of high school.
But, you just couldn’t help the way your eyes lingered on every part of him - his strong facial features, stunning blue eyes, and the way his stubble danced along his chiseled jaw. Then there was the way his dress shirt clung to his chest and arms in a way that should have been a sin - tight in all the right places to show off the work he’d always put into his body since his Army days. It felt a little aggressive to say, but you wanted to chew on this man.
“Hi there, doll,” he said, voice sweet and low with something you’d never heard before. Something akin to the floral sweetness of honey dripping across cragged gravel.
You tried not to melt right then and there as he held out his hand to take yours. “Are you ready or do you need a minute?” He smiled and you felt your world tilt and your stomach churn. No one had the right to be that attractive. No one had the right to look this good and smile at you like that.
“O-Oh I…I’m ready,” you said, clearing your throat a little before giving him a polite smile and daintily placing your hand in his. His palm was practically twice the size of yours and you had to really put effort into not thinking about how good they’d feel inside you right about now…
The thing about Bucky, which had always been the thing about Bucky, was that he was a proper gentleman through and through. You often thought about how Becca ended up with much better men than you did - and it was probably because she was raised by such an exemplary man to begin with. He was the ultimate blueprint.
He walked you to his car, never a pace ahead nor a hair behind until he took a few strides in front of you to open the passenger side door for you. Your dress was a little on the short side, so as you dipped into his car, he used his sport jacket to shield you from prying eyes - he even looked away himself. How chivalrous!
The ride to the restaurant, itself, was great. A little awkward considering how the situation had manifested, but he was skilled at moving the small-talk along and making you feel like the center of attention. You discussed the weather, finals, and after-college plans with the ease of someone who’d done it a million times over with someone his age. It was the typical experience, just with far less lecturing and more mutual understanding than you’d come to expect.
Once you were pulled up to the valet, it wasn’t the valet worker who opened your door for you. No, it was Bucky shielding you again with that damn sport coat until you’d adjusted yourself and grabbed your clutch off the seat. You wobbled a little in your heels against the uneven cobblestone ground and his hand left the car door to catch your waist.
Your breath hitched, his touch so gentle and warm. Your gaze immediately flitted up to his face where he smiled in amusement. “Careful there, doll. Ground’s got teeth,” he murmured, making sure you were steady before he closed the car door and then slipped his sport coat on before offering you his arm. Of course, you obliged.
He lead you to up the little stone pathway to the restaurant door - the inside was dimly lit but you found yourself met with opulence beyond anything you’d experienced before. Crystal chandeliers gleaming and twinkling against candlelight that buzzed from the white clothed tables. You swallowed thickly. This place was expensive and you weren’t so sure you were worthy of it.
“Table for two, should be reserved under James Barnes,” you heard him say to the hostess at the stand.
“Says here you’d prefer the balcony view. Is that still correct?” the hostess inquired.
Your brows furrowed a little as you looked up at him. That sounded…Pricey. Exclusive. “Bucky…” you started to protest.
In the most polite way possible, he shushed you and spoke instead to the hostess. “Yes, please. Should you have anything available.” He gave you a sideways glance, one that silently read as ‘shut up and watch’. Watch what?
The hostess lead the two of you to a semi-private table on a balcony overlooking the city. It looked beautiful from this far away - so quiet and so peaceful. The air was crisp, but not at all too cold and the fireplace lit beside the table added a nice bit of coziness.
Bucky pulled your chair out and you took a seat after only a moment of hesitation. You weren’t used to this kind of treatment and couldn’t recall the last time a man ever gave this much of a shit about chivalry. He pushed you in close to the table and then seated himself politely across from you. That was just the thing wasn’t it? He was so polite.
The hostess left you two the wine menu and the prix-fixe menu detailing the night’s exclusive offerings before disappearing back inside the main restaurant. Outside, it was just you, Bucky, and one other couple seated several feet away. For the most part it was…Quiet. Peaceful. All except for the incessant pounding of your heart.
You picked up the wine menu, still trembling. He cocked an eyebrow as he glanced up at you over the top of his menu. “Why don’t you order a bottle, sweetheart? Seems like your nerves could use it.”
Your eyes flicked up from the tiny booklet, cheeks turning scarlet. “I’m not nervous,” you defended.
“Mmm…” he hummed, blue eyes focusing back on the menu. He was reading it for far too long for something so short. It seemed maybe he was nervous too.
“Mmm what?” you asked, setting the wine menu down and then mirroring his prior expression - cocked brow and a sharp gaze.
He didn’t look back up at you as he answered. “You’re awfully shaky. It’s like you’ve never had a real man take you on a proper date.”
You scoffed. “I’ve been on plenty of proper dates.”
He chuckled. “Doll, Olive Garden doesn’t count and neither does splitting the check.”
Your cheeks continued to bloom red. “In my defense, I’m a broke college student. We all are.” You bit your bottom lip as your eyes flicked down towards the prix-fixe menu.
Bucky finally set his own menu aside and leaned forward, his large, warm palms finding your forearms and resting there. You looked up. His gaze was almost too much and not enough in the same breath. “And that’s why we’re here tonight,” he said, voice low again in that tone that sent heat pooling straight between your thighs. Shamefully.
“So that I can show you how a real man treats a lady.”
You swallowed hard, eyes flicking down towards his hands and the only thing you could think of was how he could easily hold both your wrists above your head with no issue. Back pressed to the wall. His lips on yours. Fuck, where was your goddamn mind at?
He smirked. “Doll, where’s your head at?” Like you were an open book and he was reading it faster than you could write it.
You about choked. You cleared your throat. “Nothin’ just…You’re right. You’re right, I’ve never been on a proper date,” you mumbled, still avoiding contact with those beautiful blues that had you feeling like you were losing your mind - which, in your defense, you sort of were.
To your relief, your waitress for the night appeared to take your drink orders. For him, it was a glass of scotch. For you, it was a bottle of rosé because he’d insisted. She ran you two quickly through the courses on the menu before whisking away to work on the drink orders. And then there was an awkward silence that fell between the two of you. Him staring at you and you fidgeting with the bottom hem of your cocktail dress like if you rubbed the ruby fabric enough times it would send you home.
“You’re staring,” you muttered, deciding it was time to say something. Anything.
He laughed. “People tell me I’ve got a problem with it,” he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. You could feel his gaze boring into you. It was like you could sense he was on the verge of saying something but wasn’t sure if it was appropriate.
Hell, was any of this appropriate at all? Probably not. The age gap screamed very much not. But, part of you really wanted this. The older man. The experience. Someone who knew what the fuck they were doing.
“So, why are you trying to hook up with your best friend’s father?” His voice cut through your thoughts - the dreaded question that you’d been waiting for him to ask.
You blinked. “I’m sorry?” You tried to play dumb.
He smirked again. A slight tug at the corner of his lips but it was there. “You heard me, doll,” he said, voice dripping sinful honey that had your tongue feeling too big for your mouth and your thoughts racing beyond a speed you could comprehend.
“I…I…I didn’t…I didn’t know it was you,” you choked out.
Bucky’s expression turned puzzled. “You didn’t know it was me?” He almost sounded offended. Well, at least the night had gone halfway perfect.
You sighed. “I was just…I was buzzed. Okay, maybe a little drunk…”
“Uh huh…”
“And I…Well…I just texted a bunch of numbers hoping someone would answer…”
He hummed, expression still puzzled like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of your confession. His voice was…Concerned, though. As he spoke again, “Why are you drunk at ten in the damn morning and texting men who you don’t even know who they are?”
And then it all came crumbling down and the only thing left to do was pray your mascara was going to hold on tight. “Brad…I…I caught Brad cheating on me last week…” you said quietly, your eyes beginning to water. You fanned yourself with the menu, hoping you could hold it together and not seem like an absolute mess.
Bucky’s expression softened. All he could do was reach out across the table, palms up and inviting your own to meet his. Slowly, you set the menu down and placed your palms in his. Once again, his hands were twice the size of yours, practically swallowing them whole as he held them firm and gentle.
You sniffled, a tear falling down one cheek and then the other. Oh great. The waterworks. How lovely. But…He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he pulled one hand away, grabbed the linen napkin from across his lap, and brought it up to gently dab the tears away.
“Doll…” he started slowly, softly. “That doesn’t mean you go searching for answers at the bottom of a bottle and texting men who aren’t any better for you than him…”
As if on cue, the waitress brings back your bottle of wine in a bucket filled with ice. She places a glass on the table, thin and dainty and made for sparkling wines. She popped open the bottle and poured your first glass to a perfect height. “Enjoy. The first course will come out shortly,” she said, leaving Bucky’s scotch at the end of the table before whisking off again.
Once she was gone, you blinked. “But…But you’re better than him.”
He laughed as he swirled the scotch around in the beveled crystal - amused. “Oh, I know I am. But what if one of those other boys had responded, hmm? Where would you be at now?”
You sighed. Not at a fancy dinner, that’s for sure. Probably getting drunk in your apartment and letting Jake from Hinge hit it from the back. And this was far better than that.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, voice breaking through your loud, mess of a mind. “Now, let me show you how a real man should treat you, okay? I don’t want to see you hurt like this, doll. You’re too good for that.”
And so, you sat across from him and let Becca’s dad, Bucky Barnes, show you how wining and dining really worked. You let him lead the pleasant conversation. He complimented you tastefully, reaching across the table to brush a hand across your cheek but not daring to move an inch lower. His gaze was respectable, kind. The warmth of the rosé was flowing through your veins and while you tried to flirt with him, he was always so polite. So reserved.
When it came time for dessert, a stunning display of comforting bananas foster, you two had decided to share the course. His spoon would clink against yours occasionally, a red flush covering your cheeks and your heart doing somersaults like a high school girl on a first date.
You hadn’t even noticed, but some of the caramel sauce that had come atop the ice cream was dribbling down your chin after a misguided, wine-drunk bite. He was quick to the rescue before it soiled your ruby dress.
He carefully leaned across the table, napkin outstretched in his hand as he very gingerly wiped the caramel from the corner of your mouth with a gentle smile upon his lips. “Careful there. Wouldn’t want you ruining that pretty little dress.” You felt like you could swoon, like your eyes would turn to hearts at any given second.
Bucky hovered there for a moment, over the table, hand outstretched and his face just close enough to smell the warm scotch and the sweet caramel on his breath. Your eyes flicked down to his lips and then back up to those piercing blue eyes that you swore would be the death of you.
You watched as his eyes mirrored yours now, flicking down once and then up almost too quick to catch. But then he was retreating, sitting back in his chair and quickly throwing up his hand as the waitress passed by. “Check please, ma’am?”
Bucky drove you home. He made sure to shield you again from prying eyes, although you caught it this time when he glanced down once to see the curve of your ass peek out from beneath your dress as you lowered yourself into his car.
He walked you up to the door, taking you by one hand and leading your waist with the other as you were very clearly drunk. Once you got to the door, you fumbled in your clutch for your keys, fingers trembling and causing you to drop them onto the welcome mat.
You moved to stoop down, but he stopped you with a chuckle. “Sweetheart, if you bend down right now, I’m not gettin’ ya back up off that concrete.” Yeah, he probably had a point there.
He bent down and grabbed the key - and, as he stood, his shoulder brushed against your arm and your breath hitched. Bucky’s eyes met yours, inches away from your face, and he took the key and pressed into your palm with a close-lipped smile. “Careful, doll.”
You felt like a deer caught in headlights for a good fifteen seconds, although those seconds felt like years. You blinked and then turned your attention back to the lock.
The world was spinning as you lined the key up and pushed it in, turning it over with a thump that nearly echoed the frantic pulse of your heart in your ears. You pushed the door open and he stuck one foot in to follow before you turned around, shocked.
He tilted his head. “Relax, sweetheart. I’m just makin’ sure you make it past the threshold. Honest,” he said with a light chuckle.
And you let him. You let Bucky Barnes walk you to your couch and sit you down. You watched as he kneeled in front of you and very carefully guided your heels off your blistered feet - in your defense, you didn’t wear heels often.
Bucky fluffed up one of your decorative pillows that had seen better days, and then gently helped you lay down. The ceiling was swirling around and around, and in the same breath it felt like your body was on a boat rocking back and forth. You squeezed your eyes shut, feeling ten seconds away from turning green.
The next thing you felt was the weight of his sport coat as he laid it across you, a makeshift blanket to ensure you didn’t go cold - or, a cruel souvenir for you to remember him by. For you to stare at every day from now on and think about his face. The way he bit his lip if he stared you up and down for a moment too long. The way you could feel his lips linger, dying to leave a kiss on your cheek, but then retreating cowardly.
“I gotta leave, doll,” you hear him say through the fog. “Next time, call me.”
And the click of the door closing behind him was the very last thing you heard before you blacked out.
The grey morning light is what woke you, streaming in through the sliding glass door all cheery and bright as if you weren’t currently crawling your way out of rock bottom. You groaned, the weight of his sport coat still on your body. The scent of him lingered there on the woven fabric. Sharp, woodsy, masculine. Driftwood and gunmetal.
You slowly sat up, bringing the collar of the coat to your face and inhaling deeply. Had you not had this tangible piece of evidence, you would have thought the prior night was nothing more than a drunken dream fueled by a bottle of Malibu.
You saw your clutch placed on the coffee table and you opened it, pulling your phone out. No new texts. You sighed.
You moved to start the routine you’d gotten in the habit of the over the last week. Tylenol, number one. Shower, second. Booze, third. Except, as your head pounded and your stomach growled with the craving of something other than liquor, you could hear Bucky’s voice in the back of your head. The one telling you not to drown your feelings in a bottle. The one telling you to call him.
So, you put the bottle of vodka down and picked up your phone instead. You tapped on his contact, which you made sure to actually label that morning, and called him. Your heart was beating a mile a minute as you waited for him to pick up…
No answer.
You huffed and threw your phone down onto the table. Not like you expected an answer anyway. Just then, you heard a knock at the front door. Brows furrowed in confusion, you quietly padded over and peeked through the peep hole. All you saw was a rather stout man holding what had to be an entire bush of bright red roses.
You opened the door and the man set the bunch of roses down on the ground. They were in their own little golden vase, fanned out and pretty for display. “Got a delivery here from a Mr. Barnes,” the man said with a smile, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out an envelope. “Enjoy your morning, miss.”
You ran your fingertips across the heavy weight of the cardstock envelope, a gold wax seal holding closed all its secrets. You hauled the roses inside before sitting at your kitchen table and fumbling with the envelope as your fingers trembled.
You slipped out a short letter, hand-written with a good pen, paper, and ink. Thoughtful.
Doll, I hope you enjoyed yourself last night. Take care and I’ll see you tonight at 8:00 P.M. You don’t need to be fancy, and you know the address.
Your heart stopped dead in your chest for what felt like minutes, but in reality it was only a second or two. Your head was reeling now. Why did he want to meet you at his house? Your best friend’s house? Was she even going to be gone this evening?
You quickly checked your texts. Becca had been fairly MIA for her finals, which tracked considering she took her schooling so seriously. You scrolled up, glanced at the date on your calendar, and then your cheeks flushed crimson. Becca would be gone. Most of the night, actually. Her boyfriend, Cole, had his last baseball game of the school season and it didn’t start until seven.
Was he inviting you over for…? No. No, he couldn’t be. Even with the tension between you two the night before, you knew Bucky. You knew he wasn’t like that. You knew he didn’t think of you like that. Not at all.
As you folded the letter back up and tucked it neatly inside its envelope, you turned to take in the magnificent sight of the multiple dozens of roses that were bloomed as red as your cheeks as they sat there on the kitchen counter like a neon invitation. An invitation to see how far you could push Mr. Barnes that evening.
The house wasn’t anything special. A quaint little brownstone in Brooklyn that screamed home sweet home in the midst of corporate chaos and brightly lit billboards that never slept. The street was quiet, lined with old street lamps that gave it a sort of charm that felt captured in a different time.
You knocked at the deep red door, nervous as you tugged your coat in tight around you. You heard the deadbolt unlatch and then the door creaked open. There was Bucky, in blue jeans and a blue Henley with his hair messier than the night before - he looked much more lived-in and casual and less like a posh Ken doll fresh from the box.
“Come on in,” he invited warmly with a smile, stepping aside.
You gave him a curt, polite nod and a mirrored smile as you ascended the last two steps and crossed over the threshold. You were immediately greeted by the sobering smell of coffee brewing, and the sound of the TV playing the local news at a low volume. You jumped slightly when you felt his hand rest against the small of your back as he came around your left flank. “Can I offer you some coffee?” he asked, glancing down at you with irises that reminded you of endless blue skies on a clear June afternoon.
You glanced nervously between him and the television a few times before you decided you were much too jittery to drink any level of caffeine - so, you declined. “No, thanks,” you said quietly.
Your eyes widened as he moved to take your coat off for you. A red-hot blush flooded your cold cheeks with crimson as his hands brushed along your arms - the cool autumn air didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell against the heat of your own embarrassment. “O-Oh I-“ you stuttered, watching as he placed your coat on the rack just beside the door.
“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘thank you’?” Bucky quipped teasingly, beckoning for you to follow him into the kitchen.
You followed, leaning against the kitchen island while he poured himself a cup of coffee into one of those cheesy ‘World’s #1 Dad’ mugs. He leaned back against the dark granite countertop across from you, eyes flicking up to meet yours over the brim of his mug as he took a sip of the piping hot liquid.
You cocked an eyebrow. “I’m assuming you didn’t summon me here with a bush of roses just for me to watch you drink coffee,” you said, breaking the tensioned silence that had fallen between you.
He laughed a little, setting the mug to the side. “Guilty as charged,” he said, half-heartedly throwing up his hands before his expression shifted to something more serious.
“I asked you over because I wanted to tell you, in person, that this-“ he gestured from himself to you “-cannot be a…A thing.” His tongue darted out to wet his lips and his jaw ticked, clearly nervous.
You laughed. “Bucky, this was never meant to be a thing,” you said, mirroring him as he crossed his arms over his chest. You got the feeling he was backpedaling, like he realized something at the restaurant the night before and was now trying to build a wall to keep it out. “I was looking for a hookup, not a boyfriend.”
“Well, maybe since you’ve seen how a proper man treats a lady, perhaps you’ll rethink that.”
“I’m really not ready to get back in the dating scene…”
“Then wait.”
You paused. This was your life. Not his. Why in the hell did he care so much? “What’s it matter to you if I wait or not?”
His jaw ticked and his eyes briefly darted to the side, fixating on a point in space you couldn’t quite locate. “I don’t want you playing with fire so much you burn yourself,” he muttered, gaze going downtrodden.
“Why do you care?”
“Seeing you hurt, hurts me.”
“And why do you care that fucking much?”
Your question lands on him like a bullet to the chest. He picks up his coffee, mug trembling a little, and takes a sip like it’ll magically cure the ache in his chest. “It’s what Steve would have wanted me to encourage you to do.”
You sighed. Steve was your father, a military vet and close friend of Bucky’s who’d been killed in action many moons ago. You only found out about their connection to each after about a year of being close friends with Becca - at your high school graduation when Bucky gifted you a letter your father had left for you.
“He isn’t here and he doesn’t get to dictate what I do,” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze because it’d only remind you that he was doing this to isolate himself.
“But I can still try to fulfill his wishes,” Bucky said, taking a couple steps forward and inserting himself into the awkward little bubble you’d built. It felt like he was taking up too much personal space but not enough at the same time.
Your breath hitched as he reached forward and pressed his metal palm to your cheek, something cold and shocking against the constant flush that reddened your skin. “And it’s so I no longer want what I can’t have.”
Your heart was pounding. You. He meant you. You were what he couldn’t have. You were the guilty pleasure, the reason he probably answered your text in the first place. And you were right - he was trying to build a wall. A wall between your heart and his.
You nuzzled against his palm, eyes fluttering shut. The touch felt holy. “What if I want it too?” you whispered, opening your eyes and looking up at him. “What about my own wishes?”
“It’s not the right thing to do…”
“I don’t want to do the right thing, Bucky!” you exclaimed, frustrated. You pushed yourself off the counter, standing closer to him now - almost chest to chest. “You don’t understand that all I want right now is something wrong! I want to feel something, Bucky. Anything. Anything other than this pain.” Your voice was beginning to crack and those beautiful blues of his were starting to well up with tears.
“I…” Bucky’s hand lingered on your cheek. You could tell by the way his fingers twitched that he was thinking. That he was trying to figure out if he had the strength to go against his own morals. “I…I can’t…”
You reached up and cupped his stubbled cheek with your own palm, thumb running along the plane of his cheekbone. “You can.”
He looked like he was about to break, about to shatter completely. The tension was thick enough to feel, heavy and suffocating. His eyes flicked from yours and down to your lips. Back up to your eyes. Back down to your lips. “This isn’t a good idea…” he murmured, leaning in close enough now that you could smell the mix of coffee and whiskey and mint on his breath.
You took a shuddering breath, eyes closing again because you couldn’t stand the weight of his gaze. “I don’t want it to be good. I just want to feel…” you breathed, shaky hand coming to rest against his muscled chest. “I just want to feel you.”
You could see it in the way his jaw ticked - you could feel it in the way he wasn’t sure if your hand burned him or comforted him. Bucky was trying so hard to resist the temptation in front of him. “Please, doll…I can’t,” he pleaded brokenly, but it was weak and he made no attempt to pull away from your touch.
You leaned up, nose nudging his and lips so close to brushing as you murmured, “Then why are you still here?”
It could be heard in his chest, something deep and guttural and longing all pulled together into a groan he couldn’t hold back. And suddenly, both of his hands were holding your face - one metal, one flesh. The way his lips smashed into yours would be forever imprinted in your mind. You could only imagine how long he’d waited to have this. To have you.
The kiss was everything - teeth, tongue, breath, and heat. He nipped playfully at your bottom lip and you growled, which elicited a deep chuckle you’d never heard before - amused and pleased. His tongue explored your mouth like it was trying to map it, and yours did the very same to his. Nothing about this was normal. But you didn’t want it to be.
When he broke the kiss, it was only because one of you needed to fucking breathe or you’d both be dead on the floor. Panting, he whispered, “Is that what you wanted?”
You nodded wordlessly and pulled him right back in, trying to drown him under the weight of how much you craved him. His hands found your hips and gripped at the soft flesh, picking you up like you weighed nothing and perching you atop the granite.
His flesh hand snaked its way up your blouse, unclasping your bra with a practiced ease that shouldn’t have turned you on but it did. He pulled the garment off and tossed it on the kitchen floor, the silk of your blouse cascading in cool puddles across your tits. You shivered, only cold for a moment before his palm was kneading at the mounds of flesh like he’d been dreaming of how good they’d feel.
You moaned out, breaking the kiss as you tossed your head back when his thumb and forefinger began to tease and roll your nipple between calloused skin. “Fuck,” you groaned, hands scrambling from purchase at the edge of the countertop.
You barely had time to react before Bucky was ripping your blouse from your torso, a shocked gasp falling from your lips. “Bucky!” you scolded, but he remained unbothered and on a mission.
“I’ll buy you another one,” he muttered, stooping down and taking your neglected breast into his mouth as his hand continued to work the other.
The feel of his hot, wet mouth and tongue across your nipple was enough to have you keening up off the counter and further into his touch. It felt so fucking good that you were convinced you’d cum just from the way he worshipped your tits.
He pulled back, lips glistening with saliva and pupils blown as he glanced up at you. He looked feral - hungry and ready to feast. You watched as he dropped to his knees and rucked up your pencil skirt to reveal the lacy panties that clung to your dripping wet core.
“This what I do to ya, doll?” he breathed, practically drooling at the smell of your arousal as it assaulted his senses. He just needed to taste you. Devour you.
You whimpered and nodded. “Y-Yes,” you nearly whispered, brain short-circuiting as you felt his fingers hook in the waistband of your panties and peel them away.
He watched, mesmerized by how your glistening folds clung to the lace, groaning as he could now see how drenched and pretty you were for him. He tossed the panties somewhere in the same direction as your bra, and then his hands were prying you open to make way for his head as he leaned in and licked a slow, warm stripe straight up the center of your heat.
You felt your toes curls and your back bow a little as the tip of his tongue traced devastating circles around your clit before diving back down and straight past your entrance.
“Bucky!” you gasped out, head thrown back as your hands found purchase in that gorgeous salt-and-pepper mane of his. “Fuck-“ you groaned, listening as the sounds he made were so obscene they had you blushing. Licking, slurping, sucking…He was like a man starved and you were the best damn meal he could’ve been served.
Bucky hummed against your core, sending vibrations straight through your clit as his lips closed around the sensitive bud and began to suck. You were already trembling from the overload of pleasure, but that wasn’t enough for him. No, he needed you screaming for his mercy.
You felt as he teased your entrance with his forefinger, just barely pushing it in and then retreating. Nothing he could’ve done in that moment would have prepared you for when he plunged two fingers deep inside you and curled them with such ease it was almost second nature.
You could feel yourself clench around his digits with his name on your lips as you let out a whorish moan. Between his mouth and tongue working your clit and his fingers quite literally beckoning you to cum for him, you were in pure, blissful heaven.
That burning coil in the pit of your stomach began to wind tighter and tighter, and he could tell. He hummed in approval, fingers bullying into your g-spot now with a precision that was, frankly, unfair.
“C’mon, doll,” he urged as he lapped at your clit. “Cum f’me. Lemme have it all…” The way his voice was so deep, so smooth…It was like silk over gravel. And it had you coming undone the second he begged for you like that.
Your body arched forward as you moaned his name, nails digging into his scalp as your toes curled and your entire body felt like it was trying to levitate off the damn counter. But he didn’t stop - even as you pulsed and gushed around him, he kept on fucking going.
“B-Bucky,” you whimpered out as it was bordering on overstimulation. “B-Buck please…” You were pleading with a man who was too damn happy with where he was. If you’d let him, he’d live there between your thighs and die a very satisfied man.
“One more f’me…Please,” he begged softly, warm breath ghosting across your core before he dove back in and began sucking at your clit again.
You could feel tears blurring the edges of your vision, and you weren’t even sure if your first orgasm had ended before the second begun - but, you still felt it all the same. The overwhelming tidal wave of bliss that caused your body to clench around his fingers like your cunt was trying to trap him there. You let out something between a moan and a sob, grip faltering on his hair as your body collapsed back against the shockingly cold granite.
Your head was spinning, vision blurred and hearing muffled. You weren’t sure you’d ever cum so hard in your whole goddamn life.
“So, so good f’me, doll,” you heard him praise you through the haze. He slowly pulled his fingers out, your dripping cunt fluttering around nothing at the absence of him. He gladly lapped at the slick release you’d rewarded him with, earning a very fucked-out groan from you. “Tastes like heaven and ya sound like it too when you’re cummin’ f’me like that,” he drawled, getting to his feet.
As he rose, you could see just how hard he was against the stiff denim of his jeans, and that only filled you with a new wave of want - of craving.
A smirk tugged at the edges of his lips when he noticed you were staring - not that you were trying to stare, it was just there. “Not right here, doll,” he murmured like he could read your mind, a finger hooking under your chin and gently bringing your lips up to his as he kissed you with the remnants of your release still glistening on his skin. The taste of you and him combined was intoxicating, a drug that you only wanted more of…
But then he was pulling away and you were left pouting. “Hey, don’t you pull that with me,” he teased, pressing a chaste peck to your forehead before you found yourself being lifted into his arms - bridal style - like you weighed no more than a feather. “You’ll get what you want. Just gotta be patient, sweetheart.”
The sickly sweet kindness in his smile was almost cruel in this scenario, but you silently snaked your arms around his neck as he carried you through the narrow foyer and up the short staircase to the second floor. The house wasn’t cramped, necessarily. But, with him carrying you through the tight halls, it felt rather cozy with just the two of you alone.
