Can you please write a Dean Winchester x reader in which reader hunts with them and whenever Sam and Dean argue or disagree she takes Dean side till one time Sam gets fed up and yells at her that she does it because she’s in love with Dean. Reader storms out of the motel room and maybe gets abducted by some creature they’re hunting, Dean blames Sam and later when they rescue her he admits the feelings are mutual
╰┈➤ Worth It
Dean Winchester x reader
Sam Winchester x reader (platonic)
Summary: Yes, you had a big crush on Dean and yes, you did take his side on lots of arguments but Sam outing you to Dean was not fair. So you ran and unfortunately the monster of the case got you.
Warnings: angst but fluff ending/description of injuries, kidnapping/yelling
You sat on the edge of one of the beds in the motel, cleaning your knife while Sam and Dean stood on opposite sides of the room, locked in yet another argument.
"I'm telling you, we need to wait," Sam insisted, his laptop balanced on his forearm as he gestured at the screen. "The lore says the creature is weakest during the new moon. That's three days from now."
Dean scoffed, pacing near the door like a caged animal. "Three days? Sam, this thing has already killed four people this week. How many more bodies do you want to pile up while we sit here twiddling our thumbs?"
"It's not twiddling our thumbs, it's being strategic—"
"It's being cautious to the point of useless," Dean shot back, his voice rising. "We know where it's nesting. We know it comes out at night. We go in, we gank it, we save lives. That's the job."
Sam slammed his laptop shut. "And what's the plan, Dean? Walk in there half-cocked and hope for the best? This thing has taken down experienced hunters. The Millers, remember them? Twenty years of hunting between them, and it tore them apart in under a minute."
"So we're better prepared—"
"How?" Sam's voice cracked with frustration. "We don't even know exactly what it is! The lore is contradictory. Some sources say it's a type of ghoul, others say it's something older, something we don't have a name for. Going in blind is suicide."
Dean's jaw clenched. "So we wait around while it picks off more victims? That family last night, Sam—the dad was thirty-four. His kid found the body. You want another kid to go through that because we were too chicken to make a move?"
You set down your knife with a soft clink. "Dean's right, Sam. We can't just wait around. What if there's another attack tonight? We'd never forgive ourselves."
Sam's head whipped toward you, and you caught the flash of irritation in his eyes. "Of course you'd say that."
"What's that supposed to mean?" you asked, feeling your defenses rise.
Sam turned back to Dean, ignoring your question. "Three days gives us time to research, to find its weakness. Otherwise, we're just walking into a death trap."
"We've walked into death traps before and made it out," Dean argued. "That's what we do. We don't sit around waiting for the perfect moment while people die."
"There's a difference between bravery and stupidity," Sam shot back.
"And there's a difference between caution and cowardice," Dean retorted.
"Okay, that's not fair—" Sam started.
"Dean's got a point," you interrupted, standing up. "Sam, I get that you want to be prepared, but three days is a long time. We can take precautions without waiting. We'll load up on everything—salt, iron, silver. We'll go in smart, but we'll go in."
Sam's hands dropped to his sides, his laptop nearly slipping from his grip. He stared at you for a long moment, and you could see something building behind his eyes—something that had been building for a while.
"Unbelievable," he muttered.
"What?" you asked, your arms crossing defensively.
"You," Sam said, his voice rising. "Every single time. It doesn't matter what we're arguing about—werewolf lore, which motel to stay at, what to order for dinner, whether to take a case or not—you always take his side!"
"That's not true—"
"It is true!" Sam's voice reached a level you rarely heard from him, his frustration finally boiling over. "Last week, Dean wanted to go to that dive bar, and you agreed even though you hate bars like that. The week before, I suggested we interview the witnesses separately, you said Dean's idea to go together was better. Every. Single. Time."
Your face heated. "Maybe I just agree with him—"
"On everything?" Sam laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Come on. You're a smart hunter, one of the best I've worked with, but the second Dean opens his mouth, it's like your brain shuts off!"
"Sam," Dean said, a warning in his tone, finally stepping forward. "Back off."
"No!" Sam rounded on his brother. "Don't you see it? Or are you just ignoring it because it's convenient?"
"Ignoring what?" Dean's voice was dangerously quiet.
Sam looked between the two of you, his chest heaving. "This. This thing where she agrees with everything you say, follows you around like—"
"Finish that sentence," you said coldly. "I dare you."
Sam's expression shifted, regret flickering across his face, but he'd come too far to stop now. "You know why you do it? You want to know why you always, always agree with Dean? Why you can't seem to form an independent opinion when he's in the room?"
Your heart hammered in your chest. Dean had gone very still beside you.
"Sam," Dean said again, but his voice had lost its edge, replaced by something that sounded almost like fear.
"It's because you're in love with him!" Sam's words exploded into the room like a bomb. "You're in love with Dean, and you've been trying to—to what? Get his attention? Make him notice you by always being on his side?"
The words hung in the air like a grenade with the pin pulled. Your face went hot, then cold, then hot again. You couldn't look at Dean—couldn't bear to see the pity or awkwardness or worse, the confirmation that Sam had just ruined everything.
"That's—" you started, but your voice cracked. "That's bullshit."
"Is it?" Sam pressed, and you could see he was past the point of stopping, even though his eyes showed regret. "Because I've watched you for months now. The way you look at him when he's not paying attention. The way you laugh at his stupid jokes. The way you always volunteer to go with him on supply runs or research trips. God, I'm not blind. The way you—"
"Shut up," you whispered, but it came out weak.
"Sam, that's enough," Dean said, his voice tight.
"Why?" Sam turned to his brother. "Because it's true? Because you know it's true and you've been pretending not to notice?"
You were on your feet before you knew it, grabbing your jacket from the chair. Your hands were shaking. "Screw you, Sam."
"Wait—" Sam reached for you, regret flooding his features now that he saw the damage he'd done. "I didn't mean—look, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said it like that—"
"Yeah, you did mean it," you said, your voice breaking. "You meant every word."
"Where are you going?" Dean's voice, rough and confused, cut through the tension. He moved toward you, but you stepped back.
"Out. Away. I don't—" You couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't stay in this room another second with both of them staring at you.
"It's not safe out there," Dean tried again, and the concern in his voice almost broke you. "The thing we're hunting, it's dark—"
"I don't care," you said, yanking the door open. The cold night air hit your face.
"Wait, please—" Sam called out.
But you were already gone, slamming the door behind you hard enough to rattle the frame. You heard Dean's voice, muffled through the door, saying something sharp to Sam, but you didn't stop to listen.
The night air bit at your skin as you stormed across the parking lot. Your breath came in short, angry gasps, and you realized with horror that your eyes were stinging. You blinked hard, refusing to cry over this.
So what if Sam was right? So what if you'd been stupid enough to fall for Dean Winchester, a man who treated feelings like a vampire treated sunlight? So what if every time he smiled at you, your heart did that stupid flutter thing? So what if you'd been pathetically obvious about it?
You'd get over it. You'd have to. You'd been hunting alone before you met the Winchesters, and you could do it again if you had to.
Your boots crunched on the gravel as you headed toward the road. You didn't have a destination in mind—just away. Maybe you'd walk to that 24-hour diner you'd passed on the way in. Maybe you'd just keep walking until your head cleared.
The motel sign cast a sickly yellow glow across the parking lot, but beyond that, the darkness was thick. The motel sat on the edge of town, with nothing but woods on three sides. You should have been more careful, should have paid attention to your surroundings, but your mind was replaying the scene in the room over and over.
You're in love with Dean.
God, you were so stupid. Of course Sam had noticed. Dean had probably noticed too and was just too polite to say anything. Now everything was ruined—the easy friendship, the partnership, the—
The shadows near the tree line moved wrong.
Your hand went to your waistband, finding the knife you'd tucked there, but you weren't fast enough. Something slammed into you from behind with the force of a freight train, and pain exploded across the back of your skull. The parking lot tilted sideways, and you hit the gravel hard, your palms scraping against the rough surface.
Stars burst behind your eyes. You tried to roll, to bring your knife up, but something impossibly strong grabbed you by the ankle and dragged you backward. Your fingers scrabbled for something to hold on to, finding nothing but loose gravel that scattered uselessly.
"No—" you managed to gasp, finally getting a look at your attacker.
It was human, but at the same time it wasn't. It was too tall, its limbs too long, joints bending in ways they shouldn't. Its skin was the color of old bone, stretched tight over a skull-like face. But the worst part was its eyes—completely black, like staring into empty sockets, and its mouth full of teeth that were too sharp, too many.
The creature's hand wrapped around your throat, lifting you off the ground like you weighed nothing. You kicked out, connected with something solid, but it didn't even flinch. Your vision started to darken around the edges as its grip tightened.
Then it released you, only to slam you back down onto the ground. The impact knocked the air from your lungs. Before you could recover, it was dragging you again, faster now, toward the tree line. You tried to scream, but you could barely breathe. Your phone—you needed your phone. You managed to grab it from your pocket, but the creature noticed and knocked it from your hand with a casual swipe. You heard it clatter somewhere in the darkness behind you.
The trees swallowed you both, branches tearing at your clothes and skin as you were pulled deeper into the woods. You grabbed at passing trunks, but the creature's strength was inhuman. Your fingers caught bark, tore leaves, found nothing that would hold.
"Help!" you finally managed to scream. "Dean! Sam!"
The creature made a sound like grinding bone and dragged you faster.
⛧
Inside the motel room, Dean rounded on Sam the second the door slammed shut.
"What the hell were you thinking?" Dean's voice was low and dangerous as he faced his brother. "What gives you the right—"
"Dean, I know. I screwed up—"
"Screwed up?" Dean laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You just humiliated her. You threw her feelings out there like a weapon because you were pissed off about a hunt."
Sam ran both hands through his hair, his face flushed with guilt and lingering anger. "I know, okay? I know. But she does always take your side, and it's been driving me crazy, and I just—it came out."
"So you decided to embarrass her? Make her feel like crap?" Dean grabbed his jacket. "I'm going after her."
"Dean, wait—"
"No. You've done enough." Dean headed for the door, but stopped with his hand on the knob. "And for the record? Yeah, she takes my side. You know why? Because she gets it. She understands why we can't always wait, why we can't always play it safe. She's a good hunter, and she's saved our asses more times than I can count, and she deserves better than you throwing her feelings in her face."
Sam's voice was quiet. "Are they true? Her feelings?"
Dean's jaw clenched. "That's none of your business. And it's definitely not yours to broadcast." He yanked open the door. "I'm bringing her back, and then you're going to apologize."
Dean stepped out into the parking lot, his eyes scanning for you. You couldn't have gotten far on foot. But the parking lot was empty, the yellow glow of the motel sign casting sickly shadows across the gravel.
"Hey!" he called out. "Come on, don't—" He stopped, frowning. Something on the ground caught his eye.
He walked over, his stomach sinking with every step. Your phone, the screen cracked, lying in the gravel. And next to it—
Blood.
"Sam!" Dean's voice came out strangled. "SAM!"
Sam came bursting out the door, took one look at Dean's face, and ran over. His eyes went wide when he saw the phone, the blood, the drag marks leading toward the tree line.
"Oh God," Sam breathed. "Oh God, no—"
"She's been taken." Dean's voice was eerily calm, the kind of calm that came before a storm. He pulled out his own phone, checking yours for the last location ping. "It's got her. That thing we're hunting—it's got her."
"Dean—"
Dean's head snapped up, and the look in his eyes made Sam take an involuntary step back. Pure rage, mixed with terror.
"Don't." The single word was deadly quiet. "Don't say a word."
"I didn't mean—"
"You made her run out of here!" Dean's voice exploded out of him, all that control shattering at once. "You humiliated her, you made her upset, you made her run out into the dark when we KNEW there was something out there hunting! What the hell were you thinking?"
"I wasn't thinking—"
"No, you weren't!" Dean was in Sam's face now, shaking with fury. "You were so busy being right, so busy calling her out, that you didn't stop to think about what would happen! And now she's out there with that thing, and it's YOUR FAULT!"
Sam's face had gone white. "Dean, I'm sorry—"
"Sorry?" Dean's voice cracked. "Sorry doesn't help her, Sam! Sorry doesn't stop that thing from killing her like it killed the others! Sorry doesn't—" He broke off, his hands going to his head. When he spoke again, his voice was raw. "I can't lose her, Sam. I can't lose her."
"You won't." Sam's voice was firm despite the guilt ravaging his expression. "Dean, we're going to find her. We're going to get her back."
"We better." Dean's voice dropped to something cold and hard. "Because if we don't—if we're too late—" He didn't finish the threat. He didn't have to.
Sam swallowed hard. "Where would it take her? The lair we found earlier?"
Dean was already pulling up the research on his phone, his hands shaking. "That was old, abandoned. These things—they're territorial. They have multiple nests." He scrolled frantically. "There. The old root cellar on the north side. That's got to be where it—"
He didn't finish. Just ran for the Impala.
Sam followed, his longer legs keeping pace. "Dean, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll do whatever it takes to make this right."
Dean yanked open the driver's door, his movements sharp and violent. "Then help me find her. Now."
They peeled out of the parking lot, leaving rubber on the road. Dean's knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched so tight Sam worried he'd crack a tooth.
"You love her," Sam said quietly as they flew through the dark streets.
Dean's jaw worked. For a moment, Sam didn't think he'd answer. Then: "Yeah. Yeah, I do. And if I don't get to tell her that because you couldn't keep your mouth shut—"
"You'll tell her," Sam interrupted. "We're going to find her, and you're going to tell her, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life making up for this."
Dean didn't respond, just pressed harder on the gas.
⛧
Time became meaningless. All you knew was pain—your back and legs on fire from being dragged across roots and rocks, your head throbbing, your throat raw from screaming. You tried to fight, but every time you struggled, the creature would stop and hit you hard enough to make your ears ring.
Finally, mercifully, you felt yourself being dragged down. Down into darkness. A basement? A cellar? The air turned cold and damp, smelling of earth and rot. The creature dropped you, and you hit the ground hard, the impact jarring every bone in your body.
You lay there, gasping, trying to assess the damage. Your head was bleeding—you could feel the warm blood trickle down your neck. Your wrists and ankles were scraped raw. Your back felt like one giant bruise. But you were alive. For now.
A door slammed above you, and you heard something heavy dragged across it. A lock clicking into place.
You forced yourself to sit up, biting back a cry of pain. The darkness was absolute for a moment before your eyes adjusted. A thin sliver of moonlight came from somewhere above—a small window or vent near the ceiling, too high and too small to be useful.
As your vision cleared, you realized you weren't alone.
Bodies. Three of them, in various states of decay, arranged almost ceremonially against the far wall. The closest one was fresh—maybe a day or two old. A man in his thirties, his eyes still open, staring at nothing. You recognized him from the police report. The latest victim.
Your stomach lurched, and you turned away, breathing hard through your nose. You were in the creature's nest. This was where it kept its kills.
You had to get out. Now.
Your hands went to your belt, checking for weapons. Your knife was gone—lost somewhere in the woods. Your gun too. The creature had left you with nothing. You checked your pockets frantically. Empty. No phone, no weapons, no way to call for help.
Think. There had to be something.
You looked around the cellar, forcing yourself to really examine it despite the horror show on the far wall. Stone walls, old but solid. A wooden door at the top of a narrow staircase. The small window above. And—
Your breath caught. Bones. Scattered bones along one wall, picked clean. Human and animal mixed together. And among them, something that glinted in the dim light.
You crawled over, ignoring the protest from your bruised body. It was a belt buckle, still attached to a piece of rotted leather. But more importantly, there was a small pocketknife tangled in it. Rusted, but maybe still functional.
You grabbed it, your fingers clumsy with adrenaline. The blade was stuck, rusted shut. You worked at it, whispering every curse word you knew, until finally—finally—it gave way with a screech of protesting metal. The blade was small, maybe two inches, but it was sharp enough.
A sound above made you freeze. Footsteps. Heavy and deliberate, pacing back and forth across the floor above your head. The creature was still there, still active. You remembered the lore Sam had mentioned—it was nocturnal, more active at night. Which meant you had hours until dawn, hours trapped down here with those bodies and that thing pacing above you.
You looked at the door. Even if you could get it open, the creature was right there. You'd never make it past it, not without a real weapon. But if you stayed here, you'd end up like the others against the wall.
Your eyes went back to the window. Too high, but maybe—
You started searching the cellar more carefully, staying quiet. There were wooden crates in one corner, half-rotted. If you could stack them, if you could reach that window, maybe you could break through it. Maybe you could scream loud enough for someone to hear.
Maybe Dean would come looking for you.
The thought came unbidden, and with it, a wave of emotion you'd been holding back. Dean. God, what if the last conversation you ever had with him was that argument? What if the last thing he knew about you was Sam's accusation hanging in the air, unaddressed?
No. No, you weren't going to die here. You were going to get out, and you were going to figure out what the hell to say to Dean, and you were going to tell Sam exactly where he could shove his opinions.
You started dragging the first crate as quietly as you could, your eyes fixed on the ceiling, listening to the creature's footsteps above.
The footsteps stopped.
You froze, the crate half-moved. Silence pressed down on you, somehow worse than the pacing. Then you heard it—a scraping sound. The sound of something heavy being moved away from the door.
It was coming back.
You abandoned the crate and backed against the wall, the tiny knife held out in front of you with a shaking hand. The door at the top of the stairs opened with a long, agonized creak.
The creature came down slowly, taking its time. In the thin light from above, you could see it better now. It had definitely been human once—or something close to human. But whatever it had become was a perversion of that form. Its skin wasn't just pale; it was translucent in places, showing the shadows of bones and sinew underneath. Its hands ended in curved black talons that scraped against the stone walls as it came down the stairs.
And it was looking right at you.
"Stay back," you warned, your voice steadier than you felt. "I'm warning you."
It cocked its head, like a dog hearing an interesting sound. Then it opened its mouth, and a sound came out—a horrifying mimicry of human laughter, but distorted, layered with something else underneath. Multiple voices, maybe. The voices of its victims.
"He won't come," it said, and you realized with horror that it could speak. The voice was rough, unused, but clear enough. "The hunter. He won't come in time."
"You don't know that," you shot back, trying to keep it talking, trying to buy time.
"They never do," it continued, taking another step down. "They always wait. They plan. They research. And their friends die."
It was at the bottom of the stairs now, so close you could smell it—rot and earth and something chemical. You pressed harder against the wall, knowing you had nowhere to go.
"But you're different," it said, that head tilt again. "You didn't want to wait. You wanted to hunt."
"Yeah, well, I'm here now," you said through gritted teeth. "So let's do this."
It lunged.
You dodged right, slashing with the small knife. The blade caught its arm, drawing a line of black ichor. It shrieked—a sound that stabbed into your ears like ice picks—and backhanded you. You flew sideways, hitting the wall hard enough to see stars.
The knife clattered from your grip.
The creature advanced, looming over you, and you knew this was it. This was how it ended.
Then, from above—distant but clear—you heard it: the roar of an engine. The Impala's engine. You'd know that sound anywhere.
The creature heard it too. Its head snapped toward the stairs, body tensing.
"Told you," you gasped, tasting blood. "He came."
The creature snarled and moved toward the stairs, but you heard the cellar door burst open above with a crash of splintering wood.
"Don't move!"
Dean's voice. Dean's beautiful, perfect voice.
The creature hissed and turned, and you heard the blast of a shotgun. Rock salt rounds, from the sound of it. The creature stumbled back but didn't go down.
"Sam, now!" Dean's voice again.
Another shot, different sound—iron rounds. The creature screamed, that horrible multi-voice sound, and you saw it stumble.
"Find her!" Dean shouted.
Light flooded the space as someone flipped a switch you hadn't known existed. Then Dean was there, thundering down the stairs, Sam right behind him. Dean had his shotgun up, and when he saw the creature, he didn't hesitate. He fired twice, both shots hitting it's chest, and the creature went down hard.
Sam moved past him, a machete in his hands, and you had to look away from what came next. The creature's final scream cut off abruptly.
Then Dean was there, sliding to his knees beside you, his hands on your face. His eyes were wild, desperate, scared in a way you'd never seen. "Hey, hey, you're okay. You're okay."
"Dean," you managed, and his name came out like a sob.
"I got you." His fingers worked at checking you over, cataloging every injury. One hand cradled the back of your head, and you felt him carefully probing the wound there. His jaw clenched. "I got you, sweetheart. You're safe now."
You felt his heart hammering where your hand had come to rest against his chest, heard the raggedness of his breathing. He was scared. Dean Winchester was scared.
"I'm okay," you whispered. "Dean, I'm okay."
"You're not okay, you're bleeding—Sam, get the first aid kit from the car!" Dean looked back down at you, his eyes scanning your face. "Can you move? Anything broken?"
"I don't think so. Just banged up."
When he finally pulled back to look at you properly, his eyes were bright with unshed tears. "When we couldn't find you—when we saw your phone—"
"I'm here," you said, your hand tightening on his shirt. "I'm right here."
Sam appeared beside Dean, the first aid kit in hand, his face pale with guilt. "God, I'm so sorry. This is my fault. If I hadn't—"
"Later," Dean cut him off, taking the kit. "Let's get her out of here."
Dean helped you stand, and when your legs wobbled, he simply swept you up into his arms like you weighed nothing. You wanted to protest, to say you could walk, but the truth was you weren't sure you could. And being in his arms felt safe in a way nothing else had since this nightmare began.
As he carried you up the stairs and out into the blessedly cool night air, you buried your face against his neck and finally let yourself shake.
"I got you," Dean murmured again, his arms tightening around you. "I got you. You're safe now."
The drive back to the motel was silent except for the rumble of the Impala's engine. You sat in the back seat, Dean having insisted on it so he could keep turning around to check on you. Sam drove, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel, his eyes constantly flicking to the rearview mirror.
Dean had cleaned and bandaged the worst of your wounds at the scene—the cut on your head, your scraped palms and wrists. You were going to be one giant bruise tomorrow, but you were alive.
Every time you closed your eyes, you saw those bodies. Smelled that rot. Felt the creature's hands on you.
"Hey," Dean's voice, soft. You opened your eyes to find him turned fully around in his seat, watching you with concern. "Stay with me. No sleeping yet, not with a possible concussion."
"I'm awake," you said.
"Tell me something," he said. "Keep talking to me."
"About what?"
"Anything. Favorite color. Worst hunt. That scar on your shoulder you've never explained. Anything."
So you talked, your voice rough and tired, and Dean listened. He asked questions, made stupid jokes, did everything he could to keep you conscious and present. And when you finally pulled into the motel parking lot, he was out of the car and pulling your door open before Sam had even turned off the engine.
Sam climbed out, opening his mouth to say something, and Dean held up a hand.
"Give us a minute," Dean said quietly.
Sam looked between the two of you, then nodded. "I'll... I'll be in the room. Getting supplies. Medical supplies." He headed toward the motel room, his shoulders slumped.