His foot nudged the door open to the master bedroom, old brass hinges creaking softly. You found yourself being laid so gingerly onto the mattress you could almost feel the tears welling again in your eyes. He treated you like something special, something fragile. It made your heart swell a little.
“May I?” he asked, nodding to your skirt. It was your last remaining article of clothing. You nodded back in permission, cheeks flushed crimson in the low lamplight that streamed through the window and illuminated everything in a heavenly, golden glow.
Bucky shimmied your skirt gently down your legs and tossed it aside before he made zero show about stripping down himself - but, it was a delicious sight to you all the same.
Watching as the layers of clothing were peeled away, revealing nothing but rippling muscles and silvery scars. The scar where metal met man was particularly bad, but still beautiful it’s own devastating rite. His dress shirt the night before hadn’t left much to your imagination, but even then, this was far beyond what your mind had conjured - he had the appearance that God himself carved him from the finest marble. An aged artwork that only grew finer with the weather and the years.
“You’re staring again,” he murmured lowly, crawling over top of your body and caging you in with solid forearms and beefy biceps you swore one day you’d take a bite of.
Heat rushed across your cheeks and you brought your hands up to rest against his biceps, fingers gripping flesh one side and brushing across whirring metal plates on the other. “I’m just admiring what you’ve been keeping from me,” you whispered.
“Well, it’s not polite to stare, doll,” he said, dipping down so your lips were brushing dangerously close.
“It’s not polite to keep a girl waiting,” you quipped back, feeling your breath hitch a little just feeling his bare chest pressed so intimately to your own.
“See? You’re learning,” he chuckled softly, ducking down and beginning to kiss and suck at the suppleness of your neck. “Good girl,” you heard him mumble against your skin.
You arched up into his feather-light touch, lips trailing from neck to collarbone to breasts to torso as soft purple bruises began to bloom in his wake. And then he was sitting back on his knees and you took another unashamed moment to fully appreciate him. To admire his cock, impossibly hard and gorgeously flushed, leaking precum like he’d been edged for hours.
He opened his mouth and you interrupted him. “Yeah, yeah. Staring again. I get it, Barnes. Just let me eye-fuck you, yeah?” you muttered, and that got an actual laugh from him.
Reaching his flesh hand down, he gripped himself at the base and started to stroke his aching length. “You like what you see?” he breathed, angling his hips a little so his precum dripped along your thighs like a sinful, pearlescent trail that lead to your core. “You imagining what it can do to ya, doll?”
You nodded, more than eager. “Wanna feel it inside me…Please,” you pleaded, practically drooling as you watched him rub the head of his cock through your slick folds. “Please…”
“Mmm…Please who?” he asked, gaze flicking up to your face as it was contorted in desperation for him.
It took you a split second to think about what he might’ve been asking. And then it popped into your mind and you couldn’t help but giggle a little. “You’re a dirty man, Barnes,” you purred, only to feel the grip of metal meet your throat. Your eyes went wide.
“I asked you a question,” he growled, and the gravelly rumble of his voice went straight to your cunt as your walls fluttered around nothing.
“Yes, Sergeant,” you said, pushing your throat up further into his hand and smirking.
Bucky groaned, swearing in the back of his mind that you were going to be the death of him. He squeezed at your throat one last time before posting the same vibranium palm right beside your head. “That’s right, doll,” he muttered, and your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your skull as you felt him begin to push inside you.
The stretch burned, but the way he so perfectly filled and dominated every inch of space was immaculate - let alone the way you could feel every pulsing vein and soft ridge brushing along your walls as he eased in inch by brutal inch. He paused about halfway, concerned by how your features were twisted. “Doin’ okay there, doll?” he asked, flesh hand coming up to cup your cheek. The way his thumb ran along the high plane of your cheekbone was tender, loving.
You nodded, gazing up at him through half-lidded eyes and wet eyelashes. “More than fucking okay,” you managed to choke out with a small laugh. It was hard to put into words just how good he felt buried so deep inside you that you swore he was pushing the very oxygen from your lungs.
Bucky let out a soft grunt once he was fully sheathed, already appearing wrecked. “Fuck, doll,” he breathed, nearly panting as his forehead dropped to your shoulder. “So fuckin’ tight, ya know that? Squeezin’ me…Milkin’ me dry already and I haven’t even started…” He let out a small, breathless chuckle.
You let out a laugh just as breathless as his. “Sounds like you’re not gonna last very long, old man,” you jeered playfully.
His cheeks flushed bright red, but he didn’t reply. He only slowly began to pull out, groaning raggedly as he felt the way his cock dragged along your walls - the way your body was actively trying to pull him back and keep him in.
He pulled out nearly all the way and then pushed himself back in all at once. You moaned so loudly when he bottomed out that you were certain the neighbors three doors down heard you. And that wasn’t the last time they would, unfortunate enough as it was for them. Because he pulled out and then pushed back into you again, forcing the same exact whorish moan past your lips before you could catch it.
“You like what I do to ya, doll? Like when I give it all to ya? When I bury my cock so deep ya feel it here?” he drawled, a smug little smirk tugging at his lips as his flesh hand pressed down against a small bulge in your lower abdomen and you just about levitated off the goddamn bed.
The pace he set was steady and calculated. One that allowed for him to achieve the same depth of penetration each and every time - the same devastating attention to making sure he hit all the right spots. It wasn’t brutal because it was fast - no, it was brutal because he took his time and holy fuck it was a borderline religious experience.
It felt as though you had no idea where your body ended and his begun as he rucked your legs up over his shoulders and you found yourself with nails raking down his back as your ankles were pushed back damn near close to the sides of your head. The position was passionate, intimate. Sweat began to pool where your bodies were melded, chest to chest and forehead to shoulder. You couldn’t help the way you moaned his name, and he couldn’t help the way he panted yours like he was begging for mercy.
“Takin’ me s’well…Atta girl,” he breathed out, his praises sending sparks of red-hot pleasure straight to your cunt. “Gonna fill ya up, doll…Claim ya…Make ya mine like I shoulda done a long time ago…”
You whimpered at his words, nails digging crescents into the tops of his shoulders as you clung on for dear life. “B-Bucky~” you moaned out weakly, head fuzzy as your mind was actively being fucked stupid. “Please…” you begged, pulling at him and trying to encourage him to go faster. Harder.
“You sure, doll?”
“If you don’t fuck me into this goddamn mattress-“
He cut you off with a sharp snap of his hips. Then another. And another. You could feel the head of his cock bullying into that soft, spongy spot inside you and you cried out. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” you exclaimed with each thrust, eyes lolling shut and your head hitting the pillow as the pleasure began conjuring stars across your vision.
Bucky groaned, something deep, guttural, and primal - something you hadn’t expected from someone who seemed so…Quiet. “It’s like you were made f’me, doll,” he whimpered, his rhythm beginning to falter. “Ya gonna cum f’me? Can feel ya grippin’ me…Know you’re close, sweetheart. Need ya to give it to me…”
He was begging for you in the same way someone would pray for forgiveness - reverent and wrecked and desperate. You could feel that coil in your lower abdomen tightening, pulling taut until your orgasm snapped through your body unyielding and violent.
“B-Bucky! A-Ah~!” you barely managed to squeak out as you felt your spine arch off the mattress and your body seize beyond your control. He groaned again as your cunt clenched down around him, and you could feel as he began to throb and pulse ropes of white, hot cum inside you at the exact same time.
“Shit-“ he grunted out, stilling inside you and partially collapsing his weight on top of you as his chest heaved and gleamed with sweat.
Your head was fuzzy, warm. The afterglow rolled over your body like something soft and comforting - floaty like you were resting on a cloud of your own pleasure. “Mmm…Bucky?” you asked, trying to catch your breath.
“Yeah?” he murmured.
“Is that how a man should fuck me proper?”
He laughed, turning his head to pepper soft kisses on your cheek. “Yeah, doll. I’d say so.”
He slowly pulled out and then flopped onto the bed beside you. The loss of him inside you felt almost great enough to mourn, but his strong arms wrapping around you and pulling you close quickly filled that void. “And now I’ve ruined you for all the boys,” he teased, kissing your forehead before gathering you in close to his chest - he was like a furnace, and he held you like his greatest treasure.
You giggled. “S’okay,” you mumbled against his skin, lazily tangling your legs with his. “‘M yours now anyway.”
Bucky smiled to himself, squeezing you tight. “That’s right, doll. All mine.”
✦summary: you and dean hate each other. there isn't a moment you aren't fighting, just like there isn't a moment you don't wish he'd love you back, and there isn't a single second he doesn't want you more than you can imagine. ✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, implied age gap (20s - 40s), jealous!dean, angst, overprotective dean, pining, idiots in love, as is my way, feral smut (manhandling, praise kink and degradation kink, dry humping, teasing, dean's dirty talk, stripping, thigh riding, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, light nipple play, begging, fingering, face sitting, jerking off, pussy slapping, rough sex, some edging, cockwarming, creampie, big dick dean, mean dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11.5k✦
✦author's note: monthly voted fic! he's yearning so hard guys✦
The bar is loud, but you expected that. It’s what you needed. Between that and the drink in you hands, it’s going to quiet your thoughts. They get lost in chatter of the crowd, and the bass drum of the music. It pounds in your chest and dislodges your heart. You let it. You don’t want to feel it right now.
You check your phone, even though you’ve told yourself not to. The case is sticky from the bar counter, and you wrinkle your nose at the screen before you even read the messages.
Five missed calls from – Dean Winchester.
A sixth one comes through, your phone buzzing angrily. You roll your eyes, and for a long second you seriously consider drowning the damn thing in the abandoned beer glass next to you.
He doesn’t get to call you, like you’re some wandering child. He doesn’t get to get angry about you being out, when he’s the reason you’re here in the first place. And you told Sam to tell him that you’d be here. So really, this is Dean’s fault, then Sam’s, then yours.
The call goes to voicemail. You flip the screen back over, and take a long drink. If it’s really that big a deal that you’re out without him, he can put on his pants and come get you himself.
And he won’t. And that’s part of the problem.
Dean’s going to lecture you about safety when you crawl back in the morning, and you’re going to roll your eyes. He’ll ask you if you think something’s funny, sweetheart? You look him dead in his pretty eyes and say I don’t know, is it? He’ll get angrier. You’ll get angrier. Sam will try to mediate, and you’ll throw something at him before stomping off. Dean will chase after you, and wrestle you back into the room while calling you a brat.
When you get tossed down on the mattress, you’ll sink your nails into his shoulder, because you do every time. You want to drag him down with you, to make him feel this the same way you always have.
To big, too much. Too soft in all the wrong places, and too spiked everywhere else. There’s a sharp, angry shell around your heart that’s grown like an exoskeleton. It’s got wires and teeth that snap, whenever Dean gives you a little too much attention. You can never tell if it’s trying to eat him or latch onto him anymore. You don’t think it really matters.
Dean hates you. He thinks you hate him. He’s going to grab your knees and pin them to your chest, and you’re going to be the only woman in the world who he doesn’t notice flush against him. He’ll hiss that you can’t just go running around alone. That it’s not like you, to be reckless. You spit a fuck you, his grip will get tight, and he’ll shove you away to go take one of his long showers.
Sam will tell you to stop testing him. You’ll tell Sam to eat himself, and go back to sulking like a child in the corner.
Only Dean can do that to you. You hate and love him for it.
When you met—on a hunt that didn’t matter, until it did—he made you all giggly and dumb. Years of training and a mind that could never slow down, turned to goo from one roughish, lazy smile.
“You like trouble?” He’d asked you, trying even then to talk you out of a hunt.
“No. No one likes trouble.”
Dean had chuckled. “I don’t know about that, sweetheart. Most girls like you love it.”
You’d snorted. “Girls like me? What’s a girl like me?”
“Gorgeous.” He’d smirked, like he’d been dying for you to ask. “Smart. Mouthy-“
“Mouthy?” You’d cut him off, rolling your eyes. “Are you from the 60s?”
“No. But you’re provin’ my point.”
“You didn’t have a point. You were just trying to sleep with me.”
Dean had raised his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty. But- Is it working-“
“No.”
It had been. If Sam hadn’t come back to the car two seconds later, you would’ve climbed into Dean’s lap like a whore. Which wasn’t what you were. It wasn’t what you did. Sex with a half-stranger, sex in general, you didn’t toss your body around easily. You’d never been able to do the removing emotions part of casual sex. You’d always managed to come up with a million reasons not to, most of them looking something like have a hookup, get pregnant, the father’s already gone, the baby’s born with cancer, you love it anyway and it dies in your arms, if you’d been more responsible the baby would’ve solved climate change, everyone dies in a fiery explosion.
But you’d looked at Dean, and seen no death or path out that didn’t end in light. He’d grabbed your thigh in the dark of the car, and you’d flushed and smiled to yourself like a schoolgirl.
“You wanna know my middle name?” He’d whispered to you, later that night.
“That’s the worst pick up line I’ve ever heard-“
“It’s not a pick up line! I’m askin’ you a question-“
“But it’s going to turn into a pickup line.” You’d said flatly, and Dean had given you a boyish smile that almost made you forget that he was covered in vampire blood.
“You already know me so well,” he’d cooed, and you’d snorted.
“You’re predictable.”
“So you’re never gonna wonder what I’m thinking.”
You’d shoved his face away with a hand, still giggling. This was usually the point in a hunt where you started thinking about what came next. How long you had to get out of town, how much food you’d need to eat now before you got to your next stop—if you eat too much, you’re going to overstuff and get sick, if you don’t eat enough you’re going to be weak and pass out behind the wheel and cause a fifty car pile-up—and if there are any strings you needed to wrap up on the case.
But Dean had been smiling at you. And that had felt like the only thing that mattered.
“C’mon, ask me what my middle name is-“
You’d covered his mouth with a hand, shooting him a stern glare. His eyes had gleamed with affection, and something deeper you try not to think about now. It hurts too much. It makes you mourn for something that was never even yours to have.
“Only so you shut up,” you’d whispered. “What’s your middle name.”
You’d dropped your hand, and Dean had touched his lips like he was in some telenovela. You’d fought a smile. You’d never known someone could be so handsome it made your heart ache, and so cute you thought you’d explode.
He’d puffed out his chest, and grinned at you like he won the lottery.
“It’s Trouble-“
“It’s Adam.” Sam had called from the table. Dean had looked at him like he’d just murdered a puppy, and you’d laughed so hard you almost fell off the bed.
And you’d thought something was growing. You’d been a foolish girl, who thought the dorky, handsome hero in front of her would give chase, when she turned him down.,
If you could go back, you’d slap yourself in the face and tell you to get it together. Dean Winchester is Dean Winchester. You listen to the what the shadows whisper. You knew his reputation before he smiled at you in the low light of his car. You’re smart. Sam goes to you for research advice, you’ve come up with whole new ways to kill demons and trap angels. You fucking knew better, than to fall in love with Dean.
You should’ve known better.
You didn’t.
So you attached yourself to them like a little, leeching parasite. You followed them around, the Winchester’s shadow, and fell more in love with Dean, and got your heart broken every night when he slipped out of the bar with another woman on his arm.
You’d gotten mean. You’d started getting short with him, and he’d fueled the fire building in the cavity of your chest by being a dick. Suddenly you were too inexperienced for every hunt. Too young to be out alone—you’ve had that fight more times than you can count—or too tense and tightly wound to think clearly.
He’s the one who doesn’t think clearly. He’s the one who drinks himself to death after a hunt and has literally fucked monsters because he can’t be bothered to plan ahead. He drags you and Sam to towns because he’s got a good feeling about them. He tells you to just relax, princess, and you want to punch him in his stupid, pretty face.
But you still love him. You love him so much you think it’s going to kill you. And you keep that locked in the deepest chamber of your heart, because he never needs to know that you still get stupid and soft for him. If he finds out that the first time he tried to leave on a hunt without you, you almost started crying in the middle of the bunker kitchen, he’ll look at you like you’re crazy.
And you are crazy. You know that. You’re a fumbling, wild ball of worries and sneers, and Dean would never want a nagger. He’d never want a younger woman who acts like she knows better—even though you do—and who needs him to be perfectly attentive and affectionate every second of every day.
You’re in love with a man who hates you. And if you had to listen to him fuck that secretary through the wall all night, you were going to kill yourself on their bed.
So now you’re at this loud, disgusting bar, drinking something that you’re praying numbs the pain, and smiling so wide it hurts your face.
The abandoned beer’s owner came back. He’s a broad shouldered, smirking man with a clean cut face, and lighter hair. If you get a little more squint, he looks just like Dean. If you get a little more buzzed, he’ll sound like him too.
You hate causal sex. It doesn’t count if you’re pretending it’s Dean. It doesn’t count if it makes this stop hurting.
“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ here?” The man drawls, leaning across the bar.
You giggle, and it sounds distant to your ears. “Drinking.”
“Yeah?” The man smirks. “You like drinkin’, doll?”
You shake your head, swinging your feet and spinning in the bar stool. The man raises his brows.
“You sure you don’t? You’re goin’ through that thing fast.”
“It tastes bad.” You wrinkle your nose. “Feels good.”
The man’s smile turns wolfish. Your phone starts to buzz again, and you glare at the screen before shutting it fully off.
“Boyfriend?” The man asks, and you shake your head.
“He wishes.”
No, he doesn’t.
That’s the problem.
And you keep flirting—if it can even be called that, because you mostly babble about hating the drink you got and hating Dean and loving the man’s drink because Dean likes that one too—and the man’s hands find their way to your lower back and thigh.
“Why don’t I help you forget about Dean?” He winks at you, and you shrug.
The world is mostly just blurred colors and lights now. Everything feels awfully light, in a way you’re not sure you like.
But you like forgetting about Dean more. So even though you want to tell this man that it’s impossible to forget about Dean, you’re also just lost enough to want help finding your way out.
“Okay.” You beam at him.
You make it to the parking lot—his arm around your waist, herding you like a lost lamb—before Dean ruins everything. He always ruins everything.
There’s a shout of your name, almost ripping through the hazy fog of your drunken mind. You were feet from the man’s car. Just a few more steps from having fun, which you’re bad at doing, but maybe if you practiced, Dean would like you more.
From the look on his face when you turn around, it might’ve actually made him like you less.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He marches across the lot with a scowl, hands balled into fists and gaze fixed solely on you. “I almost made Sammy file a missing persons report-“
“’M not missing.” You stick your tongue out at him. “’M right here. Stupid.”
You mutter the last word under your breath, and Dean freezes. He blinks slowly, gaze raking over your body. That’s not fair. It makes you feel all warm and puddley. Your core floods with heat, and your knees get weak, and he’s get looking at you.
Dean takes a half-step forward, his voice dropping low and rough. “Are you drunk?”
“No.”
There’s a larger gust of wind. Dean’s eyes gleam in the golden light of the parking lot. He looks a little like an angel. You trip standing up, then giggle when the man pulls you back up. Dean’s jaw drops, his brow knitting tight.
“You’re fuckin’ wasted.” He mutters, shaking his head. “Jesus, sweetheart- C’mon.” He steps forward, reaching out a hand. “Let’s go.”
“Nuh uh.” You pout, shaking you head. “I’m not drunk-“
“You’re standing like we’re on a freakin’ ship. Come on.” He flexes his hand, and you cross your arms over your chest.
He doesn’t get to win. “I’m having fun.”
“We can have fun back at the room-“
“The lady said she’s having fun.” The man next to you pulls you tighter into his side, fingers curling on your hip like a lock. “Screw off, pal. I got here first.”
And Dean recoils, looking at the man like he’s noticing him for the first time. You can’t read his expression in the low light, but it seems angry. Or just annoyed. Or indifferent. His jaw looks sharp and clenched. You want to lick it.
“Listen, bud.” Dean snaps, glaring down at the man. “This ain’t a who got here first thing. My girl’s drunk. I’m takin’ her home, or I’m punching you in the face.”
The man is silent for a moment. He and Dean glower at each other, and you frown between them. There’s something poking at your drink addled brain, but it’s spelling a word you can’t read. All you can really figure out is that they’re being weird.
“You Dean?” The man asks.
Dean’s eyes narrow. His shoulders square, the way they do before he’s about to swing at a demon. “Yeah. And?”
“Nothin’.” The man smirks. “Just… Thought you’d be God, based on how she was talkin’ about you. But,” he chuckles, tipping his chin. “You’re just a little bitch.”
Dean’s jaw ticks. You don’t need the lighting to figure out what he’s thinking now. You can almost feel it, rolling off of him in waves.
He’s pissed.
He looks the man up and down, and if he throws a punch, you know he won’t be the one who goes down. You’re drunk enough not to worry about the violence of it. All your useless thoughts can spin around is the idea of Dean fighting for you. Of his massive arms flexing as he knocks down the other man—who, the longer your Dean stands in front of you, looks less and less appealing—and scoops you into his arms like the princess he mocks you with being. Then he can wrap his arm around your head and fuck you against the hood of his car, until you’re drooling all over his cock.
You giggle at nothing, a unignorable heat pooling between your legs. Dean’s attention snaps back over, and you beam at him.
Something in his gaze shifts. He lets out a slow breath, and stretches out a hand.
“Let’s go, princess.” He beckons with two crooked fingers, and you almost stumble forwards. “We can watch whatever you want, alright? I’ll get you some of that ice cream you like, and- Sammy can watch with you, if you don’t want me around. Just-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “Get over here. Please.”
He sounds so tired. Tired and almost sad. Your feet move without your permission, and you reach to take his hand.
The man yanks you back, and you yelp.
“Remember what you told me, doll.” He drawls in your ear, loud enough for Dean to still hear. “Remember how he treats you.”
Dean scowls. “You stay out of this-“
“He doesn’t care.” The man ignores him. “You told me, he doesn’t love you.”
Dean opens his mouth, something stricken flashing over his features. You feel a little sick.
“C’mon. I got you.” The man rubs your hip, smiling gently. “Show him what he’s missing. He can bitch about it, alone all night while you get fucked real good.”
Dean’s face is a shade of red you’ve never seen before. He has an expression like someone just punched him in the gut.
And it’s not the fucking real good that steels you. It’s the reminder that Dean won’t be alone. He has his secretary. And you’re allowed to have your random bar man, and there’s nothing he can do about it.
Dean rasps your name. “Come here-“
“You come here.” You snap, and it’s meant to be a sharp, killing blow that makes him sigh and give up.
If you were a little less drunk, you would’ve known that was never going to work.
Dean’s throat bobs. He exhales like he’s going through the trials of Hercules, rather than arguing in a parking lot. He rubs his jaw, looks up to the sky like he’s praying, and chuckles. It’s dry and flat, but so deep and rough. You shiver at the sound, and almost fall right into him again.
“Alright.” Dean mutters, shaking out his arm. “Fine.”
He marches forward, clocks the man across the jaw, and throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. It happens so fast your body is still catching up with it, by the time he’s halfway back to the car. You realize you should be thrashing and shouting when you hear the Impala door unlock. Your body doesn’t seem to want to cooperate though. Dean’s back is warm, and his hand is resting near your ass, and it’s making you putty for him to play with.
He did it so fast. He didn’t even break a sweat or give the man a chance to fight back, before he grabbed you. When he lowers you into shotgun, he does it so gently. Like even after getting on his nervous, you’re precious cargo. He brushes the hair from your face, hunched over as you settle into the bench.
You blink at him, still drunk and confused. Dean still has that strange look in his eyes, his lips parted as you just stare at each other. His hand lingers on your cheek. You lean into the touch, and his nostrils flare.
Across the parking lot, there’s a roar of his name.
Dean sighs, and stands up. He walks around the hood of the car, slides into the driver’s seat, and starts the car. You watch his fingers move like a starved woman. You want him to put them in your mouth, and you almost tell him when there’s a slam on his window.
The man is shouting at him, veins bulging and eyes bugging. He looks nothing like Dean now.
And Dean doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t even look at him. He just puts the car in reverse and pulls out of the lot. If the man gives chase, you don’t see. You’re too busy staring at Dean.
The first half of the drive is silent. Low music plays on the radio, and you watch Dean in the moving light of the road. Long shadows and dim streetlamps make him look like he fell out of a dream. Your arms twitch to wrap around him. Your eyes are heavy, your head intoxicated by the rich, amber and smoke smell of his cologne. If you lay your head in his lap, you wonder if he’d shove you away.
“You weren’t actually gonna go with him.” Dean mutters suddenly, and you blink.
“Huh?”
“That douchebag.” His fingers flex on the wheel. “You weren’t gonna fuck him.”
You frown. Useless, exhausted tears prick at your eyes. You don’t even know where they’re coming from. Just that you feel small, and you’re tired, and Dean’s dragging you back to the motel just so he can fuck another woman with peace of mind.
“He’s not even your type-“
“You don’t know what my type is.” You grumble, sinking into your seat.
Dean huffs a laugh. “I’ve seen what kinda guys you find hot on TV. He was ugly.”
“He wasn’t ugly-“
“Yeah, he was.”
“You’re ugly.” You snap, and Dean laughs. You get why. You didn’t even convince yourself.
“Only on the inside, sweetheart.”
Your lips wobbles. For some reason, that pushes the tears out of your eyes. You sink into the bench, wrapping into a tight little ball that Dean won’t be able to pry apart. You can’t stop the tears, but he doesn’t get to have more leverage.
Dean clears his throat. “Are you crying-“
“Shut up.” You sniff, wiping your nose with your sleeve.
He murmurs your name, voice softer than before, and you lean against the window.
“Shut up-“
“You’re fuckin’ crying-“
“Dean!” You glare at him through the blur of the tears. “Just- Leave me alone!”
Dean’s silent for a second. But only a second.
“Did he hurt you?” He grunts, something hot and angry lining his words. “Before I got there, did that son of a bitch-“
“He barely even touched me, you just- You fucking-“
“I what? What the hell did I do-“
“You hate me!” You shout, and Dean goes horribly still.
“Don’t be insane.” He mutters your name, glaring out at the road. “I don’t hate you.”
You scoff, hugging your knees tight to your chest. “Yes, you do. You hate me, and you- You never let me have any fun-“
“That wasn’t fun, that was a lawsuit.”
You don’t even have a good comeback to that. He’s probably right. It just makes you angrier.
You turn away from him all together, watching the trees blur past in the window. You’re certain you’re going to be sick now. You close your eyes, the tears still flowing, and hide your face behind your hair and in your knees.
Dean sighs. His voice gets softer again.
“Listen, you’re drunk, alright? You’re gonna feel better in the morning-“
“No.” Your words are muffled, but you know he’ll still hear them. “I won’t.”
“Yeah, you will. I get a million of these drunken… feelings.” He says the word in an oddly tight tone. “You just gotta sleep them off.”
You laugh, wet and weak. “Whatever, Dean.”
“I’m trying to help-“
“No, you’re not.” You hug yourself tighter. “You just wanna get back to her.”
He’s silent again. You can hear his fingers drumming on the wheel. Almost hear the frown in his voice when he finally speaks.
“Who the hell are you talking about.”
“Your secretary lady.” You grumble, bitter and tired.
“You mean Katy?”
You grunt. “I hate her.”
“I- Princess, I sent her home like- Two hours ago.” He pauses. The air in the car feels oddly heavy. “Moment Sammy told me you were gone.”
You huff, but don’t respond. You can’t think of anything. You can barely understand what that means.
“You hate her?” Dean’s voice is so quiet you almost miss it.
“Mhm.”
“You barely even talked to her-“
“I don’t care.” You mutter, rubbing away the tears on your cheeks. “I hate her.”
“Why-“
“’M tired.” You pull your face out of your knees, and find Dean staring at you.
He clears his throat, and looks back to the road. You think you’re going to start sobbing again, when he stretches out an arm around your shoulder.
Neither of you say anything, when he slowly pulls you into his side. You haven’t been this close to him in a while. He’s just as warm as you remember. You’re already half-asleep, just from a few seconds of his fingers tracing circles on your shoulder and your face pressed into his neck.
“I didn’t like him that much either.” Dean mutters suddenly. “Your bar guy.”
You hum, nosing at his jaw. He smells good.
“I wish you’d tell me.” He adds. “When you were goin’ out. I’d come with you-“
“I don’t want you to come with me.”
Dean tenses. He doesn’t pull away. “I’m fun at bars, sweetheart..” His voice is too casual. “We’d have a good time-“
“You’d have a good time.” You grumble. “I’d be alone.”
“I wouldn’t- If we went out, I wouldn’t ditch-“
“Yes, you would.” You yawn, and you’re crying again, but it’s softer.
Even now, Dean makes everything easier.
You wish you could hate him more than you love him. You don’t think you’re ever going to manage.
“You hate me.” You whisper, sleep already pulling on the corners of your brain. “’S not fair.”
Dean swallows. His fingers still on your arm. “Why not?”
“’Cause I-“
You cut yourself off with a yawn. Dean mutters your name, and you shake your head, burrowing further into his side. You need to be as close as possible. You need to sink something into him that he can never wipe away, the same way he did with you.
“I love you,” you mumble. “And you hate me. And- It’s not fair, Dean.” You tremble, letting out a soft, pained breath. “Not fair.”
And sleep drags you under. But right before the world fades, you could swear you hear Dean’s low voice, and it floats through your dreams.
“I don’t hate you, baby.” He murmurs. “I couldn’t if I tried.”
Dean hasn’t spoken to you since last night.
You get up in the morning with a migraine and shame burning your face. You remember all of it. Every painful, whiny moment. You acted like the lovesick, annoying girl he accuses you of being. You told him the thing you swore you’d never say aloud. Once Sam tried to make you admit it, and you dumped a glass of iced tea over his head. You’d whimpered Dean’s name into your pillows while you touched yourself, and you’ve told yourself to get it together in the bathroom mirror, but you’ve never said it aloud.
And you just told.
You ruined everything.
He gives you meds and a glass of water to help the hangover, but he doesn’t look you in the eyes. You pack up the rooms and hit the road, but he doesn’t look in the rearview mirror to check on you even once. You bite the inside of your cheek and refuse to cry again. That will just make you seem more pathetic than you already are.
“What’s going on with you two.” Sam mutters when you stop at a gas station, hanging over your shoulder in the candy aisle.
“Nothing-“
“Don’t lie.” He gives you a flat look. “You’re not even fighting, which means you’re fighting.”
You peer up at him with a flat expression, and he sighs.
“You know what I mean. What the hell did he say to you.”
“He didn’t say anything.”
Sam mutters your name, and you grab a candy bar, flipping him off over your shoulder.
“Just drop it, okay?”
“No! I can’t drop it! I live with you guys, and- This is so much worse than when you were acting like you hated each other-“
“Sam-“
“You can’t see his face while he’s driving.” Sam hisses, grabbing a pack of almonds. “He’s either going to punch himself or cry, and that’s gonna be a whole freakin’ thing. Just- Talk to him-“
“He can talk to me.” You grab a pack of jerky. You can’t help it. Dean must be hungry too, and despite all your common sense, you still love him so much the world is slipping out from under your feet.
Sam pleads with your name. You shake your head.
“Please. Drop it.”
He examines you for a moment, then sighs. He agrees to drop it. It doesn’t make anything better at all.
Because Dean’s not even being mean or overbearing or annoying. He’s just silent. And Sam’s right.
It’s so much worse.
Normally by this point in the ride, you’ve been fighting so much that Sam turns up the radio until you can’t hear each other. You’ll poke his neck to annoy him, and he’ll swat you like a fly before cornering you against the car when you stop for food. You’ll shove him and march into the diner. He’ll stomp after you and sit too close in the booth, making you press your thighs together with every mocking word. He’ll flirt with the waitress, and you’ll daydream about throttling her every time she bats her eyes. Dean will keep your knees against each other’s, while he gets her number, and you’ll pour a bunch of salt over his pie when he goes to the bathroom.
You’ll shove at each other, until one of you snaps and stomps away. You’ll cry yourself to sleep that night, because he hates you, he hates you, he hates you.
But you don’t even have any tears left, and Dean doesn’t hate you.
He just can’t stand to look at you, now that he knows you love him.
Sam gives you worried looks, while Dean glares silently at the road. His fingers drum on the wheel, and you hug yourself tight. He might not be looking at you, but you can’t stop looking at him. If he asks you to leave, it will kill you. If he doesn’t ask you, but never speaks to you again, you’ll just wither away into nothing. But you can’t be the one to break the silence. You’ll only make it worse.
You stop at a diner, and the waitress has the biggest boobs you’ve ever seen and the kind of honeyed smile that usually makes Dean smirk.
Today he doesn’t even look at her. You have to order for him, which makes the waitress glare at you, as if you’re responsible for him sulking so much he doesn’t care about boobs—and you are, but she has no way to know that—and you give her a tight smile.
Dean doesn’t thank you for the food, but he looks at you for the first time all day. You blink at him, biting back the pout threatening your lips. You’re not going to break here, in broad daylight, with Sam right there.
Dean lets out a slow exhale through his nose, and looks back to his food. You blink away the useless sting behind your eyes, biting your inner cheek until it’s swollen. Sam gives you a pitying look. You shoot him a glare.
“He still sat next to you.” Sam mutters while Dean checks you into a motel, that night. “Whatever happened, he’s not that mad at you-“
“Sammy!” Dean calls from the desk. “The lady needs our IDs!”
Sam sighs, going through his pockets as he walks over.
Dean’s gaze meets yours, and you flush. You can’t read the expression on his face, and you fucking hate it. You thought you knew all his expression. You thought you knew him. You thought he’d at least have the guts to turn you down like a man.
Instead his tongue flicks over his lips, and he rips his gaze back to the desk attendant. You hate her. You hate him. You love him. Your head hurts, overflowing with too many thoughts that you can’t even pick them apart. You want to scream and cry and run and sink into the floor. It’s not fair of him, to do this to you. You’re going to be sick. You want to drown your sorrows in as many drinks as you can find.
You settle for curling into your bed, hiding your face in the pillows, and crying until your body is limp and your throat is sore. He knows you love him. He hates you. He’s never going to look at you again, and you’re going to turn into a ghost. An evil, angry ghost. One of the ghosts that he has to kill. Then he’s going to kill you, and you’re going to turn into a demon, then you’re going to start the apocalypse again, and everyone ever is going to die because you told Dean you love him.
You cry until you can barely breathe, then a little while after. It was silent. There was no way Sam and Dean would hear it, even through the door joining your rooms.
But there’s a creak, and you sniff, turning your head just enough that Sam will be able to hear you.
“I’m fine, Sam-“
“Not Sam.” Dean mutters, and you freeze.
You don’t move. You don’t dare. Dean clears his throat, and you hear him shifting on his feet. He’s close enough to be fully through the door. You hear it close behind him, and bunch the sheets in your arms.
“I- Uh- I was hopin’ we could talk?”
You still don’t move. Dean coughs. His voice is even rougher than usual. Normally, if you had the brainpower, you’d be worried about him.
“Can you look at me?”
You scowl at the pillow in your face. “No.”
Dean mutters your name, and you cut him off with short words.
“Go away, Dean.”
“No, we need to- I got some shit to say, alright-“
“I don’t care.”
“Trust me, princess, you’re gonna care about this-“
“Stop calling me that!” The words rip from your throat, sudden and broken.
You flip over, moving to your knees, and Dean stumbles back like you punched him. His face is red, and there are bags under his eyes. He’s still handsome.
Asshole.
“I-“
“Shut up.” You hiss, narrowing your eyes at his slack expression. “Stop- Stop calling me princess and sweetheart and- and acting like you fucking care about me! It’s fucking cruel, Dean, it was a dick move before and now- Now you know.” Your voice cracks. You can’t even say it again. “Now you know, alright? You know what I- How I am! And I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have told you, but I was drunk, and I- I was tired, and you were being nice and you’re never nice to me-“
Dean opens his mouth, and you chuck a pillow right at his chest.
“No.” You spit, pushing up higher on your knees. “No, you don’t get to talk now. I don’t want to hear it, I don’t need- You don’t have to tell me! I get it, I know what you’re going to say!” You thought you were out of tears. You were wrong. “I’m just a stupid little girl, and you see me like a fucking sister or whatever, I don’t know what I’m talking about and I don’t know how I feel and you- You’d never-“ You choke on your own words. “You’d never feel-“
He moves quickly. You don’t even get the chance to throw another pillow.
Dean grabs your face between his hands, pulling right up into his. Dean kisses you, and your sharp words dissolve into a surprised sound, then a tiny moan.
His mouth is demanding. Your lips are already parted, and when the moan pushes its way up from your chest, Dean pushes his tongue over yours with a grunt. It’s a messy and desperate, noses bumping and spit mixing. You try and shove back, but Dean just pushes further over you, and you dissolve into his touch.
You’re panting, when he pulls away. He keeps his hands firmly planted, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your lips and his shoulders heaving. His fingers are tangled in your hair. You feel small under his gaze, but not in the painful, ignored way like before. It’s like you’re being shielded. Like he’s trying to protect you from your own, spiraling thoughts by sucking them out of your face.
It’s working. You stare at him with an open awe you can feel in your chest, bubbling and light.
He kissed you.
His lips were soft and chapped in the best way, and he was even better at kissing than you imagined. He tasted a little sugary from the pie he had with dinner, and something richer that was just Dean. His touch on your is almost reverent, and you want to suck on his thumb to see if it tastes as good as his lips. You want to suck on every part of him. For science. You want, you want, you want. Dean kissed you, and now all you can feel—thundering through your bloodstream—is want.
He murmurs your name, scanning over your slack features. Your eyes flutter. His throat bobs.
“I’m gonna talk now.” He says, and you nod.
You should be shoving or fighting him, but he’s looking at you like you matter. And you’re far too tired to bother with anything but tears or pleas for more kisses right now.
“I thought-“ He shakes his head, huffing a low, dry laugh. “I thought you hated me.”
“I don’t-“
“Yeah, I got that now.” He gives you an amused, tired look. “But- Sweetheart, you called me a seductive manwhore last week.”
Your face burns a little. He’d been flirting with another waitress, at another diner. You’d wanted to slit her throat.
“Seductive is a compliment.” You mumble weakly, dropping your gaze to his chest. Dean chuckles.
“From where I was sittin’, it felt like you wanted to kill me.”
You shake your head, the movement small between his hands. “You looked like you wanted me to fuck off. You always looked like you wanted me to fuck off-“
“No.” His grip tightens, and your attention shoots back up.
And you think you understand that expression. It’s heavy, and you have seen it before. But it’s always been a dull glint in his eyes, before he looks away.
Longing.
“Dean…” You whisper, and he leans down, pressing his brow to yours.
“I never want you to fuck off.” He mutters. “Never. Please- Don’t.”
His voice breaks. You reach up to grab his wrists, and he squeezes his eyes shut.
“I know I ain’t perfect. I know I’m old, and a dick, and I don’t got much to offer-“
“I like what you have to offer.” You whisper. His brow knits tighter. “I always liked it.”
Dean chuckles. “You shot me down. First time I offered it.”
“You wanted a hookup, I- I can’t do that-“
“I couldn’t either.” He looks at you under hooded eyes. “Not with you.”
You press your lips in a thin line, years of anger and sparring fading into a blur of a dull, bruising ache. He was always a wound you refused to heal. If he cuts you open any wider, you don’t think you’re going to have the option anymore.
“You didn’t seem interested.” Dean rasps. “You started- Lookin’ at me all weird and calling me names and-“
“I loved you.” You say it before you can think. Dean lets out a sharp breath, his weight pressing further down.
“But- I- You too.” He winces, like he hates the words. “I didn’t- It was never- Son of a bitch-“
He looks like it’s paining him to try and say it. And you know. You know he can’t, because he doesn’t even say it to Sam.
But he looks like he’s going to cry. Dean never cries.
He means it. The thing you never let yourself dream of, he means it.
“I- You just- I wanted shit, and you seemed like you wanted nothin’ to do with me, so I-“
You move carefully, tugging that collar of his shirt down into the kiss. Dean goes rigid for a single, horrible second.
Then he almost melts.
His fingers dig into your skin like he can’t bear to let go. His body collapses over yours, his kisses going from the soft ones you started to fast and desperate. He kisses you like he’s trying to leave a mark, and you meet him with every bit off passion.
Dean folds you down, until you’re flat on the mattress. Your legs fly up to wrap around his torso, and he grabs one of your hands, tangling your fingers together. The kisses turn slow. A little more certain and controlled, Dean sucking on your lower lip before kissing the corner of your mouth, then your upper lip. You smile into the kiss, and a broken sound rumbles from his chest.
He pins your hands next to your head, squeezing once before he breaks away. He looks wrecked. He stares at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and your head buzzes, nice and clear of what ifs.
All that matters right now is Dean above you, and the electric heat in your body. How his hand fits so perfectly in yours. How your bodies are already molding together, and you’re both still fully clothed.
“You deserve better, baby.” He mutters, and you almost laugh.
There’s nothing better. There’s Dean, glorious and unreachable, and there’s everyone else.
“No.” You whisper, beaming up at him. “I don’t.”
Dean’s throat bobs. He lowers himself down slowly, pressing his lips slowly over yours. Like he’s still not fully sure. You hum happily into the kiss, and he takes the cue easily.
You lose yourself in him quickly. His lazy, passionate kisses and his hands, slowly tracing over your body. He starts with light touches near your hips and waist, every brush of his fingers making you shiver. You arch into it, when his thumb grazes the bare skin of your midriff. Dean groans, testing the waters with another slow graze of his fingers.
“Deeean…” You breathe against his lips, and he grunts.
“You’re so soft.” He mutters, slipping his hand under your shirt. “So fuckin’ reactive and soft.”
You whimper, heels digging into his back as he teases his fingers up your spine. “Don’t- Don’t tease-“
“Not teasin’.” He nips at the corner of your mouth. “Just sayin’ things that are true, baby. Not my fault they make you all stupid.”
Your breath hitches, your head tipping back as your legs spread slightly. Dean hums, interest flashing in his gaze. He noticed. Of course he did. He notices everything.
“You like that?” He drawls, kissing over your cheek, then down your neck. “You like bein’ called baby? Or called stupid.”
His hand drifts up your side, until his thumb is grazing under your breast. The sensation, combined with his dirty words, makes your hips roll. A dizzy, pleased sigh escapes your lips. Dean chuckles, rubbing his thumb in a tight circle. His lips graze a sensitive spot on your neck, and your hips roll again.
“I think you like both.” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Dirty girl, bet you’re already wet for me.”
You whimper, the sound turning to a sharp gasp when Dean shoves his knee right between your thighs. You buck off the bed at the sudden pressure, eyes glazing and mouth hanging open.
Dean sucks on that sensitive spot, and your whole body shivers. You can’t stand to not move, not with the heat of him all around you. His thumb drags up, brushing over your nipple right as his tongue flicks against your skin. You start to mindlessly grind against his knee, chasing just a little bit more friction. Dean chuckle, biting softly at your neck before bullying his knee further against your clothed cunt.
“That’s it.” He growls in your ear. “Messy fuckin’ girl, already humping my leg. You need it that bad, sweetheart? Can’t even wait for me?”
“I- I’m sorry-“ You whine, trying to stop your body from moving.
It doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. Dean slips his hand from under your shirt and grabs your jaw, forcing your gaze onto his, and his attention just fuels the wildfire under your skin. You need him, and form of him you can get. You need him harsh and all over your body, until there’s are marks you won’t be able to wash away in the morning. You need him to claim you so deeply neither of you can back out.
Dean watches you with a gentle, but sharp awe. Like he’s trying to memorize the scene below him, that you’re sure is quiet a sight. You fucking his leg like a dog in heat, your adoration and love finally allowed to pour all over your face.
“Need you,” you breathe out, grabbing his wrist. “Need you so bad, Dean.”
A low rumble leaves his chest, his eyes getting darker with every tiny moan from your lips. His attention is almost too much. You try and turn your face into the sheets, but he tugs it back with barely a flick of his wrist.
“Dean, please-“
“Look at me.” He taps your cheek with one finger, slamming his knee forward.
Your glossy, tear-stained eyes dart to his, and he smirks. It’s soft, but dangerous. He smiles down at you, and another breath of his name escapes your lips.
“What do you want, sweet girl?” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Use your words.”
It takes you a second to remember how. “You,” you breathe out, and Dean’s jaw ticks. “Want you, Dean, always wanted you-“
“I know, baby,” he coos, leaning slowly down. Your noses bump, and you whimper, closing your eyes. “You want me so bad it hurts, don’t you. Bet your little pussy is fuckin’ calling my name, begging me to stuff her up.”
“Yes,” you nod, bobbleheaded and dizzy. “Oh my god, yes-“
“But how.” His voice turns stern, the heat of his breath making you shiver. “Do you want me? Soft? Or,” he pushes your further down onto his knee, and your eyes roll a little back. “Hard?”
Dean drags his thumb over your lips, squeezing your cheeks into a tiny pout. You try to keep fucking his knee, but he’s got you pinned so hard against it that you can’t move. You’re trapped in a cruel kind of heaven, with everything right on the brink of falling, and Dean holding you over the edge by the nape of your neck.
“Hard,” you whisper, dragging your eyes open to meet his. He needs to see it. How bad you want him. “Wanna- Ohh-“ Your lashes flutter, as Dean starts to slowly grind his knee against your core. “Wanna feel you. All of you. Don’t- Don’t hold back.”
His grip on your jaw tightens. His voice drops a full octave. “Baby, are you-“
“Yes.” You smile at him, already a little drunk on his everything. “I trust you.”
And that seems to be what gets him. Dean blinks at you for a second, the façade of pure control slipping. You know it’s a game, and that when you’re done he’s going to coddle you like a princess. But you’re not sure he knew you knew. Not sure he understood that, even when you thought he hated you, you would’ve placed your life in his hands without even a beat of hesitation.
Dean leans down, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. His hand pulls from yours, and he wraps his arm around your lower back. His fingers tickle your sides a little, teasing the side of your breast, and you giggle. Dean grunts, pushing you further into the mattress. It just makes you giggle more.
“Somethin’ funny?” He mutters, and you can hear it again. He’s back in this. It sends a shivering thrill through your body.
You need more. And you shake your head, trying to test just how much it takes him to snap.
“You’re laughin’ like something’s funny.” Dean leans back up, glaring down at your lovedrunk, giddy expression.
There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes.
You’re about to be fucked into next week.
“Look at you.” He mutters, palming at your breast through your shirt. You gasp, arching into the touch, and Dean chuckles. “You’d do anything I told you, huh. Just to make me fuck you.”
You shake your head, and Dean chuckles.
“Don’t lie, princess. Good girls don’t lie to me.”
Your breath catches. Your thighs press around Dean’s knee, the grind of your hips short and uncontrolled. He lets you writhe below him, smirking at the pants that escape your lips.
“Does it hurt?” he coos, smearing some spit over your cheek. “Your pussy aching, baby girl? Already can’t take it?”
“N- No.” You choke out. “I can take it-“
“Doesn’t seem like you can.” He mutters, scanning over your limp body. “I’m not even touchin’ you and you’re about to cum. Can’t believe you’re that fucking easy.”
You whimper, shaking your head. “I- I’m not easy-“
“Yeah?” Dean mocks. “How many other guys you fucked?”
“Two. Just two-“
“They make you feel like this?”
“No- Never-“
“Damn right. They don’t.” Dean grunts. “You’re mine, princess. My fuckin’ girl.”
You whimper, heat rushing through you at the possession in his voice. You are his. He has no idea, how completely and totally his you are.
“Say you’re mine.” Dean orders, and you nod.
“Yours. All yours, Dean, I’m- Fuuuck-“
He pinches your nipple rolling it between two fingers. Your hips try to buck off the bed, but he’s pinned you down too well.
“Fuck- Dean- You can’t just-“
You moan, and he chuckles.
“Oh, baby.” He leans back down, brushing a featherlight kiss over your lips. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”
Dean nips on your lower lip, then rises back up, patting your cheek.
“Open.”
You do, without a thought. He chuckles, leans down, and spits right into your swollen lips.
“Swallow.” He grunts, and you obey.
You lick your lips for good measure. Just to see how he’ll react. His mouth falls a little open, a deep, possessive sound rumbling chest.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost fully to himself. “So fuckin’ eager. You ready to listen, princess?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, and add for good measure. “Please.”
Dean’s lips twitch. “Beggin’ and I don’t even have you naked yet. We should fix that.”
“Fix what-“
“Stand up.” Dean drags you upright with steady, but firm hands.
You follow his lead, letting him move you off the mattress and onto shaking legs. He keeps you between his spread knees, smirking up at your confused expression. He’s got one hand, steadily rubbing the back of your thigh.
“Strip.” He orders, and your cheeks burn.
“Dean-“
You cut yourself off, when he just raises his brows. God, if he wasn’t begging you for attention fifteen minutes ago, you’d be putting up more of a fight. Just for the show of it. To prove that you’re perfectly capable of thinking for yourself. That you don’t need him at all.
But you think he knows that. And for once, you don’t want to have to think at all.
You peel off your clothing slowly, burning under Dean’s gaze. He’s tracking every movement, dragging over every bare inch of skin. Your top goes first, and his hands fly right up to palm your breasts. His hand is big and warm, and you bite back a tiny moan.
Dean smirks, leaning slowly forward to trail open, wet kisses over the valley of your breasts. You weave your fingers through his hair, your breath stuttering. You fumble with your bottoms. It’s a little hard to focus, with his tongue swirling around your sensitive, peaked nipple.
“Shit- Dean-“ You take a deep breath, tugging at his soft, short locks. “That’s- Mmmm-“
He sucks lightly, and you lean fully over his chest. He chuckles, flicking his tongue back and forth, and all you can think of is that sinful mouth against your core.
“I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” He kisses your nipple, before switching to the neglected one. “For me.”
You swallow, grabbing at the hem of your bottoms and tugging them down. Dean grabs a handful of your ass, slapping it once before dipping his fingers down between your thighs. You collapse over him with a weak noise, and Dean just laughs. The shame in how quickly he’s unraveling you, how wet you know you are, it just makes you ache for him more. He’s got you, needy and in the palm of his hand. He knows it. And still, he touches you like he’s been waiting to his whole life.
“That’s my girl.” He mutters. “Son of a bitch, you’re so fuckin’ wet. You been walkin’ around like this? Waiting to get bent over and turned into my little cockslut.”
“Ye- Yes.” You press your face into his hair, nails scratching at his neck. “Oh my god, Deean-“
“Yeah. That’s right.” Dean hums as you grind down onto his fingers, teasing between the lips of your pussy. “Barely even fuckin’ touching you, and you’re soaking my hands. Jesus,” he laughs, the sound vibrating against your chest. “You’re getting wetter every time I talk.”
You keen, when the tip of his forefinger grazes your clit. It’s like being struck by lightning, making your whole body rush with pleasure and your pussy clench around nothing. He flicks it, just that once, then pulls away. You hug his head tighter, begging between your every moan.
Dean doesn’t budge. He rubs over your pussy without touching your clit again, muttering dirty words against your skin.
“Look at you,” he kisses your shoulder. “My pretty fuckin’ girl.”
“Dean-“
“Come on.” He slaps your ass again, and your knees give a little. “Like I couldn’t make you cum just from talkin’ to you.”
You flush, wrapping your arms around his neck as he pulls you fully into his lap. Dean pauses, at the way you shiver, and pulls back. You try to avoid his gaze, but he isn’t having it. He grabs your jaw and forces your gaze back to his, eyes gleaming and playful.
“Oh, I could, couldn’t I.” He smirks. “You’d cum for me just sittin’ here, letting me call you names.”
“No.” Your protest is short. Weak. Dean looks at you like he’s just pulled the sweetest bunny into his trap, and he wants to eat you alive.
He pulls you down for one of those kisses that’s too slow and sweet. It’s almost mocking, with how his cock is straining against his jeans, pressing into your thigh. You dissolve into it, lowering your guard against your better judgement. Dean squeezes your ass, rubbing where he’d spanked before. Your knees are jelly, your core pressed right against his denim-clad bulge.
Jesus, he must be massive. Just the idea makes you shiver, and Dean smiles against your lips.
“You’re bein’ so patient,” he coos, massaging your hips. “You trust me, don’t you? You know I’m gonna fuck you real good.”
You hum an agreement, smiling from the praise. Dean combs his fingers through your hair, sucking on your lower lips before pulling slightly back.
“You’re ready, aren’t you? I could fuck you right now and you’d take me like I was lubed up.”
You whimper, and Dean pushes you further onto his bulge.
“You gonna let me own you, sweet girl? Let me make you the dirty fuckin’ cumslut you wanna be.”
“Deaan-“ You gasp weakly. “Don’t be mean-“
“Why?” He kisses your cheek. “You like it. You’re the one who said you wanted it, baby. And fuckin’ gush,” he runs his hand between your thighs. “Every fuckin’ time I call you my dirty little girl.”
He’s right. Your pussy clenches, arousal dripping down your thighs. Dean laughs, manhandling you to stay upright as moves fully onto the mattress and lies flat on his back. You stare at him for a second, unable to move with his hold on your hips, but unsure what to do with yourself. You’re straddling him, watching with an open mouth as he pulls off his shirt and settles fully into the pillow. His cock is pushed right against your pussy. You grind down, and he hisses.
“Not yet.” He mutters at your pout. “Need to taste that sweet pussy. C’mere.”
He beckons, and your mouth falls open when you realize what he means.
“Dean, I can’t- You’re going to suffocate-“
“Nobel death.” He grins, and you scowl.
“I don’t want you to die the first time we have sex.”
“First time?” He wiggles his brows. “You’re gonna let me come back for seconds?”
“Dean, I’m serious-“
“So am I, can we do an all you can eat kinda situation-“
“Dean Winchester.” You shove his chest, and the idiot just laughs. “I’m not- I’m not doing that. I don’t want to hurt you, that’s- I’m not-“
“Hey.” Dean grabs your hand, squeezing it gently. You meet his gaze, and it’s a million times softer than before. “It’s okay. This ain’t gonna hurt me, I swear, but if you just don’t wanna, I have a lotta other ways to make us both feel good.”
He drags his thumb over your knuckles, and you take a deep breath. You hadn’t realized it. You were about to cry again.
You peer at Dean through your lashes, and he offers you a boyish, gentle smile.
“Promise it won’t hurt you?” You whisper, and he nods.
“Swear on your life.”
You nod, slowly and carefully. Dean opens his mouth—probably about to ask if you’re sure—but you’re already crawling up his chest.
He smiles, rubbing your thighs as you settle them on either side of his head. You take a deep breath, your hands fidgeting and unsure where to rest. Dean grabs them and guides them into his hair, before kissing the inside of your thigh. Your breath hitches, and you almost collapse straight over him.
He laughs, digging his dull nails into your ass. “Sweetheart, point of this is you sitting on my face.”
“I- I am-“
“You’re hovering. That ain’t sittin’.”
“I don’t want to crush you-“
“You won’t.” He sighs, kissing the opposite thigh. “I got you, right?”
You nod. He trails the kisses upwards, close to where you’re sure you’re dripping on his beard. His eyes never leave yours.
“You trust me?” He rasps, warm breath fanning over your pussy.
“Of- Of course I trust you-“
“Good.” Dean kisses your clit, sloppy and using his tongue to flick the little button back and forth.