Dean helped you out of the car, his arm solid around your waist. But instead of heading toward the room, he guided you to sit on the Impala's trunk, and he stood in front of you, his hands resting on your knees.
"We need to talk," he said.
"Dean, it's okay. What Sam said—I know it made things weird, but we can just forget—"
"What if I don't want to forget it?"
Your breath caught. You looked up at him, really looked at him, and found him staring at you with an intensity that made your bruised ribs ache for an entirely different reason.
"What?"
Dean swallowed hard, his thumb tracing absent circles on your knee. "When Sam said that—what he said—I didn't react because I was shocked." He paused, his jaw working like the words were being physically dragged out of him. "I didn't react because he was right."
Your heart stopped. "Dean—"
"Let me finish," he said, his voice rough. "I didn't react because I was terrified he was right and that I'd screwed everything up by feeling—" He broke off, laughing weakly. "Feeling things I got no business feeling."
"What things?" you whispered.
Dean's eyes met yours, and you saw everything there—fear and hope and something so vulnerable it made your chest hurt. "When we couldn't find you, when I saw your phone on the ground and your blood on the gravel—" His hands tightened on your knees, and you saw his throat work as he swallowed. "I haven't been that scared in a long time. Because I realized that if something happened to you, if we were too late, the last thing I would have done was let you walk out that door thinking I didn't—"
He stopped, took a breath, tried again.
"You do take my side in arguments," he said. "But not because you're trying to get my attention or whatever crap Sam was spewing. You take my side because you understand me. You get why I do things, why I make the calls I make. You've had my back since day one—not just in fights, but in everything. When I'm being an idiot, when I'm making the wrong call for the right reasons, you're there. You see me, the real me, and you still stick around."
"Dean," you tried again, but he kept going, like if he stopped he'd lose his nerve.
"And somewhere along the way, that became everything to me. You became everything to me." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "I'm in love with you. Have been for months now, maybe longer. And I know I'm not good at this feelings crap, and I know I come with more baggage than anyone should have to deal with—Hell, literally, demons, apocalypses, daddy issues—but I—"
You kissed him.
It was graceless and sudden, your hand fisting in his jacket to pull him closer, ignoring the protest from your bruised body. He made a surprised sound that melted into something like relief.
His lips were soft, careful, like he was afraid you might break. One hand slid into your hair, careful of your injuries, while the other settled on your waist, pulling you closer. You could feel him trembling, feel the emotion pouring out of him with every movement.
When you finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Dean's forehead rested against yours. His eyes were closed, and you saw a tear slip down his cheek.
"I thought I lost you," he whispered. "When I saw that blood, I thought—"
"I'm here," you said, your hands framing his face. "Dean, I'm right here."
His eyes opened, green and bright and full of everything he'd just confessed. "Say it," he said. "I need to hear you say it."
"I love you," you said, and it felt like the easiest thing you'd ever done. "I've been in love with you for so long I can't remember when it started. Maybe the first hunt we worked together. Maybe before that. And yes, I take your side in arguments because I agree with you, but also because—" You laughed, the sound watery. "Because I just want to be on your side. Whatever side that is."
Dean's smile was brilliant, transforming his entire face. He kissed you again, softer this time, reverent. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours again.
"So," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "Does this mean you'll keep taking my side in arguments?"
You laughed, then winced as it pulled at your bruised ribs. "Don't push your luck, Winchester. Now that we've got that settled, I might start agreeing with Sam just to keep you on your toes."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
He grinned and kissed you again, and you thought maybe getting abducted by a monster wasn't the worst thing that could have happened tonight. Painful and traumatic, yes, but it had led to this—to Dean Winchester holding you like you were precious, kissing you like you were air and he was drowning.
"Come on," Dean murmured against your lips. "Let's get you cleaned up properly and into bed. You need rest."
"Will you stay?" you asked, then quickly added, "Just to, you know, keep an eye on me. Concussion watch."
Dean's smile was soft and knowing. "Yeah, sweetheart. I'll stay."
As he helped you toward the motel room, his arm solid around your waist, you could see Sam through the window. When he caught sight of you two—Dean practically holding you up, your hand clutched in his—Sam's expression transformed from guilt to relief to understanding.
He met you at the door, his eyes red-rimmed. "I'm so sorry," he said immediately. "Both of you. I was frustrated and I was wrong to say what I said the way I said it, and I—"
"You were right," you interrupted. "An asshole about it, but right."
Sam blinked. "I—what?"
Dean's arm tightened around you. "We're good, Sam. Just—let's call it a night, yeah?"
Understanding dawned on Sam's face, followed by a genuine smile. "Yeah. Yeah, okay." He stepped aside to let you in. "For what it's worth, I'm happy for you guys. And I really am sorry."
"Buy me breakfast tomorrow and we'll call it even," you said.
"Deal."
As Dean guided you to one of the beds and helped you sit down, Sam went to the other side of the room to give you guys some space. Dean knelt in front of you, checking your bandages with gentle hands.
"Think you can change into something more comfortable?" he asked. "I'll step out—"
"Stay," you said, catching his hand. "Please."
Something flickered in his eyes—emotion too big to name—and he nodded. He helped you carefully remove your torn, blood-stained jacket, his movements careful and professional even though you could see the anger flashing in his eyes at every new bruise he uncovered.
"I'm gonna kill that thing," he muttered. "Oh wait, I already did."
"Good," you said simply.
He found one of his flannel shirts in his duffel and helped you into it, the fabric soft and smelling like him—leather and gunpowder and something uniquely Dean. Then he pulled back the covers and helped you lie down, propping pillows behind you.
"I'll be right over there," he said, gesturing to the other bed. "Wake me if you need anything, okay? Anything at all."
You caught his hand before he could move away. "Dean." With just his name leaving your mouth, Dean knew what you wanted.
He hesitated for only a moment before toeing off his boots and carefully climbing into the bed beside you. He positioned himself so you could rest against his chest without putting pressure on any of your injuries, one arm around you, his hand stroking through your hair.
"This okay?" he asked softly.
"Perfect," you murmured, your eyes already drifting closed.
"Hey, no sleeping yet," he reminded you gently. "Another hour at least just to make sure that head of yours is okay. Talk to me."
So you talked, quiet conversations in the dark, Dean's hand never stopping its gentle movement through your hair. You talked about everything and nothing—old hunts, bad diners, the time Sam got them kicked out of a library. And slowly, the horror of the night began to fade, replaced by the solid warmth of Dean's presence, the steady beat of his heart under your ear.
An hour later, when Dean finally let you sleep, his arms stayed around you, protective and sure. And for the first time since you'd started hunting with the Winchesters, you fell asleep knowing exactly where you belonged.
Yeah, you'd keep taking Dean's side. But now it was for an entirely different reason—and you were pretty sure he'd take yours, too.
love ur work!! maybe a fic with demon dean and teenage sister where he hurts her really bad, but has to make up for it once hes normal!
╰┈➤ Broken and Mended
Demon!Dean Winchester x little sister!reader
(Ft. Sam)
Summary: Dean as a demon did a number on you. Now he has to earn your trust back.
Warnings: graphic violence and abuse/PTSD and panic attacks/severe injury and trauma
The bunker had never felt so cold.
You pressed yourself against the wall of the dungeon hallway, your ribs screaming in protest. Each breath felt like shards of glass working their way through your chest. Your left arm hung useless at your side, and you were pretty sure at least three fingers on that hand were broken. The taste of copper filled your mouth.
"Come on, sweetheart," Dean's voice echoed through the corridor, but it wasn't really Dean. Not the Dean you knew. The Mark of Cain had twisted him, transformed him into something dark and merciless—a demon made from your brother's own soul. "You know I'm gonna find you. I always do."
Your vision blurred with tears you refused to let fall. Three days ago, you'd still believed you could reach him. That somewhere behind those black eyes, your big brother was still in there, fighting to get back to you. You'd been so stupid.
"Dean, please, it's me," you'd begged when he'd first cornered you in the library.
"I know exactly who you are," he'd replied with that cruel smile that looked so wrong on his face. "That's what makes this fun."
The first hit had come so fast you hadn't seen it. He'd slammed you into the bookshelf with enough force to crack the wood. Books rained down around you as you crumpled to the floor.
"Always did think you were something special, didn't you?" Dean—this twisted, dark version of your brother—had crouched down, grabbing your hair and forcing you to look at him. "Dad's little princess. Sam's little shadow. My responsibility." He'd spat the last word like it was poison. "You have no idea how exhausting it was, always having to worry about you. Always having to put you first."
"That's not true," you'd gasped. "You loved—"
The backhand sent you sprawling. "Past tense. Loved. Don't anymore." His smile was all teeth. "The Mark showed me the truth. Showed me who I really am without all that useless guilt holding me back."
You'd tried to run then. Made it as far as the war room before he caught you, slamming you face-first into the map table. Something in your hand had crunched, and the scream that tore from your throat echoed off the bunker's walls.
"Scream all you want," he'd whispered in your ear. "No one's coming. Sam's off trying to fix me, and honestly? I don't want to be fixed. This is the best I've ever felt."
He'd thrown you across the room then. You'd hit the stairs hard, tumbling down several steps before managing to catch yourself. Your ribs had taken the worst of it. Through the haze of pain, you'd heard him laugh—actually laugh—at the sound of your crying.
"This is who I really am, kiddo. No more hero complex. No more guilt weighing me down. No more pretending to be something I'm not." His footsteps had been slow, deliberate, as he descended the stairs. "And you know what the best part is? Every word I'm saying? It's all me. All the thoughts I had to bury. All the resentment I had to swallow. The Mark didn't put these feelings in my head—it just freed me to finally say them out loud."
You'd scrambled backward, your broken hand clutched to your chest.
"You were always dead weight. Every hunt we had to modify because of you. Every risk we couldn't take because we had to keep you safe. Every time Dad looked at us with disappointment because we chose you over the job." He'd grabbed your ankle, dragging you back toward him as you kicked and screamed. "You know how many people died because we were too busy playing babysitter?"
"Stop it!" You'd managed to kick him in the face, buying yourself enough time to get up and run.
And you'd been running ever since.
Now, huddled in the dungeon, you could hear his footsteps getting closer. Your phone was shattered—he'd stomped on it early in the chase. You had no way to call Sam, no way to call anyone. You were alone with your brother—your actual brother, not possessed, just corrupted by the Mark—and you were pretty sure you were going to die here.
The footsteps stopped.
"Found you."
You looked up to see him standing at the entrance to your hiding spot, blocking your only exit. The emergency lighting cast shadows across his face, and those black eyes gleamed with something that might have been satisfaction.
"Please," you whispered, hating how broken you sounded. "Please, Dean, I know you're still in there somewhere."
"I'm right here," he said, spreading his arms. "This is me. The real me. Not the trained dog Dad made. Not Sam's co-dependent brother. Not your built-in bodyguard. Just me, finally free of all that suffocating responsibility."
"That's the Mark talking—"
"The Mark isn't talking. I am." He crouched down to your level. "The Mark didn't create these feelings. It just gave me the balls to finally acknowledge them. All those years of putting you first, sacrificing everything for you—you think that didn't leave a mark? Pun intended."
"You don't mean that," you said, but your voice wavered.
"Don't I?" His hand shot out, wrapping around your throat. "Let me tell you what I really think about my baby sister."
Your broken hand came up instinctively, uselessly, as he lifted you off the ground. Black spots danced in your vision.
"I think you're a millstone around my neck. I think every time I saved you, a part of me died. I think—"
He stopped suddenly, his grip loosening just slightly. His eyes flickered—black, then green, then black again. His whole body tensed, shaking, like he was fighting something internal.
"No," he growled through gritted teeth. "No, that's not—"
His eyes flashed green again, and for just a moment, you saw real Dean. The horror. The self-loathing. The desperate fight against what the Mark had turned him into.
"Run," he managed, his voice strained. "While I can still—run!"
He dropped you. You collapsed to the floor, gasping and coughing, and when you looked up, his eyes were black again, but he was backing away from you, his hands pressed to his temples like he was trying to hold something back.
"Get out," he said, and his voice was wrong—layered, like two people speaking at once. "Go. NOW!"
You didn't need to be told twice. Despite the pain, despite your injuries, you ran.
⛧
The next three days were a blur. Sam found you unconscious in one of the bunker's hidden rooms, the one Dean didn't know about—the one Sam had shown you years ago and made you promise to keep secret. Your brother rushed you to the hospital with a story about a car accident.
Broken ribs. Fractured hand in three places. Severe bruising. Mild concussion. The doctor had looked at Sam with suspicion, but he'd sold the story. You'd backed him up, even though every word hurt.
Sam didn't tell you he was going after Dean. Didn't tell you about the cure or the demon trap or any of it. You found out later that he'd been terrified you'd try to come with him, broken bones and all.
You were back at the bunker, your hand in a cast and your ribs wrapped, when they returned.
You heard Sam's voice first, tired but relieved. "Easy, Dean. You're okay. The Mark is dormant. You're back."
Your heart stopped. You'd been in the kitchen, trying to make tea with one hand, and the mug slipped from your fingers. It shattered on the floor, and you didn't even notice.
You couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
The kitchen door opened.
Dean stood there, and his eyes were green. Fully, completely green. But you still flinched backward, your body remembering before your mind could catch up.
The look on his face would haunt you forever.
"Y/n," he said, and his voice broke on your name. Real emotion. Real pain. Real Dean—but how much of what he'd said and done had also been real Dean?
You pressed yourself against the counter, your good hand gripping the edge so hard your knuckles went white. "Is it really you?"
"It's me. The Mark is quiet. I'm back." He took a step forward, and you couldn't help it—you flinched again.
He stopped immediately, raising his hands. You could see them shaking. "It's me, sweetheart. I swear. It's me."
"How do I know?" you whispered. "How do I know it's not just temporary? How do I know you won't—"
"You don't," he said, and the raw honesty in his voice was almost worse than the lies. "You can't know. But I'm here, and I'm myself, and I remember—" His voice broke. "God, I remember everything."
"Everything you said?" You had to know. "Was that you? Was that really how you feel?"
His face crumpled. "I don't know." The admission seemed to cost him everything. "The Mark—it took every dark thought, every moment of frustration, every flash of resentment I've ever had and amplified it a thousand times. It made me feel things I've never let myself feel. Made me believe things I've never believed."
"But they came from somewhere," you said, and you hated how small your voice sounded. "Those thoughts had to start somewhere."
"Yeah." He wouldn't look at you. "Yeah, they did. And I need you to know—I need you to understand—" He took a shaky breath. "I'm not possessed. I wasn't possessed. That was me. A twisted, dark version of me, but me. And I have to own that."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
"So you meant it," you said numbly. "When you said I was dead weight. When you said I ruined your life."
"No. Yes. I—" He ran his hands through his hair, looking lost. "I had those thoughts. Buried deep, from my worst moments, from times when I was exhausted and scared and feeling trapped. But they were seconds in a lifetime of love. Drops in an ocean. The Mark took those drops and drowned me in them. Made me forget the ocean."
"I don't understand."
"Have you ever—just for a second—been annoyed at someone you love?" he asked desperately. "Have you ever had a flash of resentment or frustration, and then immediately felt guilty for thinking it?"
You thought about times you'd been angry at Sam for being overprotective. At Dean for treating you like a kid. Fleeting moments that meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.
"That's what the Mark did," Dean continued. "It took every negative thought I've ever had and made it my entire reality. It made me forget that ninety-nine percent of the time, taking care of you was the greatest privilege of my life. That you were the reason I kept fighting. That loving you was never a burden—it was what made me human."
"But you still thought those things," you said. "You still felt them."
"For seconds. In my worst moments. When I was afraid I'd fail you, I sometimes resented how much I had to lose." He finally met your eyes. "But that's not the truth of how I feel. That's just—it's the darkness everyone has. The Mark made the darkness into all I could see."
"How do I believe you?" The question came out as barely a whisper. "How do I believe that this is the real you and that wasn't?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know how to prove it to you. All I can do is tell you the truth: I love you. I have always loved you. Even when the Mark had me, some part of me was still fighting for you. You remember when I stopped? When my eyes changed?"
You nodded, remembering that moment of hope before he'd told you to run.
"That was me fighting back. The real me, trying to break through. Because even corrupted, even twisted into something dark and cruel, some part of me couldn't let you die." His voice dropped. "But it wasn't enough. I still hurt you. I still said those things. And I have to live with that."
"I don't know if I can forgive you," you said honestly.
"Good." The word was fierce. "Don't. Not until you're sure you mean it. Not until you're ready. If you're ever ready."
"What if I'm never ready?"
The pain in his eyes was unbearable, but he didn't look away. "Then I'll spend the rest of my life trying to earn something I don't deserve, and I'll hate myself every day for what I did to you. But I'm not going anywhere unless you tell me to."
"I don't want you to go," you said, surprising yourself. "But I don't know how to be around you anymore."
"Then we figure it out," he said. "Together. However long it takes."
You wanted to believe him. You wanted to trust him. But every time you looked at him, you saw those black eyes. Heard those words. Felt those hands around your throat.
"I need time," you finally said.
"You've got it." He started to back toward the door. "All the time in the world. I'll be here when you're ready. If you're ever ready."
He left, and you were alone with your thoughts and your fear and your broken heart.
⛧
The first week was agony.
Dean kept his distance, but his presence was everywhere. Meals appeared outside your door—all your favorites. Your favorite books showed up in the library. Clean laundry appeared while you slept. Little acts of service that said what he couldn't: I'm sorry. I love you. I'm trying.
But he never approached you directly. Never cornered you. If you entered a room where he was, he'd excuse himself immediately.
You could hear him at night, though. The sounds of someone who wasn't sleeping. The quiet sounds of someone falling apart with guilt.
Sam tried to mediate. "He's destroying himself over this," he said one day. "He barely eats. Doesn't sleep. Just sits in his room or works on hunts like a machine."
"What do you want me to do?" you asked, and you hated how cold you sounded. "Forgive him because he feels bad?"
"No," Sam said firmly. "I want you to take all the time you need to heal. But I also want you to know—I was there when we cured him. I saw his face when he realized what he'd done. Y/n, he wanted to die. He begged me to kill him."
Your chest tightened. "What?"
"He said he didn't deserve to live after what he did to you. That you'd be safer with him dead." Sam's voice was heavy. "I had to talk him out of it. Had to make him promise to stay alive long enough to at least try to make things right."
You didn't know what to do with that information.
⛧
Two weeks after Dean came back, you couldn't sleep. The pain medication wasn't working, and your mind wouldn't stop replaying those three days. You went to the kitchen for water and found Dean at the table, a bottle of whiskey in front of him, untouched.
He started to get up when he saw you, but you held up your hand.
"Stay."
He froze, then slowly sat back down. You got your water and, after a long moment of hesitation, sat at the opposite end of the table.
The silence stretched between you like a chasm.
"The Mark is still there," Dean finally said, staring at the bottle. "Sam says we need to find a way to remove it completely, but I'm scared. What if curing me only worked temporarily? What if it comes back?"
Your hands tightened around your glass. "Would you hurt me again?"
"I don't know." The honesty was brutal. "I don't want to. The thought of what I did makes me physically sick. But the Mark—when it had control, it felt right. It felt like freedom. And that terrifies me."
"Maybe you should go," you said quietly. "Until you find a way to remove it."
"If that's what you want, I'll go tonight." He looked at you then, really looked at you. "But I need you to know something first. Those things I said—about you being dead weight, about resenting you—the Mark amplified real thoughts I'd had. But they weren't the truth. They were intrusive thoughts, the kind everyone has and hates themselves for."
"How do I know the difference?"
"Because of this." He gestured to the space between you. "Because even knowing you might never forgive me, even knowing I might lose you forever, I'm still here. Still trying. Because that's what love is. Not the absence of dark thoughts or difficult moments, but the choice to fight through them. To choose the person over the pain."
"You didn't choose me when you had the Mark."
"No," he agreed. "I didn't. The Mark took away my ability to choose. It made the darkness the only choice." He paused. "But at the end, I broke through. For just a moment, I chose you over what the Mark wanted. I chose you over myself."
You remembered. That moment when his eyes had changed, when he'd told you to run. When human Dean had surfaced just long enough to save your life.
"That doesn't erase what you did."
"No," he said. "Nothing will. But maybe it means something that even at my worst, even as a demon, some part of me still loved you enough to fight back."
You didn't have an answer to that. After a long silence, you stood. "I'm going to bed."
"Okay." He didn't move. "Hey, Y/n?"
You paused at the doorway.
"Thank you for sitting with me. Even if it was just for a few minutes. It means more than you know."
You left without responding, but something in your chest felt a little less tight.
Progress came in inches.
⛧
Three weeks in, you let him change your bandages. His hands shook the entire time, and he apologized every time you winced.
"I hate that I'm touching you," he said quietly. "Hate that these hands that hurt you are the only ones here to help you heal."
"Sam could do it," you pointed out.
"Yeah." He carefully wrapped the gauze. "So why am I here?"
You didn't have an answer. Or maybe you did, and you weren't ready to admit it.
⛧
A month in, you had a nightmare. You woke up screaming, and both Sam and Dean came running. But it was Dean who stopped at your doorway, Sam who came in to comfort you.
You saw the pain on Dean's face as he watched Sam hold you. Saw him turn away, probably to give you privacy, definitely to hide his tears.
"Dean," you called out before he could leave.
He turned back, cautious hope on his face.
"Stay. Please."
He sat in the chair by your door, as far away as he could get while still being in the room. You and Sam talked quietly until you calmed down, and when Sam eventually left, Dean remained.
"I can go if you want," he offered.
"I said stay."
So he stayed. And eventually, you fell back asleep to the sound of his breathing, of him watching over you like he used to when you were small.
When you woke in the morning, he was still there, still awake.
⛧
Six weeks in, you started having panic attacks. The doctor said it was normal—PTSD, trauma response. Dean overheard you talking to Sam about it in the library.
You found him in his room an hour later, packing a bag.
"What are you doing?"
"Leaving," he said without looking at you. "I'm the trigger. Every time you see me, you're reminded of what happened. I'm making you worse, and I can't—I can't do that to you."
"Dean—"
"You have panic attacks because of me," he said, his voice breaking. "Because I put my hands on you. Because I tried to kill you. What kind of brother does that make me?"
"The kind who's trying to get better," you said. "The kind who's fighting for our family."
"I don't deserve—"
"Stop." You moved closer, and he finally looked at you. "Stop deciding what you deserve. That's my choice. And I'm not ready for you to leave."
"You're not?"
"No." You took a shaky breath. "Because despite everything, you're still my brother. And I need my brother."
He dropped the bag and pulled you into a hug—careful, gentle, asking permission with every movement. You let yourself sink into it, let yourself feel safe in his arms for the first time since he'd come back.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I'm so, so sorry, sweetheart."