You almost shriek, the sensation overwhelming. You squirm, unsure if you’re trying to get closer or wiggle away. Dean makes the choice for you.
“Hold on.” He grunts, right before yanking you right down onto his face.
And oh.
Oh god.
You’ve been eaten out before. Even by people who were good at it. Who enjoyed it. You came before, and walked away with no complaints.
Compared to this, they might as well have just spat on it and walked away.
Dean eats you out like he’s on a personal mission for honor between your legs. Like he lost something in your pussy and he’s trying to shake it loose. His jaw works like he’s devouring the finest food of his life, his tongue dragging and pumping in and out of your sensitive opening. His nose is pressed right against your clit, and he moves it with his full face, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing.
“Fuuck- Fuck!” You cry out, yanking on Dean’s hair. “Dean- Oh- Oh my God-“
He moans, and the vibration makes it better and worse all at once. You’re trembling, no way to escape it, no way to feel it less. Dean massages your ass as he works, keeping you pinned to his face, to the pleasure he’s slowly dragging out of your body.
You pull his hair again, and his time he smacks your ass with his moan. Your back arches. You have to grab the bed frame to stop yourself from collapsing.
“Dean- Deeaaan-“
You chant the word like a prayer. It’s all you can remember. The infernal man below you laughs, and you push down harder into his wet, open mouth. He grunts, and doubles his efforts. His tongue traces around your pussy before shoving back into your tight cunt, and you clench around him with a whimper.
He tightens his grip on your hips, dragging them slowly back and forth. Guiding you into fucking his face. You follow his rhythm, and swear you can feel him everywhere in your body. Your nerves light up, with every stroke of his tongue and bump of his nose on your clit. Your mouth hangs open, and you pant as you try to hold off your orgasm, building up and up and up in your core.
One of his hands disappears from your body. You’re too lost in his mouth below you to notice, until you hear it.
The sound of slapping skin, mixed with Dean’s increasing moans below you. You manage to find enough of a mind to look over your shoulder, and the sight shoots straight to your pussy, gushing on Dean’s face.
He’s fisting his cock, thick and long and a little curved. He beats it into his hand, the head angry and red, coated in a thick layer of pre-cum. You twist back around looking down at his face between your thighs, and find him staring back.
He’s been staring the whole time. Eyes dark and wrecked, fixed on you as you writhed and moaned above him. He’s getting off to it. To having you like this.
Dean moans—fully, totally moans—into your pussy, his eyes never leaving yours.
And you can’t hold it off.
“Dean- I- I’m gonna-“
He squeezes your ass, moaning against your pussy again.
Permission.
You cum with a cry of his name, grinding down onto his face through your orgasm. Your vision goes white, your whole body shaking and seizing up as Dean’s tongue strokes you through it. He doesn’t stop when you’re a trembling, dazed mess above him. He slowly shifts you backwards, cradling your body as sits up, forcing your back into the sheets, between his legs.
He kisses your clit gently, eyes shining on your unfocused, glossy ones.
“Taste better than I imagined.” He murmurs, slowly moving you further up the bed. “And trust me, baby. I lost a whole lotta sleep imagining.”
You swallow, eyes darting to his still hard cock. Dean follows your hungry gaze, then laughs, angling it to rub between the lips of your pussy.
“You’re really that needy, huh.” He teases. “Not enough for just my mouth. Gotta have my cock, too.”
You hum, too lost in the feeling to even protest. You’re flat on your back, legs hiked up in the air and over Dean’s shoulder, fully exposing your poor, swollen pussy to him. He slides his cock right between the slick lips, the tip bumping your clit. You pout up at Dean, spreading your legs wider to try and urge him on. He raises his brows, pausing with his cock pressed over your clit.
“Already too fucked out to talk?”
You nod, and pride and worry mix in his eyes.
“Baby, if you need me to take it easy-“
You shake your head frantically. He promised no holding back. You want to be sore from him in the morning.
Dean sighs, lowering your legs so he can lean over your face. You glare at him, grinding your hips up against him. He pins you back to the bed with a single hand sprawled on your abdomen and a stern look.
“There’s gonna be more time for it to be rough.” He murmurs. “I been plenty mean tonight. And I love it, sweetheart, I do, but I’m gonna love anything-“
“Dean.” You push out, your voice wrecked and hoarse. “Hard. Please.”
“Are you-“
You push up on weak elbows, capturing his mouth against yours. Dean leans down, kissing you with every bit of adoration and softness he’s about to rip away for the sake of pleasure. You smile against the kiss, boneless and happy, and Dean grunts.
“Alright.” He mutters, the darkness in his voice sending a chill down your spine. “You get what you ask for, baby girl.”
Yes.
You’d say it, if he hadn’t already stolen most of the words from your body. And you thought that it was bad before.
Dean slowly shoves himself into your dripping cunt, and you can’t remember your own fucking name.
He’s big. So big you’re not sure how you’re fitting him. His hand on your abdomen pushes you deeper into the mattress, forcing you to take every thick, veiny inch of him. You whimper, and the sound gets swallowed by Dean’s lips.
“Feel that?” He hisses, tone harsh in the way that sends a thrill to your core. “Feel my cock, filling up your tight little pussy?”
You nod, mouth hanging open. Dean bottoms out with a grunt, pulling your hips roughly up to let him hit a deeper angle. You mewl, eyes rolling back at the burning, perfect stretch of him.
“That’s right.” He mutters, rutting into your wet, hot channel. “This is what you fuckin’ begged for, princess. To be a brainless little cockslut. You can’t even talk right now, can you? Just gonna lay there and look pretty while I do all the work?”
Tears prick at your eyes. You’re so full you almost don’t think you can handle it.
Dean isn’t going to give you much of a choice.
“Damn right you are.” He mutters to himself, dragging almost fully out of you before slamming back in, knocking the air from your lungs.
You sob with pleasure, reaching up to grab at his face. Dean kisses your wrist, repeating the motion with an even harsher thrust than before.
“That’s it.” He grunts, pushing over your as he finds a brutal pace. “That’s my girl. Fit me like a glove, sweetheart. Tightest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever fucked, so good for me, so fuckin’ good-“
Dean groans, crashing his lips over yours. You wrap your arms around him, holding on for dear life as he fucks stars behind your eyes and lightning through your body. If you weren’t ruined for him before, you are now. There isn’t another man in the world, who could reduce you to such a sobbing, wrecked mess while fucking you like a doll, then kiss all over your face like you’re the most important thing in the world.
He’s handling your body like it only exists for him to fuck. Grabbing your hips and breasts like they’re toys, positioning in the best way for him to hit you deeper. So deep he’s finding burning, pleasurable spots in you that you hadn’t known existed before, that make your whole body light up with pleasure. You can feel him in your throat, though every single inch of you, his muscles flexing and chest heaving and cock drilling into you until your pussy is drooling and he’s just sliding in and out.
But he kisses you like he’s a soldier being sent off to war. Rough and desperate, but loving. With all the fervor of a man who’s trying to something both of you have lost the words for. You return his every kiss, and his thrusts get sharper. Deeper.
You make sounds that are supposed to be his name. The room fills with the obscene sound of his cock, pounding into your cunt. You tip your head back and he starts to bite and suck on your throat, like he really can’t find enough of you to worship.
“Shit, baby-“ He presses his nose against your jaw, voice cracking as the bed creaks beneath you both. “Gonna- Gonna fuckin’- Where’d you want it-“
You grab his shoulders, yanking him fully down. Dean groans, doubling over and pressing his mouth back over yours.
“Come with me, sweetheart, c’mon- Milk my fuckin’ cock-“
His thumb slips between your bodies, rubbing your clit in tight, unforgiving circles. You scream silently, as your orgasm hits you like a train. Dean fucks you through it, moaning your name as he chases his own release. White hot cum paints your inner walls, and Dean fucks it back into you with rough grunts and shorter thrusts.
You think you might be floating. You’ve never been this stuffed up, this warm. All the mocking and harshness from Dean is gone, replaced by worshipful hands that caress your face and gentle kisses over every spot he played with. Neither of you seem ready to know. You know you aren’t at all, and Dean’s curled over you like a very heavy blanket.
You rub his back, smiling up at the ceiling. It’s quiet. You’d like to stay here for a while. Maybe forever.
Dean rises over you, still not pulling out. His eyes are glazed, his expression wrecked. You reach up to cup his cheek, and he leans into the touch.
“My girl.” He mutters, and even if he doesn’t say it like one, you know it’s a question.
“Your girl.” You whisper.
You’ve never seen him smile so wide, than before he leans back down to kiss you again.
And if you make him smile like that for the rest of your life, then you know you’ve done something right.
✦End note: the good thing about writing these fics is that it's fun. the bad thing is that i've set my standards WAY too high. ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦Read on a03! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦
✦summary: It's a hard life to lead, when you're in love with your roommate and bestfriend and you know you're never going to be able to have him. But when Dean asks you to be his fake-girlfriend for his brother's wedding, you start to see things you'd never seen before.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, roommate!Au, friends to lovers, angst, pining, Dean Winchester needs to talk about his feelings and get a hug, fake-relationship that's not so fake, fluff, shameless smut (oral f!receiving, dirty talk, body worship, p in v sex), no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: based on an anon request! i had so much fun with this one it's very important to me plz enjoy it thank you <3✦
The light moves, when he walks.
You noticed it the first time you met. You’d walked up to the building, shifting on your feet and peer at the buttons, and he’d elbowed right past you with a grunted apology.
“Sorry, gonna be late- Shit-“
He’d walked right into the glass.
You like to think of yourself as at least an okay person. The kind that helps someone, when they run into a door like a bird. But you’d still almost laughed, at the dazed expression on his face as he stumbled back. You’d laughed, and you’d caught his arm to steady him. It had made you falter a little bit as well, because he’d been a lot heavier than you expected—even for someone so taller—and you’d sunk your nails into his arm. His bicep had flexed under your hand.
He’d grabbed your wrist with a grunt, both of you finding footing at the same time, and looked you right in the eyes.
He’d had the prettiest eyes you’d ever seen in your damn life. His lashes might be longer than yours, the dark green almost hypnotizing, and his face-
You hadn’t known men were allowed to look like that. You’d been so sure that the face looking at you was from a dream. Full lips and strong features, a slightly crooked nose and, sharp clean-shaven jaw.
You’d blinked at him slowly. Held on a little tighter, in case this was a dream. Morning mist had bitten at your fingers, but his body had been warm. The haze of it all made it feel like a dream, and you’d leaned a little forward, but-
There had been ice under your feet. You’d slipped with a tiny yelp.
He’d grabbed you quickly. Wide eyed with an arm around your waist, pulling you a little closer. Your ankle had hurt—not a dream—and his breath had turned to fog over your face. Only a foot or so apart, something magnetic pulling you closer, something louder in your brain—call it a survival instinct—making you place a hand on his chest to stop yourself from melting into this complete stranger.
His mouth had curved into a small grin. The light had moved.
“Hi.”
“Hey.” You’d swallowed. “Are you-“
“I’m good.” He’d shrugged lazily. Still looking at you. “You?”
That had been a lie. You’d never felt anything like this, that made your heart go to your ears and your whole body sing. Light by an electric fire, sparking when his thumb brushed a small line over your waist.
He might’ve seen right through you. His smile had grown.
“You slip on ice while standing a lot?” He’d teased.
“You run into glass doors a lot?”
He’d stared at you for a second. You’d bitten your tongue. You didn’t need to be that angry, that defensive, you didn’t even know him and he probably thought you were some kind of standoffish bitch-
He’d laughed. Loud and clear, the first note of a song you’d been waiting to hear all your life. Your heart had skipped in your chest, and fallen into a beat you’d never felt before. It had felt right. He, with his arm around you and a wide smile on his face, had felt right.
Then he’d pulled back, grabbing your arms to make sure you were steady on the ground, before coughing and rubbing the back of his neck. Still smiling. Still so close.
“Guess I don’t. Was just in a rush to get inside, I think I got someone waitin’ on me- Not like that.” He’d added quickly, ears going red. “I live upstairs, and my friend moved in with her girlfriend, and my brother was crashing with his girlfriend but they found a place and now I- Never mind.” He’d shaken his head, making a face that at the time you hadn’t fully understood.
Even now, you don’t understand. He’s only ever made the face when he’s talking to you. You know, because you watch everything he does.
Just to see if he knows he has your heart. That it’s wrapped around his hands, to pull and play with however he pleases. That he grabbed it when he caught you slipping, and he’d left a depression on your body where he’d touched you so easily. Fit so perfectly. You watch him all the time, because there’s nothing better than just watching someone you love.
You hadn’t known you loved him then. You’d only known that he’d seemed nervous, and it had been sweet. That his face had been confused and adorable, even if you were able to place why.
He’d extended his hand, an almost sheepish smile on his face. “Dean Winchester. That’s- My name.”
You would’ve giggled, if you hadn’t been so busy panicking. You’d heard that name before. It was saved in your phone, along with the ad.
And when you’d said your own name, you’d seen it hit him too. You’d slip your hand into his, fingers shaking—the cold or nerves, you’re still not sure—and he’d still felt right. So right. His fingers and wrapped, safe and firm around yours, and in another life you wonder if he would’ve pulled you forward into his arms.
But you don’t live in that life. You live where he needed a roommate, and you needed a place to live, and that was more important than anything else. That wasn’t something you had the luxury to jeopardize, even for Dean.
And you know now. You’d jeopardize a lot of things for Dean.
“I think you’re supposed to be waitin’ upstairs for me.” He’d rasped, and you’d laughed weakly.
“I couldn’t get in the building.”
“Oh- Uh- Right.” He’d glanced at the doors. Still holding your hand.
You hadn’t wanted him to let go.
“At least you’re not late.” You’d said with a smile, and he’d look back to you.
His eyes had shined, and in the mist, he’d still looked like an angel. A little more solid and real, but somehow less tangible. A little further away, but right in your hands at the same time. The light had moved. He’d chuckled, and it had moved something deep in your chest. Something final, shifting where it was supposed to be, as you flushed under Dean’s gaze.
“Yeah.” He’d said. “I guess I’m not.”
You have this whole life, in your head.
It’s a habit you built when you were a kid. It’s not a good one. Enough ghosted therapist have told you that for you to know. But knowing has never been your issue.
You know a lot of things. You know yourself. You know that living where no one else can see makes you lonely, and you know that you can’t complain about the silence when you never speak. You know that every time someone asks you if there’s something going on there and you say no, it’s a lie you feel in the pit of your stomach. You know every time you hear soft laughter from his room and smell the perfume in the morning, it makes you so sick you might just vomit your guts all over the floor to see if he’ll clean them up.
But you also know Dean. And you can’t tell anymore. If that makes it better or worse.
You know him so well he might as well just be another part of you. You know what kind of shampoo and toothpaste he uses, because you buy it for him at the corner store. You know he likes hot sauce but can’t handle it as well as he claims, because you’ve watched him eat a hundred burritos with a proud smirk, only for his face to go red and his voice to get rough as he pretends he doesn’t want milk.
You know he wears boxer briefs, because you do his laundry. You know he can’t sing for shit, because you hear him in the shower. You know he’s an amazing cook, because he makes you breakfast, and lunch, and dinner.
You’ve told him he doesn’t have to do that. He always rolls his eyes, and ignores you, and you’re more grateful for it than you’ll ever be able to say.
You never want him to stop doing it. It feeds your small little world—the one you entertain at night before you sleep, the one that keeps you going when you walk into the apartment, and he’s on the couch with some random girl with a smile that’s brighter than yours and words that are softer—because they don’t get to have that part of him.
Not one girl that Dean lets into his bed—the one place in the whole damn apartment you’re not allowed to be, the one place you’d trade anything to be given just a glimpse—gets to stay until morning. They leave with a stomping feet and a slam of the door, and you hug your sheets as you hear Dean shuffle around outside your door.
He’ll sigh loud enough to be heard through the walls. The shower will run, and you’ll bury your face in a pillow, hiding the shame of your arousal from the ceiling.
You have no right, to picture him naked under the water. To imagine his broad chest and strong legs, the ripple of his muscles as he stretches to wash his hair with the shit you bought him. How he might bow his head to stare at you, if you massaged the soap into his soft, spiky hair. How close he’d be, how he might lick his lips, how his big hands would land on your hips.
How you’d sink to the floor, and run a hand up his thigh. How you’d tilt your head, pressing your cheek near his groin, how he might mutter your name and cradle your head as his chest began to rise and fall in an unsteady rhythm.
No right. You hump the sheets like some pathetic animal, and you muffle moans of his name into your sheets long after he’s back in bed, but you have no right.
You don’t know how you look him in the eyes, in the morning, but it might be something about how it’s just you. His nightly company is gone. There’s a vulnerability, in how he shuffled around in hot dog pants and presents you with breakfast.
“Pancakes.” He mutters, ears red. “You, uh- Bought all those bananas. I cooked ‘em into it. Lemme know if it’s shit.”
You hum, pulling the plate closer. “It won’t be shit, Dean-“
“Could be. One day I might lose my touch.”
“No, you won’t.” You roll your eyes, and he smirks.
“Stop back talking and eat the damn pancakes.”
“That wasn’t back talking-“
“I’m sharing my fears, and you’re being invalidating-“
“Oh, shut up, I taught you what that word means.”
“That was your mistake.” He grins, leaning over the counter. Eyes locked on yours, hair still messy from sleep.
The light moves.
“You gotta know I don’t like lessons, sweetheart.”
You flush, and look down to the pancakes. You never know what to do, when he uses that voice on you. The deep one that makes your face heat, that feels like he’s testing a line you’ve told yourself you’re not allowed to cross. It’s the voice he uses on his company, and you know it’s just teasing, but it feed your dreams. It feeds the world you know isn’t real, that he’s never allowed to see.
“You made these with banana?” You say after a long silence, your face burning. “I love banana.”
Dean coughs, and when you look up, he’s making that strange face.
“Yeah, uh- I know. I gotta go- Bathroom. Need to piss. And- Shit.”
You blink at him, and he almost takes off down the hall.
“I didn’t need to know that!” You call after him, and he shouts back.
“Yeah, but I wanted you to!”
You laugh despite yourself, and look back to the pancakes. It’s just food. He’s just cooking for you, which he does all the time, but it’s still something that’s only yours. The smallest part of Dean that you get to keep.
Food. The only part of him that’s only yours. It’s priceless to you. It’s the most important thing in the world.
Because you live in your head. And in your head, you dream about a life where he loves you back. Where every time he comes home he walks over to you and picks you up. Kisses you on the counter, then pushes you down and eats you out like you’re the only dinner he’d ever possibly need. Where when you do his laundry, he comes up behind you and kisses your neck. Mutters something about you wearing his shirt, or wishing you’d just leave everything dirty so he could have you naked all the time.
In your head, you never have to turn on the shower to cover your tears when he brings another woman home. You never have to stare at yourself in the mirror, and pick apart your every feature and expression to try and rationalize why it’s not you. Why you don’t get to have him, why he’s out there touching someone else, what they can give him that you can’t. You give him everything. You’d give him more, if he let you.
But he doesn’t. And jealousy burns. It scars. It worms its way into your heart and festers, until you’re glaring at his door and curling your fists, fighting the urge to slam on the walls when you hear a high, pitchy whine of Dean through the wall. Some nights, the jealously turns in your stomach and you find yourself over the toilet bowl, literally sick with it.
The worst part is that he’s not doing it to be cruel. To mock or taunt you. He’s just not thinking of you at all.
After about a year of living with him, something in you had snapped. He might not think of you, but all you do is think of him, and if you’re going to be suck in the lonely and violent cycle, you might as well even your own playing field.
Dean doesn’t know it, but you’ve turned it into a sick kind of game. It’s not a healthy one, or one you’re ever going to win, but winning isn’t the point.
Numbing is the point. Escaping. Being anything but a toy that doesn’t get played with, stuck on the other side of the wall and picking at your skin until it bleeds.
You start going to bars. Not the one down the street—that’s where Dean goes—but one a few streets up. It’s next to a club made of suffocating heat and too many bodies that aren’t safe—aren’t Dean—but it does just fine. Some nights you go to the bar. Some you go to the club.
But you always come home with some nameless body attached to your hip. Kissing over your throat and mumbling your name. Touching your skin in a million different ways but never leaving a single dent. You let them sleep in your bed to one up Dean, but kick them out before he’s up. You wash their hands off in the morning, because your skin burns every single place they touched.
Dean notices. He doesn’t say anything, but you know he notices. His flow of women seems to pick up, but you can’t prove it.
You stop fucking yours at the apartment. You find beds all over the city, and stumble home in the morning with mess hair and your shoes in your hand. Then you push your way through the door one morning, and find that Dean’s girl from last night-
She’s still there. Sitting at the counter drinking coffee, wearing his shirt.
“Oh, hi.” She blinks at you slowly. “Um- Dean?!”
“Yeah?” He pokes his head out from the bathroom, damp hair stuck to his brow.
His eyes find yours. They’re strangely blank. You give him a weak smile, and his nostrils flare, his mouth twitching down.
“You’re back.” He grunts. “You take the bus?”
You toss your shoes onto the mat. “I walked.”
“You walked-“
“Yeah. That’s what I said.”
Dean works his jaw, still staring at you. The girl clears her throat.
“Sorry, who are you?”
You open your mouth, but Dean beats you to the punch.
“She’s my roommate.” He mutters. His eyes tear away from yours, onto the girl. He looks her up and down, something sour in his expression that she seems to miss.
“Hm.” She gives you a look of distain that makes you feel small. “I didn’t know you lived with a girl.”
“Wasn’t something you need to know.” He runs a hand over his face, looking down to his watch. “Shit- You eaten yet?”
You and the girl both say no at the same time. She looks like she wants to murder you. You want to run back outside, but your legs are rooted in place, so you just pray the floor will open up and swallow you whole.
“I haven’t eaten yet, Deanie.” She looks back to Dean, lashes fluttering. “And you really worked up my appetite.”
There it is again. The sickness. You already drank too much, and you can barely remember last night, and you’re going to scream at the floor while all your love spills out with your bile-
“There’s a cafe down the block.” Dean shrugs. “Stop there on your way out. They got good muffins.”
The girl blinks in confusion, opening her mouth, and Dean slams the bathroom door closed. Leaving you stuck with this woman in his shirt, in your home, shattering the small sanctity you’d built up, the last thread that maybe Dean thought about you enough to keep his nights shielded from your eyes.
There’s really no reason why he would. He has no idea, that your love for him runs so deep you suddenly can’t stand to be wearing the socks the guy from last night lent you. They feel wrong on your feet. Like bricks, pulling you down, down, down.
You walk past the furious girl, not meeting her eyes. When you hear Dean out in the hall, saying something to her in a hushed voice, you slip out of your room and into the shower without a glance in their directions. You don’t vomit. You do scrub your skin so hard it burns.
And you can’t keep up the charade of just fucking around. It doesn’t do what it’s supposed to, when you just spend every night picturing Dean’s hands, Dean’s mouth, Dean’s body. When every voice is blocked out in favor of imagining Dean’s. You’re not built for whatever corner you’ve backed yourself into. It’s going to eat you alive from the inside.
When you get out of the shower, the girl is gone. Dean’s still in the kitchen, standing in front of the stove. You sit at the counter, and try not to feel too aware of the space she’d been in. Try not to wonder if he’s feeling her absence, the same way you look around the clubs and bars, glance up and down every strange hallway and street, and hope that maybe he’ll appear out of thin air and catch you when you’re not even falling at all.
Not falling in a way he can see, at least. But you are. Further and further, the wind gone from your lungs, your heart beat still drumming that same song. Dean, Dean, Dean. Not yours, not yours, not yours.
“You want pepper?” He cuts through your thoughts, and you look up at him with a frown.
“What?”
“I made eggs.” He’s not looking at you. His ears are red. “I, uh- I kinda already salted them, but- You always take them with salt. I can start over. If you don’t like it.”
You blink at him. Shake your head slowly. He cooked for you.
The space where the other girl used to be suddenly doesn’t feel like anything at all.
“Salt is good.” You whisper, and he looks over his shoulder.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” You smile at him. His mouth twitches up, and something foolish and unbreakable soars in your chest. “I’m sure.”
He stopped sleeping around.
And maybe he’s just hiding it better than before, but you choose to believe that he isn’t. That he’s home every night because he wants to spend time with you, rather than a girl he’s going to kick out in the morning.
You were friends before. You’d become friends the day he helped you move in and he made a stupid joke that you laughed at. He’d grinned so widely it made your gut flutter, and then asked what kind of movies you liked. You’d told him, and made a tradition out of watching at least one movie, every Friday night.
It was a holy night, Friday night. Even when you’d been forcing yourself into painful shapes to fit in others arms, and he’d been pulling women through the door without a glance in your direction, you’d both still honored movie night. You’d curl up under a blanket together, and switch back and forth between who chose what. Dean would hold the popcorn in his lap, and you’d allow yourself close enough to get drunk on his leather and spice smell, to absorb the feeling of his shoulder bumping yours and let it all carry you through the week.
Sometimes you’d yell at the screen together. Sometimes you’d both get quiet, genuinely entranced by the film. But you always ended up with your thighs pressed together under that blanket. Always talk after, for about an hour, before something would shift and you’d both just stare. The dark wasn’t dark enough to hide how handsome he was. The warmth of the blanket became nothing compared to the heat of your face. The heat in your stomach. The haze of the TV made you feel like you were back in that misty dream, and Dean-
He’d cough. Lean back, patting your leg awkwardly then mutter goodnight. Vanish into his room, and leave you stranded and alone on the couch. You’d touch your leg where he’d left his mark. Crawl back to your own room and bunch the sheets between your thighs, letting your mind drift into the world where he pulled you to your feet. Guided you into his room, and lain you down on his bed.
And he never does that. You know he never will. But after the river of women that had threatened to drown you, things change. One night, the movie finishes, and you talk. And talk. And talk. And the hour passes, and Dean doesn’t leave.
“What’s your favorite animal?”
You giggle, your feet up on the coffee table and body slumped down into the cushion. “What’s my favorite animal?”
“Yeah? Why, am I not allowed to ask you a fuckin’ question?”
“No, I just wasn’t expecting that question. It’s like- We’re in elementary school, and you’re asking me like a stupid ice breaker.” You roll a little onto your side, grinning up at him in the dark. “What’s your favorite color?”
You say it teasingly. He just shrugs, and holds your gaze.
“Blue.” He sounds dead serious. “Like a kinda- Watery silver blue.” He sinks lower into the couch. Closer to your side. “Big fan of brown, too. And red.” He whistles. “Love a good red. You?”
You stare at him for a second. “Me?”
“Yeah. What’s your favorite color?”
“Um- Rainbow?” You flush, looking down to your nails. “I was never able to decide.”
“On a favorite color?”
“Yeah. Didn’t want any of them to feel left out.”
Dean chuckles. “‘Course you didn’t.”
You frown up at him. “What does that mean-“
“Nothing.” He shrugs, nudging your shoulder lightly. “You owe me a favorite animal.”
“I owe you-“
“Yeah. We’re playing twenty questions, sweetheart. It’s my turn, and I wanna know your favorite animal.”
You stare at him, trying to weigh out if he’s joking. And he’s smiling down at you, so strangely soft, but still serious. This isn’t a bit. Not a joke, or a prank. He just… Really seems to want to know.
“I like cats.” You whisper, testing the waters. He sighs.
“I hate cats.”
“What?” You sit up. “Why?”
He gives you an amused look. “I’m allergic.”
“So?”
“So I don’t like things that make me stop breathing.”
You roll your eyes. “Pussy.”
He snorts. “You think I’m a pussy for not wanting to die?”
“Yeah.” You stick your tongue out at him, then squeak when he pinches your thigh. “Dean!”
He’s laughing. Only laughs louder, when he tries to go in again and you kick his hand away. You try to aim for his chest, but he catches you ankle. You scream, when he runs his fingers up your foot, and his laughter turns to wheezing when you punch him square in the diaphragm.
“Shit. I think you killed me, sweetheart.”
“You earned it.” You snap at him, and he just chuckles.
“Yeah, guess I did. Can you speak at my funeral?”
“No.”
“C’mon, it’s my dyin’ wish-“
“Make a better one.”
He laughed again, grinning up at you with such an intoxicating light in his eyes. Your bodies are closer together than you realized. Your feet still in his lap, his hand holding you ankle, his thumb rubbing small circles.
“I can’t think of a better one.” He says, still grinning at you, and you smile back.
“Good thing you’re not dying, then.”
“Yeah,” he squeezes your ankle, and you melt a little further into every single part of this moment. His eyes on yours. His touch against your skin. The pure attention, that doesn’t seem to be fleeting or clung to at all. “You’d miss me too much.”
You snort, and pretend to kick him again, but you still flush. He has no idea.
That night, you stay up until dawn. The next day, you drift through work with the stupidest smile on your face. The next night—a night that Dean would usually go out to drink, even if he’s not bringing anyone home—he makes burgers and sits across from you. Clears his throat, after only a few moments of silence.
“What’re you doin’?” He asks, and you look up with a frown.
“Reading and eating?”
He nods, tapping his finger on the table. “Reading what?”
“A… Book?”
That earns you a flat look. “What book, smartass.”
“Oh.” You flush, looking down to your kindle then back up with wide eyes. “You probably wouldn’t know it, or- Like it.”
Dean just shrugs. “Try me.”
Again. He’s not joking. So you try him. Slowly at first. Cautiously. Testing the waters, trying to feel out if he’s serious, or just trying to make conversation.
You don’t really how long you’ve been talking until Dean suddenly reaches across the table and grabs your plate, placing it on top of his empty on.
“It’s gone cold.” He explains with a shrug, moving to his feet. “Just gonna heat it up, you keep talking.”
You blink at him, but slowly resume. He keeps listening. Really listening. Nodding along and asking questions and echoing back idea, like he’s trying to prove he’s absorbing what you’re saying.
A new tradition starts. You, telling Dean in unnecessarily deep detail, exactly what you’ve been reading, every single week. It kicks off another tradition as well, because in the morning you ask him about what show he’s watching—you don’t want him to think you don’t also care what he’s up to—and instead of him just telling you, he makes you watch an episode. Right next to him on the couch.
And suddenly, every night but Friday, you watch TV together. Weekends you watching in the morning, but you but you still watch.
Saturday nights are saved for you talking about book. Sundays have their own new tradition where you get drunk together, and sit on the floor. You’re not quite sure how that one started, but you know neither of you seem willing to break it. You share a bottle of wine and stare at the ceiling, or do shots of the table and giggle like teenagers. You tell him all about your parents, he tells you about his brother. You share your dreams, he tells you about his nightmares.
You didn’t know he had nightmares. Apparently his mom’s family was kind of crazy, and his dad himself wasn’t much better. He enlisted in the marines to make his Dad proud. Got honorably discharged, after an accident that put him in a coma for a few weeks.
“You never told me that.” You murmur, staring at your shot glass. He sighs.
“Don’t tell most people. Only Sammy really knows.”
You swallow, looking up at him. There’s a golden light from the floor lamp behind him, and it’s bending around him the same way it does in a movie. When the hero stands alone on the battlefield, head high and heart strong. He’s just watching you, that same unreadable expression his face, and something a little more. Something afraid.
Afraid isn’t something Dean should be. He gets spiders for you when they sneak into the shower. He holds your hand when you freak out about horror movies, and grabbed you off the fire escape that one time you played truth or dare, and you’d been more drunk than either of you realized.
If you were a little less drunk, you might’ve been able to remember the panic in his eyes, and how loud his voice had gotten when he’d shouted your name. Might’ve been able to think about the look in his eyes when he finally pulled you back inside, and you’d collapsed in a fit of giggles in his arms, completely oblivious to the danger you’d been in. How he’d put you to bed, how tenderly he’d brushed the hair from your eyes.
How he’d kissed your brow goodnight, and held your hand when you’d grabbed his in your sleep.
But you don’t. And all you can think about is how Dean isn’t somehow who should ever have to be afraid. You reach over the table and grab his hand. Give him a small smile, and squeeze lightly.
“Thank you for telling me.”
“Of course.” He rasps. “I’d tell you anything, sweetheart.”
He means that, too. Means it so much, you think it hits your love for him like a missile, and makes it explode. Not in a way of destruction.
The same way a star explodes. The way a garden explodes. Bigger. Full of color, and life.
“You- You too,” is all you can think to say back. Dean grins, and you smile back.
You mean it. Almost. There’s one thing you’re never going to tell him. Something he’s never going to need to know.
But in that moment, holding his hand and sitting so easily in the silence, you would’ve told him. If he asked, you would’ve told him everything. But he doesn’t.
So you just keep sitting in the dark, Dean the only light you need in the world.
It hits you at the worst time. The realization. Dean’s not just the hot roommate you’re in love with anymore.
He’s your best friend.
It’s terrifying. It somehow makes everything better and worse all at the same time. He’ll be in your life for a long, long time. You can’t imagine a world without him anymore, and you think whatever gap he left when he took your heart, he’s filled up so well your body might just stop working if you ever lose him.
It solidifies what you already knew. You can never tell him, because it might make him walk away.
But one day he’s going to find someone else. They’re going to get married. Maybe have babies. They’re going to build a part of his life that you’re allowed to witness, but never be a part of. It’s going to kill you, but you quickly decide that you’ll let it if you must. You’d rather have him then loose him.
And at least this way, you can try to move on. And you really try to move on.
You download all the apps. You talk to people and get ghosted and land a few dates. You tell Dean you have a date—on a Wednesday, because the guy wanted Friday, but you couldn’t bring yourself to agree—and he stares at you like he’s never heard the word before.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Shakes his head, then makes the face. “Alright.”
You swallow. You don’t know what you wanted him to say. You know it was more than that.
“Can I share my location with you?” You ask, shifting nervously on your feet. “In case he’s like- An axe murder?”
Dean doesn’t smile. “Sure. Have fun.”
You nod, some part of you waiting for him to say more. He doesn’t. The most you get is a quick look after you change, his jaw flexing and body shifting. You offer him a nervous smile and ask if it’s good—trying to at least pretend that you’re not mostly wearing such a short dress for him to see—and he just nods. Looks back to his phone, his voice low and oddly strained.
“You look amazing.” He grunts. “He’ll have to be crazy not to like it.”
It’s all you get out of him. Not enough to really inflate into something. More than enough to take over your thoughts for the rest of night, to the point that you’re staring at the man across the table and forgetting his name, because all your brain can do is dissect what Dean meant by amazing.
He turned out to be right. The nameless man wolf whistled when he saw you. Showered you in compliments that only made you smile sheepishly, placing a hand on your lower back and cooing something suggestive you can’t even remember anymore.
You’d feel worse about how little attention you’re paying to him, if he wasn’t only talking about himself. You’d have some level of guilt, if he didn’t try to get you into his taxi at the end of the night despite having not asked a single question about your life. Daydreaming about Dean turned out to be the most effective use of your time, with how the night went.
But only this night. Because the pattern repeats. You go on a date. You try—a little hard every single time—and a handful of times, you even make it to a third or fourth date. You sleep with a few of them, two or three a few times. Once, you get far enough with a perfectly nice guy name Jake that you let him come back to your apartment.
Far enough that he meets Dean. And that’s where it all falls apart.
Every guy that doesn’t make it past the first date, it’s because you’re too lost in thoughts of Dean. If they do get that second time, it’s because you can squint at them and see him instead. The men you sleep with have builds that are similar. The ones you sleep with twice have voices.
And with Jake, you only really see it when he and Dean are standing in the same room. When he reaches out with a weary expression, and Dean takes his hand with a scowl.
“You must be Dean.” Jake says slowly, and Dean nods.
“Must be, huh.” He shrugs, his knuckles white. “Wish I could say I knew who you were, buddy, but I got no damn clue.”
You want to sink into the floor or jump out the window, because it’s so painfully obvious. With Jake. With Michael, after Jake leaves. With Shawn, after Michael gives up.
Then again, when Shawn—a little slower than the other two—sees it as well.
“Is there… Something with you and Dean.”
“No.” You mutter, not convincing yourself. “We’re just close friends.”
“Really?”
“Mhm.”
Shawn says your name, and you hug your legs to your chest. You know what’s coming. You’ve even started hearing it from people who only make it to the third date, when you talk about him too much. From that one guy with a voice that was a little too close, who had to deal with you moaning the wrong name.
“Yeah?”
Shawn is a little slow. He doesn’t get it on the nose, but he’s more than close enough.
“You know, you might not see it, but- You and Dean… I don’t like it.”
“Why? We’re just-“
“I swear to god, don’t say friends.” Shawn snaps. “You never look at me the way you look at him! Never smile at me, never listen- You hang out with him more than me, you cancel dates because he asked you to, you just let him toss you around like you’re a toy-“
Your head snaps up, voice going cold. “Don’t talk about him like that.”
Shawn scoffs. “Come on. You have to hear yourself-“
“He’s my friend-“
“I’m sure you think that.” Shawn spits. “But I know. Dean knows. Everyone knows you’re just his bitch.”
You leave. Stand up, and march out the door. When Shawn tries to follow you, you flip him off and tell him that if he ever speaks to you again, you’re going to call the police.
He scoffs. “Or you’re just going to sic Dean on me. That fucking asshole will probably do whatever you ask, like a fucking dog.”
You punch him, and run. You’re not sure if he’ll chase. You don’t want to find out. Once you’re a few blocks away, you call Dean. He told you to call him, if you ever needed a ride home. You’ve never taken him up on it, because after that morning with the girl, there had been a rotting fear of him seeing you like that again.
But it’s dark. And you’re cold, and tired. He said he didn’t want you walking home alone.
He picks up after two rings. Doesn’t ask questions, when you tell him where you are or when he pulls up to the curb.
He brought a blanket and ice cream. You wrap yourself in it, and give him a weak smile as you slide into the Impala. Your eyes are heavy, your eyes red and fingers shaking, but Dean only looks you up and down, and mutters one soft question.
“You okay?”
You nod, and pull the blanket a little tighter. You are now. He’s here.
And some small part of it feels good. Shawn was the first guy in a while that you got to break up with.
All the others left because they realized they were just faded, poorly done copies of Dean. Right down to the flannel and voice. Right down to everything but Dean’s irreparable, impossible smile. Right down to everything but his light.
“You want me to beat him up?” He asks while you’re stuck at a red light.
You laugh weakly, and shake your head. “No. Thank you, though.”
“Anytime.”
There’s a long silence, but it doesn’t ache. Doesn’t feel anything but peaceful. Anything but safe. You keep eating your ice cream. You offer Dean a bite, and he takes it with a small grin. He turns up the music just enough and looks to you for approval on the song. You offer it with a smile.
Your head slowly drops onto his shoulder. He tenses but doesn’t move away. After a second, his hand finds your knee. Stays there.
You let out a long, heavy breath. And you know. You’re not going to be able to move on.
“I need a favor.”
You look up from your cereal with a frown, the spoon already in your mouth. “Huh?”
A little milk dribbles down your chin and you scramble to wipe it, face burning with embarrassment. Dean watches with a smirk, raising his brow when your eyes meet, and your hand slips. The spoon falls into the bowl, splashing over your face. More cereal escapes your mouth, and you whine like a child, trying to wipe with your hands.
“Son of a- Jesus, woman.” Dean passes you a napkin, shit-eating grin on his face. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
“I’m not trying to.” You grumble, wiping your shirt. “And no being mean, you said you needed a favor.”
“Well, I’m rethinking it now-“
“Dean.”
He just grins under your glare. Leans forward and laughs like you’re not actively planning his murder.
“You still got something.” He points to your chin, and you stick your tongue out at him as you dab it. He snorts. “You know I’m helping you, right?”
“Fuck you.”
“Not with milk on your face- Fuck-“
His hand had slipped. Landed right in your bowl, sending it flying right at his face. You burst out laughing as he’s drenched in milk and soggy cereal, a sour expression on his face that’s a little less effective than he probably wants it to be. You can see him fighting the smile.
“Shit.” He groans, running a hand down his face then flinching when he sees the damage on his hand. “Goddammit, this shit is gonna take forever to get out-“
“It’ll be fine.” You push to your feet with a shrug. “Come on, I can wash it.”
You start down the hall, and don’t realize that Dean isn’t following until you’re at the bathroom door. You look back, and he’s just standing in the kitchen. Mouth in a tight line, milk dripping from his hair, eyes wide.
You frown. “Dean, come on. The longer you let it sit the worse it’s going to be.”
You wave him forward, and it’s like you tugged on an invisible rope. He stumbles forward, hands dropping awkwardly to his side, and follows you with an oddly nervous expression. You’re not sure what’s going on with him. It’s just a bathroom.
“Sit.” You point to the floor next to the tub. “Put your head back, and take off your shirt. I’ll wash it later.”
Dean nods, giving you that strange look before pulling his shirt slowly over his head. He drops it on the closed toilet lid and lowers himself to the floor just as you asked. You kneel at his side, turning on the shower with a sigh. You have shampoo, and a removable shower head. This really shouldn’t be that hard.
It only hit you when you look back to him. What a massive mistake you made.
Dean’s shirtless. Close enough that, if you just stretched your fingers, you’d be able to touch his chest. His skin, smooth and soft looking. The muscles that shift as he breathes heavily. When your eyes lock onto his, you almost gulp.
He’s staring at you under hooded eyes. His jaw is clenched, his arms stiff at his side. Waiting for you to touch him. Clean him up. You’re supposed to be cleaning him up.
You take a deep breath, and force your body to move. You wipe the milk off his face while the water gets warm. Rinse his hair, then steel yourself as you rub in the shampoo. It’s so painfully close. So intimate. You feel like you’re invading on yourself. Like you’re doing something so strangely dirty, just by washing his hair. You’d been right, every time you dreamt about it. It is soft. When your fingers brush against his scalp, his whole body shudders, then relaxes. When you repeat the motion, his hands flex.
You can’t keep looking at his body. It’s dangerous. You clear your throat, and try to think of anything else to say.
“What’s the favor?” You mumble, and Dean grunts.
“It’s- Uh- Nothing. Never mind.”
You pause, fingers stilling in his hair. “Dean. What’s the favor.”
“I said never mind-“
“Dean Winchester.”
He sighs, long and labored. Opens his eyes just enough to examine you through his eyelashes, then closes them again. “You can’t get pissed. If you don’t wanna do it, just- Say no. And we’ll forget it. Okay?”
You bite your lower lip, but nod. “Oh- Okay.”
“So.” He coughs. “Y’know how Sammy’s gettin’ married?”
“Mhm.” You focus on his hair, even as your fingers start to shake for no reason at all. He’d called you after his trip to California to help Sam with the ring. Excitedly shown you all the photos after the proposal. You’d been thrilled for him, then sat in this very same tub for an hour, trying not to cry about how that was never going to be you and him. “You want me to water the flowers?”
He chuckles softly. “Not exactly. And those are your flowers, sweetheart.”
“You bought them.”
“‘Cause you were sad about not gettin’ a cat, and- Never mind.” He takes a deep breath. “My thing is- it’s next month. The wedding. I gotta go home for it. And, uh- I was wondering. Just- A thought. Nothin’ you gotta commit to right now, but- Thought I’d ask, even if you didn’t wanna-“
“Dean.” You snap him gently out of the rambling, and he coughs.
“Right. Sorry. Just- Here’s the deal.”
He takes a deep breath, and you stop massaging his hair. He looks so painfully tensed, his whole body seized up, his pretty lips in a tight pout. He’s dragged his eyes open again, and they’re fixed so nervously on yours. He’s grabbed your knee with one hand. Like he’s worried you’re going to kick him, or run away.
“My whole family’s gonna be there.” He mutters, searching over your face with every word. “They’ll all be on my ass, about Sammy already settling, and me- Not doin’ that.” He coughs. The red from his ears spreads over his cheeks. “And I just figured, if they thought I was gonna settle, maybe… The whole thing would be easier. For everyone.”
You stare at him, the words slowly falling into place in your head. It takes a moment. His hand squeezes on your knee, and it almost knocks them into you. Forces all the meaning into place.
Your mouth falls open. “Are you asking me to-“
“Yeah. But- Only if you want to.” He gives you a small, boyish grin. “But I’d owe you. Big time. Like- I’d pay the whole rent for two months big time.”
You shake your head. “Dean, don’t-“
“I’m serious, I really need this-“
“I know but, that’s so much money, and-“ You sigh, brow furrowing in a tight line. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to do… that.”
He squeezes your knee again. “We’d figure it out. Together.” Another charming smile. “How about one favor. Whatever you want. No questions, no expiration. You could use it to get a cat.”
You laugh weakly, and he squeezes your knee again. He’s giving you almost puppy-like pleading eyes. You don’t know how you’re going to say no, but-
All you want is him. A cat would be nice, but all you’ve craved, for so so long, is Dean. And that might be limit of his favor. A limit that might outweigh the toll it comes with. Pretending to be Dean’s girlfriend, for a week, with his family. Having everything you want, and making it all play. All a lie. All fake.
“Why me?” You ask softly, looking back to his hair. It’s filled with suds. You should probably start washing it soon. “I mean, there’s Charlie. Or- An actress, or Pam from work, she’s nice-“
“My mom already knows you.” Dean cuts you off with low words. “Easier sell, than some random chick she’s never heard of.”
A lump forms in your throat. “Your mom knows me?”
“Yeah. I talk about you.”
You flush. It’s an impressive feat, the way you manage to force your voice into something teasing instead of confused and hopeful.
“Aw, you love me-“
“Shut up.” He grunts, pinching your knee in the spot he knows makes you squeal.
“Dean-“
“Sorry.” He grins up at you, and he doesn’t sound it. Stupid, perfect asshole. “But- Please, sweetheart. Please. One favor. Anything.”
You really shouldn’t agree. You shouldn’t. It’s going to back fire. The love that’s been gnawing at you since that day on the ice is going to finally grow sharp enough to eat you alive.
But he said please.
“Okay.” You mutter, and he grins.
You can’t find it in you, to regret agreeing. It made Dean smile.
“I hate this.” He mutters. He hasn’t sat down since you got through security. You’re a little worried he’s going to give himself an aneurysm. “I really fuckin’ hate this, I- We should go back. Baby’s still in the lot, if we leave now we’ll make it-“
“Dean.” You catch his hand, giving him a firm look. “We already paid.”
“Fuck- What if we call a bomb threat, they might give us a refund-“
“Or we’ll get arrested. For domestic terrorism.” You squeeze his hand gently. Offer him a soft smile. “Just sit down. We’re not even on the plane yet, you’ll have plenty of time to freak out later.”
Dean works his jaw. Looks longingly down the terminal, then back to you. Sighs, and sits with a grunt. You smile, rubbing his back as he glares at the floor. To any outsider, it probably looks like you are dating.
It should. You’ve been practicing.
“I’m not freakin’ out.” He grumbles, and you smile affectionately.
“Okay.”
He scowls. “I’m not.”
“I said okay.” You hold his glower with a smile. He stares at you—and you could swear his eyes flick to your lips, but you might just be going insane—and slumps down into the seat.
“I hate this.”
“I know, De.” You move your hand to his hair, running your finger through it gently. Just like you did in the bathroom.
Like he’s been letting yourself do, since you agreed to the fake dating thing. He’s called it training. You touch each other more, you call him De and he calls you baby. You sit closer—although it may just be as close as before, only now you’re allowed to dive right into it instead of inching towards him on the couch—and share food. You’d nailed down a backstory. Negotiated all the small details of your fake relationship, that’s a little too close to the truth for comfort.
But still not real. In moments like this, when you’re touching him causally and he’s leaning into it, where you’re in the noise of the airport but it still feels like only you and Dean in the world, you have to remember that it’s fake.
“You’re gonna be okay.” You offer, and he snorts.
“We’re gonna die.”
“No, we’re not. It’s only a five-hour flight, the worst thing that will happen is they won’t offer any meals.”
He laughs, but it’s hollow. He’s pacing and playing grumpy, but he’s afraid. You know he’s afraid. He’d never stood as close to you, as when you were going through security. You’d never seen him so nervous as when you were driving to the airport. You don’t think he even slept last night.
You’re worried about him. Worried he had one of those nightmares he won’t talk about, worried he’s going to fall over, worried he might actually run. You hook your arm through his, when they start calling boarding. Anchor yourself against him, when you’re the last two people left at the gate, and you have to get on the plane.
It would be cute how jumpy he was, if you weren’t this worried. You’d tease him if he didn’t stumble down the walkway and freeze when he saw the plane door.
You know you had to fly. Baby needed extra work after a bad storm that messed with her tires, and Dean had been so swamped at work he hadn’t gotten the chance. He’d been ready to just push her, until you did the math and realized that—even with the earliest you could leave—you’d only get there on Sam’s wedding day and get home after both your time off periods had finished. If he wanted this to work, he was going to have to fly.
“Why couldn’t they just get married in Kansas.” He whines, and you smile. Buckle him in like he’s a toddler, because he’s shaking too much to do it himself.
“They don’t live in Kansas. And it’s like- Freezing there right now.”
“So? Winter weddings, those can work. Could’ve done, like- Snow photos- Fuck-“
He shoots up, when the plane starts moving. You sigh, and tug him back down by the collar of his shirt.
“We’re just going to the runway. It’s fine. We’re fine.” You pause, then take his hand.
Really, fully, take his hand. Fingers woven together, palms pressed flat. He pulls on you slightly, tugging your hand with his up over his heart. You give him a soft smile, and he just blinks at you frantically.
“It’s okay.” You keep your voice gentle, and his throat bobs. “You’re okay.”
He doesn’t look convinced. His breathing stays shallow. But at the very least, he stops trying to convince you to get off the plane.
You settle in, watching him with a little too much open affection on your face. The sweet old lady in the aisle seat leans over, and asks if your boyfriend needs medical attention. You laugh, and tell her he’s okay.
If Dean hears it in your voice—how much you adore him—he doesn’t say anything. You’re pretty sure he’s too focused on his panic to hear anything at all.
He hums Metallica, through the whole take off. Grips your hand so tight you stop feeling your fingers, but you don’t complain. It seems to help. You make it to the air, and he’s still conscious.
He does make the mistake of looking out the window. You watch the blood drain from his face, and quickly grab it between your hands.
“We’re gonna switch seats.” You say firmly, and he blinks. Nods, clinging to your wrist like it’s the only thing tethering him from a complete panic attack.
You shuffle around, and somehow manage to switch without Dean ever letting go of your body. You hit a bit of turbulence, and he looks like he wants to punch something. Stares around the plane with glazed over, almost rabid eyes. Looks at you so desperately, it almost breaks your heart.
Your body moves before your brain can think better. You grab Dean’s head again, and drag it down against your chest. He pauses. You hold your breath, ready for him to push you away and tell that you took it too far.
Instead, his arms shoot around your torso. His face turns to press into your breasts, and he melts into your hold. You swallow. You really hope he can’t hear your heart. How it’s about to beat out of you and into him. Where it knows it belonged.
“Can you...” Dean speaks into you, the sound rolling through your ribs. “Just- Talk? Please? ‘Bout anything, but- Please.”
“Yeah. I- Yeah.” You take a deep breath, and your fingers start to comb through his hair. He shudders, holds you tighter.
And you talk. About anything. About the book you’d been reading, about some random drama at work, about how you’ve been studying his family in preparation to meet them. Studying the flashcards he made you and employing… other methods.
“I stalked your mom on Facebook.” You say sheepishly, face heating. “I followed her bread blog, too. And- I looked up how to knit, I know she’s into that. I can make a hat now. It’s a shit hat, but I can do it. She follows a birdwatching account, too, so I learned some birds. And- That soup kitchen she volunteers with. That’s cool.” You swallow. You sound insane. “She seems really nice.”
“She is nice.” Dean mumbles. It the first thing he’s said in two hours. “She’s gonna love you.”
“I hope so.”
“She will.” He snuggles further into your body. His fingers have been digging into your hips, and they might leave bruises. You don’t mind.
“She’ll love you.” Dean repeats, his words soft. “Everyone says she’s a lot like me.”
For a second, you just nod, still petting his head. Then you hear what he actually said, and your heart does an Olympic level flip.
“What?” You squeak, looking down with wide eyes. He doesn’t respond. “Dean, what does that-“
A snore rumbles from his chest. The lack of sleep from last night caught up with him. He’s out cold.
You sigh. Resume your petting, even if it’s really more for you now. The old lady leans over, giving a kind small and keeping her voice down.
“You two are a lovely couple.” She whispers. “And I must say, it’s wonderful to see a man who adores his lady as much as this one adores you.”
And you smile in return, even as tears burn behind your eyes.
“Thanks. He’s-“ You sigh, and smile down at Dean. Dead to the world, and so painfully perfect. “He’s the best.”
It’s another two hours, to get up to the ranch Sam and Jess are renting for the wedding. The moment Dean gets behind the wheel he relaxes, grinning widely and leaning back in the seat. You smile out the window, and hide your flush when his hand finds your thigh.
“It’ll be late when we get there.” He says. His thumb is drawing circles into your skin. “We’ll have time to change, but-“ He sighs. “We’re gonna have to fuckin’ run to dinner. My Dad will shoot us if we’re late.”
You huff a small laugh, just for Dean’s sake. You don’t think he’s joking.
And as happy as it made you to see his relief when you landed safely, as high as it felt to hold his hand while you walked to baggage, and how good it felt to have him keep an arm around you while you grabbed the rental car, it makes you feel sick to watch him slowly curl into himself, the closer and closer you get to the ranch.
To seeing his family. To seeing his dad.
Anything you know about John Winchester is what Dean’s told you. None of it has made you his biggest fan. Not the military shit, not the strictness or casual stories he’s thrown out about John threatening to kick him out, and only Mary being able to talk him out of it.
But you know Dean admires his Dad. Know how important family is to him in general.
You’re important to him too. Even if he doesn’t love you, you know you’re important to Dean. Important enough for him to stand so close and ask you for such intimate favors.
Probably not close enough to trump his dad.
So you don’t say anything, as you watch him get restless. Don’t mention that his leg is bouncing, or how he keeps looking over his shoulder when you pull into the parking lot. Dean grabs your arm and drags you inside, looking at his watch every few seconds with a paler and paler face. You’d gotten stuck in traffic, which wasn’t his fault at all, but you don’t think it’s smart to say that either.
“Dean.” You say gently when you get to the room. He’s still holding your hand. “I have to go get changed.”
“Uh- Yeah.” He blinks at you, eyes dragging over your body. You press your thighs together, heat blooming from the attention. By a small miracle, he doesn’t seem to notice at all.
“My hand.” You prompt him gently, and for a second he looks like he really doesn’t understand what you’re saying. “Dean, I can’t change if you’re-“
“Shit. Right.” He lets you go, stumbling back like you burned him. “Sorry. Just- Can you be fast-“
“Five minutes. Promise.”
And you don’t know how you keep that promise—doing your hair, basic makeup, making yourself presentable and nice because it might be fake but it still matters—but you do. You come out to find Dean sitting on the edge of the bed, cleaned up pretty well himself, leg bouncing as he stares at his phone.
Bed. Single bed. Fuck.
Dean looks up, and his throat bobs. “Awesome. You ready?”
You nod, and hold out a hand. It’s a small gesture that’s too quickly becoming an instinct. Even worse is how fast Dean takes your hand. Like he’s not really thinking about it either.