"I know." And you did. You could feel it in every careful touch, every night he stayed awake to watch over you, every time he put your needs before his own guilt.
⛧
Two months in, Sam convinced you both to go on a simple salt-and-burn. "Nothing dangerous," he promised. "Just getting out of the bunker for a day."
You were nervous. Dean was terrified. You could see it in the white-knuckled grip on Baby's steering wheel, the way he kept checking on you every thirty seconds.
The hunt went smoothly until it didn't.
The spirit was stronger than expected. It threw Sam into a wall and turned on you. You froze, your body locking up with fear and memories of Dean coming at you with those black eyes—
But this time, Dean put himself between you and the spirit without hesitation. He took a hit meant for you, going down hard.
"Dean!" You were moving before you thought about it, dropping to his side as Sam torched the bones.
"I'm okay," Dean groaned, but he wasn't. His shoulder was dislocated, and blood ran from a gash on his forehead.
"You idiot!" Tears streamed down your face as you pressed your hand to his wound. "You could have died!"
"Worth it," he said simply. "Always worth it."
"What if—" You couldn't finish the sentence. What if the Mark had taken over? What if he'd turned on you instead? What if you'd lost him?
"It didn't," he said, understanding. "I felt it, Y/n. Felt the Mark stirring when the spirit attacked. But I fought it. Kept it down. Because protecting you is stronger than the darkness. It always will be."
"Promise?"
"I promise." He reached up with his good arm and touched your face gently. "The Mark might live in me, but you live in my heart. And that's stronger than any curse."
You let yourself cry then. Let him hold you—awkwardly, with one dislocated shoulder—while you sobbed. Not just for what had happened, but for what could have happened. For the brother you'd almost lost and the relationship you were slowly, painfully rebuilding.
⛧
Three months in, you had a bad day. Everything reminded you of those three days in hell. You couldn't be in the bunker without seeing him around every corner, his black eyes, his cruel smile.
You found Dean in the garage and broke down completely.
"I can't stop seeing it," you sobbed. "Every time I close my eyes, you're there. Hurting me. Telling me you hate me. And I know you're better now, I know you're trying, but I can't make the memories stop."
Dean pulled you into his arms and let you cry. When you finally calmed down, he spoke.
"I need to tell you something. About the Mark. About who I really am versus who it made me."
You pulled back to look at him.
"You asked how you know the difference. Here's how: You know me. The real me. The guy who checked your closet for monsters until you were thirteen. The guy who taught you how to drive and took the blame when you dented Baby. The guy who would die a thousand times before letting anything hurt you."
"But you did hurt me."
"I did. And that's something I'll carry forever." He took a breath. "But ask yourself this: In all the years before the Mark, did I ever give you reason to doubt my love? Did I ever hurt you on purpose? Did I ever make you feel like a burden?"
You thought about it. Really thought about it. "No."
"That's the real me. Seventeen years of proof versus three days of darkness. The Mark didn't reveal my true feelings—it buried them. It took my worst moments and made them my only reality."
"How do you know?"
"Because the second Sam cured me, all I felt was horror. Shame. Self-hatred." His voice was raw. "If those dark thoughts were my truth, wouldn't I still feel them now? Wouldn't I resent having to earn your forgiveness? But I don't. All I feel is grateful that you're alive and terrified that I'll lose you."
Something in his words resonated. The Dean who came back hadn't shown a single flash of the resentment Demon Dean had spewed. He'd only shown love, patience, and soul-deep remorse.
"I'm still scared," you admitted.
"You should be. I'm scared too. Scared of what I'm capable of. Scared the Mark will take over again." He squeezed your hand. "But we're scared together. And maybe that counts for something."
"Maybe," you said. And for the first time, you believed it might.
⛧
Four months in, Dean did something unexpected. He asked you to help him with research—finding a way to remove the Mark permanently.
"I need you to know I'm serious about this," he said. "About making sure I never hurt you again. So help me find a way to get rid of this thing for good."
You worked together, side by side, like you used to. And slowly, the comfortable partnership you'd once shared began to resurface. The easy banter. The inside jokes. The sense that you were a team.
The Mark was still there, dormant but present. But so was your relationship, damaged but healing.
⛧
Five months in, you asked him to help with your physical therapy. Your hand had healed but was still weak. You needed someone to help with the resistance exercises.
"You trust me with this?" he asked, and you could hear the disbelief.
"I trust you to be careful. And if it hurts, I trust you to stop."
His hands shook that first session, but he was gentle. Patient. Every time you winced, he immediately backed off. It became a routine—a way to rebuild trust through careful, consistent care.
⛧
Six months in, you walked into the garage and found him working on Baby. You watched him for a moment, and something settled in your chest.
This was Dean. Your Dean. Not perfect, not without darkness, but fundamentally good. Fundamentally yours.
"Hey," you said.
He looked up, wiping his hands. "Hey. Need something?"
"Yeah." You stepped closer. "I need to tell you something."
He set down his tools, giving you his full attention.
"I forgive you."
His face went white. "What?"
"I forgive you." The words felt right. "The Mark turned you into something you're not. And you've spent every day since proving that the monster wasn't the real you. So I forgive you."
"I don't deserve—"
"Probably not," you interrupted. "But I'm giving it to you anyway. Because you're my brother. And because I've seen who you really are. Not the demon. The man who's been fighting every day to be better. The man who would die for me without hesitation."
Dean's face crumpled. He pulled you into a hug—a real hug, desperate and tight and full of love. "I love you so much," he whispered. "So damn much."
"I love you too." And you meant it. Despite everything, through everything, you still loved him.
"I swear," he said fiercely, "I will find a way to remove this Mark. And until I do, I'll fight it every second of every day. You'll never have to fear me again."
"I know," you said. And finally, you believed it.
That night, you had dinner together—you, Dean, and Sam. Like family. Real family. There was laughter and warmth and hope.
As you headed to bed, Dean stopped you in the hallway.
"Thank you," he said simply.
"For what?"
"For not giving up on me. For seeing past the monster to the man underneath." He smiled, and it was your Dean's smile—warm and real. "For being the best sister a screwed-up hunter could ask for."
"You're stuck with me, jerk."
"Forever, bitch."
You laughed, and he pulled you into one more hug. Safe. Warm. Home.
The Mark was still there, a ticking time bomb in your brother's soul. But so was his love for you. And his determination to never let the darkness win again.
It wasn't perfect. The fear still lived in the back of your mind. The memories still haunted your dreams. But you were healing. Together.
And that was enough.
⛧
Months later, when they finally found the cure—when Castiel and Sam performed the ritual that stripped the Mark from Dean's arm forever—you were there.
You held Dean's hand as he screamed, as the Mark fought to keep its hold, as the demon inside him died for good.
And when it was over, when his eyes opened green and clear and human, the first word he spoke was your name.
"You're free," you told him through tears of relief. "It's really gone."
He looked at his arm—unmarked, clean—and then at you. "I'm free," he whispered. Then louder, with wonder: "I'm free."
The nightmares didn't stop immediately. The fear didn't vanish. But with the Mark gone, you could finally believe that your brother was truly back. That the darkness wouldn't return.
Some scars never fully heal. But they fade. And in time, they become proof not of how you were broken, but of how you survived.
Summary: Life is peachy - classes going well, beloved by your sorority, and your next five years planned out. But a chance encounter with Sam Winchester's drug dealer brother might change a thing or two.
Warnings: Smut, drug use (weed), sex while high, sorta corruption kink if you squint.
A/N: *Googles when Who Wants to be a Millionaire started, what they called weed in 2005, and synonyms for big dick* "Yes I'm a very serious writer."
You're gonna sleep with him.
You don't want to. Not really. He's not your type. All muscle, no mind. You can't even remember his name. Chris? Chet? Chad?
What you do know is three girls have already come up to you tonight to tell you he's been staring at you. As if you can't see it. It's all you've been focused on since the party started.
Because as much as you really don't care for the idea, you know this is an investment. You sleep with him tonight, by next week you're dating, by next semester it's official, by the time you graduate you're engaged, and in five years time you're married in the suburbs with twins on the way.
The perfect life.
So yeah, you're gonna sleep with him.
"Y'gonna sleep with him?" The low drawl comes from behind you, preoccupied, like it doesn't care about the answer.
You turn, confronted by the most gorgeous green eyes you've ever seen, the face to match. Sharp and soft all at once. Angelic.
He's chewing away at something, the chips from the bowl behind you. He looks at you, waiting for your answer.
"You don't go here, do you?" You smile without thinking, it's not a question of obstruction but intrigue. If he did you'd recognise him, if you'd ever even seen him before you'd recognise him, that's not the kind of face you forget.
"I'm that obvious?" He chuckles, grin plastered across his face. He's not been caught- he clearly doesn't care. You wait expectantly as he finishes the chips, swallows, "I'm visiting family."
"Anyone I'd know?"
"His names Sammy- Sam. Sam Win-"
"Winchester? You're Dean-" You speak with a kind of admiration you don't mean to.
He looks concerned, "Yeah I- how'd you know that?"
"We studied together- he uh- he mentioned you."
"He mentioned you too, said I'd find a gorgeous angel among this crowd tonight-"
You know better, "No, he didn't."
"You're right, he didn't- but he should've-"
You shake your head, turn away from him. It's on the tip of your tongue- Chase? Chay?
"He- uh- he doesn't exactly know I'm here- so if you could keep it quiet-"
You nod, don't turn to look at him. You're trying to keep on the task at hand.
"What's y'name?"
You keep your eyes forward as you tell him, trying not to give in to the draw of the question.
"So-" he steps up next to you, you can see him in your periphery, "-y'gonna sleep with him?"
"What's it to you?" You still don't look at him- that's a risk you're not willing to take. You're certain of one thing, Dean definitely is your type. And if you look at him again, you're not stopping any time soon.
"You've been starin' at him for the last hour- haven't smiled once. No cute lil giggles, no twirlin' your hair- sweetheart you look pissed."
That makes you break. You turn back to him, that grin still plastered across his face. He looks tired. Still hot, and strong and handsome and all the other words you're trying not to think- but tired all the same. The kind of tired guys like Chad-Chase-Chet don't ever look. Sam has that kinda tired. You have that kinda tired.
"I look- interested? Don't I?"
"Yeah- interested like oh look at this spider I've trapped in a glass not interested like I want this guy to fuck me into next week."
You laugh. It's a stupid laugh, like teenage giggles- cute lil giggles. You shake your head, "If I've been staring at him for the last hour, you've been looking at me for the last hour."
Now he's caught. He gives a hesitant chuckle, "I uh- well that's-"
"I'm not saying I mind." You smile up at him, keeping your face straight, trying not to let on how much you're enjoying his squirming.
"That so?"
"Only if you've been looking at me with the good kinda interested."
His face floods warm, not quite blushing but he's not far off. Flirting he seems used to, teasing maybe less so. You don't normally tease- it's fun.
You hand him the solo cup in your hand, watch as he takes a second to study the lipgloss stain on the rim, then he presses his lips to the same imprint, takes a swallow, hands it back.
"Sam's from Kansas, right?"
He nods.
"So- you're from Kansas, too?"
He nods again, like you're putting two and two together in an equation he didn't know you were solving.
"So tell me, Dean, why have you traveled across- what, five states- just to avoid your brother and come to a party you clearly don't wanna be at?"
"Hey- I wanna be here-"
"No, you don't- you haven't even got your own drink- you look like someone who wants to leave-"
"Okay, sorority parties aren't exactly my scene, especially not ones with pink decorations and bad music and-" he takes you in for a second, let's his eyes fall down your body. You watch as he notices your short pink skirt, right on theme, the heels you didn't really want to wear. For someone who's supposedly been looking at you for an hour, he's only just got a view of your body, "-oh my god, you're a sorority girl-"
"Yup." you hide a smile, try to look vexed, "I even picked out all those decorations you like so much-"
"I didn't mean-"
"You're right-" you break your smile, keep hold of your laugh, "-they're tacky-" you look at the pink balloons by the door, the streamers you put up this afternoon, "-but they're the kinda tacky people like-"
He nods, swayed by your ill-conceived argument.
"So why are you here?" You smile again, drop your gaze only slightly to his lips, the tiny sheen of your lip gloss dancing on the bottom one. It's barely visible, but you know it's there, you bet he can taste it.
He reaches into his jacket pocket with a smile, pulls out a small see-though bag of weed. You recognize it, you've smoked before- but not since you joined the sorority, not since you started college- not since you earned the scholarship that got you here in the first place.
You've been good, real good. Straight-A good. Blow-up-balloons-for-the-party good. Hold-a-girls-hair-back-while-she-vomits good. Absolutely-no-drugs good.
You're so bored of being good.
You reach out to grab his hand, enclosing your fist around his fist around the bag. His skin is hot, fire against your own.
"Are you seriously trying to sell pot right now?"
"I've got other shit too-"
"You really can't do that here." You keep hold of his hand for moments longer than you need to, you like how it feels.
"Scared I'll get you in trouble?" He teases.
"I'm scared you'll get yourself in trouble- the girl's here aren't exactly pro-drugs-"
"Are you?" He cocks an eyebrow.
You break apart as a girl sidles past you, a sweet smile on her face as she catches your eye, "Chance keeps looking at you-"
Chance. You were so close.
She walks off again as you turn back round. She's right- his eyes are still on you, that cocky smile that looks more patronising than confident. He clearly hasn't noticed Dean, it doesn't seem like many people have. He's got that kind of incongruence that blends in rather than stands out.
You feel as he steps up next to you again, looking out into the sea of people.
"There's that million dollar question again, sweetheart- y'gonna sleep with him?"
"Yeah- yeah, I am-" You turn back to face him with a smile, "-Unless I get a better offer."
He grins, shameless, "I'm staying in a motel, it's not far."
"What can I do at the motel I can't do here?" You know the correct answer - him - but you want to hear him say it.
He thinks for a moment, "You can smoke my weed?"
That works too.
You grab his hand as you weave through the crowd, lacing your fingers into his, tight. No one's looking, it's like he's sharing that secret ability to go unnoticed as you shift through people, make your way towards the door. It's takes getting outside for him to start leading you, his fingers slipping out of yours to wrap around your waist, pulling you gently towards his car.
He presses his lips to your ear, a low whisper, the heat from his breath brushing past you, "You're fuckin' gorgeous-"
The words go right through you, sleek and thick- the way he says it, like it's a secret he can't help but spill.
You realize you're at his car as he opens the door for you, trying to be such a gentleman while he takes you back to a motel to be fucked into next week- as he put it. You giggle slightly at the action and he smiles, he knows it's an empty gesture just as much as you do. You slide in, let the vinyl leather seats cool your skin.
You're not drunk, you never get drunk at parties, but part of you wishes you were. You want the cool air to sooth you, not chill you, you want to blame the alcohol rather than your very clear mind.
He takes his seat next to you and turns the engine on in a singular practiced move, throws an arm over your shoulder as he turns back to reverse. He catches your eye as he straightens out again, that smile still there. He has a look on his face, set deep into his jaw- a kind of desperation he's trying not to show. In need of stress relief. That's all you are tonight. That's fine, that's all he is too.
He glances down at your thigh, bare but visible even in the dark. He reaches out, takes hold- not firm, but possessive all the same. His thumb rubs against your skin, soft.
"Y'know, you really shouldn't be going to motels with strangers, sweetheart-" A chuckle as he chastises you, "-I could be a serial killer for all you know."
"If you're anything like Sam, you're too well-mannered to be a killer."
His smile breaks for a moment as he nods, the mention of his brother clearly kicking him in a way you didn't mean to.
Then he laughs again, "I should warn y', I ain't gonna be well-mannered the second I get you naked-"
You bite your lip at the confession, squeeze your thighs together instinctively.
He glances over to you, rubs his thumb again, "Fuck you're adorable."
He doesn't say it like a compliment, the words almost seem like a challenge, a dare.
You reach out, run your hand up his jean clad thigh, not even thinking as you cup the sizable bulge at his groin.
He lerches back, but tightens his grip on your thigh to keep you there.
"Fucking hell sweetheart, are you trying to make me crash?" He laughs through his hesitation.
You don't reply, just slowly unzip his fly. He sucks in a sharp breath, holds it as you push your hand past his waistband, let your fingers wrap around his hardening cock. It feels large, growing harder under your touch- twitches slightly as your run your thumb over the head.
You tug his waistband down, letting his cock spring free. Even in the dim pulsating streetlight you can see just how pretty it is- the cherry-red head is already swollen as you brush your thumb past it again, veins noticeable against the pale shaft. He's clearly cut back some of the hair, it's kempt- that surprises you. He lets go of your thigh, wraps his hand around the wheel tight, trying to keep his focus on the road ahead, his jaw clenching.
You lean forward, let your lips wrap around the head. You feel the car jerk, a stuttering brake as he pulls it straight again, let's go of the breath he's been holding. You push your head down slowly, let your tongue glide across his shaft as you move your hand down the the base, grip it tighter.
He lets go of the wheel, his hand flying to the back of your head- you half think he's trying to stop you until he starts pushing down gently, guiding you into taking his length.
"Goddamn- you're full of surprises, aren't y'-" It almost sounds like admiration the way it drips out rough.
You sink down until your lips are pressed against your fist, his cock just teasing the back of your throat, feel as his abdomen tightens next to you, a soft grunt from above. You swallow, suck in your cheeks as you start to bob your head, lips shielding teeth- still pressed against your hand as you stroke him.
The car jerks in rhythm with you, speeds up when you do, slows at the same pace. You know he doesn't realize he's doing it, his feet tweaking on the peddles like a beg. The silence is filled by obscene sounds, wet as your mouth works over him, tongue dancing over the head, lips sliding slick down his length. You let saliva pool in your mouth, seep slowly through your fingers. Hot and fast and dirty.
It feels good. Not honor-roll no-teasing engagement-by-graduation good. A different kind of good. A messy kind.
He knots his fingers into your hair. You catch a -fuck- between quiet mutters, like he's reciting a prayer he can't let anyone hear. His hips start to rut up against you as he pushes you lower, keeps his cock hitting the back of your throat as you choke through the feeling. You feel tears pricking just behind your eyes, threatening to spill if you don't let up. They well up as you bob your head faster, tighten you fist, let him fill your mouth over and over. You want him to ruin your mascara, to ruin you.
"Jesus, doll, you gotta quit-" he laughs, tugs at your hair, pulling your mouth off of him as he shakes his head with a smile, "-do'y know how embarrassing it'd be if I come before we even see a bed?"
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, your hand on your top. He glances back over at you with a sleek smile, eyes darker than before, like you've passed a test, or maybe just a look of surprise you can't quite understand. He pushes his cock back into his boxers, the bulge still obvious- too big to do up his fly. He leaves it undone.
He pulls off of the road into the parking lot, face set as he stops the car. The motel is clearly designed for Stanford visitors, the cartoon graduation cap on the sign a sharp juxtaposition to tonights plans. You wonder how many one night stands these rooms have seen- probably far less than Dean has.
You don't give him a chance to open the door for you, you slide out even before he does. It doesn't look like he was going to anyway, heading towards the motel with only a small glance back to make sure you're following, his key swinging over his finger. Only when he gets to the room does he resume his gentleman act, opening the door and letting you step in first. You slip past him, feel the heat of his body through yours as you do.
It suddenly feels clumsy again, like you're not completely sure why you're here. Of course you know why you're here, but it's also odd, almost two years of playing the perfect good girl, and it takes a five minute conversation with Dean for you to forget it all. To follow him to a motel. To give him a blowjob while he drives. To smile at him as he follows you into the room.
He senses your uncertainty and smiles back, steps forward to rest a hand on your waist, looking down at you with a soft look on his face, "Y'okay?"
You nod, "Yeah I-" you think for a moment, "Was that-" you gesture your head back to the door, the car- you don't know what you're trying to ask, "-I don't normally do that."
"Y'don't say." He chuckles lightly, teasing you just a little. He reaches into his pocket, emptying it out onto the small table- his wallet, a bag of pills, a pack of smokes, a couple bags of weed. He catches you looking, and steps back, takes off his jacket and throws it on top of the pile, hiding them away.
"I need to- uh- freshen up-" You speak quietly, glance towards the bathroom. He nods, turns away as you walk in.
You look at yourself in the mirror. Your mascara's smudged under your eyes, only slightly but you can still tell. You swipe it away with your index fingers, neatening yourself back out. Your clothes are crumpled, disheveled- you go to smooth them out before thinking better of yourself.
You know what this is- he knows what this is. There's no use pretending, no use you acting innocent and him acting like a gentleman. You pull your top off over your head, drop your skirt down your legs. You fold them both, place them on the bathroom counter, put your heels on top. You look back in the mirror, smiling at your matching pink underwear- right on theme.
You'd put them on expecting Chance to take them off. But this isn't a look meant for the Chance's of the world- the bra pushing your tits right up, the skimpy thong extenuating your ass- no this is a look meant for men like Dean to ruin.
You step back out. Dean's sat on the small chair, he doesn't look up, focused on the joint in his hands, rolling it carefully between his fingers. He lifts it up, swipes his tongue along the paper, pressing it closed. He finally glances up at you, double takes as he splutters out a choke.
This isn't the kind of reaction you can fake, the awe dancing across his face as he takes you in, the way he blinks hard to try and pull himself together. His jaw hangs open. It takes him a moment to readjust himself, he shifts awkwardly- his fly is still down, bulge still obvious.
"Jesus- You're something else-" He sucks in a breath, wide eyes still dancing over you. You smile, you kind of like seeing him on the backfoot. He lifts up the joint in his hand, gestures it towards you, "D'you still wanna?"
You nod, take a seat on the bed, opposite him. He smiles back at you, lifts it up between his lips and lights it. He takes a breath, gets the embers burning, then pulls it back out, lets out the smoke without reacting. He stands up, closing the gap between you.
"Have you smoked before?" He lifts an eyebrow, holding back on handing it to you.
"Yeah- not since-" you cut yourself off, "A couple times, yeah."
"You really are full of surprises." He chuckles, finally passes it to you, "This stuff is strong, you gotta take it slow-"
You pull it up to your mouth, take a deep breath in. It burns into you, hits the back of your throat in an instant. For a moment you try to hold back a cough, then you choke it out, the smoke spluttering in front of your face.
He chuckles again, releases the joint from between your fingers, "I told y' it's strong-"
You feel that prickling in your eyes again, the smoke and the choking making them sting. He smiles, takes another puff as he glances back down at your body, lingers on your tits for a moment longer than you both know he should.
He smiles, soft, "I feel like I'm wearing too many clothes-"
"So take them off." You smile back, playing your innocent part.
He hands you the joint back -"Slow breath, okay?"- and begins tugging at his own clothes. He pulls his top up over his head, you take another go at the joint as you watch him. It's smoother this time, the smoke tangles into your mouth like moss, the burn in your throat feels more rewarding. His chest is strong, shoulders broad. He's got scars across his skin, old and etched deep. You don't hide your look as you watch his muscles shift, his shoulders flexing as he goes to pull his pants down his legs.