He doesn’t seem to the be thinking about any of this. It’s coming like air to him, how he’s walking you down to the hotel restaurant, standing taller and taller with every step. He keeps you close, so close there’s no way to read it but romantic. When you arrive, he scans over the room with an alert expression, keeping you a little behind him. You see the moment he finds his family.
He smiles, squares his shoulders, and lets out a heavy breath. You see a blonde woman with his eyes and smile stand up from a table on the far side of the room, and—when you dare to lean a little further over Dean’s shoulder—a man grabbing her arm. A man who looks so similar to Dean—hair a little darker, face a little more worn but still remarkably similar—but doesn’t have his smile at all. You’re not sure this man knows how to smile. It feels like it would be wrong on his face.
“Showtime.” Dean mutters, squeezing your hand, and before you can damn this all and run—not real, but too real, and there’s a ringing starting in your ears—he kisses the top of your head and drags you forward.
You think he drugged you that. That that single kiss did something to your mind and body, because suddenly you’re stumbling after him and everything is all a fever dream.
Dean’s hugging his Mom. Exchanging a tight nod and awkward shoulder clap with his dad—who, at the very least, grabs Dean’s arm and nods back—before turning to the impossibly taller man next to the empty seats, and shouting Sammy so loud some of the glasses seem to shake. Sam stands—you’ve never seen him in person, he’s somehow even taller than you thought—and drags Dean into tight hug, muttering something that makes Dean laugh. You smile, because it’s impossible not to when he seems this happy.
Then Dean looks at you, smiling himself, and the world slows to a beautiful stop. Just you and Dean, the glow of the chandelier light, and the way it bends around him. Makes him look more hero than man again. Makes him look like a spirit from a grove, wandering out of the shadows to carry you into the river.
Your smile widens. Dean’s reflects it, and maybe he’s just a siren sent to enchant you beyond reason. It’s working. And if you’re drowning right now, he’s already filled your lungs with his scent, his touch, his affection. The whole universe, in this split second, is just the chime of glass and Dean.
But the world speeds up again. He says your name, holding out a hand, and time rushes back into place.
They’re all looking at you. Staring. The ground is slipping out from under your feet, and you feel over and underdressed at the same time, and-
“Baby,” Dean prompts softly, and you blink up at him with wide eyes. You don’t know when he got back to your side, but if he leaves it again, you’re going to stab him. “Say hi.”
You look back to his family, and throw on your best smile. “Hi.”
Mary’s face breaks into a smile, wide and warm, and before you know what’s happening you’re being swept up off the goddamn ground.
“Oh, it’s wonderful to meet you.” She says. “Dean’s told me so much, and- You’re even more gorgeous than he made you sound, which is really a high bar.”
“Mom.” Dean hisses, and Sam snorts. You barely even hear. You’re too busy staring at Mary.
She’s touching your arms and face like a blind woman trying to memorize something you can’t see. She’s examine you almost like a slab of meat, and all you can do is stand there and wait for her to conclude. Her voice had a quaintly to it that’s so similar to Dean’s you almost laughed. It’s musical, but in the way of a battle cry. Has a rhythm, but more like war drum.
And looking into her eyes, you can see why people say she and Dean are similar. There’s a stubborn fire that you know too well. A little less playfulness, but not none. You know Dean said she had a hard life, before she met John. You wonder if she has nightmares too.
“Hey, woah-“ Dean pulls you back as Mary tries to turn your head. “That’s enough. Don’t scare her off.”
“Yeah, I think that’s your job, Dad.” Sam drawls, and the beautiful blonde woman next to him elbows his gut. “Ow, Jess-“
“Don’t argue with your future wife, Samuel.” John grunts. His voice is deeper like Dean’s. But apart from that, there’s nothing the same. “Don’t make that mistake this early.”
“Yeah, Samuel.” Jess smirks, and Sam bows his head like a scolded dog.
This whole family might just have the most dangerous puppy eyes you’ve ever seen. You know Mary has them, when she convinces John to switch seats so she can be next to you and Dean. You’re not sure John would be capable of them—he’s got more of a glint like a hound dog, that you’ve only ever seen on Dean when he’s angry—but Sam’s seem to be perfected to the point that he mumbles an apology to Jess, and immediately gets a smile and sweet touch of his face.
And suddenly, this feels so wrong. You’re a liar. You’re an intrusive, foreign liar, weaving into their ranks and masquerading, because they all seem to love each other—even John, mostly silent but still smiling at Mary every few moments—and you’re just some girl-
“So.” Mary blinks at you, and you might not be breathing anymore. “Dean says you’ve been dating for how long? Six months?”
“Um- I- I- Yeah.” You take a ragged gasp for air, and your hand grabs at the tablecloth. Trying to find something that will keep you together, something to either hold you down to get you through this or pull you away into space-
Dean catches your hand. Holds it tight. You look over, and he offers you a tiny smile. You swallow, then smile back. He nods—mostly to himself—then turns back to the table.
“Don’t interrogate her, Mom. She spent the whole day dealing with me on the plane, she’s exhausted.”
“The plane?!” Sam’s mouth falls open. “I- I thought you were joking about Dean, Jesus, you actually flew?”
“It’s just walking then sitting, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is awful lofty for someone who looked like he was going to piss himself all day. “It ain’t nothing to be dramatic about.”
Sam looks to you. “Did he piss himself again?”
“Sam-“
“No.” You say loyally. “He was fine. Only tried to run away from me twice.”
Sam laughs, and Dean reaches over you to hit his chest. Pauses when he leans back to brush his fingers over your cheek. Tuck some hair behind your ear. You swallow, and smile up at him again. Your lashes flutter, your hand moving of its own accord to adjust the cuff of his sleeve.
You didn’t know you were capable, of getting this shy and nervous just from someone looking at you. Didn’t know, until you met Dean.
But he makes you do crazy things. Things like pretending to be his girlfriend, and wanting to kiss him in front of his family. Like your mouth parting in a public place, your body leaning forward as your legs shift.
Dean sees it this time. His eyes dart down and flash with shock, but his grip on your chin only tightens. It’s all fake. You must just be going insane-
Sam coughs loudly, and you and Dean break apart. Whatever that little show was, it seems enough to quell his family. Mary smiles at you, Sam grumbles something about trying to eat, and John stares at you in a way you’re really trying not to think about too hard. Something prickles over your skin, and you have a horrible feeling that he can see right through you.
But he doesn’t say anything. Dean starts to talk with his Mom and Jess about wedding decorations and choices, and he has a lot more opinions than you thought he would. You listen with a hopelessly dreamy smile that Dean seems too absorbed in his wedding talk to see, and almost jump out of your skin when Sam says your name.
“Sorry.” He smiles at you gently. “Just wanted to ask- Dean says you’re a teacher?”
“I, um-“ You take a slightly shaking breath, then nod. “Yeah. I am. But it’s only Kindergarten-“
“Only Kindergarten.” Dean snorts, and you blink at him. “She’s being humble. They adore her. Last spring they did this secret appreciation thing, where they all drew her and wrote her card. Pictures weren’t shit. I put one on our fridge.”
The table falls silent, and Dean takes a large bite of his spaghetti, completely oblivious to the bomb he’d just dropped.
Sam knew you lived together. You’re pretty sure Sam knows about the whole charade, because he’d met you a while ago over the phone as Dean’s roommate and friend. But Dean told you that his mom just thought you were friends. That he’d been avoiding the roommate thing, just because she’d assume you were dating if you lived together.
In your cover story, you don’t live together. But he just said the truth. And like the handsome fucking dumbass that he is, he’s just eating his spaghetti.
“Our fridge?” Mary echoes. “Do you… Live together?”
You almost laugh at the expression on Dean’s face as he chokes on the spaghetti. “We, uh- I- Mom, we’ve been-“
“We moved in together like a month ago.” You take a small amount of mercy on him, grabbing your napkin and reaching up to dab at the sauce on his face. You use it as an excuse to give him a death glare. Let me handle this.
He nods, expression still panicked, and you turn back to Mary with a soft grin.
“He was going to tell you later, but I guess he got excited. It’s just still new enough, we wanted to be sure.”
Mary nods slowly, looking suspiciously between you and Dean, and you sit a little taller. She’s a lot more intimidating than John. You won’t cave. Not when you’ve already come this far.
“I was wondering, how did you guys meet?” Jess asks causally, poking at her own plate. “Sam hasn’t actually told me.”
You peer at her, because you’re pretty sure that’s a lie. Dean says Sam tells her everything, and that it’s really freakin’ annoying. But she’s smiling at you so innocently, and… You think she’s giving you a way out.
Dean beats you to taking it. He clears his throat and sits up taller, like he’s ready and proud to tell the story you’d agreed on. You were at a bar. He walked over, and tried to hit on you, you turned him down.
“But you were already soooo in love with me,” he’d said while you brainstormed, his words slurred from drinking. “And you were obsessed with me, and you kept tryin’ to make me notice you again until you gave up, and just knocked on my door. Confessed your love in the rain-“
“I can’t knock on your door and be in the rain at the same time, De.”
“Well, then you were wet from the rain.” He’d winked. “Then I told you I’d been secretly in love with you the whole damn time, and I made you wet in other places-“
You’d thrown a pillow at his face, half because of the stupid joke, and half because he was citing straight from your dream world. Where he’d done that exact thing, in at least fifty different variations.
“Why didn’t you just chase me, if you started by hitting on me.” You’d sprawled on the floor, Dean sitting over you, and poked holed. The story needed to be perfect.
He’d shrugged. “’Cause maybe I’m a good guy, sweetheart. And I took your no to mean no.”
“Ah. The lowest bar.”
He’d rolled his eyes, and you’d smiled sweetly.
For a second, you’d just stared at each other. When he’d spoken again, his voice had lost its edge.
“What if I was just in love with you. We became real friends after you kicked my ass at pool, and you’d been seein’ other people, so I backed off, then I showed up in the rain and did the confession.”
“I’m bad at pool.” You’d whispered. He’s smiled.
“Then we just won’t let you play, sweetheart.”
You’d nodded. It was all you could think to do. It had been a good story. You’d workshopped it when you were sober, and now it was almost flawless.
That’s the story you were supposed to tell Dean’s family. It’s not the story Dean says.
“I was running around in a parking lot,” he drawls, reaching his arm around the back of your chair. “Looking for someone, not paying attention to where the hell I was going. Ran right into her, then ran into the fuckin’ door. I hadn’t stopped to apologize, but she helped me anyway. Then she slipped, I helped her. She was grabbing my arms and all mouthy, but the prettiest damn thing I’d ever seen, and I was still late but I couldn’t move my damn feet.” He smiles down at you. “Realized I’d found what I was looking for. Just ended up takin’ me a few years to ask to have it.”
You stare at him, your heartbeat in your ears. It’s real. Too real. It’s a better lie than you came up with, but you don’t know why he would possibly choose that over your agreed upon backstory. Why he would remember it in such great detail, when it was so long ago.
You remember it. Of course you remember it. You love him, and you’d spent countless nights imagining what if. What if you hadn’t been there for the roommate interview, and he’d asked you for coffee. What if you’d been braver and taken the moment, told him you didn’t care about the complications, and asked him out. What if Dean had decided the moment was worth holding onto, and tossed aside safety and the. chance of a roommate to bring you to dinner. What if you ended up moving in anyway a while down the line because one of you had stood up and decided that it was worth the risk.
There’s some small chance that it was only you who felt something, in that moment. When you’d grabbed him and snapped, and he’d taken a chance on you out of desperation.
But what if he did feel it too. And it faded when you moved in, but he’d felt it.
What if it hadn’t faded. Why does he remember.
Not real. You have to remember it’s not real, but Dean’s still smiling at you. His arm is draped around, his fingers lingering on your upper arm in such a sweet, casual gesture of possession that isn’t real, but sure fucking feels it-
“And you’re a teacher.” John cuts through your thoughts, and you rip your gaze away from Dean to find him examining you again.
You flush, but force your voice to stay even and strong. “Yes, sir.”
“Hm.” John narrows his eyes, and Dean’s grip tightens on your shoulder.
“Dad, c’mon-“
“I’m not sayin’ anything.” John grunts. “Just thinkin’. Teaching doesn’t pay much, does it.”
“No, but- I’m lucky. And I get- Donations.” Your fingers are pulling at your cloth napkin. “Sometimes families give me things for holidays, and- Once a girl made me a stuffed bear-“
“A six year old made you a stuffed bear.” John says, obviously unimpressed, and you swallow.
“She was five. Her mom helped, and- It came with chocolates.”
“So you’re plannin’ to live off stuffed bears and chocolates for the rest of your damn life?”
“Dad.” Dean snaps, and you don’t know when he grabbed your hand, but you’re squeezing it tight.
This isn’t real. You’re not Dean’s actual girlfriend, you don’t need to impress his parents, but- You do. It’s an itch over your skin that refused to be scratched, you need to impress John and Mary, they need to buy what you’re selling, they need to like you enough that you’re not just driving yourself insane dreaming of a life with Dean, that you’re watering your own secret little garden and can tell yourself that maybe if it was different, you might actually have something.
But John doesn’t look impressed. He just looks bored. “You work hard, son. I’m trying to make sure she’s got a bigger plan than just donations and low pay you’re gonna have to support-“
“You helped support Mom when we were kids.” Dean holds John’s glare, and Sam coughs. You focus your energy on the food in front of you. It’s an odd, washed-out shade of black, but that might just be your vision clouding.
“Dean,” Mary says gently. “I was raising children, and- Your father is just trying to be careful-“
“Careful of what, that someone’s gonna steal my million dollar salaries.”
Sam snorts at that, Jess elbows him again, and John just shrugs.
“You get paid well for the shit you do. Relationships need to be balanced, look at Sam and Jess, lawyer and doctor-“
“Pre-med.” Jess mumbled, and Sam gave her a tight smile before glaring at John.
“Dad, don’t use us for this.”
John rolls his eyes. “Fine. But my point is, Dean, it can’t be one-sided. I won’t let you fall into something where you’re doin’ all the work, people are always gonna have cars that need fixin’-“
“People are always going to have kids that need teaching.” Dean raises his chin, and you blink at him. “And yeah, I get paid well, but until she showed up I’d been balling up all my laundry and didn’t know who Robert Moses was, so I think we’re doing fine.”
The table falls silent, and you keep staring at your plate. Your head feels a little light. You’re not his real girlfriend. He didn’t need to defend you. Your eyes are watering and your mouth is dry, but they’re never going to see you again after this weekend, so it really doesn’t matter-
“It’s a noble profession.” Mary murmurs, her hand landing over John’s. “I still remember the boy’s kindergarten teachers. They were good women. One of them just had her fourth child and got something published in one of those big magazines, and- You remember Miss Garrity, Sam?”
Sam nods, his mouth full of ravioli, and Mary smiles.
“Her eldest just had their first. And I heard she was honored with an award last summer.” Her smile turns to you. “There’s a good life, in teaching. Right, John?”
John grunts. You don’t think he’s going to argue, but he doesn’t seem thrilled by any of this.
Mary nods in approval. “And it’s good how much you’re making, Dean. Just like me and Dad, when she needs to take time off for your children, you’ll be able to keep everything stable-“
“Who wants dessert?!” Sam shouts, loud enough to make you jump, and Dean presses your still intertwined hands down into your lap. Just managing to keep you from jolting the table.
You’re pretty sure Sam just saved your ass. The way he exchanges a look with Dean’s red face—the way Dean’s palm is sweating in yours—makes you almost certain that he did. From a conversation with Dean’s mom about a future you’ve dreamed of, and are never going to actually have. From Dean hearing you give real answers to questions Mary wouldn’t know are fake. From the conversation after, where he’d carefully half-joke that you had the answers real well loaded, and you’d have to just laugh like you hadn’t spent so long refining them to fit your dreams.
Instead, you just silently eat your chocolate mousse and listen to Sam and Dean talk about their different kindergarten experiences. Dean remembers having a crush on his teacher, and he squeezes your leg as he says it, and your whole body floods with heat.
It’s still a small torture. The idea of a little Dean bouncing around on a playground, wearing an oversized firefighter hat or hugging a stuffed animal. It’s a little cruel, how fast your brain can twist that into what Mary was implying. A little combination of you and Dean, with his smile and your eyes, all his energy and sweetness, hugging your legs and sitting in Dean’s lap while he reads with a bunch of silly voices, and you feel kind of sick-
“You tired?” Dean mutters in your ear, and you turn to find him examining you. There’s a deep furrow in his brow.
He’s rubbing your leg now. Slowly up and down, soothing and igniting all at once. Not real. So unfairly not real.
You nod, and he sighs. Leans forward to kiss your brow gently, and your eyes flutter. He’s just putting on a show. Just putting on a show.
He excuses you both, you hang off his arm as he leads you upstairs and back to your room. Neither of you speak, but Dean doesn’t let go of your hand. You risk leaning forward and pressing your head against his back. It’s firm. Safe and warm. You never to be anywhere else again.
You think Mary hugged you good night. You might’ve shaken John’s hand. You really can’t remember at all. It’s been a really long day.
You shower again, letting the hot water drain your frantic thoughts and nerves down the drain. You stare at the fogged-up mirror until it clears, and dress slowly. This was a really bad idea. When you agreed to this, you really should’ve thought more about how in love with Dean you are, and how that was going to color the whole stupid thing.
You’re not going to back out. You can’t, when you promised him. But you still feel sick. And this might break a tiny part of you that you’ve tried so hard to keep safe. You don’t have a name for it. You just know it’s made of maintaining a facade, a friendship, a reliable dance that you’re not in love with Dean, and even when you are it’s okay that he doesn’t love you back.
You have to remember that he doesn’t love you back.
But he’s still up, when you step out of the bathroom. Sitting on the edge of the mattress in his pajamas, frowning at his phone but looking up at you with the softest smile. Not real. i
“I’m sorry. About Dad.” He says as you shuffle across the room. “He means well, I swear, but- He did the same thing to Jess, when Sammy finally brought her around. I’m gonna talk to him in the morning-“
“Dean.” You give him a small smile, crawling onto the bed. “It’s fine.”
He twists around, mouth in a tight line. “No, he shouldn’t have said that shit to you-“
“I know.”
“Right, so I’m gonna talk to him-“
“You really don’t have to. I know- You’ve told me how he is.” You scoot a little closer, covering Dean’s hand with your own. “You really don’t need to fight with him. Not for me.”
Dean’s jaw flexes. His eyes dart down to your hand over his, then back up to meet yours. He lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m gonna.”
“Dean-“
“No. He doesn’t talk to you like that.” He looks back to his phone, then tosses it into the bags. “You did awesome, though. Mom loved you.” He shoots you a small grin. “Told you she would.”
You laugh softly, and his words echo in your head. She’ll love you. She’s like me.
“They all loved you.” Dean mutters, his thumb wrapping around to the back of your hand. Dragging small circles, a habit he seems to be building fast. “You fit in.”
That makes you laugh for real. “I wanted to throw up.”
“Yeah, I saw you makin’ the face.”
“And you didn’t do anything about it?”
“Hey, I pulled you out of there.” He grins, flipping your hands so yours is under his. “A thank you would be welcome, sweetheart.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not thanking you for saving me from the viper pit you shoved me into.”
“But it was such a heroic rescue, I’d call it my best-“
“I wouldn’t.”
“You’re a critic.” He smirks. “And you still love me, so I’m callin’ it a fair save.”
You flush, and whack his hand away. Too close to the truth again. Too intimate. “Shut up.”
Dean’s eyes sparkle. “Aw, you callin’ it off with me? When you just met my family? That’s low, baby-“
“Dean.” You give him a flat, tired look. You don’t want to joke about this. It hurts too much. “Your mom was seconds away from asking me about babies and marriage.”
He shrugs. “And? I’m guessing Dad’s gonna ask that too, when I talk to him.” He frowns at the air. “Make it real fuckin’ clear, that I’m serious. He doesn’t say that kinda shit to you.”
You sigh. “I said you don’t have to do that-“
“And I said I’m gonna.”
“Dean, it’s not- It’s just me.” You give him a desperate look. “You don’t have to. Not for me.”
He stares at you. His hand tightens in yours, his mouth twitching, and he shakes his head.
“Is it so hard,” Dean drawls, twisting fully around. Moving forward, as he speaks. “For you to believe that I actually just wanna defend your honor?”
“I- I don’t-“ You stare at him, crawling back as he approaches. He can’t get too close right now, when you’re so exhausted your mouth might not listen to your brain. You’re going to say something true. “I don’t have honor-“
“Yeah, you do.”
Your back hits the headboard. “Dean, you know I don’t-“
“Nah. I don’t know anything.” He’s over you. Over your legs, his arms braced around your body, his face only inches away.
You breathe out shakily, and he licks his lips.
“I know you.” He mutters. “Know you real well, sweetheart. And you’re worth defending.”
His voice is so low it seems to vibrate through you, and your thighs clench.
He sees it. His eyes dart down and darken, his shoulders heaving as he takes a heavy breath. Dean looks back to you, something glinting in his eyes that only stokes your own fire. Your hand shoots up to press against his chest, but you don’t shove. Dean grabs your wrist, tracing one of those small circles, before moving to touch your face.
Brushing his thumb along your cheekbone. Fingers playing with a loose strand of hair, then dropping down to hold your chin. Keeping your gaze trapped on his, as he traces your lower lip. Your mouth falls open, and his throat bobs.
He stares at you, the tip of his thumb resting right between your lips. His breath is ragged and warm on your face, his gaze searing into you, the light bending around him. But it’s not another dream. His chest is flexing under your hand, and this is so impossibly real.
Dean mutters your name, and your legs fall open. Offering him more space, offering him whatever he wants, just so long as he keeps looking at you like that-
There’s a knock on the door. Sam’s voice calls from the other side, and the spell breaks.
Dean scowls, and drags himself away like it takes real effort. He stares at you with that impossible face, then shakes his head.
“You can have the bed.” He grunts. “Gonna sleep on the floor.”
“Dean-“
“’S fine.” He gives you a small grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m trying to be a gentleman, sweetheart. Let me have this.”
You stare at him, then nod slowly. Dean’s mouth twitches, and for a second it looks like he’s going to move back.
Then Sam knocks again. And Dean stands with a heavy sigh. Leaving you on the bed, eyes already drooping with exhaustion, head still spinning. You don’t know what the fuck just happened. Your voice can’t seem to remember how to ask.
And you pass out. Not even under the covers, sleep drags you under. You wake up tucked in. Dean’s snoring on the floor. No real proof that last night happened at all. Only your memory, and the absolute certainty that it was real.
Whatever it was, it was far, far too real.
The hotel is on the edge of the town Sam and Jess dragged everyone up to. It’s attached to the ranch, giving them plenty of space for the wedding, but it’s a ten minute to get through the brush fields and small wood to anything else.
You’d been hoping you wouldn’t have to go see it. That you wouldn’t have to do much at all. You’d gotten away with it the first day, just lounging around the room and hiding from reality while Dean moved in and out.
“You good?” He’d ask every hour or so, even just poking his head in without grabbing anything else.
“Mhm.” You’d mumble, tucked under the covers.
He’d frown. “You sure? We can go for a walk-“
“No, thank you.” You’d pull the blankets tighter, and he’d sigh. Stare at you for another moment.
Then Sam would call his name, and he’d shuffle away. Neither of you had spoken about last night. At rehearsal dinner, he’d started off touching you a little less than before, and you’d plastered a wide smile on your face, trying not to let it affect your show. Hands still held, but without fingers woven together. Elbows touching while you sat and ate, Dean offering you some of his whine and you adjusting his tie, but no casual stroking of his hair or secret laughter.
He’d given a sweet toast that made you smile at him stupidly. No matter how strange things were, you still adored him.
You’d glanced down the table and found John staring at you. Eyes narrowed, posture stiff. Dean must have talked to him. You’d looked back to your plate and bitten your tongue, hoping any tears that pushed through just looked like an overemotional reaction to your boyfriend’s speech.
He’d looked at you when he finished it. You’d smiled back, and something had flashed in his eyes. His hand had come up to touch your chin. Just like in bed.
You’d swallowed, and grabbed his wrist. The crowd has read it as romantic. You’d meant it as a silent, panicked plea for him not to play with you like this. But you don’t know how he read it. Dean had just sat down when he was done, wrapped his arm around your body, and kissed the side of your head.
It had been the first hole, punched in the dam. Now, in the morning, you can still feel the tattoo of his lips on your skin.
You’d wiped some sauce off his cheek with your thumb, then sucked it clean. He’d kept his arm around the back of your chair. You’d both drank, relaxing slowly. A few people came up to you. Spoke mostly to Dean, no matter how he tried to include you in the conversation. He’d started to get tense about halfway through the night.
You’d taken a risk. Placed your hand, right on his thigh, and rubbed gently. He’d jerked slightly, and you’d started to move away.
He’d stopped you. You’d looked at his handsome, slightly flushed face, and he’d offered you the first real smile of the night. You’d smiled back, and that had been real too.
Such small parts of this—getting a little too drunk together, picking out people in the crowd of Sam and Jess’ friends to make fun of, stumbling back to your room at midnight and watching something you can’t remember, but made both of you giggle like teenagers—are so real. So real it feels like you’re back at home, and you’re going to wake up to Dean in the kitchen, presenting you with the worst muffin you’ve ever tasted in your life—he’s been trying to bake, and he’s really not good at it—before offering a sandwich to make up for the disaster.
Instead, you wake up with your head on Dean’s shoulder, the TV still playing neither of you under the covers, his shirt missing and draped over your body like a blanket. It smelled like him.
You’d shoved it under your pillow like a dragon hoarding treasure, and watched TV until he woke up.
The plan had been to waste the day the same way as before. Dean runs around doing wedding things. You sit here and fester in your own guilt, indulging in your secret world where all of this was real. You tried to tell Dean that was your plan, when he got up.
He’d made the executive decision that it wasn’t. That town wasn’t that far, and if he had to go out with Jess and Sam, you did too.
“But they know, we don’t have to sell it-“
“Yeah, but I want you to come. Just to hang out.”
“I want to stay in bed-“
“C’mon.” He’d said your name, giving you a winning smile. “We’re still friends, right? Friends hang out, and support other friends when they gotta go shopping with their brothers.”
You’d narrowed your eyes. “Friends do each other favors, like fake dating for a wedding.”
Dean had sighed. Winced, like you’d actually hit him, then retreated with a muttered agreement. And you had been right. You’d almost gotten away with staying in bed, and Dean wasn’t going to push you.
But he’d looked so sad. And he wanted you there. All you ever want is to be wanted by Dean.
You’d gotten changed, shoved on your shoes, and stomped out into the room with a scowl. Dean had said your name in surprise, and you’d grabbed the keys out of his hand.
“I wanna drive.”
His face had split into a wide, open grin. “Yes, ma’am.”
It’s a ten-minute drive into town, and you really have to learn how to resist Dean’s puppy eyes. You feel out of place again, trailing after them and smoothing your clothes whenever they stop to talk about something. You’re staring at the pavement, out of place in their lives, counting the cracks and trying to find an excuse to stay home-
Dean links his arm through yours. Doesn’t even look down, just holds you at his side and drags you into the conversation.
You smile to yourself. Let yourself lean into his side, and decide it’s for the small amount of guests you’ve seen milling around the town as well. Not because, just for now, you’re allowed to have him and you don’t want to waste a single second by letting go.
“Do you like flowers?” Jess asks, leaning down to look at some pots on the street.
You shrug. “I mean, I guess.”
“You guess?” She rises back up. “Well, what does your boyfriend get you.”
Next to you, Dean tenses. You glance up, and he’s still deeply engrossed in a conversation about horses or something with Sam. You shake it off, and turn back to Jess.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” You shrug, fixing your gaze on a bee buzzing near the pots.
“Really?” Sam says suddenly, and you blink. “I thought Dean told me you were seeing this guy named- Uh- Steve? Right?”
He looks to Dean for confirmation. Dean looks at him like he’s plotting a murder.
“It was Shawn.” You offer, placing a light hand on Dean’s bicep. “And we broke up a while ago.”
“Oh.” Jess exchanges a look with Sam. “Well, what did he get you?”
“Um- He didn’t, really. He wasn’t- It didn’t mean that much.”
Jess frowns. “That much.”
“Yeah. You know. Flower much. But-“ You glance back over to Dean, who’s started glaring at the sidewalk. “I have some flowers that Dean grabbed for our place. Those are nice, I just- Dean, what are they called-“
“Hyacinths.” He grunts, hand flexing on the table, and squeeze his arm.
“Okay. I like those.”
His eyes flick up to yours, nostrils flaring, and he wipes his mouth with a tight, controlled movement. You offer him a smile—he’s so tense you’re worried he’s going to have an aneurism, even if you don’t understand why—and his lips twitch.
Jess clears her throat. “How long were you and Shawn together?”
“Like, three months?”
“Oh. Hm.” She shoots a look at Sam. “I just thought- Never mind. Why’d you break up?”
You stare at her, your brain suddenly fogged and moving too fast all at once. A demand to know why she’d think you and Shawn were together for a while—it had barely been a month—almost spills out like vomit, but it’s blocked by the lump rising up in your throat. The thick, tense reminder that Shawn called it off the same reason they all do. The same reason you never get to flowers.
It’s Dean. It’s always Dean. Still rigid and silent next to you, but also still holding you right against his side. Your fingers have started mindlessly tracing his bicep, the sunlight moving around him and narrowing the whole world down again, and Jess asked you a question, but- You can’t answer it in front of Dean.
You could just lie. The halo forming around Dean is hypnotizing. You can’t stop staring at him, and can’t remember how to lie.
He’s looking back at you now, brow furrowed, and you’ve been silent for way too long. But his eyes are shining, and you don’t know why he’s this close, but you really don’t want him to move away, and this is another thing that’s too real. Dean’s looking at you like he’s trying to work out the answer, but it’s written all over your pathetic face for him to see, and the heat from his body is going to melt you into something sweet for him to either devour or kick into the gutter-
Sam coughs. Neither of you look away.
“So, uh- While we’re talking about exes, and everyone’s in a good mood.” Sam takes a deep breath. “Lana’s coming. To the wedding.”
Dean’s eyes shoot away from yours, wide and burning, his jaw ticking the way it does when he’s really angry. His grip on you tightens, and it somehow douses you in ice-water as the moment is broken, all while rekindling a different, tighter heat. He’s holding onto you, so, so tight. Reaching around to grab your further arm as he glares at Sam, and you’re really not sure what’s happening, but it takes a titanic effort not to give into the hazy fever of his proximity, and drop your brow on his chest.
“Sam.” Dean’s words are pushed through his teeth. “What the hell-“
“It was Dad!” Sam protests, and you glance back to see him retreating fast. Literally hiding behind Jess with his hands raised in surrender.
“Dad? You’re willing to push him, Sammy, we both know you got no problem with that, but Lana is where you cave like- Like a fuckin’ pussy-“
“He’s still friends with her dad, Dean.” Sam whines, and Dean’s lips curl like he tasted something sour.
“And you’re carin’ about that over me?”
Sam winces, looking like a kicked puppy, and Jess sighs.
“Sam did try to push, but your dad was really aggressive about it.” She offers. “You know how he is, and we did what we could. She’s in the back of the room. You won’t even see her.”
Dean glares between them, still holding you tight, then gives the tiniest shake of his head.
“Whatever. C’mon.” He squeezes your arm tightly, still glaring at Sam. “They got Italian ice cream down the block.”
You blink at him, stumbling slightly as he starts to pull you down the street. “You- You mean gelato?”
“Yeah.” He steadies you, not breaking pace. “That.”
Sam calls after you, and Dean flips him off over your head, never releasing your grip. You shoot Sam an apologetic look, but don’t fight Dean as he half-carries you away.
You end up sitting in the small parlor, Dean beating up his gelato with a spoon while you open and close your mouth, trying to think of an acceptable way to ask what the fuck that was about. His knee is pressed firmly against yours, his attention flicking up every few seconds before dropping back down with a deeper scowl. Something starts to wither in your chest the longer the silence goes on. You look down to your own gelato with your lips pressed tight, trying to swallow down that painful lump and breathe through your nose until your head clears.
The world is blurring a little bit. There’s dusty light swirling around the parlor, and it makes Dean look like an angry polaroid photo, and you feel a little sick as pointless tears prick at your eyes-
“Lana’s my ex.” He grunts suddenly. “Wasn’t even that serious, but still ended like shit. Used to be that every time I dropped home, we’d hook up.”
The lump grows. “Oh.”
Dean’s silent for another moment, and you can feel something worse than the silence burning under your skin. It’s seeping in, toxic and hot, rushing through your blood to your head, an ugly feeling twisting in your chest, and-
“Stopped doin’ that last year.” His voice is a little stronger. He looks up at you with that strange expression you can’t read. “When I headed back in August. Remember, I called you to tell you about running into my math teacher at the bar?”
“Yeah.” You smile despite yourself. “You were wasted, you spent fifteen minutes telling me about your crush on her. And your teacher kink-“
“Hey, hey-“ He kicks you lightly under the table, the light creeping back into his eyes. “That was a secret, sweetheart, don’t shout it for everyone to hear-“
“You never told me it was a secret.”
“It’s a fuckin’ kink, smart ass. I don’t run around shouting about all of yours-“
“You don’t know mine.” You shrug, and that was the wrong this to say.
Dean’s eyes glimmer, something dark crossing over his face that you’d been trapped under that first night on the bed. There, it might’ve been a trick of the night. A little too much drink and stress from dinner, real but in the same was of smoke and mirrors.
Here, it’s inescapably real. And you can’t bring yourself to look away.
“You think that.” He drawls, leaning over the table. “Don’t you.”
“Um-“ Your voice is getting weirdly high. “Yes?” That was weak.“Yes. I do.”
“Hm.”
You frown. “Hm?”
Dean shrugs. Smirks at you, as he takes a large bite of his gelato. “Hm.”
“You- You don’t-“
“Don’t I?” He teases, and your mouth falls open.
“No. You- I’ve never told you any-“
“Words aren’t everything, baby.” Dean pokes your gelato cup with his spoon. “Eat up, we gotta get back to Sammy and Jess before they start manhunting us.”
You blink at him, he smiles back—wide and charming and doing nothing to help the haze in your head—and you start to eat your gelato slowly. Dean waits for you to have one bite, then two, and smirks. Presses his knee further against yours, dropping his voice to something low and dangerous and hot.
“Good girl.”
The spoon slips out of your hand. Your eyes widen in embarrassment, panicked shame wrapping around your heart, but Dean’s smirk just widens. He keeps eating his gelato, an almost innocent expression on his face, and you might’ve imagined it. Maybe your fantasies and the strange, blurred lines of this week are getting to your head. Maybe it’s the heat, and you’ve started to hallucinate.
But you’re sure that it was real.
And there’s no faking Dean’s arm wrapping around your low back when you leave the shop. His hand splayed on your hip, his posture relaxed and grin wide again. When you find Sam and Jess again and Dean doesn’t try to throttle anyone, they give you looks like you drugged him. You just grimace and smile weakly, because you don’t know what happened either. He was mad and sullen, then you were jealous, and now you’re… Here.
Drinking in a bar, Dean’s smile wide on his face, his body around yours as he fails to teach you how to play pool for the millionth time. His lips brushing over your ear as he speaks, sending a shiver up your spine that he seems far too smug about. He squeezes your hip too close to your ass, when you draw the cue back. It makes you grind back into him like some wanton whore, and he makes a deep sound from his chest, and you feel like you’re going insane.
You’re a little tipsy—everyone started drinking the moment you got to the bar—but this is real. All of it is real. Whatever had been bothering Dean about Lana is gone, and he seemed to have taken your own worry with it.
She was the kind of thing that should’ve freaked you out. That would’ve freaked you out, if he told you back home. It would’ve sent you out to the club a year ago, would’ve locked you in your room to cry last week.
But Dean’s gaze isn’t wandering from you for more than a moment, and all you can think about is his smug expression from earlier. How it hasn’t wavered all afternoon, how he’s teasing you the same as always, but slowly crossing boundaries that have always been open to him.
He kissed the side of your head, when you sunk a ball at the table. Let you go back to the bar with the single victory, but squeezed your hand before you walked away. He’s still looking for you through the crowd, every few moments. He smiles when he sees you, and you don’t know what’s happening.
“He talks about you.”
You blink over at Sam, who’d been silently sitting next to you for a while. “What?”
“Dean.” He shrugs, taking another sip of his beer. “He talks about you.”
“We… Live together.”
“Yeah. You do.” Sam watches you strangely in the shadows of the bar. “He didn’t talk about Charlie, though. I mean, he’d tell me stories about stuff they did. But he didn’t talk about her.”
You frown. “That’s the same thing-“
“No. Not for Dean.”
“No, like, semantically, it’s the same thing-“
“No.” Sam says firmly. “It’s not.”
“Sam-“
“It’s- Look. When he and Lana were dating, I never heard about her. He’d say he was going out, say he had a date, tell me that she didn’t like things or wanted Dean to do something. Can I tell you the first thing he said to me about you?”
You nod weakly, and Sam sighs. Smiles slightly, like he’s fond of the memory.
“He said she likes my waffles. I did them with the strawberries. Think I’m gonna try banana next.”
“I- That’s-“ You frown at him. “Why do you remember that?”
Sam takes another long drink of his beer, making a face like he’s thinking far too hard about what should be a simple question.
“Ask Dean what the first thing I said about Jess was.” He says finally, something shining in his eyes. “He remembers that.”
Dean’s supposed to stay with Sam tonight. Something about keeping him on lockdown, the night before the wedding.
The room feels bigger without him. Even if he would’ve only slept on the floor, the bed is colder. You pace for an hour, still lost in the events of the day, still turning Sam’s words over in your head.
You hadn’t asked Dean. There hadn’t been a good time. You’d gotten back to the hotel, and he’d gone with Sam. Kissed your forehead, then gone with Sam. And that might’ve been for the show of it. There had been a few cousins and family friends in the lobby. It had barely been a graze of his lips over your hairline.
But his hand had also squeezed your hip. And he’d smiled at you so softly after, and Sam’s claim was still ringing in your head. He talks about you.
Dean talks about everything. Sam said that like it meant something, but Dean literally never stops talking. It doesn’t mean anything.
None of this is supposed to mean anything. Not to him. It means everything to you, but you’re in love with him. You’ve spent hours turning him over in your head, fantasying about the way he’d feel and taste, about a world where you just get to hold his hand, and life where you fall asleep with your head on his shoulder and he smiles at you like you’re sharing a secret. Where he doesn’t even think about other girls, because he’s too busy with you, the same way you’ve never been able to really think about another man.
A life like this week. But it’s not real. It still feels real. And that’s nothing, but it’s everything, and you’re so confused.
You have the room to yourself. Your legs get tired from pacing, so you take a hot shower. You pull on one of Dean’s shirts and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling and unable to make sense of anything in your own head. Most of your usual daydreams are blurring with reality, and it’s almost all to jumbled to lead anywhere but more confusion.
Almost. One thing is burning through the rest.
The heat. Dean’s voice drawling good girl like he knows. His hand on your hip, your lower back, your stomach. His crotch pressing against your ass, his weight around your shoulders, pinning you to his body. His lips brushing over your skin, teasing and so hot.
Your core aches, and you realize your body has started to move of its own accord. You’re grinding into the sheets, one hand under your shirt to palm at your breasts. You pinch your nipple and a soft moan leaves your mouth, your fingers slipping between your thighs. Your underwear is soaked. Your body shudders, when you press your clit, and a soft moan escapes your lips.
“De- Dean…”
The sheets still smell like him. You roll over, pressing your face into the mattress, and start to hump into your hand like an animal in heat. It’s so easy to pretend that it’s his big, rough fingers slipping into your pussy. How they’d fill you up, scissor you open as he pressed behind you like at the pool table. The pad of his calloused thumb swiping your clit back and forth, his deep voice right in your ear as he’d kiss up your spine.
“Good girl, baby, so fuckin’ pretty, takin’ my fingers so good, gonna be nice and ready for my cock-“
You moan again. Louder this time, barely muffled in the pillow. Your ass rises higher into the air as you try to get a better angle, the sheets sliding off your body, and you’re so close-
There’s a soft knock on the door, and you freeze. Flip onto your back, sitting up in a second, brushing your hair from your eyes as you take short, breaths.
“Ye- Yeah?” Your voice wavers, your thighs still rubbing under the sheets.
Dean calls your name from the other side of the door. His voice is so strangely soft. Almost nervous, and it clears your head fairly fast. You push to your feet, mind narrowing down to only Dean, and making sure that he’s okay.
You open the door, and find him slouching in the hallway. His head is bowed, expression open and vulnerable, eyes drooping. The low light of the hotel makes the shadows on his face seem longer, the red on his face clearer.
“Dean?” You whisper, your hands itching to reach out and touch him. Just trace his face, make sure everything is in the place it’s supposed to be. “Are you okay?”
He’s silent for a moment. His gaze slowly drags up your body, the red of his face deepening, and you forgot to put on pants. You swallow, wrapping an arm around your stomach, but still smile softly when his eyes meet yours. His throat bobs, tongue flicking out over his lips. He shakes his head.
“Yeah, uh-“ He shakes his head. “Yeah. Just-“ His throat bobs, and he takes a step back. “Never mind. I’m gonna- Sorry-“
“Wait, Dean-“ You grab his hand, and he freezes.
Stares at you like a cornered animal, his chest rising and falling too fast.
You drop his hand. “Do you wanna… Come inside.”
He’s silent for another moment, then gives the tiniest nod. You step to the side, and he stares at you. Looks into the room, face twitching strangely, then back to you.
“If you- You’re busy-“
“I’m not.” You say quickly. “And- It’s your room too. You don’t have to knock.”
It’s a good thing he did knock. But right now, your own at wearing his shirt and nothing else save for soaked panties doesn’t outdo your worry for how fucking tired he look. And those words make him smile tightly, makes something relax in his shoulders, so you’d call it more than worth it.
He shuffles over to the bed, but just stands at the edge of the mattress. You grab his hand, and gently guide him to sit down. He doesn’t resist you. Almost molds over you, the moment you have him down. Leaning against you, his head carefully angled away from your body, and you’re so worried.
You slowly pull him closer. He lets you. Watches you in the dark with that same, vulnerable expression. His body curls over your lap, his legs tangled in your own. His arms wrap around your stomach when you guide them there. His head rests on your chest, between your breasts. He lets out a ragged breath. You brush your fingers through his hair, and his body shakes.
“Nightmare?” You whisper, and he nods.
He doesn’t seem to be willing to move from your body, not even enough to speak. You sigh, and rub his spine.
“Okay.”
You lean down, and kiss the top of his head. Dean makes a low, sad sound like a wounded animal, and holds you tighter.
Time passes slowly, or quickly, but it doesn’t really matter because nothing matters more than Dean in your arms. It could have been five minutes or three hours, and it all feels the same. You keep touching him gently, and his body slowly relaxes. His breathing evens out. You’d think he was sleeping, if he didn’t shift every few moments with a heavy sigh.
When he rasps your name, you only hum. You don’t want to risk breaking the moment, or spooking him away.
“You ever dream?”
You pause. “Dream? Like- Instead of-“
“No, not like-“ He sighs, hand splaying on your back. His face presses further into your body, words vibrating pleasantly over your skin. “Like- The future. Ever think about the future.”
“Oh.” More than he can imagine. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm. I, um- Yeah.”
Dean’s silent for a moment. “Like what?”
“I don’t know.“ You laugh nervously, tipping your head back against the headboard. “A lot of things, I guess. What does anyone think about, with that? What do you think about?”
“Family.” He answers so fast, it makes you look right back down.
He’s staring at you in the dark. Eyes lined with red, drooping but fixed on your surprised expression.
“Family?” You echo, and he nods. You swallow. “Like what?”
Dean’s mouth twitches. “You know. What it’ll look like for me. Who it’ll be. That kinda shit.”
“And-“ You bite your lip, but it’s not enough to hold back the words. “What does it look like?”
“Hm.” He sighs, thumb drawing small circles on your back. “You really wanna know?”
You nod, a little too frantic, and a smile ghosts over his face.
“I like my job. Pays better than it should-“
“You work hard-“
“I make money for a hobby.” He corrects, and you frown.
“It’s not a crime to like your job. I like my job.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, but you should make more than I do, but- if you like it.” He sighs. “Guess it’s good I make so much. Keeps us afloat. Makes it all easier.”
You blink. “I- I guess-“
“And I got better insurance. Better in the long run. Plus, it’s gonna save a lot on certain costs, like when the kids need their own cars.”
“The- The kids?” You whisper, and Dean nods. Yawns, and turns his face back into your stomach.
“I’d like five.” He mutters. “But I’ll go down to three. Four, if I can pull it off.”
Your mouth falls open. “Four kids-“
“They’re gonna look like their mom.” He mumbles, and you carefully try to move his face. Try to get a good look at him, to work out if he’s fucking with you.
But when he turns, he’s just staring at you strangely under long, pretty lashes, his eyes slightly glazed. Tired, still clearly a little drunk, face more open than you’ve ever seen it.
And that expression. It’s almost reverent.
“We’ll need a bigger house.” He mumbles, and you swallow.
“We don’t own a house, De.”
“Yeah. Shit.” He yawns, mouth pulling into a smile. “I’ll work on that.”
“Work on… A house?”
“Mhm. I’ll make sure we got a backyard. And- Big room. Big bed. Lotta space.”
“Do you want space?” You whisper, and he hums.
“Nah, but in case you get sick of me.”
“I- don’t. Ever.”
He’s silent for a moment, eyes shining on yours. “Yeah?” He finally rasps, and you nod.
“Never. I- I don’t think I could.”
He smiles again. Wide and affectionate and real. “Awesome.”
“Dean…” Your heart is beating in your throat. “Can- Can I ask you a question?”
“Anything.” He mutters, and it’s so sincere it almost splits you in half.
“What was the first thing Sam told you about Jess?”
He chuckles, then yawns, turning his face back into your stomach without an answer. “Weird question.”
“I- I know, just- Can you answer it. Please?”
Dean nods, but still doesn’t speak. His hands are wandering over your body, slowing down to a drag, his breathing growing deeper.
“Dean-“
“She called me sweet.” Dean murmurs. “Said she liked the book I was readin’, then called me sweet.”
“Oh- Okay.” You blink, tearing burning behind your eyes. “And- Why do you remember that?”
“‘Cause.”
“Cause why-“
“Sammy’s my baby brother. I know ‘im.”
“I know, but-“
“Never heard him in love before.” Dean mumbles, and your breath catches. “Was nice. Gonna remember it.”
You can’t think. Can’t speak. Can barely breathe.
In love. Dean’s first snore rips through the air, and he’s out in your arms. You take a shaky breath, and press your head back, lips pursed tight.
In love. The words ring in your ears, until you fall asleep. In love.
The day moves too fast. You’re starting to get trapped in your own head.
Dean’s up before you are. Wiping his eyes and groaning as he comes out of the bathroom, running a hand through damp hair and giving you a sheepish grin as you blink at him.
“Gotta go get Sammy ready.” He says. “You can go back to bed, you got time.”
You nod slowly, scanning over his face to try and test if he remembers anything at all. If it meant anything at all.
He’s out the door before you find the words to ask. You’re left sitting alone, the sheets tangled around your body, wide awake as the days start to play back in your head. A broken record you’re trapped in. A world you’re not even sure is real, because it’s far too close to everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Everything you’d been so certain you’d never get to have.
Dean spoke about the future like it was for you. He touched you like he was for you. Smiled at you and kissed you and it can’t have all been for the show—there wasn’t even an audience to perform for—but it being for you feels far too good to be true.
He said keep up afloat. He said he wanted kids, said the kids like they’d be yours too, said he’d get to work on a house, and in love, and this was such a bad idea. You should’ve told him no, when he asked. Shouldn’t have given into your instinct to please him, should’ve held your ground for the sake of your sanity, let him come here alone so you could wallow in bed about a future you’d never to have-
A future he might want. With you. There had been no one for him to say that for, but you. In love.
And if you’d let him come alone, he’d be alone with the ex that he has sex with. Stopped having sex with. Seemed to stop thinking about all together, when he started teasing you.
You take a shower, hoping the water will wash away the spinning in your head. It doesn’t. You just end up smelling Dean’s shampoo and thinking about him in this same shower a few hours ago. How the water might’ve ran down his bare chest. How he might’ve smelled your shampoo, how his broad frame would take up so much of the space, how he’d crowd you if you shared the water.
How he’d hold your hips like yesterday. Hold you against his chest. Brush his mouth over your neck, and whisper low praise as you writhed on his hand. Good girl.
He said that. Actually said that. It wasn’t just another fantasy your mind conjured up, those were words that left Dean’s mouth.
You stare at yourself in the mirror for half an hour, before the reminder alarm goes off on your phone, and you actually have to get ready.
He picks you up in his suit. His eyes gleam as they take you in, and you flush under the attention. You don’t even remember getting ready, but suddenly you’re here and Dean’s smirking at you like you’re a something lewd.
“You look awesome.” He says with a wide grin, and you swallow.
“You- You too.” You whisper, because he really does. He always does, but right now it’s like the world is finally just tunneling down to Dean, and he’s the last fixed point that keeps the world from slipping out from under your feet.
He fills out the suit in a way that makes your mouth water. His tie is a little crooked, and he grins down at you when your fingers shakily adjust it.
You blink up at him. “Hi.”
“Hi.” His tone is a little mocking, but not mean. Just bright and clear and comfortable. The rest of the world is just shadows, compared. “Ready?”
You nod weakly, and Dean folds his fingers through yours. Swoops down and kisses your cheek, before herding you out of the room. To the wedding.
And you might be blacking out. All you’re certain of are moments where Dean’s hand is in yours. He kisses the back of it, then lets go to stand with Sam at the alter. You’re sure the wedding is lovely, but you can’t remember a single detail but Dean’s eyes, burning into yours as Sam and Jess say vows. Your heart thunders in your ears and drowns them out. All the sunlight seems to bend into Dean, until the world is truly only you and him, staring at each other through the whole ceremony.
It’s too easy to think about what it would be like if he was right across from you. If the small smile on his lips was because it was your wedding. The one you’ve dreamed about in your head, so many times. The one that drags you away from the moment, until people are cheering and Dean looks away, and suddenly you’re at the wedding party.
Dean’s holding your hand again. You don’t look anywhere but him, as he leads you around through the crowd. He’s introducing you to people. You can’t hear yourself when you speak, can’t really focus on anything but his presence at your side.
You dance together. Dean holds you like you are his, but you’re not. You are in the eyes of the crowd, but it’s just a lie, but it doesn’t feel like a lie, and it’s somehow more confusing and clarifying than anything else.
He tells you that you’re beautiful like a secret he wants to keep to himself. You smile. The cool lights of the party are moving around him, making him look like one of your countless dreams, and you just drop your face into his neck. He sighs, and keeps guiding you through the dance. You’ve had this dream.
It’s not a dream. Dean smiles at you, his nose bumping yours but without a single kiss, and it’s so real. How he holds you. Looks at you. Makes a soft joke that you giggle at, even if you feel like you’re getting high and crashing down all at once.
In love. That strange look. He looks at you like he’s in love, and the world is crumbling around you.
Mary corners you after the speeches and dinner. You smile at her sweetly. Hold Dean’s hand so tight it hurts, and he pulls you close. Rubs your back, as he talks to his mother about work.
“Did you get any ideas?” She asks you. “For your turn? I mean, I love the winter wedding in a sunny place, but Dean- I’ve always pictured him getting married in the fall.” She laughs to herself. “Probably because that’s what John and I did. And he gets my mother’s ring, which goes with fall the most. But it’s up to you, honey, right? Are you thinking of the fall?”
You’re not. You’ve always pictured the spring. But you can’t speak. Not even on auto pilot. Not about wedding, to Dean, like it’s real and not something you’ve sworn to keep confined to your head and the walls of your bedroom, and-
“Jesus, Mom.” Dean cuts in for you, and you blink at him with a desperate expression. “Let me propose first, you’re gonna spook her.”
Mary laughs, and says something about you not seeming like they type to spook easy. You stare at Dean.
He looks back, worry furrowing in his brow at your slack expression.
“You good?” He murmurs as John wanders over, saying something to Mary your brain doesn’t care to process.
You nod weakly, and his frown deepens.
“You wanna go for a walk?
You shake your head, and he looks really worried now.
“Sweetheart-“
“Hey, Dean?” Sam appears from nowhere, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder and giving you a small grin.
You don’t smile back. You just stare at Dean, who seems to be trying to stare back, but keeps getting distracted by Sam. He’s dragged away to talk about something allegedly important, and tries to take you with him, but Mary grabs your shoulder and says something about bonding.
You black out again, the moment Dean’s arm leaves your body. You might tell her about your idea of the future with Dean. The one you’ve sworn not to tell anyone, but pours out of you with every question, because your skin feels like it’s about to fly off your body. Your every nerve is wired and buzzing and raw. You’re running on a thin, fraying line of electric, and if you’re touched, you spark.
Maybe you tell Mary you love Dean. You don’t know.
Then, suddenly, you’re alone in the middle of the room and everything is dark. You’re swaying on your feet. Lost at sea, the only lighthouse the same siren that lured you here, and now you’re confused and sweating and alone-
Someone says your name, in a voice you don’t recognize. It’s cold, and mocking, and when you turn it’s like you’re in a waking nightmare.
You’ve never met this woman before, but she’s all too familiar. You’ve seen her, a million times before. Inverted in the mirror, glowing with a confidence you’ve never been able to find. Smiling not softly, but like a beautiful monster that knows it’s got its claws in something. Put together like she rolled out of bed like this, her every feature swallowing and casting the shadows.
She’s every girl you heard Dean fuck through the walls, every girl you pretended not to care about, everything you’ve craved to be while never being able to figure out how.
She doesn’t need to introduce herself. You already know who she is.
“Lana.” You say, your voice faraway. She smiles.
“He’s told you about me.” She holds out her hand, and you can see yours moving to shake it. Your skin burns at her soft touch.
“Sam did.”
“Hm. Sam.” There’s something cold in her voice. “He’s always so annoying, isn’t he. Has he told you’re not good enough yet? This family, I swear-“
“No.” You breathe out. “Sam’s been nice.”
Something venomous flashes across Lana’s beautiful face. “Hm.”
You smile at her, but it makes your face hurt. You shouldn’t have worn heels. It would’ve been easier to run.
Lana’s still holding your hand tight in hers. When she lets go of it, she wipes her hand on her elegant dress. Like she knows the foul, selfish things that go out in your head, and they’re leaking all over her perfect skin.
“So you’re the new toy?” She looks you up and down, lip curling. “Dean’s lowered his standards. Or maybe he just… hit his head. Would explain why he turned me down last time.” She sniffs. “For you.”
You blink at her. His name cleared your head a little. Those last words make everything sharp.
“He what?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. This sweet little bunny routine doesn’t work on me. He might think he’s loyal right now, but he always thinks that. Then he gets sick of it, and comes back to me. It’s just taking a little longer this time.”
“He-“ You take a deep breath. Loyal. For you. In love. “Lana-“
She smirks. “Aw. You say it like Dean does.”