The third breath feels good. Tugs your lungs, tingles in your mind. You can tell you're starting to feel it, that little high you've missed so much. You look at his legs, thick thighs, muscular calves- you land back on his boxers, the bulge just tempting you to reach out.
He steps back up to you, you hand the joint back and he smiles, clocking your slightly glossed state. He slumps down on the bed, his back against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him as he gestures his head wordlessly for you to join him.
You shift, move towards him until you're able to straddle him, put your legs either side of him. You can feel his cock through the fabric of your underwear, pressed right against your desperate cunt. He doesn't look as needy as you feel, but his face still twitches only slightly as you settle on top of him.
His hand reaches up to your hip, rests there as he looks up at you, then he lifts the joint, presses it between your lips. His fingers linger there.
Then he moves, his thumb rests on your chin, finger hooked under it, "You're dangerous when you wanna be, aren't y'?"
You don't reply, just take another drag of the joint.
He nods, like that's your response, thinks for a moment, "You ever had sex before?"
You choke on the smoke, stuck between a laugh and confusion, "Jesus, do I really look that innocent?"
"Yeah. Yeah, you do." He laughs, pulls the joint from your hand, takes his own toke. "You ever had good sex?"
You shrug. Sex has never been something you've thought much about, a means to an end more than anything. It's fun, sure, but the kind of fun that lasts twenty minutes and never quite hits the spot the way you want it to. You're not sure if that's an answer he wants to hear.
"If y'dont know that means you haven't." He hands it back to you, runs his thumb over your bottom lip, "That's fuckin' criminal. A body like that and it's never been treated the way it deserves? No wonder you wanted to get away from that shit party-"
"Hey-" you warn, stern, "- I helped plan that party."
He's only half listening, "Bet no one back there has seen this side of you- you're hot when your makeup's all smudged and you've got a joint in your mouth."
You take another drag, longer, let the feeling really burn into your veins. He nods, entranced.
"Bet no one knows how good these tits look-" he drags his finger down your neck, across your collarbone, just teasing his fingertip across your breast, the edge of your bra. Your breath cuts, you keep your eyes on him as he draws patterns across your skin, "-Bet no one knows you let men fuck your mouth when they drive."
You shift, arousal flooding through you. You feel your pussy clench around nothing, he clearly feels it too, looks up at you with a surprised smile.
"That it, huh?" The grasp on your hip tightens, fingers curling into your skin, "You don't want a well-mannered man, do y'? You want a man who talks to you dirty? Talks to you like y'deserve? Like this body deserves?"
You nod. The joint's almost finished, you see him eyeing it. You hand it back to him. He takes one last drag, let's it burn down to the filter, then he leans over and stubs it out on the nightstand.
"Bet they think you're a fuckin' angel-" He hooks his finger back under your chin, pulls your face forward as he leans towards you, speaking soft, "-you wanna see heaven, pretty girl?"
"Yes-"
His lips crash against yours, hungry as he reaches his hands up to your cheeks, messy on your jaw. He bites your bottom lip, sucks it between his teeth for a moment, your mouths colliding.
Then he moves, one hand on your cheek one on your waist as he flips you under him, his body landing on top of you, pinning you against the mattress. You gasp and feel him smile against you as he drags his mouth lower, wet and messy as he starts to kiss your neck.
You arch into him, your body pressing against his, your tits against his skin, his cock still pressed to your underwear. You grind against him slightly, desperate for friction, your pussy still clenching around nothing. He groans, the vibrations thick against your skin as he trails down to your tits, let's his tongue play across your skin.
You feel his hand shift between your thighs, dragging up the inside until he's pressed against your underwear. You rut against him, the slight pressure on your clit as he gently circles it.
He hooks his fingers round the fabric, the tips only just jutting into your soaked folds. The second he touches you, you feel how wet you are, your whole body reacting instinctively to him. He looks back up at you with that surprised admiration again, like he wants to boast about how aroused he's got you.
But he doesn't, you know he's too focused on making you feel good, on proving he can make you feel good. He pushes his fingers into you- two- it fills you instantly, makes your mouth hang open in a needy moan. You reach out to his shoulder, wrap your hand around it to steady you. You feel his muscles flex under you as he starts to thrust his hand, fast and needy, just pushing into you with a kind of desperation.
He moves quick, drags his fingers out of you as they wrap around your thigh, still wet and sticky against your skin as he kisses down your stomach, your pelvis, your cunt. A light kiss just above your clit, like he's asking for permission but doesn't wait for an answer. He pushes his tongue into you- you moan, a guilty stuttered moan- your fingers lacing into his hair, tugging at him. He breaks apart for a moment, drags your panties down your legs quick, then he's back, mouth on you.
You can feel his cheeks curl into a grin as he starts lapping you up, pushing his tongue through your folds, wrapped around your clit. It's like he can't keep focused on just one thing, the moment you start rutting against him he moves again, changes what he's doing. He's dragging it out, making sure you don't peak too soon.
It feels different to anything you've felt before- you don't know if it's the weed or just him. It feels more fluid, like it's flowing through every part of your body- from your pussy into your tensed up thighs, your tightening stomach, your arching back. You feel it in your head, dizzy and delicious.
You feel as he breaks away, looks up at you, that smile still plastered, "Play with your tits-"
You hesitate for a moment, lift an eyebrow with clear confusion.
"-They're great fuckin' tits, but I'm a little distracted down here- let me see how good they look in your hands-" He presses his tongue against your clit, pushing his fingers into you again, his eyes still trained on you.
You swallow hard, trail your hands over your stomach slowly, up towards your breasts.
"Take y'bra off, honey-" he chuckles.
You shift your body, awkwardly contorting yourself to unclasp your bra, slide it off down your arms. His eyes go wide as he slowly starts to thrust his fingers, flicks his tongue over your clit.
You pull your hands back up grab your tits, push them together for him. He lets out a sharp breath, watching everything closely. You tease yourself, trail your fingers along your skin, across your nipples, let out a small shiver at your own touch. You pinch your nipple, twist it between your fingers, giving him a show.
He speeds up his thrusting, your movements only spurring him on as he focuses his tongue on your clit, flicking against it rapidly. You feel your orgasm rising quick, your hips rutting against him instinctively, desperate for his mouth.
He sucks on your clit and your whole body arches out, twisting in giddy pleasure. His pupil swallowed eyes swell with desire, a need to see you fall apart under him.
He does it again and your body snaps. You squeeze your eyes shut as you come, let out a loud and desperate moan. Your mind spins, filling with a syrupy pleasure- sweet and sickly and gorging. He keeps pushing into you, keeps his tongue lapping you up, until you feel like you've reached the point of obliteration- his other hand tightening around your thigh to keep you steady, keep you from moving away.
Only when your legs start twitching does he let up, slowly moves his mouth off of you, dragging his fingers out until you're achingly empty. You whimper quietly and he smiles, kisses your thigh.
"Y'fuckin' gorgeous-" he mumbles against you, that same secret he can't hold onto.
He shifts away, standing up so you can see his boxers again, the way his cock is strained against the fabric, the soaked patch of precum. He pulls them down his legs, lets his cock finally spring free. You look down at it, desperate to reach out, needy to touch it.
"Y'keep looking at me like that and I'm not gonna last long-" he laughs, holding your hip gently to get you to turn over for him.
You follow his movements, pulling the small amount of strength left in your legs until you're kneeling on the bed, your hands against the mattress. You feel as he climbs back in the bed behind you, his finger trailing down your back slow as he takes in the sight.
Then his cock's being pressed between your soaked and swollen folds, just carefully, enough that you can feel him. He pushes in slowly, clearly he knows how big he is, just inching his cock in as your pussy stretches around him. You wince slightly, suck in a ragged breath as you get used to his size. You can tell he's trying to be careful, but you have to ball your fingers into the sheets just to stop yourself from whimpering again.
"Y'okay?" He murmurs quietly, wrapping his hands around your hips.
"Y-yeah- you're just big is all." You laugh hesitantly, feeling his thumb rub against your skin.
"Relax baby- breathe real slow- y'taking me so good-" he slowly starts to move, pulls his cock out of you and then pushes it back in, slow enough that you can feel every inch of him fill you.
It only takes a few thrusts for you to break, for your arms to give and your body to melt as you start feeling the pleasure flowing through you. You collapse your body against the mattress, keep your ass up in the air as your face presses against the pillow. He speeds up, rocking his hips into you, hitting that sweet spot as your fingers twist into the sheets.
"Goddamn you're tight-" His voice is a groan, thick and hungry, "-it's like your pussy's fuckin' beggin' for me-"
He pistons into you with a relentlessness you could only beg for, brutal but steady, making sure he fills you on every hard thrust. His hands tighten around your hips, pulling you onto his cock in time with him, a soft grunt out of his throat on every movement.
"F-fuck sweetheart, ain't so innocent with your ass up and your pussy full of cock, are y'?"
You let out a whining moan, so full of him, your body on fire with the feeling. You're delirious, high and hot, desperate for him. Your body aches for more, too much and not enough all at once. He moves faster, frenzied, still filling you- but messier. You can tell he's just as needy as you, the way he tugs at your hips, his breath shallow and sharp.
"'S like y'greedy for it- that right, honey? You greedy? All for this cock?"
You whimper against the pillow, jaw hanging open, "Y-yeah-"
"Such a good girl, all pristine and pure- you wanna come? Want me to make you?"
"P-please- Dean-"
He slams into you harder, you feel as his body hits into your ass, your pussy full of him, his grip on your hips throbbing through your body.
"Come f'me-"
You feel it hit you, white hot and sudden- your orgasm ripping through your body. You bury your face into the pillow to hide your sounds- you can't tell if you're moaning or screaming, your whole body aflame with pleasure.
He doesn't relent, just keeps pounding into you, pushing you through your orgasm and beyond, his hand moving to your back to push you against the mattress. You whimper out, too overwhelmed to do anything else, your body limp with exhaustion.
For a second he stops, you think maybe he's about to come- but then he pulls out, carefully rolls you onto your back. Then his cocks back inside you- slower, dragging through you, still deep, still unrelenting, but it's careful and deliberate. He reaches out to your clit, circles it with a delicate pressure. You can't tell if it's your last orgasm still dying, or a new one starting to rise, but you feel it deep in your gut, a desperate need.
"S'too much-" All you're able to get out, your body still arching into him, moving in time with every thrust, pushing him deeper.
"Just one more sweetheart- that's all I want- just wanna see your face when you come-"
You nod, unable to say anything, your jaw ajar, your eyelids hooded.
"That feel good?"
You go to speak, but no words come out, just a desperate whine.
"All fucked out, huh?"
He leans down, his whole body pressed against yours, his cock still pushing into you slow and considered. He brushes his thumb against your cheek, wiping away whatever smudged makeup he can see as he leans down to kiss your forehead. He trails his kisses down, light against you, your cheek, down to your ear. He nips at your earlobe, just slightly, enough to get you to lean into him.
His voice is quiet, barely over a whisper, "All pretty and ruined-"
He kisses along your jaw, stumbling over his own actions just to taste you, just to touch you. His hand trails over your face lightly, cups your cheek, holds you carefully. He moves his thumb across your lower lip, kisses you gently.
"-all f'me."
You nod, let out a quiet mewl, all you're able to do. You want to come so bad, your body so full of need, but it feels too much, like you can't quite break.
"Y'doing so good- look so good- so fuckin' wrecked-"
You wrap your hands around his shoulders, feeling him flex under you, grounding you to his actions. They're strong and powerful, moving with every thrust.
He kisses you again, staring down at you with those blown eyes, "Show me what it looks like when an angel reaches heaven, sweetheart- I just gotta see-"
You fall apart, a slow and foggy orgasm, like you're wrapped in him, wrapped in pleasure and softness. It pushes through you, through your limbs and your mind. You squeeze your eyes shut, your mouth pressed against his jaw to stop you from being too loud, just whimpering against his skin as you collapse, every cell filled with gratification.
A moment later he pulls out, jerking against his own hand fast as his cum spills out of him, streaked across your stomach, hot and dripping. You can't do anything but sink into the mattress, your mind and body too exhausted to move. He stays above you, just breathing heavy, his eyes still locked onto your face, a smile poking at the corner of his mouth.
He finally pulls away, sits up. He takes another shaky breath, pulling himself back together, and then stands up.
He looks down at you, and lets himself smile completely. He pulls his fingers up, makes a square with them as he closes one eye, looking through it, "I should fuckin' frame you-"
You giggle lightly, your head finally coming back to you, your body still stuck to the sheets. You hear him walk off to the bathroom, the sound of a running tap. Then he walks back in, takes one last look at you before he runs the cool damp cloth over your stomach, wicking away the image he enjoyed so much. He throws the towel back into the bathroom as he sighs, pulling himself together.
He sits back on the bed, dragging your limp body up, half on top of him, your head on his chest, your arm wrapped around him. He keeps his arm around your shoulder, holding you steady, as he slowly starts to drag his finger over your skin. It tingles and dances, the feeling soft and warm.
It takes a while for you both to fall back into reality, your breathing evening out, your bodies sinking into one another. He shuffles down lower, keeps you on top of him as he holds one hand in front of his face, chuckling lightly.
"Fuck-" he laughs, drops his hand again, kissing your forehead, "-I'm so high. I really can't drive back tonight- you okay staying here?"
You nod, smiling against him. He drags his finger down your cheek, hooking it under your chin until you're looking at him.
"Y'okay, pretty girl?"
"Yeah- that was-" you blink hard, look away from him, relax your head on his chest properly, comfortably, "-Jesus, I'm so high."
He laughs, drags his hand down your body. It's warm, caring, just his fingers playing across your skin, drawing lines and patterns, feeling the way you shift under him.
For a while you're both just silent, falling into tentative sleep. Then he moves again, relaxing fully against the mattress, pulling you further on top of him.
You look up at him, a weak smile on your face, "Sam doesn't know you're here?"
He smiles back, it's a question he clearly want expecting, but he doesn't seem to mind, "He doesn't need to, that's not why I visit-"
"Then why do you?"
"We ain't that kind of family." His full answer. You wish you didn't know what he means, but of course you do. You know this kind of family far too well. He closes his eyes, his breathing slow, "Y'younger than Sammy, yeah?"
"I'm a sophomore, one year below."
He nods, "You know him well?"
"Not really, we've studied together a few times. He's good at that stuff- knows how to explain shit when I don't get it."
He smiles, like he's proud. A moment passes, then he speaks again, "You knew a lot about him, where he grew up, his brother's name-"
You think for a moment, "He was interesting. Got all excited about the old books in the library. The more interesting someone is, the more of them I remember."
Dean chuckles lightly, pulls you in just a little tighter, "You gonna remember me?
You smile, "Oh, I don't think I'm ever gonna forget you."
Could you write a story where the reader is Dean's daughter, they've known each other for 2-3 years, and they live together in the bunker with Sam and Dean? (The reader doesn't call Dean "father"). One day, a vengeful creature (vampire, demon, etc.) captures the reader and Dean. Dean is worried about the reader, but thinks they won't bother her because they don't know she's his daughter. However, the creature that captured them knows the reader is Dean's daughter.In front of Dean, he flirts with the reader, stroking their hair and shoulders. (Please don't write if this part bothers you.) Afterwards, he hurt her, and when the reader is exhausted from blood loss, Dean tries to keep her awake, and they have an emotional father-daughter conversation, and the reader begins to call Dean "Dad." Sam asks Cas for help to find them, and they rescue them.
╰┈➤ What You Are To Me
Dean Winchester x daughter!reader
Sam Winchester x niece!reader
Summary: You and Dean got kidnapped by a vampire who had it out for Dean since he killed the vampire's nest. So in return, the vampire started hurting you, which led you to say sweet things to your dad.
Warnings: torture/kidnapping/blood/mentions of death/non-consensual touching
The bunker smelled like coffee and gun oil, which, after two and a half years, meant home.
You'd learned that slowly — the way most true things are learned. Not in a single moment of revelation but in the accumulation of small ones. The first time Dean saved a plate of food for you without being asked. The first time Sam proofread one of your research notes and left encouraging margin scribbles in blue pen. The first time you fell asleep on the library couch and woke up with a blanket tucked around your shoulders that hadn't been there before.
You'd come to them broken in the specific way that hunters' kids often are — half-feral, over-skilled, and deeply suspicious of anything that looked like warmth. Your mother had died by a demon. Same old story, different mouth. Dean had tracked you down through a contact of a contact of Bobby Singer's ghost, and the first conversation you'd ever had with your biological father had taken place in a parking lot outside a Tulsa diner, both of you leaning against his Impala with your arms crossed, sizing each other up like two cats who'd been shoved into the same carrier.
He hadn't asked you to call him Dad.
You hadn't offered.
Two and a half years later, that hadn't changed — but everything else had. You called him Dean, and he called you "kid" even though you were 22, and it meant something neither of you had ever put into words because putting things into words wasn't really the Winchester way.
Still. When he laughed at one of your terrible jokes at the breakfast table, or when he let you pick the music in the car without argument, or when he stood in your doorway after a bad hunt with two beers and a look on his face that asked are you okay in a language that had no letters — you felt it. Whatever it was.
Tonight, though, you weren't in the bunker.
⛧
The warehouse smelled like rust and something older. Rot, maybe, or the particular damp that accumulates in buildings that have forgotten what sunlight is for.
You'd been chained to a support beam since approximately ten at night. It was now, based on the blue-grey quality of the light filtering through the high, broken windows, somewhere past three in the morning.
Dean was chained to a beam about 12 feet away. You could see him clearly — the warehouse was lit by industrial work lights that one of the vampires had strung up with what seemed like genuine enthusiasm for atmosphere. He was watching you. He'd been watching you since they'd dragged you both in here, his jaw set and his eyes doing that thing they did when he was running calculations, cycling through options, refusing to stop.
Eight vampires. That was what you'd both counted before the situation had evolved from "bad" to "significantly worse." You'd been tracking a nest for three days, following a string of bodies through two counties, and you'd been close — genuinely close — when you'd walked into what turned out to be an extremely competent ambush.
The vampire in charge was named Marcus, which you felt was an aggressively normal name for something that had been dismembering people in rural Kansas. He was tall, pale-haired, with the kind of deliberate stillness that old vampires had, that false serenity that was really just predator confidence wearing a human mask.
He walked toward you now, hands clasped behind his back, and you felt Dean's attention sharpen across the room like a physical thing.
"Comfortable?" Marcus asked.
"Living my best life," you said.
He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes, which were the color of old ice. "You know, I've been watching you for some time. Since before you knew I existed." He crouched to your eye level with that boneless, inhuman grace. "You're very good. Better than most hunters your age."
"Flattery," you said, "won't keep your head attached."
He laughed — a genuine sound, which was somehow more unsettling than a fake one. Then he reached out and touched your hair.
Across the room, you heard the chains go taut.
Marcus turned his head just slightly in Dean's direction, acknowledging the sound, and then turned back to you. Unhurried. Making a point. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with the careful deliberateness of someone who understood exactly what kind of psychological weapon he was wielding.
"You don't have to be afraid," he said softly, trying to seem intimate. "I'm not going to kill you. Not tonight."
"Great," you said. Your voice came out steady, which you were proud of. "My schedule's pretty packed anyway."
His hand moved to your shoulder, fingertips resting just above the collarbone, and he tilted his head slightly — the gesture of someone listening for a heartbeat, which he probably was.
"Let her alone." Dean's voice came out flat and controlled and absolute. "Whatever you want, you want it from me. Leave her out of it."
Marcus stood, slowly, and looked across at Dean with an expression of polite interest. "Is that so."
"She's nobody. She's a hunter we teamed up with three days ago. I don't even know her last name." Dean's voice didn't change. It was one of his better performances, you thought distantly. Convincing. Earnest. "You want leverage, you don't have it. Let her go."
Marcus was quiet for a long moment.
Then he said: "Her last name is Winchester."
The silence that followed that had a particular quality.
"I've been hunting hunters for a very long time," Marcus continued, beginning to walk a slow circuit of the room, hands re-clasped behind his back. "I find it pays to do thorough research. I know who you are. I know who your brother is. And I know —" he paused, glancing back at you, "— exactly who she is. Remarkable, really. You hid her quite well for a while. But nothing stays hidden."
You looked at Dean.
His face had gone through several things in rapid succession — the mask fracturing, something raw appearing underneath, and then the mask coming back down, harder this time. His eyes met yours, and for just a second they said I'm sorry in that language with no letters.
"So," Marcus said pleasantly. "I think we'll be here for a while."
It got worse after that.
Not immediately. Marcus was patient, methodical, and clearly enjoying himself. He had the theatrical quality of someone who'd had centuries to develop hobbies. For the first hour or so he simply talked — about the hunters he'd known, the ones he'd killed, the specific algebra of revenge that had brought him to this warehouse, this night. Apparently a hunter named Reyes had worked jobs with Dean three years back, and had taken out half his nest eighteen months ago, and that was enough for Marcus to have decided that Dean Winchester owed a debt.
You listened because there was nothing else to do, and because hunters who listen stay alive longer.
Around four in the morning, Marcus's patience reached its natural limit.
He dismissed his vampires with a single gesture — they filed out through a side door, efficient and silent — and then there were only three of you in the warehouse, and the quality of the air changed. Marcus walked to a folding table in the corner that you hadn't paid enough attention to before, and when he turned back around he was holding a knife with the casual ease of someone who has been holding knives for a very long time.
He came to you first.
You'd known he would. You'd seen it in the way Dean watched him, the way Dean's entire body had been oriented toward you even when Marcus was speaking to him, the terrible helpless vigilance of it. You'd known and there was nothing to be done about knowing.
Marcus crouched in front of you, resting his forearms on his knees, the knife held loosely. He studied your face for a moment with the patient interest of an entomologist with a new specimen.
"You have his eyes," he said. "I noticed that earlier. Same shape. Same color." He tilted his head. "I wonder if you'll have his threshold for pain as well."
"Probably higher," you said. "I haven't spent thirty years making terrible life choices."
His mouth curved. "Let's find out."
You'd been trained for this. Conceptually. Sam had walked you through resistance protocols two years ago at the kitchen table, over coffee, with the same tone he used for everything — thorough, a little professorial, relentlessly practical. The goal is not to feel nothing. The goal is to stay present. Breathe. Count. Locate yourself in the room.
Breathe. Count. Locate yourself.
The first cut was shallow — more information than injury, Marcus learning the geography of your reactions. You absorbed it with your teeth pressed together and your eyes fixed on the middle distance.
"Interesting," Marcus said. "You pull inward. Dean, I recall, goes outward — he gets loud. Combative. You go quiet." He considered you. "Hunters' children are always the most fascinating. You've been braced for pain your entire life. It changes the architecture of how you receive it."