Your eyes narrow. This is something that would’ve folded you in a second, just a few days ago. Before all the touches and whispers and slowly stripped away veil. The light that might still be warping the world, but at least isn’t blinding you anymore.
It’s helping you see. He turned her down last time. Months ago. For you.
“What exactly.” You take a large step forward. “Did Dean say to you about me?”
Her nose twitches. She raises her chin. “Doesn’t matter. He’ll come back to me-“
“If it doesn’t matter.” You counter smoothly. “You should have no problem telling me.” She recoils, and you raise your voice. “Did he turn you down for me, last time?”
Lana scoffs. “Like you don’t know. But you were worse than I was, just stringing him along. At least I love him-“
“I didn’t even know who you were.”
She blinks like you slapped her, and you take a step forward. Things are falling into place too fast, a perfect storm that’s going to sweep you away in a moment. But right now, the sky is clear. Your head is quiet.
And you have no doubt about which parts are real, as you hold Lana’s gaze.
“He’d never told you about me, until this weekend.” You say softly. “And I do love him. I love him, and I like him, and- He won’t get sick of me. But he seems a little sick of you.”
Lana’s eyes narrow. Her tongue flicks over her lips, and you hold her gaze. But her lips twitch up. Cruel and hateful. Her voice cold.
“It’s so sweet that you think that.” She coos. “But girl to girl, I should tell you I was trying to warn you. About how he thinks he’s loyal.” She takes a step forward, voice dropping to a hushed taunt. “But he was in my room last night.”
You blink at her, the words ringing in your ears, and it’s like she pulled on a single thread. It unravels fast, the whole world going with it. Months and months of doubt, of fear, of the reality you’d taught yourself to pick apart and dissect, suddenly merged with your fantasy, unspooled into your greatest fear.
You take a step back, eyes wide, and Lana’s smirk grows. Dean isn’t there to ground you, as the world slips from under your feet. And you-
You can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. You can’t be here anymore.
The pillows still smell like Dean. It clears your head, after a few hours of crying into them.
You hadn’t had enough strength to just run. You’d stumbled out of the wedding and back to your room, mostly just trying to get away from the flashing light, noise, and sound of Lana’s voice. Your intention had been to leave. To pack your bags, text Dean that you needed to go home, and leave. Instead you’d found your clothing mixed with Dean’s and your knees had started to feel weak. You’d collapsed on the bed with shallow breaths and tears streaming down your face.
It had smelled like Dean. So you’d ripped the dress off your body, buried yourself under the covers, and sobbed.
It helped. It usually does. Dean couldn’t have gone to Lana last night, because he was with you. He wouldn’t have go to her first after a nightmare, especially because he’s told you that you’re one of the only people that knows he had them. It’s you, Sam, and his mom.
And you trust him. You really do. He wouldn’t do that. Not after being so disgusted just by Lana’s name. She’d just wanted to hurt you. Something you understand. You’d like to hurt the other girl’s you’ve seen with Dean too.
But now you’re the girl. The one he danced with, and brought to his brother’s wedding. Who he crawled to in the dead of night, and ran out the moment she got scared.
You mostly just feel stupid, now. You’d felt stupid for trusting him, then not trusting him, then stupid for hiding and stupid for being so confused over something so dramatic, stupid for caring, stupid for crying, stupid for being unable to do anything but cling to him all night, and stupid for hugging his pillow to your chest like some lovesick teenager.
And stupid for falling back into old patterns. Because you have this habit, when you’re upset. It’s another part of that secret world in your head.
You think of Dean. Imagine him comforting you the same way he’s done before, but in bed instead of the living room. His arms around you, voice deep and soothing in your ear, hands tracing your body in a gentle remind that he’s here. He’d brush his lips over yours, before kissing the space between your eyes. Mutter that everything was going to be okay, then kiss your cheek.
Hold himself gently over you, blocking you from the pain of the world, and smile gently. Say something stupid to make you laugh, and get those crinkles by his eyes when you try to hide your face.
And you’re going to be ashamed of this later, but not now. Now, you let your thoughts run wild, alone in bed. Let them carry you where they always do, when you think of Dean.
His lips on yours. The heat of him pressing down, the low grunts that would leave his chest, how his muscles would flex and hips would roll when you dragged your nails over his chest. Working yourself up fast, whining his name as he knee pressed between your thighs.
The heat is starting to build. You whine his name into the dark, and he’d chuckle to himself.
“So needy already.” He’d whisper in your ear. “Don’t know what you’re askin’ for, baby. I’ll make you forget all about those pretty tears.”
You bite your lip, and let your hand wander between your legs. Your hand fists the sheet, a soft breath escaping your lips as your fingers start to tease your folds.
“Such a dirty girl. Thinking of me touching her, still fuckin’ crying about. You can be a real brat sometimes,” he’d kiss your cheek, a smirk in his voice. “Get real dumb, for how smart you are. You think I’d ever want anything else? When I got this perfect fuckin’ pussy-“ He’d pinch your clit, and you’d squeak. “Soaked and ready for me whenever I want it?”
“Yes.” You whimper. “Ready, Dean- So ready-“
“Hm.” The Dean in your head drags his thumb down, pressing it over your slick entrance. “Look at you, crying for me everywhere. Jesus, you’re really this desperate for it, huh? Need my cock so bad I could bend you over at a damn bar and you’d beg me to take you.”
You nod at the air, trying to cover your mouth with your free hand as you start to fuck yourself with your fingers. It’s so so easy to imagine they’re Dean’s.
He’d press them into you fast and rough, unforgiving and brutal, all while teasing his thumb around your clit. Keep your mouths attached until your eyes were rolling back, lightheaded from the pleasure and lack of oxygen. He’d whisper filthy things, call you his slut and his perfect girl in the same breath, watch as you came undone below him from barely anything at all. His hand flying back and forth over your pussy as he dragged your orgasm out, your mouth falling over in a cry of his name-
Dean says your name. Not the Dean in your head. The real Dean.
You shoot upright, your face burning, and he’s standing in the shadows near the door. His face is red, your head still spinning from your orgasm—the thrill and embarrassment of being caught only making your stupid, traitorous body more aroused and needy—but you have enough of a mind to know you should’ve ran. Should run right now. Should jump out the fucking window, because he caught you.
It was all supposed to be a secret. Something you died with, a love that burned inside of you until it made flowers bloom over your grave. He was never supposed to know, but this another thing that’s real. Too real. Dean really caught you calling his name as you came. You’re really still shaking with desire like a feral animal.
Dean gapes at you, his eyes raking over your body. It’s mostly hidden under the sheets, save for your tits.
His eyes linger there, on your hardened nipples and swollen breasts. He takes a ragged breath, his tongue flicking over his lips. You pull the sheets higher, and his eyes snap to yours.
“Dean-“
“I thought you- I was worried. Just lookin’ for you, and you- You were shoutin’ for me. Through the door.”
“I- Oh.”
His throat bobs, voice dropping lower. “Thought you needed me.”
You blink at him, and maybe it’s the aftermath of the orgasm, but your every nerve feels like it’s lit up. Like he’s touching you, without a single hand. You open your mouth. Close it. Dean’s eyes flash.
“Do you?” He prompts softly. “Need me?”
You stare at him. Your back is completely bare, and the cold air pricks at your sweaty skin. Just uncomfortable enough for this not to be another fantasy. It’s not in your head.
Dean takes a slow step forward, his hands fisted at his side, and it’s not in your head. He’s here.
There’s a bulge in his dress pants, straining through the fabric. That’s not in your head either.
“Do you need me, sweetheart.” He almost growls. “‘Cause I need you.”
Your mouth falls open. Your legs spread under the sheets, like his voice alone pulled them apart. You nod, and Dean’s eyes flash.
“You-“
“Yes.” You breathe, rising up a little on your knees. Trying to get closer, but not daring to move and ruin this. “Please.”
He swallows. Takes one step forward, than another, then-
Dean yanks his jacket off, and almost runs to the bed. Grabs your face between his hands and dragging you up into a long, rough kiss.
A kiss. Not lips casually or teasingly on your skin. A real, deep kiss.
Sloppy and open-mouthed, as he angles himself over you. His hands fisting in your hair, body towering over yours, consuming your every sense. He tastes like champagne and cherries from dessert, feels warm and strong over you, smells like the spicy, warm cologne he saves for these special occasions. His tongue presses over yours, and you rise up to try and meet him a little closer. He groans, and the sound vibrates through your body.
You grab his wrists, and his knee lands on the mattress, letting the kiss deepen. One hand drops to your bare waist, and you arch into the touch.
Dean lays you slowly down on the silken pillows and sheets. Your legs spread wide in invitation, your pussy on full, wanting display, and you gasp when his clothed crotch presses over the aching nerves. He grinds himself against you, mouth working against yours until you’re gasping for air between kisses.
“De- Dean-“ You grab his shirt, trying to drag him closer. “Yes- Fuck-“ You hump against him, lips spreading in a wide, stupid smile. “Dean-“
“Jesus,” he groans your name, rising up over your body. You whine at the loss, but one massive hand finds your breast, and it’s like a drug.
Dean’s attention is fervent. Unyielding and hot, as one hand plays with your breasts, and the other keeps you pinned down with his palm flat on your stomach. You writhe into the torturous touch, but there’s nowhere else you’d ever want to be. Not when his fingers pinch and roll you nipple, dragging a high sound from your throat you didn’t know you could make.
His eyes flash, and he repeats the movement. Over and over until you’re squirming and fucking up into his crotch, clawing at his chest for just a little more pressure. You’re already sensitive from the first orgasm, already raw from the emotions of the night. You need more.
“More, Dean- Please- Oh-“
He stops playing with your breasts, and drags his hand down your side. The touch is light and teasing, making a soft giggle escape your lips. You look up at him with open adoration, some part of you still convinced this is another fantasy. That you can look at him like this, and there won’t be any consequences.
Dean swallows, another low noise rumbling through his chest. He moves his hand to trace your face, and you lean into him with a happy hum. His thumb brushes over your cheek, over a tear still stained on the soft skin.
He frowns slightly, eyes scanning over your parted, swollen lips and glossy eyes. You know how you must look. You’ve seen yourself in the mirror after crying often enough.
You smile at him hopelessly, hoping you’re a hot enough mess that he’s not changing his mind. He swallows, and lowers down over you with a heavy sigh.
Kissing you slow and gentle, the hand on your stomach dragging down.
Cupping right over your bare, dripping sex.
Dean groans, rubbing back and forth. He’s not changing his mind at all.
“I’ve got you, baby.” He murmurs against your lips, arms wrapping around your thighs. “Gonna make you feel good, pretty girl. So fuckin’ good.”
You moan, trying to lean up and chase his lips as he pulls away again. But once against the brief moment of cold is more than worth it.
Dean folds you up. Pushes your knees up to your chest, fully exposing your pussy to the air. You reach for him, and he catches your arm. Presses it over your head with a wink, before dropping his gaze down to your glittering, puffy cunt. Already leaking for him, squeezing around nothing in anticipation. He blows on it, and you shudder below him.
“Son of a bitch,” he mutters. “Even damn prettier than I thought, sweetheart. All wet and ready for me.”
“For you,” you breathe out, head spinning with desire. “Just you, Dean, please-“
You moan loudly, as he snakes his hand around to rub your clit. His eyes are fixed on your slack expression, as he rubs tight circles. His jaw tight, as you flush and turn to boneless, pathetic putty.
Dean smirks, drawing back for a split second, then slaps your pussy. Not harsh. Just enough to see if you like it.
You go completely limp below him, a slurring sound of need leaving your lips.
“More,” you manage to whimper, and Dean nods. Slaps your pussy again, then again, eyes locked on yours the whole time. “Dean- Fuck- Dean, please-“
“This what you were thinking about me doing?” He grunts, pressing his hand firm against your sore, throbbing core. “When you were touchin’ yourself, callin’ my name?”
You nod pathetically, and he moans.
“You do that a lot, baby?” He lands another hit, and the pleasure darts through your every nerve.
“Yes, yes- All the time-“
“Knew it.” He mutters to himself, slapping you again, watching the way your whole body reacts to the single touch. “I fuckin’- Thought I was going crazy, seeing what I wanted, but- Shit, look at you-“
He lands one last, rough slap, and you moan. “Dean-“
He presses forward, somehow folding you into a little ball you didn’t know your body was capable of becoming. It seems to reshape itself, though, to whatever Dean needs it to be. He kisses you, deep and softer than before, almost loving. Like you’re not a wanton, messy wreck in his arms.
“Can I show you what I think about?” He murmurs against your lips, far softer than before. “Please?”
You nod, too busy trying to get drunk on his kisses to use your words and respond. Dean smiles, kisses your nose, then draws up. He grabs your wrists again, but pulls them down onto your stomach. Lets your sink your nails into his knuckles and palms, squeezing gently back as he kisses your inner thigh.
Sucks a little mark on it, before kissing it again. Kisses over your clit, open-mouthed and wet. His tongue swirling. Driving you out of your mind, before switching to the other thigh. Sucking another little mark, then licking that one too.
Licking a thick, long stripe up your pussy. Then another. Pressing his tongue into your weeping pussy, before traveling back up to flick your clit.
His eyes never leaving yours. He gets faster and faster with every motion. His tongue presses on the sensitive skin between your pussy and ass, then swipes right up. Taunts your clit with the lightest touch, before dragging back down. Over and over until your breathing is shallow and desperate.
“De- Dean- Fuck- Dean-“
He moans against your pussy, and you try to buck off the bed, but his body presses forward, pinning you easily back down. He chuckles at the desperate look on your face, his mouth never leaving your clit, and you might be about to explode.
Then his plush lips wrap around your clit, and his tongue starts to work fast. Tiny, controlled little flicks that build you into a frenzy, his eyes still locked on to your, a soft pressure lighting you up as he sucks-
You cum without warning, every nerve in your body lighting up as your pussy remains trapped against Dean’s face. You try to wiggle away, the feeling overwhelming, but he drags you back with a moan. He’s hard, against your back. Hard and big, rutting slightly like this is getting his off, and that just sends you over the edge all over again.
You’re trembling, by the time Dean finally lets up. He gathers you up in his arms, humming gently, and hauls you up into his lap. Kisses your neck, then you cheek, then your lips. His shirt is gone. You’re not sure when that happened. But his pants are still on.
You paw at him. Whimper and grind, giving him a pouting, hopeful expression. He’s so hard, and you want him everywhere. Pounding into your cunt, no matter how sensitive it already is. In your mouth, in your hand, between your breasts, release hot over your skin, whatever he wants.
Dean just sighs, gently guiding your wrists away. “You were crying, baby-“
“Don’t care.” You whisper. “Dean, please, please, please-“ You rise up, pressing your brow against his. “I need it, please.”
Dean swallows. His tongue darts over his lips, and he rubs with mouth with a worried brow. You think he’s going to tell you no, for a terrible and long moment.
“Alright.” He murmurs, hand moving to his belt. “But- Can you promise me we’re gonna talk in the morning. Please?”
“Mhm.” You nod, your eyes fixed on his crotch.
He’s big. Thick and big, and your mouth is watering.
Dean chuckles. “You’re drooling, baby- Jesus-“
You’re climbing fully over him, something feral taking over your brain. You need him. Need him bad. You must be moaning it, because Dean holds you close, and doesn’t waste time.
Strong hands find your hips. Pick you up, then guide you back down onto his cock. You moan happily, your arms wrapping tight around his neck. He groans, pressing his face into the crook of your neck.
“Fuck... You feel good, baby, so fuckin’ good-“
You smile to yourself, rolling your hips, and Dean moans.
“Shit- Hell yeah-“ He leans back against the headboard, hands lazily wandering your body as you grind back and forth on his cock. “There you go, pretty girl, take what you want- Jesus-“
You squeeze around him, and Dean head falls back with another sinful moan.
“Don’t- Fuck-“
You squeeze again, and his hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise.
“Playing fuckin’ game, baby- Fuck- Keep doin’ that and I won’t-“
You giggle, and squeeze again. Dean’s eyes flash, his hands freezing.
“You think this is fuckin’ funny?”
“Maybe.” You whisper, lowering your lips to inches from his. “Hi.”
His eyes drop to your lips. You squeeze again, and he moans. “Shit, I’m warnin’ you, baby- Fuck-“
There’s something dangerous in his voice that you need to hear more of. You test the waters.
Dean snaps. He rolls you over, flipping your positions, and starts to piston his hips. The bed squeaks from the force of it, your mouth falling open as he drags you so perfectly apart, and he smirks.
“Yeah, there you go. Not so fuckin’- Christ-“
Dean drops down, his brow pressed against yours, eyes fixed on where his cock is slipping in and out of your pussy. It’s a lewd, enchanting sight. The way he’s transfixed by it almost makes you cum again.
“Look at us.” There’s a soft awe in his voice, for how he’s destroying you. “Take me so well, sweetheart, fuckin’ made for this cock-“
“Dean…” You whine, and he looks back to you with a smirk.
“Yeah, that’s it. That’s my girl.” He kisses you deeply, thrusts pushing every thought but his name from your head. “That’s my good girl, take it, fuckin’ take it-“
You moan, and he doubles his efforts. Groans, his dirty talk slipping into moans and grunts of your name, his mouth barely leaving yours for more than a second.
When you cum, it’s all consuming. Your vision goes white, toes curling and body arching off the bed. Dean shouts your name, yanking out and beating himself into his hand, cum spaying over your thighs and pussy. You’re gushing with your own release, mixing with his, and when he drags his fingers over your pussy, a tiny orgasm shakes you like an earthquake.
Dean helps you clean up. Guides you through the motions, even if your brain is still hazy from the overstimulation. Takes care of you like you’re his.
He said you were. And none of that was a dream.
Dean doesn’t sleep on the floor tonight. He curls up with you after changing the sheets, tangling your legs together, breath hot on your neck.
“In the morning.” He whispers as sleep pulls you both under. “We gotta talk in the morning.”
You hum, too drunken on his everything to really hear. And you fall asleep peacefully, and dream of things that are, for once, within reach.
My girl. Dean called you my girl, last night. He wanted to talk in the morning. But he’s gone when you get up.
You touch the mattress, and it’s still warm. You get dressed with your thighs still aching, and poke your head into the hallway. He’s not there either.
Your hand slips. You take a stumbling step forward, accidentally pulling the door closed, and it closes behind you. Leaving you locked out.
Something in you wants to cry, but something else doesn’t feel like you deserve it. You fell into the fantasy. You let yourself get swept away.
Maybe he’s just getting something. You cling to hope, instead of fear. For once in your life, you try to look at what’s in front of you, instead of your head.
You walk downstairs, because if he’s not there, at least you can get another keycard. The lobby is busy. The line at the desk is long, so you sigh, and step fully outside. Into fresh air.
And suddenly, you’re back at the beginning again.
Dean calls your name from behind you, and he’s shoving his through the crowd. So fast, he doesn’t seem to notice the glass door closing behind you. Your mouth falls open as he slams into it, and he stumble back with a groan.
You swallow a laugh, rushing forward to help him. He grabs you in an instance, his hand over his brow, groaning at the impact.
“Fucking, Dean-“ You guide his hand away from his face with a sigh, running your fingers over his brow. “What was that?”
“Thought you were getting away.” He mumbles, eyes locked on your face. “You ran last night, just- Worried you were doin’ it again. Wanted to catch you.”
“I was looking for you.” You mutter, and he winces as you find the bump. “Shit, sorry-“
“’S okay.” He catches your hand, pulling it slowly down. Rasps your name, squeezing lightly.
You swallow, and look into his eyes. He’s wearing that strange expression. The one you finally learned how to read.
Love.
“I was getting you breakfast.” He mutters. :And I kinda talked to my Mom last night. She saw you with Lana. Said you looked upset. I was- Comin’ to talk to you about that. Last night.”
You flush, glancing around the milling crowd. “Can we- Do this later-“
“No.”
His voice is firm, and you look back to find his face set. Determined.
You might’ve protested, if he wasn’t right.
The way the light bends around him, there’s really no one else in the world.
“I don’t know what she said to you.” Dean mutters, thumb tracing over your knuckles. “But- I broke up with Lana ‘cause I didn’t like her. I wanted to be with someone I liked.”
“Dean-“
“You told my Mom you love me.” He says quickly, and your eyes widen. “And you asked if she’s ever gotten sick of my Dad. And- She says that you told her you never get sick of me.” He swallows. “I don’t know how to do laundry, sweetheart. You gotta sometimes be sick of me.”
You shake your head, voice soft. “But- I’m not.”
Dean takes a ragged breath, and you force the question out.
“Are you? Sick of me?”
He shakes his head, mouth twitching. “Never. I- Hold on-“
He lets go fumbling in his pocket for a second before pulling out his phone. He swipes back and forth with a tight frown, then lets out a heavy breath. Turns the screen for you to see.
He’s showing you a photo of a ring. It’s elegant. Classy and expensive looking.
You frown. “What-“
“It’s my grandmothers.” He rasps. “Mom gave it to me when I moved out. Kept it in storage, ‘till I- I met you. ’S why Sammy had to know we weren’t fakin’. He asked for it for Jess, day after he met her. I had to remind him that I told him I grabbed it for you. After you-“
“Liked your waffles.” You breath, eyes pricking with tears. “Dean…”
“I was in love with you then.” He says, voice low. “Sammy thought I was crazy. Maybe I was.” He takes a deep breath, searching over your face. “Am I, sweetheart? Crazy.”
You smile. Look at him, and smile.
“No. You’re not.”
He chuckles, shoulders relaxing. “Awesome.”
“Yeah. I love you too.”
“Even better.”
“It is?” You tease, because you can’t help it.
Dean smiles. “Yeah. It is."
✦End note: god i wish i could just write all the time i'd never stop it's like playing with dolls and smushing them together (weird stuffed animal kid to writer pipeline is real)✦ - If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3 - Buy me a coffee!☕️ - Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
asking bucky “what sport would you play if you were athletic” or something similar 😭 bro would get so defensive about it
You swear you don't intend to say it like that.
But yet, maybe you do.
It’s a lazy Saturday afternoon in the compound, sunlight pouring through the massive windows in warm, golden sheets. Bucky is sprawled across the couch, one arm hooked behind his head, the other resting heavy over your thighs where your legs are thrown across his lap. The TV hums quietly in the background—some sports documentary Sam put on and promptly abandoned.
You’re only half watching it. Mostly you’re watching Bucky.
He’s in a gray henley with the sleeves shoved up, fabric pulling tight across his chest every time he shifts. His hair’s loose around his face, soft and dark and unfair. He looks comfortable. Relaxed.
You tilt your head, tapping your finger idly against his metal wrist.
“So,” you start casually, eyes still on the screen, “what sport do you think you’d play if you were athletic?”
The silence that follows is immediate.
Deadly.
You feel him go still beneath you.
Slowly—so slowly—his head turns.
“If I were what?”
You blink up at him, confused. “Athletic?”
His eyebrows draw together. “Doll.”
Oh.
Oh no.
You push up onto your elbows, trying to backpedal. “No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean, like—modern sports. Like if you grew up now. Hypothetically.”
He sits up, your legs sliding off his lap as he straightens his spine like you just personally insulted his entire lineage.
“I am athletic.”
“I know you are!”
“Do you?” he demands, gesturing vaguely at himself. “Because it didn’t sound like you did.”
You bite down on a laugh and instantly regret it.
His eyes narrow.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“No,” you wheeze, absolutely laughing at him.
Bucky leans forward, planting his hands on his knees, posture defensive in the most dramatic way possible. “I was in the 107th, sweetheart. I trained every day. I could run fifteen miles with a full pack before breakfast.”
“I know,” you say, reaching for him. “You’re very strong. Very scary. Terrifying, even.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“The point,” he says, jabbing a finger into the air, “is that I don’t need to imagine being athletic.”
You grin at him, unable to help yourself. “Okay, Mr. Athletic. So what sport would you play?”
He huffs.
You can practically see the internal debate. He wants to stay offended. He really does. But he also wants to answer.
Finally, he leans back again, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Baseball.”
You blink. “Baseball?”
“Yeah.”
You tilt your head. “Why baseball?”
He shrugs like it’s obvious. “Played stickball in Brooklyn. Before everything. I was good.”
“I’m sure you were.”
“I was,” he insists. “Had a decent arm.”
You glance pointedly at the vibranium limb.
“Don’t,” he warns.
“I didn’t say anything!”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking you’d absolutely shatter the bat.”
A corner of his mouth twitches despite himself. “Probably.”
You scoot closer again, nudging his thigh with your knee. “Okay. Baseball. I can see that.”
“See?” he says, immediately smug. “Athletic.”
“But like… what position?”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Outfield.”
“Why not pitcher?”
He pauses.
“…Could be pitcher.”
You laugh softly. “You’re so competitive.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
He shifts, turning toward you fully now, eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. “You think I couldn’t play something more intense?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Football.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You’d play football?”
“I could.”
“I’m not saying you couldn’t,” you say carefully. “I’m just picturing you in pads and—”
“And?”
“And I think you’d get mad at the referee.”
He scoffs. “Only if he was wrong.”
“You’d argue every call.”
“I would not.”
“You absolutely would.”
He leans in, pointing at you again. “You’re very comfortable accusing me of things today.”
You laugh, reaching up to smooth the crease between his brows with your thumb. “You’re just easy to rile up.”
“I am not riled up.”
“You’re extremely riled up.”
His hand snaps out, catching your wrist gently, tugging you forward until you tumble against his chest with a surprised squeak.
“I am perfectly calm,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with sports.
You grin against him. “Okay, Sergeant Athletic.”
His chest vibrates with a reluctant chuckle.
After a moment, you glance back up at him. “What about hockey?”
He considers that.
“Hockey’s violent.”
“So?”
“I like it.”
You beam. “There it is.”
“But I’d get penalized too much,” he mutters.
“Because you’d start fights?”
“Because people would deserve it.”
You snort.
He watches you for a second, expression softening in a way that makes your teasing falter just slightly.
“What?” you ask.
“You really think I’m athletic, right?”
The question’s quieter now. Less defensive. More real.
You immediately cup his face with both hands. “James Buchanan Barnes.”
He rolls his eyes but lets you continue.
“You can rip doors off hinges. You run faster than half the team. You train every morning before most people are awake. You’re built like a Greek statue and you know it.”
His mouth twitches again.
“And,” you add softly, brushing your thumb along his jaw, “you look very hot doing literally anything remotely physical.”
That does it.
His pride straightens like a cat preening.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He hums, satisfied, then leans back into the couch, tugging you with him until you’re half sprawled on top of him again.
“For the record,” he says after a beat, “I would dominate in any era.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Could probably do basketball too.”
You burst out laughing. “You hate basketball!”
“I don’t hate it.”
“You said it was ‘too squeaky.’”
“It is too squeaky.”
You’re laughing so hard now you can barely breathe.
He pretends to glare at you, but there’s no heat in it anymore. Just fond exasperation.
“Next time,” he mutters, “maybe phrase the question differently.”
“How should I phrase it?”
He thinks for a second.
“What sport would I choose to grace with my superior athleticism.”
You stare at him.
Then you dissolve into giggles again, burying your face in his chest.
He shakes his head, but his arms come around you automatically, holding you close.
“You’re unbelievable,” you mumble.
“Still athletic,” he replies smugly.
You lift your head, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth.
“Very athletic,” you confirm.
He smiles into it, all defensiveness gone now, replaced with something warm and pleased and a little boyish beneath the bravado.
And a minute later, when Sam walks back into the room and sees the two of you tangled up on the couch—
“Did you just ask him if he’s athletic?”
Bucky bolts upright again.
“I AM ATHLETIC.”
You’re laughing before he even finishes the sentence.