"Are you going to monologue the whole time?" you asked. "Because I want to know what I'm in for, scheduling-wise."
He laughed. Genuine, again. "I like you," he said. "I want you to know that. This isn't personal."
"Super comforting."
"It's not meant to be comforting. It's meant to be honest." He stood, moving behind you, and you couldn't track him anymore, which was worse. His voice came from just over your right shoulder. "You're a tool. A very useful one. Your father — and he is your father, whatever your arrangement is, whatever word you've agreed not to use — loves you in the particular way that men like him love things. Like they're made of glass. Like losing them would be the one thing that finally broke him." A pause. "That's a very powerful lever."
Across the room: "Marcus." Dean's voice was controlled in a way that contained the opposite of control. "This is between you and me. Whatever Reyes did, whatever you think I owe — this is between you and me."
"Almost everything interesting," Marcus said pleasantly, "involves more than two people."
The second cut wasn't shallow.
You heard yourself make a sound before you'd decided to make it — involuntary, sharp, swallowed almost immediately but not quite in time. You breathed through your nose. You counted the bolts on the beam across from you. Six bolts. Six bolts, and the light from the work lamp made them throw small shadows.
"Y/n." Dean's voice came in low and immediate. "Look at me. Eyes on me."
You found him. He was leaning forward as far as the chains allowed, his jaw hard, his eyes locked on yours with an intensity that was trying to hand you something — steadiness, maybe, or just the reminder that you weren't alone in the room.
"There you go," he said. "Stay with me."
"This is very sweet," Marcus observed, from behind you. "It genuinely is. I mean that without irony." He moved back around into your field of vision, studying the effect of his work with professional attention. "Does she know, Dean, how long you looked for her mother? After. I did my research thoroughly — I know the shape of this story. I know what she cost you and what you thought you'd lost."
"Don't," Dean said. The word came out quiet, which on Dean meant something different than it means on most people.
"You carried her before you knew her name," Marcus continued, speaking to Dean but watching you, reading your face the way hunters read landscapes for sign. "And she —" he looked at you with something almost like respect, "— came to you half-built and sharp-edged and furious, I'd imagine. And you didn't flinch."
"You don't know anything about it," you said.
"No," he agreed. "But I know the result." He crouched to your eye level again. "Which is that it's going to be very educational, for him, watching this."
The third time, he was deliberate about the angle. About making sure Dean had a clear line of sight.
The sound you made then was not a small sound. You were not proud of it, but it was not something that pride had any meaningful authority over.
"Stop." Dean's voice cracked open on the word. The chains rang against the beam — a short violent sound. "Stop. Marcus, I'm telling you — "
"What are you telling me?" Marcus asked, without urgency. He wasn't even looking at Dean. He was watching you the way you watched a fire — with the particular attention of someone who finds the process itself interesting. "What leverage do you have, exactly? What are you offering?"
"Whatever you want." The performance was entirely gone now. Every careful layer of it, stripped clean. "Name it. I'm serious. Name it and it's done, just — stop. Please."
The word please in Dean Winchester's mouth, you thought distantly, must have cost something enormous.
Marcus considered. Then, with the air of someone deciding to pause a film they're enjoying: "All right." He stood. "Let's take a breath."
He walked away toward the table and you sagged against the beam, your head dropping forward, breathing in the shallow rapid way that your body had decided was appropriate for current conditions.
"Hey." Dean's voice, immediately, low and urgent. "Hey. I need you to talk to me. What's your name."
"You know my name." Your voice was scraped thin.
"Humor me."
"Y/n. My name is Y/n." You lifted your head. "I'm okay."
"Don't do that."
"I'm here," you amended. "I'm present."
"Yeah." He exhaled slowly. "Yeah, I see you. You're doing good, you hear me? You're doing good."
"High bar," you managed.
"You cleared it. Keep clearing it."
Marcus had poured himself a glass of something from a bottle on the table — wine, absurdly, a stemmed glass and everything, with the unself-conscious ease of someone for whom apocalyptic scenes are a normal dining context. He turned back around, swirling the glass, and regarded you both with an expression of settled satisfaction.
"Your daughter," he said to Dean, "has a very high pain threshold."
"She's not—" Dean stopped. Recalculated. The cover was already blown, had been blown for hours; maintaining it now served nothing except Marcus's entertainment. "Yeah," he said instead, quietly. "She does."
"She doesn't ask for help easily either," Marcus observed. "I wonder where she learned that."
He set the glass down and picked up the knife again.
Your stomach dropped, but you kept your face still. You were getting better at the still face. You were learning it in real time.
"Round two," Marcus said pleasantly. "Let's see what else we learn."
He was in front of you before he'd seemed to move — that vampire speed, always slightly nauseating to witness from the receiving end — and Dean was already talking, already trying to bargain and threaten and beg with whatever currency he had left, and you focused on his voice instead of what was happening because it was the only anchor available.
"—you want a fight, come over here and have one, come on, don't—don't—"
"Dean," you said, between your teeth, when Marcus paused.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm here."
"Tell me something."
A beat. Then, understanding: "Tell you what?"
"Anything." You needed his voice. Specifically his voice, filling the space. "The worst hunt you ever went on. I don't care. Something."
He understood. He started talking — the Wichita job, three years before you'd met, a haunting that had gone sideways in eleven different directions, the story told in his flat and dry way that had always made even bad things sound like something you could survive. He talked, and you listened, and Marcus worked, and you breathed.
At one point Marcus paused and looked at Dean with what appeared to be genuine curiosity. "You're remarkable, actually," he said. "Most parents — I've done this before, with other children, other hunters — most parents can't maintain any kind of composure past the first few minutes."
"I'm not doing it for composure," Dean said. The story had stopped; his eyes were on you, steady, unflinching. "I'm doing it for her."
"Yes," Marcus said. "That's what I mean."
The last cut was the deepest.
The sound you made was not one you were going to think about later. There was a long moment where the world went the color of static — grey-white, dimensionless — and then Dean's voice dragged you back by main force, saying your name like a question and an answer at once.
"Still here," you got out. Barely.
"Good. Good. Eyes on me. Count the bolts on the beam behind me — "
"Six," you said. "There are six. I counted them an hour ago."
"Count them again."
You counted them again. The world came back to full color, unwillingly.
Marcus stepped back, surveying the results of the night with the quiet satisfaction of someone reviewing completed work. He set the knife down on the table with a small, deliberate sound. He picked up his wine glass.
"I'll leave you to each other for a while," he said. He sounded almost kind. "I find that the waiting, after, is its own kind of useful."
He walked out. The door closed.
The sudden quiet was enormous.
"Hey." Dean's voice. Stripped of everything except what was underneath. "Hey, look at me."
You lifted your head.
"There she is," he said, and you heard everything that wasn't the words. "I'm sorry about that. You know the name. I wanted — I was going to tell you, eventually, if you wanted. I wasn't trying to make that decision for you."
You looked at him. "Dean."
"Yeah."
"I've been using the name for about a year."
Another pause. "Oh."
"Quietly. Like on forms and stuff. I didn't say anything because—" You stopped. Breathed. The bleeding wasn't stopping the way it should have been. "Because I didn't know how to bring it up."
"That's—" He made a short, rough sound. "Kid, that's — good. That's good. I'm glad." His voice was tight with something that wasn't gladness, not exactly, something more complicated and more desperate. "Keep talking to me. How are you doing?"
"I've been better."
"Scale of one to ten."
"Maybe a six." This was optimistic. "Five and a half."
"Yeah." He knew you were being optimistic. You could hear it. "They'll come back. We need to be ready when they do. Can you work with the chains at all?"
You pulled experimentally. The beam held. "Not right now."
"Okay." He was regrouping, you could hear him thinking. "Sam knows where we were headed. He'll notice when we miss check-in. He'll—"
"Dean." You said it gently. "That was eight hours ago."
A beat.
"He'll find us," Dean said, and the certainty in it was not the certainty of evidence but of something that didn't require evidence.
You sagged against the beam. The cold of the concrete floor was beginning to work its way through your jeans. The edges of your vision were doing more things now.
"Hey. Hey, Y/n, eyes open."
"They're open."
"Look at me. Keep them on me."
You did. Twelve feet was close enough to see his face clearly. He was looking at you the way he'd looked at you from the doorway sometimes, after bad hunts, except with everything scaled up past what doorways allow for.
"I've been thinking," you said, because the silence felt dangerous, "about the time you tried to teach me to make pie and we were finding flour in the vents for like three weeks."
A short, involuntary laugh broke out of him. "That was your fault."
"I dispute that."
"You dropped the whole bag."
"You startled me." The memory of it was warm, which felt strange against everything else happening. "Sam was so annoyed."
"Sam still brings it up."
"I know. He brought it up last week."
Dean was quiet for a moment. Then: "You remember the first time I taught you to shoot? Properly, I mean."
"You took me out to that field in Nebraska."
"You were terrible."
"I was new."
"You cried."
"I was frustrated. There's a difference." You shifted against the beam. The wound pulled and you absorbed it. "You didn't make me feel bad about it."
"Of course not."
"Most people in your position would have. Would have said something like—" you dropped your voice into an approximation, "—you're a hunter's kid, you should already know this."
"Most people in my position aren't in my position," he said. "I know what it's like to be handed something you didn't ask for and told to figure it out."
You looked at him.
"The hunting thing," he said. "I mean the hunting thing."
"I know what you meant."
He was quiet again. Then, carefully: "I know I'm not—I didn't do any of the — the actual work. The stuff that makes someone a father. I know that. I know you had people who were more that than me, people who were there."
"Dean—"
"I'm just saying I don't expect anything. I never wanted you to feel like I was asking for something. Like you owed me a word or — or anything."
The warehouse was very quiet. Somewhere outside, dawn was beginning to suggest itself at the edges of the broken windows.
"You came and found me," you said.
"Yeah."
"You didn't have to. You didn't know me. You just found out I existed and you came to a parking lot in Tulsa and you—" You stopped. The edges again. You pushed them back. "You looked at me like I mattered before you had any reason to think I did. That's — I don't know what else to call that."
"I knew whose kid you were," he said quietly. "But it wasn't — it wasn't about that. It wasn't because I felt like I owed a debt, or—"
"I know," you said.
He looked at you.
"I know," you said again. "I've known for a while. That's why I started using the name."
A muscle in his jaw moved. His eyes were very bright in the work-light. He looked away, looked back. "You should've told me."
"I know. I was scared."
"Of what?"
You thought about it honestly, which was easier to do when your body was in the process of reminding you that time was limited. "That it would change something. That if I said it out loud, whatever we had would have to become something else, something with a label, and then it could be — I don't know. Broken differently."
Dean was quiet for a moment.
"Nothing's going to break it," he said.
"You don't know that."
"Yes I do." The same certainty as before. Same quality. "You're mine, kid. You've been mine since that parking lot and nothing about saying so changes anything except that you know I know you know." He paused. "That was grammatically complicated."
"I followed it." You closed your eyes for just a second.
"Hey. Hey — "
"I'm here." You opened them. "I'm here. Just — tired."
"I know. Stay with me." His voice dropped into something lower, more urgent. "Sam is coming. I need you to stay with me until Sam comes."
"Sam and his stupid long legs," you said. "Running to the rescue."
"He's very heroic."
"He really is." Your voice was coming from farther away than it should have been. "Dean."
"Yeah."
"I'm going to say it."
A pause. "You don't have to."
"I know I don't have to." The word was right there, small and enormous simultaneously, the way true things often are. "I want to."
You looked at him across twelve feet of cold warehouse floor, in the blue-grey light of a breaking dawn, blood-loss and fear and two and a half years of accumulated warmth all arriving at the same moment.
"Don't let me fall asleep," you said. "Dad."
The sound that came out of Dean then was not a sound he would ever, in any other context, have allowed himself to make. It was brief and broken, and he covered it almost immediately, swallowing it back, but you'd heard it.
"I won't," he said, when he could. "I've got you. I've got you. Keep talking—"
⛧
The doors came off their hinges at 5:47 in the morning.
Sam came through first, which was guessed by the height differential and the shotgun. Castiel came through approximately one second later and in a direction that didn't correspond to any available entry point, which was one of the more useful things about Castiel. The next four minutes were extremely loud and involved significant use of dead man's blood and resulted, eventually, in a silence more quiet than the previous one.
Sam reached Dean first — nearest beam, longer chains, working on the lock with hands that were shaking slightly in the way that meant he'd been terrified and was now converting it into motion.
"Where is she, where—"
"Other beam. Go. Go."
Sam went. You heard him make a sound very similar to the one Dean had made earlier, and then his hands were on the chains and his voice was above you saying your name and saying I've got you, I've got you, you're okay.
Castiel was there then, the warm pressure of a hand on your head, the sensation of grace moving through you like electricity that doesn't hurt—knitting, healing, the blood loss reversing itself one impossible inch at a time. You felt your vision clear. Felt the edges pull back to where edges are supposed to be.
When you could sit up properly, Dean was crouched in front of you.
He looked terrible. He looked like someone had taken two and a half years of carefully managed feeling and turned it up past the dial's limit. He looked like your father.
"Hi," you said.
"Hi," he said.
You reached out and grabbed his jacket with both hands and he pulled you in without hesitation, his arms going around you, his chin dropping to the top of your head, and he held on with the specific grip of someone who has been imagining letting go.
"I've got you," he said, into your hair. "Told you I had you."
"You did," you agreed.
Sam's enormous hand landed on both your backs, warm and solid. Castiel stood nearby in the growing morning light, watching all of you with an expression that, for him, was essentially beaming.
"Can we go home," you said. "I want coffee."
"Yeah," Dean said. His voice had recovered most of its usual texture. "Yeah, we can go home."
He kept one hand on your shoulder the entire walk to the car.
⛧
You sat at the war table with both hands wrapped around a mug, wearing Sam's enormous borrowed flannel, and the overhead lights were very bright and the map was covered in its usual constellation of pins, and it was ordinary in the way that extraordinary things sometimes become.
Sam was making breakfast with the focused energy of someone who needed something to do with his hands. The sounds and smells of it filled the kitchen and drifted into the library, and you let it all just happen around you like weather.
Dean came and sat down across from you. Put his own mug down. Didn't say anything.
You looked up at him.
He looked back.
"You meant it," he said, eventually. "Earlier. That wasn't — just the circumstances."
"I meant it."
He nodded. He picked up his mug. He looked at the map. "Okay," he said, in a voice that meant something much larger than the word.
From the kitchen, Sam's voice: "Eggs or pancakes?"
"Both," you called back.
"Both," Dean agreed, with the absolute decisiveness of a man who has recently had a religious experience and is converting it directly into appetite.
You looked at him across the table — at the laugh lines starting at the corners of his eyes, at the set of his shoulders loosening by degrees, at the face that was starting to look, more and more, like something familiar when you looked in mirrors.
Dad, you thought. Just to hear it in your head again, the weight of it.
It fit. It had, probably, for longer than you'd admitted.
You drank your coffee. The bunker hummed around you, full of light.
hey! i love your writing! can you write a fic w the middle sister of sam and dean and it's angsty with a fluff ending? Maybe she gets hurt on a hunt but hides it untill the hunts done or untill she's treated the boys wounds?
╰┈➤ Selfless
Dean Winchester x middle sister!reader
Sam Winchester x middle sister!reader
Summary: You may of gotten hurt while you were fighting off the ghost of the week but so did Dean and Sam! So you had to fix their injuries before you even mention yours because that's just what you do.
Warnings: descriptions of injuries, blood and burning corpses
The old Hendricks mansion loomed against the midnight sky, its Victorian architecture casting twisted shadows across the overgrown lawn. You adjusted your oversized leather jacket—a copy of John's old one that you'd claimed years ago— around your waist and checked your salt-loaded shotgun one more time.
"Everyone clear on the plan?" Dean asked, his voice low as the three of you approached the wraparound porch.
"West wing, second floor, master bedroom," Sam recited. "That's where all three victims reported seeing her before they died."
"Eleanor Hendricks," you muttered, climbing the creaking steps. "Died in 1952, murdered by her own son who wanted to sell the family estate. Now she's killing anyone involved in selling the mansion."
Dean shot you a look. "Yeah, and she's already ganked two real estate agents and the current owner's lawyer. So stay sharp."
You suppressed a smile. Middle child syndrome meant you'd learned early how to get under Dean's skin—usually to distract him from being overprotective. At twenty-six, you were sandwiched right between your brothers, old enough that Dean couldn't boss you around like he did Sam, young enough that both of them still treated you like you were made of glass.
The front door hung open, its hinges rusted through. Inside, the air was thick with decay and something else—something that made your skin crawl. EMF readers chirped to life immediately.
"She's active," Sam said, eyes scanning the dark foyer. "Really active."
You moved through the house as a unit, the way you'd done a thousand times before. Dean took point, you covered the middle, Sam watched your six. The floorboards groaned under your boots, and somewhere deep in the house, something crashed.
"That came from upstairs," you whispered.
Dean nodded, gesturing toward the grand staircase. The three of you climbed in silence, weapons ready. The temperature dropped with each step until you could see your breath misting in the air.
The second-floor hallway stretched into darkness, doors lining both sides like missing teeth in a rotted smile. Dean pointed to the end—the master bedroom, door slightly ajar.
That's when everything went to hell.
She appeared between you and your brothers, materializing out of nothing—an older woman in a 1950s dress, her face twisted with possessive fury. Gray hair hung in disheveled strands around her gaunt face, and her eyes blazed with an unnatural light. Eleanor Hendricks, still clinging to her mansion even in death.
"Dean!" you shouted, but she was already moving.
The ghost let out a shriek that rattled the windows and sent all three of you stumbling back. Dean fired, salt rounds passing through her and pockmarking the wall. She vanished and reappeared behind Sam, grabbing him by the throat and hurling him through the nearest door.
"Sam!" Dean charged after him, and you turned to follow—
But she was right there.
Ice-cold fingers wrapped around your throat, lifting you off your feet. You couldn't breathe, couldn't scream. The ghost's face was inches from yours, her mouth twisted in rage. "This is MY house," she hissed, her voice like wind through broken glass. "MINE!"
You fumbled for the iron knife at your belt, managed to slash through her. She shrieked and dropped you.
You hit the floor hard, gasping, and scrambled backward. "Dean! Sam!"
No response.
The ghost smiled—actually smiled—and suddenly you were being dragged backward by invisible hands. You clawed at the floor, but there was nothing to grab onto. She pulled you through a doorway into what looked like an old nursery, and the door slammed shut behind you.
You fired your shotgun, but she flickered out of existence, reappearing behind you. Pain exploded across your back as she raked spectral nails down your spine. You screamed and spun around, slashing with your iron knife, but she was already gone.
"Come on!" you yelled, trying to make it to the door. "Face me, you—"
She materialized directly in front of you, and this time her hand didn't just touch—it plunged into your side like a blade. White-hot agony ripped through you as she dragged her hand across your abdomen, opening a deep gash. You felt the warm rush of blood before the pain even registered.
You fell to your knees, clutching your side. The ghost circled you like a shark, and you knew—you were going to die here. Alone, separated from your brothers, bleeding out in a haunted nursery.
But then you remembered. The research. The grave was supposed to be in the backyard, near the old rose garden. You just had to—
Your hand closed around the silver lighter in your jacket pocket. The one Dean had given you for your twenty-first birthday. You pulled it out with shaking fingers.
The ghost lunged.
You threw yourself sideways, crashing through the rotted nursery window. For a heart-stopping moment you were falling, then you hit the porch roof below. The impact drove the air from your lungs and sent fresh waves of agony through your injuries. You felt something else tear—maybe your shoulder, maybe your ribs, you couldn't tell anymore.
But you could see the backyard. Could see the overgrown rose garden.
You half-fell, half-climbed off the roof, landing in a heap in the dead grass. Everything hurt. Everything was wet with blood. But you pushed yourself up, stumbled toward the roses.
Inside the house, you heard Dean bellowing your name.
The ghost appeared in front of you, blocking your path. Her mouth opened in that terrible shriek, and she raised her hands, nails like claws.
You dove forward, dropping to your knees in front of the largest rosebush. Your fingers dug into the dirt, and there—you felt it. Bone.
The ghost's hands were on you, in you, tearing—
You flicked the lighter open and dropped it onto the exposed skeletal remains.
The spirit's scream cut off abruptly as flames engulfed the grave. She turned toward you, face twisting in rage and desperation, and then she was burning too, orange fire consuming her from the inside out. In seconds, there was nothing left but the smell of smoke and roses.
You collapsed face-first into the dirt.
"Y/N!" Dean's voice, distant. Running footsteps. "Where is she? Y/N!"
You managed to sit up, which was a mistake because everything screamed in protest. Your vision swam, but you could see Dean and Sam burst out of the house, looking around frantically. You took the jacket that was still, somehow, around your waist and put it on to cover up the scratches.
"Here," you croaked. "I'm here."
They were on you in seconds, Dean's hands on your face, Sam pulling out his flashlight.
"Jesus Christ, what happened?" Dean demanded. "We got locked in—she trapped us in separate rooms—"
"I'm okay," you lied, even as you felt blood pooling beneath you. "Ghost is ganked. Are you guys hurt?"
Sam had a cut above his eyebrow that was bleeding freely. Dean was favoring his left arm, probably dislocated shoulder.
"We're fine," Sam said, but his voice was shaky. "Come on, let's get you up."
They hauled you to your feet, and you bit down hard on your tongue to keep from screaming. The world tilted dangerously, but you locked your knees and stayed upright through sheer Winchester stubbornness.
"Easy," Dean said, keeping one hand on your arm. "Take it slow."
You made it to the Impala mostly under your own power, which you counted as a win. Your oversized jacket was getting soaked under, but in the darkness, they couldn't see any blood. You climbed into the back seat and immediately pressed yourself into the corner, trying to keep pressure on the worst of the wounds without being obvious about it.
Sam got in the passenger seat, Dean behind the wheel. Baby roared to life, and you were moving.
"Motel's twenty minutes away," Dean said, eyes flicking to you in the rearview mirror. "You good back there?"
"Yeah." The lie came easily. You'd been lying to your brothers about injuries since you were twelve years old. They worried enough without you adding to it.
The drive passed in a blur of streetlights and pain. You kept your breathing shallow, your expression neutral. By the time Dean pulled into the motel parking lot, you were pretty sure you'd lost enough blood to make you dangerously lightheaded, but you climbed out of the car without stumbling.
The room was standard—two beds, a bathroom, and the smell of industrial cleaner. Dean immediately headed for the bathroom to get the first aid kit while Sam sank down on the nearest bed, pressing a towel to his bleeding forehead.
You stood by the door, assessing. Sam's head wound looked worse than it was—head wounds always bled like crazy. Dean's shoulder definitely needed attention, the way he was holding it.
"Okay," you said, forcing your voice to stay steady. "Sam first. Let me see that cut."
"I'm fine, it's just—"
"Let me see it."
He sighed but tilted his head so you could examine the wound. It wasn't deep, wouldn't need stitches. You cleaned it with antiseptic, ignoring the way your hands trembled, and applied butterfly bandages.
"There," you said. "You'll live."
Dean emerged from the bathroom with the first aid kit, and you immediately zeroed in on his shoulder.
"Your turn. Sit."
"Y/n, I can—"
"Dean, sit your ass down and let me look at your shoulder."
He blinked, surprised by your vehemence, then sat on the edge of the other bed. You moved behind him, carefully probing the joint. Definitely dislocated, but not broken.
"This is gonna hurt," you warned.
"Just do it."
You braced yourself—which was a mistake because it made your own wounds scream—then manipulated his shoulder with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done this a dozen times before. Dean grunted but didn't cry out as the joint popped back into place.
"Sling for a few days," you said, already wrapping his shoulder. "No lifting anything heavy."
"Yes, Doctor," he said dryly, but there was warmth in his eyes. "Thanks, short stack."
You finished securing the sling and stepped back. The room tilted slightly, and you caught yourself on the bedpost.
"You okay?" Sam asked, frowning.
"Fine," you managed, pushing off the bedpost. "Just tired. I'm gonna clean up."
You made it three steps toward the bathroom before Sam's voice stopped you cold.
"Y/n... is that blood?"
You froze. Looked down.
A dark trail of crimson droplets marked your path across the faded carpet, leading directly from where you'd been standing. Even as you watched, another drop fell from beneath your jacket, hitting the floor with a soft pat that sounded deafening in the sudden silence.
"What?" You tried for confused, but your voice came out wrong—too breathy, too weak.
Dean was on his feet in an instant, his injured shoulder forgotten. "Take off the jacket."
"Dean, I'm fine, it's just—"
"Now." His voice had that tone—the one that meant he was already panicking and trying to hide it behind authority. "Y/n, I swear to God, if you don't take off that jacket right now—"
Your hands moved to the zipper, but they were shaking too badly. Everything was shaking now, actually. The adrenaline that had kept you moving, kept you standing, kept you functioning through treating their injuries—it was all wearing off at once, and the blood loss was catching up with a vengeance.
Sam reached you first, gently moving your hands aside to unzip the jacket himself. "It's okay," he murmured, though his voice was tight with worry. "Let me help."
He peeled the heavy leather back carefully, and you watched his face go from concerned to horrified in the span of a heartbeat. All the color drained from his features.
Your shirt underneath was completely soaked through, dark and clinging to your skin. The gash across your abdomen had bled freely during the entire drive, and the wounds on your back had done the same. The fabric stuck to the wounds, and when Sam tried to ease the jacket off your shoulders, you couldn't stop the whimper that escaped.
"Oh my God," Sam breathed, his hands freezing. "Oh my God, Y/n—"
"Jesus Christ!" Dean was there now too, and you'd never seen that expression on his face before—pure terror barely masked by fury. He caught you as your knees buckled, strong arm around your waist, and then he was shouting. "Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you—" His hand touched your side and came away red, dripping. "Sammy, first aid kit. NOW!"
"You were hurt," you mumbled, aware that the room was spinning faster now, that your legs weren't really working anymore. "Had to make sure you guys were okay first. Had to—"
"We were FINE!" Dean's voice cracked on the word, and you realized with a distant sort of shock that he was terrified. "Sam had a scratch and I had a dislocated shoulder! You're—" He broke off as he carefully lowered you to the nearest bed, and when his hand came away from your back covered in blood, he made a sound like he'd been punched. "Oh God. Sammy—"
Sam was already moving, dumping the contents of their first aid kit across the other bed with shaking hands. Medical supplies scattered everywhere. "We need to get her to a hospital. Dean, she needs a hospital, this is too much—"
"No," you protested weakly, trying to sit up. Dean's hand on your shoulder kept you down with almost no pressure at all. "No hospitals. You know we can't—fake IDs are burned in this state—just patch it up. I'll be fine."
"You're not fine!" Dean's hand cupped your face, forcing you to look at him. His eyes were too bright, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jumping. "You're not fine, do you understand me? Stop saying you're fine!"
"Dean—" Sam's voice was shaking. "We don't have enough supplies for this. She needs—the cut on her abdomen alone—"
"Then go get more!" Dean snapped, never taking his eyes off you. "There's a convenience store two blocks down, there's gotta be a pharmacy nearby—get anything they have. Gauze, bandages, surgical tape, antiseptic, anything. Go!"
"I'm not leaving her—"
"Sam!" Dean's voice broke. "Please. I need—we need more supplies. I can't—" He stopped, swallowed hard. "Please."
Sam looked between you and Dean, then grabbed his jacket and ran for the door. "Five minutes. I'll be back in five minutes."
The door slammed behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening except for your labored breathing and Dean's harsh pants.
"Okay," Dean said, and his voice was steadier now, falling into the calm he always forced when things were really bad. "Okay, I need to see how bad it is. This is gonna hurt."
"S'already hurting," you mumbled.
"I know, baby. I know." The endearment slipped out unconsciously as he carefully pulled your ruined shirt up. His hands stilled when he saw the full extent of the damage, and the sound he made was something you never wanted to hear from your brother again—a choked gasp that was almost a sob.
The gash across your abdomen was at least six inches long and deep enough that you didn't want to think about what it had cut through. Your ribs were visible through the torn flesh on your left side. The claw marks down your back had shredded your shirt and skin alike.
"Why?" His voice was rough, and when you managed to focus on his face, you saw tears tracking down his cheeks. "Why do you always do this?"
"Do what?"
"This!" He gestured at you, at the blood soaking into the cheap motel comforter, at everything. "Hide when you're hurt. Take care of us when you're literally bleeding out. Act like you're invincible when you're not." His hand was shaking as he grabbed a towel and pressed it to your abdomen. You couldn't stop the scream that tore from your throat. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but I have to stop the bleeding."
"S'okay," you gasped, tears streaming down your own face now. "Used to it."
"That's the problem." His hand was gentle despite his words, despite the fear radiating off him in waves. "You shouldn't be used to it. Neither of you should be used to any of this, but especially not—" He stopped, pressing harder on the wound. "You're my baby sister. You're supposed to tell me when you're hurt. You're supposed to let me protect you."
"M'not a baby. I'm twenty-six."
"You'll always be my baby sister." His voice was thick now, and he wasn't even trying to hide the tears anymore. "Even when you're fifty and I'm old and gray, you'll still be the kid I carried around on my shoulders. The kid who used to fall asleep during stake-outs because you trusted me and Sammy to keep watch. You'll always be the little girl I'm supposed to protect." His free hand found yours, squeezed tight. "And I can't protect you if you don't tell me when something's wrong."
You wanted to argue, but the room was getting darker around the edges, and your tongue felt too thick in your mouth. "The ghost... she separated us. Dragged me into the nursery. I couldn't—couldn't get to you guys."
"I know. We heard you scream." Dean's jaw clenched so tight you thought his teeth might crack. "That first scream when she grabbed you—I've never been so scared in my entire life. We tried to get to you, but she had us locked in separate rooms. I was throwing myself at that door, breaking my damn shoulder trying to get out, and I could hear you fighting her alone."
"Wasn't alone," you mumbled, eyelids drooping. "Had you guys. Always have you guys. Even when you're not there... you're there."
"No, don't—" His hand patted your cheek, urgent. "Don't pass out on me. Stay awake. Come on, Y/n, eyes open."
You forced your eyes open, focusing on his face. He looked younger somehow, scared in a way you rarely saw. It reminded you of when you were kids, when you'd gotten hurt on a hunt and he'd patched you up while Dad was gone, pretending he knew what he was doing.
"Tell me about the fight," Dean said, clearly trying to keep you conscious. "What happened after she grabbed you?"
"She... pulled me through the door. Into the nursery." The words came slowly. "Locked you out. She kept vanishing... appearing behind me. Slashed my back first." You shuddered at the memory. "Then she—her hand went through me. Like a knife. That's when... that's when I knew I had to get to the grave."
"So you jumped out a goddamn window."
"Only option. Had to—had to burn the bones before she killed me." You tried to smile. "Worked, didn't it?"
"Yeah, and you almost died in the process!" Dean's voice rose again. "You jumped from a second-story window, climbed off a roof, and dug up a grave while bleeding out. Do you have any idea how—" He stopped, pressing his forehead against your shoulder for just a moment. When he pulled back, he'd composed himself slightly. "You could have died. You should have died."
"Well her bones weren't even that deep and I didn't die. M'right here."
"Barely." He readjusted the towel, and you saw it was already soaked through with blood. "Stay with me, okay? Sam will be back soon, and then we'll get you fixed up."
The door burst open and Sam rushed back in, arms loaded with shopping bags that he dumped unceremoniously on the other bed. "I got everything they had—gauze, bandages, butterfly closures, surgical tape, antiseptic, painkillers, even got some stuff from the pharmacy—had to break in but—" He stopped when he saw your face. "How is she?"
"Fading fast. Help me get her shirt off—carefully."
Together, they eased your shirt over your head, and you bit your lip hard enough to taste blood to keep from screaming. The fabric had stuck to some of the wounds, and pulling it free reopened cuts that had barely started to clot.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Sam kept repeating, his hands impossibly gentle as they worked.
Once your shirt was off, the full damage was visible. Sam's face went even paler if that was possible.
"The cut on her abdomen is deep," Sam said, his voice shaking as he examined you with trembling hands. "Really deep. She needs stitches—a lot of them. And the ones on her back—Dean, I can see bone in some places."
"I know." Dean was already threading a needle with practiced efficiency, though his hands weren't quite steady. "I can do it. Done it before."
"Not like this. Not on her. Not with—" Sam's voice broke. "Dean, what if we can't—"
"We can." Dean's voice was firm now, falling into that big-brother authority that had carried them through a thousand impossible situations. "We can because we have to. I need you to hold her still, especially when I start stitching. She's gonna fight it."
Sam moved to your other side, his large hands gentle as they held your shoulders down. "It's okay," he murmured. "We've got you. Just hold on for us, okay?"
"Okay," you whispered.
Dean poured antiseptic over the wound, and this time you did scream, back arching off the bed. Sam held you down while murmuring soothing nonsense in your ear.
"Y/n, this is really gonna hurt," Dean warned, needle poised over your skin. "I need you to stay as still as possible. Can you do that for me?"
You nodded, not trusting your voice. Sam shifted, bracing his arm across your shoulders and taking your hand with his other one.
"Squeeze my hand as hard as you need to," Sam said. "Don't hold back."
Dean took a deep breath, met your eyes once, and then began to stitch.
The pain was white-hot and immediate, like being cut all over again. You bit down on the leather belt Sam shoved between your teeth and squeezed his hand hard enough that you felt his bones grind together, but he didn't complain. Dean worked with steady precision, each pull of the thread sending fresh agony through your entire body.
"I know, I know," Dean murmured as he worked, his voice low and soothing despite the tears still tracking down his face. "You're doing so good, kiddo. Almost done with this one."
But he wasn't almost done. The abdominal wound took forty-three stitches. You counted them, focusing on the numbers instead of the pain, watching Sam's face instead of what Dean was doing. Sam looked like he might be sick, but he held steady, held you steady, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of your hand.
When Dean finally tied off the last stitch on your abdomen, you were drenched in sweat and barely conscious.
"Halfway there," Dean said, and you could hear the exhaustion in his voice. "Need to do your back and side. Can you roll over for me?"
"Can't," you gasped.
"Yes, you can. Come on." Together, they carefully turned you onto your side, and you felt more than heard the sob that escaped Sam when he got a good look at your back.
The claw marks were worse than the cut on your abdomen—four parallel slashes from your left shoulder blade down to your lower back, deep enough that Dean had to clean out dirt and debris before he could start stitching.
"Talk to me," Sam said desperately, kneeling beside the bed so he could see your face. "Stay awake. Tell me about—tell me about that diner we went to last week. The one with the pie."
"Best... apple pie... you ever had," you managed.
"Yeah, that's right." Sam's voice was thick. "You gonna tell me where it is so I can go back?"
"Never. My secret."
"Selfish," Sam said, but he was almost smiling through his tears. "Here I am, holding your hand while Dean stitches you up, and you won't even tell me where the good pie is."
"That's... what makes it... a good secret."
Dean worked in silence, and you lost count of the stitches on your back. Fifty, maybe more. The room started spinning again, and Sam's face kept going in and out of focus.
"Stay with us," Sam pleaded. "Come on,
Y/n. Stay awake."
"Trying," you slurred.
By the time Dean moved to your ribs, you were pretty sure you'd passed out at least once. Everything was distant and fuzzy, except for the pain, which remained sharp and immediate. Dean's hands were sure and steady, but you could feel them trembling occasionally as he worked.
Finally—finally—Dean tied off the last stitch.
"Okay," he said, and his voice was hoarse. "Okay, you're done. You did so good, kiddo. So good."
They eased you onto your back again, and Sam covered you with a blanket. The warmth was immediately welcome—you hadn't realized how cold you'd gotten.
Dean carefully bandaged each wound, his touch feather-light despite the size of his hands. Sam kept your hand in his, occasionally reaching up to brush sweat-soaked hair back from your face.
"Need to get fluids in you," Sam said. "You lost a lot of blood."
"Gatorade in my bag," you mumbled. "Blue one."
"Of course you have Gatorade," Dean said, and there was a hint of his usual humor in his voice. "Sam, grab it."
Sam retrieved the bottle and helped you take small sips, supporting your head with one hand. The electrolytes helped a little, pushing back the dizziness.
"Pain meds," Dean said, shaking out pills. "Take these."
You swallowed them with more Gatorade, then let your head fall back against the pillow. Every inch of your body hurt, but the worst of it was done.
"I'm sorry," you whispered, looking between your brothers.
Both of them looked at you sharply, and the twin expressions of concern would have been funny under different circumstances.
"For what?" Sam asked, setting the Gatorade aside.
"For not telling you. For making you worry. For—" Your voice cracked. "For making you patch me up when you're both hurt too."
Dean made that sound again—half laugh, half sob—and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Too late to worry about making us worry. But you're gonna be okay. You hear me? You're gonna be fine because I'm not losing you. Neither of us are."
"Never," Sam agreed, his hand tightening on yours. "But Y/n, you have to promise us something too."
"What?"
Sam looked at Dean, and something passed between them—some silent communication you were too exhausted to interpret.
"No more hiding injuries," Dean said firmly, moving his chair closer to the bed so he could take your other hand. "No more taking care of us when you're the one who needs help. No more pretending you're fine when you're not."
"We're a team," Sam continued. "All three of us. That means we look out for each other. All of us. You don't get to be the exception."
"But you guys—"
"Are just as worried about you as you are about us," Dean interrupted. "Maybe more, because you're my baby sister, Sam's only older sister and that's never gonna change. So promise us. Promise you'll tell us when you're hurt."
You looked at both of them—at Dean with his slung arm and red-rimmed eyes, at Sam with his bandaged forehead and tear-stained face—and felt something crack open in your chest. They loved you. They'd always loved you. And maybe it was okay to let them show it.
"I promise," you whispered. "No more hiding."
"Good." Dean squeezed your hand gently. "Now you need to sleep. Sam and I are gonna take turns keeping watch, make sure you don't spike a fever or anything."
"You both need to sleep too," you protested weakly. "Your shoulder—"
"Is fine. Sleep, Y/n." His voice softened. "Please. Let us take care of you for once."
You didn't have the energy to argue anymore. Your eyes were already drifting closed, heavy as lead.
"Don't leave," you mumbled.
"Never," Sam promised. "We're right here."
Dean stood, then carefully lowered himself onto the bed beside you, mindful of his shoulder and your injuries. He lay on top of the covers, close enough that you could feel his warmth but not touching any of your wounds.
"What are you doing?" you asked sleepily.
"What does it look like? Making sure you're not alone." He adjusted his position, getting comfortable. "Sam, you getting in or what?"
Sam didn't need to be asked twice. He stretched out on your other side, his long frame taking up most of that side of the bed. His hand found yours again, lacing your fingers together.
"This okay?" Sam asked softly. "We're not hurting you?"
"S'perfect," you murmured, feeling safer than you had in months. Years, maybe.
Dean's hand rested carefully on your shoulder—the one spot that wasn't injured. Sam's thumb traced gentle circles on the back of your hand. You could hear both their breathing, steady and reassuring.
"Love you guys," you whispered, already halfway to sleep.
"Love you too, kiddo," Dean said, his voice rough with emotion. "Always have, always will."
"Forever," Sam added quietly. "Get some sleep. We've got you."
And for once, you didn't feel guilty about letting them take care of you. Didn't feel like you had to be strong or put-together or okay. You could just be hurt, and scared, and exhausted, and let your brothers shoulder some of that weight.
The last thing you were aware of was Dean's hand tightening slightly on your shoulder and Sam shifting closer, building a protective wall around you with their bodies. Even in sleep, they were watching over you.
You were safe. You were loved. You were home.
The darkness pulled you under gently, and you went without fighting, knowing that when you woke up—if the pain came back, if the fever spiked, if anything went wrong—your brothers would be right there.
Hello!! I was wondering if u could write one where some creature gets the sister into some kind of trance that makes her try to sacrifice herself and dean and sam trying to save her. And like maybe whenever they think they have saved her and shes normal again she just goes back in when they least expect it. Maybe with a fluff ending. IF ur comfortable with sth like that ofc. Thank u either way!!
╰┈➤ Song of the Drowned
Dean Winchester x sister!reader
Sam Winchester x sister!reader
Summary: The hunt at the lake went wrong and the siren had you in her trance which made you want to sacrifice yourself to her. Even after Sam and Dean kill the siren, something was still there hiding.
Warnings: suicide intention/physical and mental manipulation/self-harm/blood/violence
The motel room was like every other one you've been in, old and smelly. You sat cross-legged on the worn bedspread, laptop balanced on your knees as you scrolled through another database of missing persons. Dean was at the table cleaning weapons with methodical precision, and Sam had his nose buried in one of the leather-bound journals he'd picked up from the library.
"Two more disappearances in the last week," you announced, tilting the screen toward your brothers. "All women, all between the ages of twenty and thirty, all last seen near Crescent Lake."
Dean looked up, raising an eyebrow. "Lake monster? Seriously? What is this, a bad horror movie?"
"Could be a water wraith," Sam suggested, closing his journal with a heavy thud. "Or maybe a rusalka. Slavic mythology describes them as—"
"Or maybe we just go check it out like normal people instead of having a mythology lecture," Dean interrupted, standing and stretching. The chair scraped against the floor with a harsh sound. "I'm getting cabin fever in this place anyway."
You smiled despite yourself, closing the laptop. After years of hunting with your brothers, you'd learned that Dean's restlessness usually meant he was worried about something. Or someone. His eyes flicked to you more than once as he loaded his gun, and you pretended not to notice.
"I'm fine, Dean," you said preemptively.
"Didn't say you weren't."
"You didn't have to."
Sam snorted, earning a glare from Dean. "Can we just go check out the lake before you two start your mind-reading routine?"
⛧
The lake was beautiful in the fading afternoon light, all golden ripples and weeping willows that draped their branches into the water like trailing fingers. Too beautiful, maybe. The kind of beautiful that made your chest ache for reasons you couldn't explain.
You felt something tug at the edge of your consciousness as you stood on the wooden dock, staring out at the water. The breeze carried the scent of wet earth and decaying leaves, but underneath it was something else. Something sweet. Something calling.
"You okay?" Sam's voice seemed to come from very far away, even though he was standing right beside you.
"Yeah," you heard yourself say. The word felt distant, like it came from someone else's mouth. "Just... listening."
Because there was something to listen to. A melody, faint and ethereal, winding through the air like smoke. It made your chest ache with a longing you couldn't name—a homesickness for a place you'd never been.
Dean was interviewing a local fisherman near the parking lot, his voice a low rumble that couldn't quite penetrate the fog settling over your mind. Sam was taking EMF readings along the shoreline, the device chirping intermittently. Neither of them seemed to hear it.
The song grew louder, sweeter. Notes that shouldn't exist together somehow creating a harmony that resonated in your bones. Your feet moved of their own accord, carrying you to the very edge of the dock. The water below looked soft as silk, inviting. Welcoming.
Come home, the melody whispered in a language that wasn't quite language. Come where you belong. End the pain. End the struggle. End the endless fight. Rest. Rest. Rest.
And god, you were so tired. Tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of watching your brothers throw themselves into danger over and over again. The water promised peace. The water promised an end to fear.
"Hey!" Dean's sharp voice cut through the haze like a knife. His hand closed around your arm, yanking you backward so hard you stumbled. "What the hell are you doing?"
You blinked, suddenly aware that you'd been leaning forward, your toes hanging over the edge of the dock. One more second and you would have—
"I don't know," you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs. "I heard... music."
Sam was at your side in an instant, his face pale, his hand gripping your other arm. "What kind of music?"
"Beautiful," you breathed. "It was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard."
The brothers exchanged a look that you knew meant trouble.
"A siren," Sam said grimly. "It has to be."
"In a lake?" Dean demanded, his hand still clamped around your arm like a vice. "I thought those bitches stayed in the ocean."
"Sirens aren't just ocean creatures," Sam said quickly, already pulling out his phone to make notes. "Some folklore places them in any body of water. Rivers, lakes, even wells. If there's one here, it's already got its hooks in her."
You wanted to argue, to say you were fine, but the song was still there. Quieter now, but persistent. Like a fish hook lodged in your brain, tugging, tugging, promising relief if you'd just give in.
"We need to get her out of here," Dean said. "Now."
Back at the motel, Sam had you sitting inside a circle of salt while he frantically flipped through books, his fingers leaving smudges on the yellowed pages. Dean paced like a caged animal, his hand never straying far from his gun.
"How are you feeling?" Dean asked for the fifth time, crouching in front of you with a glass of water. "Any different?"
"Like there's this... itch in my head," you admitted, wrapping your hands around the glass to stop them from shaking. "Like I forgot to do something important. Something urgent."
"Yeah, well, swimming with the fishes isn't on today's agenda," Dean said firmly. But you could see the fear in his eyes, stark and raw. Dean was always afraid when it came to his family, but he rarely let it show like this.
Sam looked up from his research, his face grim. "Sirens use psychic influence. They get inside your head and make their victims want to drown themselves as an offering. The victims go willingly, even happily. It's not possession—it's compulsion."
"How do we stop it?" you asked, hating how small your voice sounded.
"The only way to break the connection is to kill the siren or—" Sam hesitated, his jaw tightening.
"Or what?" you pressed.
"Or let the trance run its course. But that means..." He couldn't finish the sentence.
"No," Dean said flatly. "Absolutely not. We're killing this thing."
You nodded, trying to focus on Dean's face instead of the whisper at the back of your mind. But the itch was growing stronger. The song was so faint now you could barely hear it, but somehow that made it worse. Like someone calling your name from another room, over and over, increasingly desperate for you to answer.
You're needed. Come back. Complete the ritual. Three sisters for three deaths. Three offerings for one rebirth.
"Three," you said aloud, suddenly. "She said three."
Sam's head snapped up. "What?"
"The siren. In my head. She needs three... offerings."
"The missing women," Sam said, his face going even paler. "They weren't taken. They were the first two sacrifices."
"And she wants our sister for the third," Dean finished, his voice dangerous.
"We should get her to Bobby's," Sam was saying, already pulling out his phone. "Somewhere safer, with more protection—"
"I'm fine," you insisted, standing up. The salt circle broke beneath your feet with a whisper. "Really. I can barely hear it anymore. Let's just gank this thing and be done with it."
Dean studied you carefully, and you forced yourself to meet his eyes. To look normal. To look like yourself.
"Okay," he finally said. "But you're staying in the car. Doors locked, windows up, and you don't move. Not an inch."
You agreed too easily. You realized that even as you were doing it, even as you were nodding and saying "of course" and "I promise." Some distant part of your mind was screaming that you were lying, but the rest of you didn't care.
The song was growing louder.
The plan was simple: Dean and Sam would go to the lake at dusk with silver knives and iron rounds, draw the siren out, and kill it before she could claim her third victim. You would wait in the Impala with the doors locked and the windows up, safe in the car that had been your second home for most of your life.
Except the song was so much louder now.
Sister, daughter, sacrifice. Come to me. Complete the cycle. End your pain. End their pain. Save them by joining me.
Your hand was on the door handle before you even registered moving. The metal was cool under your palm.
"No," you said aloud, fighting against yourself. "No, no, no."
But your body wasn't listening. You stumbled out of the car, your feet carrying you toward the water. The world had taken on a dreamlike quality—everything soft and blurred around the edges except for the lake, which gleamed with terrible clarity. Each ripple was diamond-sharp, each reflection a promise.
You could see her now. The siren. She rose from the water like something from a Pre-Raphaelite painting, beautiful and terrible, her skin pale as moonlight, her hair a dark cascade that seemed to move independently of the wind. Her eyes were black as the depths, and when she smiled, you saw teeth like needles.
"Y/N!" Dean's voice, sharp with panic, shattered and distant.
You felt his arms around you, pulling you back, but you fought him with a strength you didn't know you possessed. Your fist connected with his jaw, and you heard him grunt in pain.
"Let me go," you heard yourself say, but it wasn't your voice. It was something colder, something that echoed with the lake's depths. "I need to. I need to."
"Like hell," Dean grunted, wrestling you to the ground. His weight pinned you down, and you thrashed beneath him like a wild animal.
Sam was running toward the water, knife raised, but the siren just laughed—a sound like breaking glass and drowning bells and the last breath of dying girls.
"She's already mine," the creature sang, her voice harmonizing with itself in impossible ways. "Three sacrifices to complete my awakening. Two I have taken into the depths. Two souls fuel my resurrection. The third calls herself to me. The third comes willingly."
"Dean, hold her!" Sam shouted, and you heard the desperation in his voice.
But you were slippery as water yourself now, twisting out of Dean's grip with inhuman flexibility. Your shirt tore. You didn't care. You ran.
The lake was so close. The water so inviting. You could feel it calling your name, your true name, the one written in your bones before you were born—
The gunshot cracked through the air like thunder.
Silver bullets, you thought distantly, as the siren shrieked and began to sink. Sam had shot her. The melody cut off abruptly, like someone had severed a wire, and you fell to your knees in the shallow water, gasping. The cold bit into your skin, shocking you back into yourself.
"I've got you," Dean was saying, his arms around you again, gentler this time but no less secure. "I've got you. You're okay. You're okay."
You weren't sure if he was reassuring you or himself.
⛧
You sat wrapped in a blanket in the motel room, nursing a cup of tea Sam had made with shaking hands. Your brothers watched you like you might explode, or disappear.
"I'm fine," you said for the hundredth time. "Really. The siren's dead. The connection's broken."
"You sure?" Dean asked. He'd asked that same question every five minutes for the past hour.
You nodded, taking another sip of tea even though it had gone lukewarm. The terrible pull was gone. Your mind felt clear again, like waking up from a nightmare. "Yeah. I'm sure."
Sam visibly relaxed, his shoulders dropping. "Okay. Okay, good. Why don't you get some sleep? We'll stay up and keep watch, just in case."
"You don't have to—"
"We're doing it anyway," Dean said firmly, in his voice that meant the discussion was over. "So shut up and get some rest."
You smiled despite yourself and curled up on the bed, still wrapped in the blanket. It smelled like the lavender detergent from the laundromat down the street. Normal. Safe. Your eyes drifted closed.
The song started so quietly you almost didn't notice it at first.
One more time, it whispered, seductive and patient. Just one more time. Complete what was started. Finish what was begun. Three for three. Death for life. Blood for power.
Your eyes snapped open in the darkness.
No. The siren was dead. You'd seen her dissolve into nothing, her scream echoing across the water. This wasn't possible.
But the pull was there, stronger than ever, and you realized with mounting horror that you were already standing. Already moving toward the door. Your hand reached for the doorknob.
"No," you whispered, but your fingers closed around it anyway.
A lamp clicked on, flooding the room with harsh yellow light.
"Going somewhere?" Dean's voice was quiet, dangerous, tired.
You turned to find both your brothers awake and watching you. They'd never gone to sleep at all. They'd been waiting.
"I—" Your voice broke. "I can't stop it. Dean, I can't—"
"Yes, you can," he said, standing slowly, like he was approaching a wounded animal. "Because you're a Winchester, and we're stubborn as hell. We don't give up. We don't give in."
"But the siren's dead—"
"Her body's dead," Sam interrupted gently, moving to block the door. "But psychic connections don't always break immediately. The neural pathways she created in your brain—they're still firing. It might take days for it to fade completely."
"Days?" you repeated in horror, and your hand was still on the doorknob, still pulling.
"Which is why," Dean said, pulling out a pair of handcuffs with a look of grim determination, "you're gonna hate us for a while."
"No," you said, backing away. "No, you can't—"
"We can and we will," Sam said firmly. "Because we're not losing you."
You ran for the window, but Dean was faster. He tackled you to the floor, and this time you really fought. You screamed and clawed and bit, and you felt Dean flinch when your teeth drew blood from his arm, but he didn't let go.
"I'm sorry," Sam was saying as he grabbed your wrists. "I'm so sorry."
The handcuffs clicked shut, and you were chained to the bed frame.
The first hour was the worst.
You'd fought them with everything you had—really fought them—screaming obscenities, begging, pleading, promising anything if they'd just let you go. The song in your head had crescendoed into a symphony of compulsion, and every nerve in your body screamed at you to get to the water.
Dean sat beside the bed, his face carefully blank, while you spat venom at him.
"I hate you," you'd snarled. "I hate both of you. You're keeping me prisoner. You're torturing me."
"I know," Dean said quietly.
"Let me go. Please. Please, Dean, it hurts—"
"I know," he repeated, and there were tears in his eyes.
Sam had turned away, his shoulders shaking, but he didn't unlock the cuffs.
Eventually, you exhausted yourself. The song continued, relentless. Come, come, come.
"Tell us something," Dean said suddenly, pulling his chair closer to the bed. His voice was rough. "Tell us about that time you stole my car keys when you were twelve."
You blinked at him through tears. "What?"
"Tell the story," he insisted. "I want to hear it. Every detail."
"Dean—"
"Please," he said, and you'd never heard him sound so desperate.
So you did. Your voice was hoarse from screaming, but you told them. You told them about stealing the Impala keys because you'd wanted to learn to drive like Dean, about how you'd sat in the driver's seat feeling so grown up. About how you'd only made it three blocks before stalling out at a red light, panicking, and calling Dean from a payphone to come rescue you.
"You didn't even yell at me," you remembered, your voice cracking. "You just... fixed it and let me try again."
"'Course I didn't yell," Dean said. "You were trying. That's all that matters."
The song was still there, but quieter now. Bearable.
"Tell us another one," Sam said, coming to sit on your other side.
So you told them about the time Sam had tried to teach you Latin and you'd accidentally summoned a minor demon instead, and how you'd all ended up covered in holy water and rock salt, laughing despite the danger. You told them about the first time you'd successfully ganked a vampire, how your hands had shaken so badly afterward that Dean had to drive. You told them about every stupid, embarrassing, wonderful memory you could dredge up.
You told them about the time you were seven and had nightmares for a week, and Dean had let you sleep in his bed even though he was too cool for that kind of thing. About how Sam had read to you from his mythology books until you fell asleep.
"You've always taken care of me," you whispered.
"Always will," Dean promised.
The hours crawled by. The song faded and surged, faded and surged. Sometimes you screamed and fought the handcuffs until your wrists bled. Sometimes you cried. Sometimes you just stared at the ceiling, feeling the pull like a physical ache.
Your brothers never left. They took turns keeping watch, telling stories, making sure you drank water even when you tried to spit it at them. Dean cleaned and bandaged your wrists when you tore the skin. Sam researched, reading aloud about siren lore and psychic connections, his voice a steady anchor.
"There's a case here," Sam said during the second night, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "A hunter in the 1950s. His partner got caught by a siren's song. He kept her restrained for four days before the connection broke."
"Four days?" you asked weakly.
"Four days," Sam confirmed. "But she lived. She survived."
"I don't know if I can do four days," you admitted.
"You can," Dean said firmly. "Because you're the toughest person I know, and you're not doing it alone."
The third day was when you broke if you haven't already.
The song had been relentless, playing on an endless loop, and you'd barely slept. Your body ached. Your mind was fracturing at the edges, unable to tell where the siren's influence ended and your own thoughts began.
"Please," you sobbed. "Please just let me go. Just for a minute. I need—I need—"
"No," Sam said, but his voice was gentle. He was holding your hand, his thumb rubbing circles on your palm. "Stay with us. Stay here."
"I can't. I can't do this anymore."
"Yes, you can," Dean insisted. He looked terrible—unshaven, dark circles under his eyes, still wearing the same clothes from three days ago. "You're stronger than this thing. Stronger than it could ever be."
"Tell me why," you begged. "Tell me why I should keep fighting."
Dean leaned forward, his eyes fierce. "Because you're my little sister, and I've spent my whole life making sure you stay alive. Because Sam needs you—needs your terrible jokes and your research skills and the way you keep us sane. Because there are people out there who need saving, and you're one of the best hunters I know. Because the world is better with you in it."
"Because we love you," Sam added simply. "And we're not giving up on you."
You closed your eyes, letting their words sink in. The song was still there, but their voices were louder. Their presence was stronger.
"Okay," you whispered. "Okay."
By the fourth day, the song was barely a whisper.
By noon, it was gone.
Sam unlocked the handcuffs with trembling hands, his face wet with tears. "How do you feel?"
You rubbed your wrists, testing your own mind carefully. Clear. Blessedly, wonderfully clear. The silence in your head was so profound it almost hurt.
"I feel like myself," you said, and burst into tears.
Dean pulled you into a crushing hug immediately, and Sam piled on from the other side. You could feel them shaking, could hear Dean's ragged breathing, could feel Sam's tears soaking into your shirt.
"Don't you ever scare us like that again," Dean muttered into your hair.
"I'll try not to," you managed between sobs. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry for," Sam said fiercely. "You fought it. You won."
"We won," you corrected. "I couldn't have done it without you."
You stayed like that for a long time, the three of you tangled together, holding on like you might never let go.
Later—after you'd showered and changed into clean clothes and eaten real food for the first time in days—you found yourself sandwiched between your brothers on the couch. Some terrible action movie played on the TV, but none of you were really watching it. Dean's arm was around your shoulders. Sam's hand was holding yours. They were both touching you like they needed the physical reassurance that you were still there.
"Thank you," you said quietly. "For not giving up on me. For keeping me alive even when I was fighting you."
"Never gonna happen," Dean said simply. "Giving up on you, I mean. Not in this lifetime."
"You're stuck with us," Sam added, squeezing your hand. "Whether you like it or not."
"I like it," you said, leaning into Dean's side. "I really, really like it."
Dean kissed the top of your head. "Good. Because you're not getting rid of us."
You laughed, and it felt good. It felt normal. It felt like coming home after a long, terrible journey.
Outside, Crescent Lake sparkled in the afternoon sun, just another body of water with no power over you anymore. But inside this dingy motel room, surrounded by your brothers, you were safe. You were loved. You were home.
And that was the only song that mattered.
The credits rolled on the movie, and Sam got up to make coffee. Dean started cleaning his guns again, the familiar ritual of it soothing. You watched them move around the room, these two men who had fought for you, who had suffered with you, who loved you enough to hurt you to save you.
"Hey," you said suddenly. Both of them looked up. "I love you guys. I don't say it enough, but I do."
Dean's face softened in a way it rarely did. "Love you too, kid."
"Always," Sam agreed.
And for the first time in days, you smiled—a real smile, not the false ones you'd given to convince them you were okay. This one came from deep inside, from the part of you that was truly, finally free.
Outside, the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold. Inside, you were exactly where you belonged.
I was wondering, if you're feeling up to it, would you be willing to write something about Reader being Sam and Dean's half sister? They're all John's kids, but because they don't share a mother Reader's always felt a little left out - like she can tell Sam and Dean don't really see her as family. But then she gets hurt during a hunt and they get all worried about her and for once they actually take care of her and yk, just fluff cause I'm a sucker for it ahah
Completely up to you if you like it or not, if not that's totally fine!
Thank you so much, have a lovely day!
╰┈➤ Blood and Bone
Dean Winchester x half-sister!reader
Sam Winchester x half-sister!reader
Summary: You've hunted with Sam and Dean for four years, and in four years, you've never quite figured out how to not be John's other kid. Now, a werewolf hunt goes sideways, and for the first time, your brothers look at you like losing you would actually cost them something.
Warnings: violence/descriptions of blood/feeling like an outsider/fluff and comfort
Notes: The taglist form link for The Boys is added to the taglist post that's linked to the pinned post! So if you want to be on it you can fill it out. I also updated the supernatural form a bit.
You'd learned early on not to expect too much.
Not from John Winchester, anyway — a man who showed love in the form of clean weapons and a firm handshake before he disappeared for weeks at a time. And not from your brothers, who had grown up stitched together by something you'd never quite been part of. A dead mother. A burning ceiling. A grief so old it had been embedded into who they were.
You had a different mother. She was alive, living in Tucson, remarried to a man named Greg who coached Little League and grilled salmon on weekends. She had tried, genuinely and with real desperation, to keep you out of all of this. She'd moved you across two state lines when you were twelve after a demon got too close to your school. She'd hidden every letter John ever sent. She'd cried, the one time you'd found his journal, in a way that made you understand that whatever had happened between them had cost her something she'd never fully gotten back.
But the blood was the blood. You'd found out about hunting at sixteen, pieced it together from old newspaper clippings and the silver in the cutlery drawer and the way your mother's eyes went flat whenever there was something strange on the news. You'd found out about them at seventeen — two brothers, John's real family, the ones he'd gone back to every time he left. And by eighteen you'd shown up at a motel in Shreveport with a duffel bag and a silver knife and a chin held high enough to hide the fact that your heart was hammering, and announced yourself to two men who stared at you like you were a puzzle they hadn't been asked to solve.
Dad's other kid, Dean had said. Not meanly. He'd said it the way he said most things — like he was categorizing, filing you away somewhere he could find you later.
Sam had been kinder. He'd offered you coffee, asked about your drive, moved his stuff off the second bed without being asked. But even his kindness had that careful quality to it, like he wasn't quite sure what you were to him yet and didn't want to make any promises he'd have to walk back.
That was four years ago. You hunted with them now, off and on — sometimes for weeks at a stretch, sometimes just for a single job before you went back to working alone. You knew their rhythms. You knew Dean took his coffee black and burnt, that he got quiet when he was scared and loud when he was covering for it. You knew Sam did his best thinking pacing, that he carried the weight of every person they didn't save like stones in his pockets. You knew the Impala's backseat by feel — the tear in the leather near the left door, the way the seat springs were softer on the right. You knew the sound of them breathing in sleep, Sam's slow and even, Dean's lighter, always half-ready to surface.
You knew them the way you knew a place you'd visited enough times to stop needing a map. You just weren't sure you lived there.
It wasn't anything they did, exactly. It was more like a frequency you couldn't quite tune into. An inside joke you'd arrived too late for. The way they could communicate in half-sentences and significant looks, a whole language built over thirty years of being each other's only constants. You'd catch yourself watching it sometimes — the shorthand, the ease — and feel something that wasn't quite jealousy and wasn't quite grief but lived somewhere in the neighborhood of both.
You were John's daughter. You had the proof — the jawline, the stubbornness, the fact that silver burned and salt felt like safety. But being his daughter and being their sister felt, most days, like two different things.
You'd never said any of this out loud. Winchesters didn't, as a rule.
⛧
There was a werewolf in a mill town outside of Hastings, Nebraska — the kind of place where everyone knew everyone and three mauled bodies in six weeks had the locals inventing explanations involving wild dogs and bad luck. Sam had done the research, cross-referencing the lunar cycle with the attack dates until the pattern was impossible to argue with. Dean had done the talking, badge-flashing his way through conversations with the sheriff's office and the victims' families. And you had done what you usually did: taken the assignment nobody asked questions about, kept your head down, stayed useful.
The plan was clean. Silver bullets, the victim's apartments cross-referenced with any mutual contacts, a shortlist of three suspects who fit the timeline. You'd split up to cover ground faster — Dean checking the northern end of town, Sam running down a lead at the local bar, you taking the address of the most likely suspect, a mill worker named Calhoun who'd moved to town eight weeks ago and had no alibi for any of the three nights in question.
"If it's him, you wait," Dean had said, in the parking lot of the motel, in the specific tone he used when he knew he was going to be ignored. "You do not engage solo. You call us, you wait for backup, and then we go in together."
"I know the protocol," you'd said.
"I'm not asking if you know it. I'm asking you to actually do it."
"I'll call if it's him."
He'd given you a long look. You'd given him one back. It was the most communication the two of you had managed in three days.
Calhoun's place was a rented house at the edge of town, backing up against a tree line. You'd parked half a block down and approached on foot, silver-loaded pistol under your jacket, the night cold enough to see your breath. The windows were dark. His truck was in the driveway. You'd told yourself you were just going to confirm he was home, just going to get eyes on the place, and then you'd call.
That was when the back door opened and Calhoun came out.
He wasn't fully turned. That was the thing about werewolves mid-cycle — they existed in this awful in-between, the eyes too bright, the jaw sitting slightly off, the way they moved carrying that terrible, coiled wrongness that the back of your brain recognized before your conscious mind caught up. He'd smelled you before he saw you. You'd barely gotten your gun up before he closed the distance.
What followed was thirty of the worst seconds of your life.
You got one shot off — clipped him in the shoulder, silver burning through but not stopping him — before he was on you. He slammed into you with his full weight and you both went down hard, gravel biting into your palms, and then he had your gun arm pinned and his teeth were there, too close, and you got your knife up with your left hand and dragged it across his side and he reared back with a scream.
That was your window. You took it — twisted, got a knee under him, shoved him off, and scrambled to your feet. Your gun was somewhere in the gravel. You had the knife and the wound in your side that you hadn't fully registered yet, too much adrenaline, too much to do. You put two more feet between you and got your backup piece from your ankle holster and shot him twice in the chest.
Calhoun went down. Stayed down.
You stood over him breathing hard, and then your left hand went to your side, and your fingers came back dark and wet, and you thought: oh. That's why it's burning.
You called Dean.
He picked up on the first ring, which meant he'd been waiting.
"It's done," you said. "Calhoun. He's down."
A pause. "You went in without—"
"He came out the back. I didn't have a choice."
"Are you hurt?"
You looked at your hand. "A little."
The silence that followed had texture to it.
"How little," he said. It wasn't a question.
"I'm standing up. It's not deep." You pressed your palm flat against your side and tried to believe that. "He clawed me. It's fine."
"He clawed you." His voice had gone very even in that way that meant the opposite of calm. "What's the address?"
You gave it to him. You could already hear him moving, hear the Impala's keys, hear him saying something to Sam in the background that you couldn't make out.
"Stay where you are," he said. "Don't — just stay there. We're seven minutes out."
"Dean, I'm fine."
"Seven minutes," he said, and hung up.
It was closer to five.
The Impala came around the corner faster than was probably street-legal, and Dean was out of the car before it had fully stopped, crossing the distance between you with long, urgent strides. Sam was a half-step behind him. They both pulled up when they reached you — doing that rapid, practiced assessment, eyes moving over you, cataloguing damage.
"Show me," Dean said.
"It's not—"
"Show me."
You moved your hand. He pulled out his flashlight and crouched to look, and the line of his jaw went tight in a way that told you it was probably worse than you'd been telling yourself. Sam appeared at your other side, looking over Dean's shoulder.
"Okay," Sam said, in his deliberate, let's-not-panic voice. "Okay, that needs to be cleaned and closed. Can you walk?"
"I walked to the car just fine after the rawhead in Ohio."
"I knew something happened in Ohio," Sam said.
"That's not the point right now," Dean said. He straightened up and looked at you directly, flashlight dropping to his side, and the expression on his face in the thin wash of streetlight was one you didn't quite know what to do with. It wasn't anger, though you'd expected anger. It was something rawer than that. "You said a little."
"It is a little."
"That's—" He stopped. Pressed his mouth together. "That is not a little."
"I've had worse."
"That is a genuinely terrible thing to say to me right now." He got his arm around your shoulders — carefully, mindful of where you were hurt — and steered you toward the car. "Come on. We'll deal with Calhoun, we'll call Bobby to tip off the coroner, and then we're going back to the motel and someone is going to stitch that up properly."
"You don't have to make a whole thing of it," you said.
"I'm not making a thing of anything," he said, in the voice of someone making a very distinct thing of it. "I'm patching up my sister. That's just what's happening."
The word landed in the middle of everything else and sat there, uncomplicated, matter-of-fact. Like it wasn't the first time he'd said it that way — like it didn't cost him anything, like it was just the obvious truth.
You didn't say anything. You let him walk you to the car.
⛧
Sam drove. Dean sat in the back.
This was, as had been established by roughly four years of observable evidence, not the natural order of things. The Impala had a hierarchy and Dean was at the top of it, behind the wheel, where the universe intended him to be. The fact that he was sitting beside you in the dark backseat with one hand braced lightly on your shoulder — careful, like he was making sure you stayed upright — was its own kind of quiet statement.
You watched the town unspool past the window and tried to figure out why it made your chest feel strange.
"I was going to wait," you said, after a while. "I want that on the record. He came out the back before I'd even—"
"I know," Dean said.
You looked at him. "You believe me?"
"I believe you made the best call you could with the information you had." He shrugged one shoulder. "Doesn't mean I love that you went out there alone. But I'm not — I know you're not reckless."
"You seemed pretty mad on the phone."
"I was scared," he said, with the directness of someone who'd decided that being precise was more important than being comfortable. "Those are different things. I was scared and it came out sideways. That happens." He paused. "Also you said a little and that was a clear lie and I reserve the right to be annoyed about that."
"It was a matter of perspective."
"It was a gash."
"A small gash."
"Y/n."
"Fine," you said. "A medium gash."
From the front seat, Sam made a sound that was almost a laugh. "She's arguing about wound size. That's a good sign."
"It's a trait," Dean said. "Very annoying to witness from the outside."
You looked at him. "I come by it honestly, then."
"Unfortunately," he said, and something in his face shifted — settled, maybe, into something softer than you usually saw there. "Yeah. You do."
⛧
Back at the motel, the overhead light was too bright and the first aid kit was extensive in the way that only hunters' first aid kits were — butterfly closures, suture thread, surgical tape, antiseptic in quantities that suggested a deep and well-founded distrust of hospitals.
Sam cleaned the wound with the focused quiet of someone who'd stitched up enough people to have developed a bedside manner, talking you through it in low, even sentences. The claws had done four shallow parallel lines across your left side, none of them deep enough to need more than butterflies and careful pressure, which was lucky and which you had been trying to tell them both. You sat on the edge of the bed and tried not to make noise while he worked.
Dean stood nearby in the way that people stood when they had too much energy and nowhere to put it. He'd already disposed of the motel's sad excuse for a desk chair by sitting in it the wrong way around, arms folded on the back, watching Sam work with the kind of attention that had nothing to do with the first aid.
"You're going to give yourself eyestrain," you told him.
"I'm fine."
"You've been staring at me like I might disappear."
"I'm keeping an eye on the situation."
"The situation is four scratches."
"The situation," he said, "is that a werewolf got its hands on you, and I wasn't there, and I'd like to be done talking about it now."
Sam pressed a piece of surgical tape flat and sat back to look at his work. "Done. You'll be sore for a few days, but nothing's deep. No signs of infection." He met your eyes. "You got lucky."
"I know."
"Could've been a lot worse if the silver hadn't slowed him down."
"I know, Sam."
"I'm just saying."
"I know." You looked at him — at the particular quality of worry that he was trying to keep out of his face and mostly failing at. "I know," you said again, quieter. "I'm sorry I scared you guys."
The room went a little still.
"Don't apologize," Sam said. "That's not—" He shook his head. "Just tell us when you're hurt. That's all. Just don't go quiet and say you're fine when you're not."
"I don't—" you started, and then stopped, because you did. You absolutely did, and all three of you knew it. "Old habit," you said.
"Yeah." Sam looked at his hands. "I know about that one too."
Dean unfolded himself from the chair and came to sit on the foot of your bed, not close enough to crowd you, just — present. Occupying the same space deliberately. He was quiet for a moment, working something out.
"Can I ask you something?" he said.
"Sure."
"Do you think we don't want you here?"
The directness of it caught you off guard. You'd spent four years carefully not asking that question, keeping it in the category of things that were probably better left alone, and here he was saying it out loud with his usual blunt precision.
"I think—" You tried to find the honest version. "I think you didn't ask me to be here. I showed up. And you were decent about it, but decent isn't the same as—" You made a vague gesture. "I always felt like I was something you were accommodating. Like a guest who'd overstayed."
Sam made a low sound, like he'd taken a small hit.
"Four years," Dean said.
"Yeah."
"You've felt like that for four years."
"On and off."
He was quiet. Then: "Okay. I'm going to say something and I need you to actually hear it and not deflect."
"I don't deflect."
"Y/n."
"Fine," you said. "I'll try."
He looked at you steadily. "You are not a guest. You are not something we're accommodating. You are—" He stopped, seemed to decide something. "When I heard you on the phone tonight, when you said a little and I could hear in your voice that it wasn't — my stomach dropped. The same way it drops when it's Sam. The exact same way." He held your gaze. "I don't know if that means anything to you, but that's what happened. And that's not — that's not something I choose. That's just where we are."
The room was very quiet.
"You're ours," Sam said simply, from beside you. "That's it. That's the whole thing. You don't have to earn it and you don't have to keep proving it. You're already it."
"Half," you said. The old reflex.
"Don't," Dean said, with a kind of quiet firmness that closed the subject. "Half just means Dad was complicated in multiple area codes. It doesn't mean less. You've got the stubbornness, you've got the instincts, you went into that house alone because you thought it was the right call and you handled it when things went sideways." He shook his head, something between exasperation and admiration. "You're a Winchester, whether you're ready to claim that or not."
You looked at him for a long moment. Then you looked at Sam. They were both watching you with the same open, slightly uncomfortable expression of people who had said the true thing and were waiting to see what you did with it.
"Okay," you said. Your voice came out a little rougher than you'd intended.
"Okay?" Dean said.
"Okay." You looked down at your hands. "I hear you. I'll — I'll try to hear it."
"That's all we're asking," Sam said.
Dean nodded once, like something had been settled. Then he reached over and put a hand briefly on top of your head — a quick, slightly awkward pat, the kind of gesture that was clearly learned rather than instinctive, and was therefore somehow more genuine for it.
"Also," he said, standing up, "next time you call me and say a little, I'm going to assume it's a catastrophic injury. Just so you know."
"That seems like an overreaction."
"Calibrated response to demonstrated behavior." He went to get coffee from the pot on the dresser. "You want some?"
"Yeah," you said. "Thanks."
He handed you a cup without ceremony, the way you handed things to someone who was yours to hand things to. Like it wasn't a gesture, just a fact.
⛧
You fell asleep sitting up because of your side, propped against a mountain of pillows Sam had arranged without making a production of it. He was asleep on the other bed not long after, out cold in that way he went when a hunt was finished and the tension finally dropped.
Dean didn't sleep.
You'd expected it, or half-expected it, because Sam had told you once — quietly, in that way he talked about Dean when Dean wasn't listening — that he didn't rest right when someone was hurt. That he just sat and watched the door, some old vigilance that never fully powered down. You'd absorbed it as interesting information about your brother. You hadn't considered that it might ever apply to you.
But here he was. Chair pulled close, long legs stretched out, gaze moving between the door and the window and the middle distance in that slow, automatic rotation. Keeping watch. The lamp on the far side of the room burned low, enough to see by.
"You should sleep," you said softly.
"I will."
"Dean."
"In a bit." He glanced over at you. "You're awake."
"I'm going to sleep."
"Then I'll sleep after."
You looked at him in the low light — the set of his shoulders, the particular quality of his stillness, the way he was present in the room. Watching over it. Watching over you.
"This is what you do for Sam," you said. "Isn't it."
It wasn't really a question. He answered it anyway.
"Yeah," he said. "It is."
Something settled in you. Something that had been quietly unmooring for four years.
"Okay," you said.
"Go to sleep," he said.
You closed your eyes. Your side ached with a deep, livable pain, the kind that reminded you it was there without demanding your full attention. The heater clicked on. Outside the window the Nebraska wind pushed against the glass, steady and indifferent, rolling across the flat land with nowhere to be.
You slept, and this time there was no part of you that felt like a guest doing it.
hi! i would love a sister!reader fic where reader is cursed and is just extremely ill and the boys have to take care of her/find a cure and it’s just angsty and fluffy..ty <33
╰┈➤ Burn It Out
Dean Winchester x sister!reader
Sam Winchester x sister!reader
Summary: You touched something you shouldn't have. What can you say? You were curious. Now you're suffering from a curse sickness, and your brothers are taking care of you. Worth it? A little.
Warnings: illness, fever, slight angst but fluffy too
Notes: This weekend is going to be a lot of posts! I'm on the grind before my lock-in for finals starts.
The first sign something was wrong was that you couldn't finish your coffee.
That in itself was enough to make Dean look up from his plate of eggs. You always finished your coffee. You'd once drunk a gas station thermos-worth of the stuff on a stakeout and spent four hours vibrating in the passenger seat while he threatened to leave you on the side of the highway.
"You good?" he asked, nodding at your mug.
"Fine," you said, and you almost meant it.
By the time you got back to the motel room, you weren't fine.
The case had been a standard-issue haunting — a vengeful spirit, 1940s farmhouse, the whole miserable package. You'd split up to cover more ground. Sam had gone to the archives, Dean to the cemetery, and you'd taken the house.
You'd handled it. You always handled it.
What you hadn't accounted for was the locked trunk in the root cellar, the hex bag inside it, and the stupid, split-second decision to pick it up with your bare hands instead of using the iron tongs in your kit like you'd been trained.
The spirit had touched it. Something had transferred. You'd felt it like static electricity up your arm — sharp, bright, then gone.
You hadn't mentioned it to either of them.
That had been yesterday morning.
⛧
"Y/n."
Sam's voice came from somewhere above you. You were lying on the motel bed and couldn't quite remember deciding to do that.
"Mmm."
"Y/n, look at me."
With more effort than it should have taken, you opened your eyes. Sam was crouched at the side of the bed, and the expression on his face — carefully neutral, mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes doing that thing where they went very still — made something cold slide through you despite the fact that you felt like you were on fire.
"Hey, Sammy."
"Hey." His hand came to your forehead, and you heard his sharp inhale even though he tried to hide it. "You're burning up."
"It's hot in here."
"It's sixty-two degrees, the AC is off, and Dean's been complaining about it for an hour." He pulled his hand back and turned his head. "Dean."
"Yeah, I see it." Dean was already there — you hadn't even heard him cross the room. He was holding a glass of water and had that look on his face, the one he only got when something was actually bad. Not-a-scratch bad. Not you're-being-dramatic bad. The other kind.
The kind that meant he was scared.
"I'm fine," you said again. It came out more threadbare this time.
"Right," Dean said flatly. He set the water on the nightstand, sat on the edge of the bed. "That's why you're sweating through your shirt and your eyes are glassed over." He tilted your chin up — not roughly, just the way he used to when you were little and he was checking if you'd been crying. "What happened at the house?"
You hesitated one second too long.
"Y/n." His voice dropped. "What happened?"
"There was a hex bag," you said. "In a trunk. I picked it up."
The silence that followed was the particular flavor of silence that preceded Dean absolutely losing his mind at you, and you were braced for it. You'd earned it. But it didn't come.
He just closed his eyes for a moment, jaw working, and when he opened them again he said, very quietly, "Okay."
Sam was already on his laptop.
⛧
By midnight you couldn't stand up without gripping the wall.
The fever had climbed — Sam had checked it three times and stopped telling you the number after the second reading, which told you everything. Your skin felt like it was one size too small. When you slept, which wasn't often, you dreamed of smoke.
Dean had gone back to the farmhouse. He wouldn't tell you why, which meant he thought you'd try to come with him, which was fair.
The first time you had to get up was around 10.
You'd been half-dozing in that miserable middle space between sick and asleep when your stomach lurched — sudden, non-negotiable, the kind of warning that gives you about four seconds. You threw the covers back and made it to the bathroom on pure adrenaline, catching yourself on the doorframe before you hit the tile floor.
You didn't make it to the toilet. You made it to the sink.
You were still gripping the edge of it, shaking, when you heard Sam get up. He appeared in the doorway behind you — you could see him in the mirror, already moving, already reaching — and you started to say I'm fine out of pure reflex, but what came out instead was a sound that was definitely not that, and then you were sick again.
Sam didn't say anything. He just came in, gathered your hair back from your face with one hand, and put his other hand flat between your shoulder blades.
It lasted longer than you wanted it to. Long enough that you stopped fighting it and just let it happen, because that was all you could do. Sam stayed the whole time — steady, quiet, not making it weird — and when it was finally over and you were just standing there with your hands on the sink and your whole body feeling scraped out and wrong, he reached past you and ran cold water.
"Rinse," he said.
You did.
He handed you a towel. You pressed it to your face and breathed.
"Done?" he asked.
"God, I hope so."
He made a small sound — not quite a laugh, but close enough that it almost helped. He turned you gently by the shoulder and took a look at you: the pale skin, the glassy eyes, the way you were leaning against the sink because you weren't quite sure your legs were going to cooperate.
"Come on," he said, and walked you back to the bed like it was nothing, like he hadn't just held your hair over a motel sink at 10:30 at night. He waited until you were settled against the pillows and then went to the bathroom again, came back with a damp washcloth. He folded it and set it over your forehead without asking.
The cold was such an immediate relief that you had to close your eyes.
"Thank you," you said.
"You don't have to thank me."
"I just threw up in the sink, Sam."
"You had nowhere else to go." He sat back down in his chair, pulling his research back into his lap like nothing had happened. "Go back to sleep."
You didn't sleep. But you lay still, and the washcloth helped, and Sam was there, and that was enough.
Sam sat in the chair between the two beds with the kind of focused intensity that meant he'd gone full research mode — three books open, laptop screen scrolling, a yellow legal pad covered in his cramped handwriting. He'd called someone — Bobby, you thought, though you'd drifted in and out — and you'd caught fragments.
—transferred through contact, yeah—
—secondary curse, the spirit was the anchor—
—how long does she have—
You hadn't caught the answer to that last one. Maybe that was also on purpose.
"You can stop pretending to sleep," Sam said.
You opened your eyes. "I wasn't pretending."
"You were. You do this thing where your breathing changes when you're actually out." He turned a page without looking up. "You've done it since you were four."
"That's unsettling that you know that."
"We shared a room for like six years." He glanced up then, and the yellow lamplight made him look younger and older at the same time. "How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a truck. And then the truck came back and hit me again to make sure." You shifted against the pillow and felt the ache deep in your bones, the kind that had nothing to do with bruises. "Tell me what you found."
"Y/n—"
"Sam." You met his eyes. "I'm not twelve. Tell me."
He held your gaze for a moment, then nodded — the concession you'd always been able to get out of him when Dean would have stonewalled you. Sam had always believed in you knowing things.
"The spirit was a folk healer who practiced something in the Dutch Pow-Wow tradition," he said, pulling the legal pad into his lap. "The hex bag was one of hers — meant as a curse for a neighbor she had a dispute with. It's been sitting in that trunk for almost eighty years. The spirit's energy soaked into it." He paused. "When you touched it, it latched onto you."
"What does it do?"
"It essentially — " He pressed his mouth together. "It burns. Like a fever that won't break, that gets progressively worse. In the original records, the neighbor she cursed—"
"Died," you finished.
"In three days." He said it steadily, the way he'd learned to deliver bad news. "You touched it yesterday morning. It's been about thirty hours."
Less than two days, then.
You stared at the water-stained ceiling and let that sit in you. It was strange — you weren't as frightened as you would have expected. Mostly you were tired, and hot, and a little angry, and you kept thinking about Dean's face when you'd told him about the hex bag. The way he'd gone so still.
"What breaks it?" you asked.
"That's what I'm working on."
"Okay." You closed your eyes. "Then work faster."
Dean came back at two in the morning.
You heard the door, heard Sam get up, heard low voices in the entryway — not quite arguing, something more urgent than that. You heard your name. You heard Sam say thirty hours in a tone that made the air feel tight, and then you heard Dean say something short and clipped that you couldn't make out.
Then footsteps. The squeak of the other bed as Dean sat on it.
You didn't open your eyes. If you opened your eyes and saw his face again—
"I went back to the house," he said, quietly. Not to you — you were supposed to be asleep, and he probably knew you weren't, but he was going to pretend for now and you were grateful for it. "Went through the whole root cellar. Found the spirit's original ritual space. There was a — Sam, there was a second bag. A counter-charm. Same tradition. Like she'd built in a way to undo it."
Rustling. Sam must have come to look.
"Can you use it?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Bobby's looking into the method." A pause. "She's — it's moving fast."
"I know."
"She looks—"
"I know, Dean."
Silence.
You became aware, gradually, that Dean had moved to sit on the edge of your bed. You could feel the shift in the mattress, the warmth of him nearby. He didn't say anything. He just sat there.
After a while, you felt him settle his hand over yours — covering it completely, the way he had when you were seven and scared of thunderstorms and he would sit in the dark between your bed and Sammy's with one hand on each of you, like he could hold you both in place by sheer force of will.
You turned your hand over and held on.
You woke at six to Dean asleep in the chair Sam had vacated, his head tipped back at an angle that was going to hurt him later, one arm braced on the armrest and the other hanging loose. Sam was stretched out on the other bed with a book open on his chest. Nobody had slept properly. Nobody was going to say so.
The fever was worse.
You knew it before you were fully awake — knew it in the way the sheets felt wrong, too heavy and too hot, and the way the light coming under the curtain seemed sharper than it should. Your head was packed full of something dense and slow. Moving your arm took more thought than it should have.
You needed water.
The glass was on the nightstand, six inches away, which was fine. The bathroom was eight feet across the room, which was also manageable. You'd covered longer distances in worse shape. You'd dragged yourself out of a hunting blind with a dislocated shoulder once, and nobody had—
You got to the edge of the bed. Got your feet on the floor. Put your weight on your legs.
The room tilted.
Not metaphorically. The floor actually seemed to shift under you, the walls swinging to one side, and your legs did exactly nothing useful — they just stopped working, like someone had cut the power — and then you were going sideways and there was nothing to grab and you thought, distantly, oh, that's going to—
Dean caught you.
He wasn't fully awake yet — you could tell from his face, the dazed split-second before instinct took over — but he was there, out of the chair and across the room faster than should have been possible, and he caught you under the arms before you hit the floor and took your weight so completely that for a moment you were just — suspended. Held. Not on the ground.
"I've got you," he said. His voice was rough with sleep and came out sharp. "I've got you, I've got you."
"I'm okay," you managed.
"You almost ate the carpet, so."
He got you back onto the bed — not gently, exactly, but carefully, the way he handled things he was afraid of dropping. You were sitting on the edge of it with your head down and your hands between your knees and you could hear how fast your pulse was going, which wasn't great information.
"What were you doing?" he asked. He sat next to you, close, and you could feel the heat of him beside you even though you were already burning.
"Getting up."
"Why didn't you wake me up?"
"Because you were asleep."
"Y/n." He said your name like it was the entire argument. Like obviously was built into it.
"Dean—"
"I was asleep six feet away." His voice cracked slightly on the last word, just barely, just enough that you heard it and he heard that you heard it and neither of you was going to address that directly. "You wake me up. That's the whole point."
"I just wanted water."
He leaned over, picked up the glass from the nightstand, and held it out to you.
You looked at it.
"Thank you," you said.
"Yeah." He watched you drink, made sure you didn't tip over, and then took the glass back when your hands started to shake. He set it down and stayed where he was, shoulder pressed to yours, and you let yourself lean into him just slightly — not enough to make a thing of it, just enough.
Across the room, Sam was sitting up on his elbows. He'd been awake the whole time. You could tell from the way he was watching you — alert, careful, not moving yet. Giving Dean the space to handle it, because he understood the geometry of the three of you the same as you did.
"I'm okay," you said, mostly for him.
"You're going to stay in that bed," Dean said.
"I'm already in the bed."
"Good. Stay there."
You stayed there.
By morning, the fever had your thoughts going sideways.
You knew, logically, that the walls weren't moving. The knowledge didn't help much.
You got sick again around 7:30 — this time with Dean in the bathroom doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed in a way that was trying to look casual and failing completely. He didn't say anything while it happened, which you appreciated. He didn't look away either, which you also, in a different way, appreciated. It was one thing to be watched when you were sick. It was another thing entirely to be watched by someone who wasn't flinching.
After, he crouched down to where you'd ended up sitting against the bathtub and pressed a cold, damp cloth to the back of your neck.
"Breathe," he said.
"I'm breathing."
"Slower."
You breathed slower. It helped kind of. Dean kept the cloth against your neck, and you focused on that — the cold, the pressure of it — while the worst of the nausea passed.
"You're doing okay," he said.
"I threw up twice."
"And you're still here." He said it like it was obvious. Like that was the only metric that counted. "That's the part that matters."
You leaned your head back against the edge of the tub and looked at him. He looked back, level, steady, the way he always was when things were bad. Dean Winchester, who caught you before you hit the floor and made sixteen miles of round-trip in the middle of the night and sat in chairs that weren't meant for sleeping because he would not be in another room when you were like this. Dean who was scared, you knew, and who would not say so, and who showed it instead by pressing cold cloths to the back of your neck and bringing soup from somewhere impossible and not looking away.
"Okay," you said.
He helped you back to the bed.
Sam had been on the phone with Bobby since before dawn — you could hear snatches of it, his voice steady and low, taking notes. Dean had gone somewhere and come back, gone somewhere and come back, unable to sit still for longer than twenty minutes, which was so him that it would have made you laugh on any other day.
At some point he brought you soup from somewhere. You had no idea where. The nearest town was eleven miles away and it was eight in the morning. You didn't ask. With Dean, sometimes you just accepted the logistics without questioning them.
He sat on the edge of the bed and held the cup until you were ready to take it, which told you your hands were still shaking more than you'd realized.
"I can hold it," you said.
"I know you can." He didn't hand it over yet.
"Dean."
"Just—" He exhaled through his nose. "Just give me a minute."
You didn't push. He sat there holding a paper cup of chicken soup in a motel room in the middle of nowhere, jaw tight, and you understood that this was him processing something he wasn't going to say out loud. You watched him do it — watched the line of his shoulders, the way he was looking at the soup instead of at you because looking at you still had too much in it.
After a moment he passed you the cup.
"Eat," he said, and there was enough command in it that you pushed yourself up and tried.
He sat on the edge of the bed and watched you like he thought you'd disappear if he looked away. You'd been on the other side of that — you'd sat with both of them through things, injuries and hexes and worse — and you understood now, in a way you hadn't quite let yourself before, what it cost. The just having to wait. The not being able to do the thing that was hurting the person you loved.
"Dean."
"Eat the soup."
"I am eating the soup." You took another spoonful to demonstrate. "You don't have to babysit me."
"I know I don't have to."
"You could be helping Sam."
"Sam's good. Sam's got it." His eyes flicked to you, away, back. "Eat."
You ate the soup.
When you'd gotten about halfway through it, you set the cup down and said, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the hex bag."
He didn't answer right away. You watched his profile — the line of his jaw, the furrow that had been between his brows since yesterday and hadn't left.
"Why didn't you?" he asked. No heat in it. Just asking.
"Because I thought it was nothing. Because I didn't want to—" You stopped. Tried again. "You both worry enough. I didn't want to add to it over what I thought was static electricity."
"It wasn't static electricity."
"I know that now, Dean."
He turned to look at you then, full-on, and the thing in his face was complicated enough that you couldn't name it all. There was anger in there — not at you exactly, more like the ambient fury he carried about the universe in general when it directed itself at the people he loved. And underneath that, something rawer.
"You're allowed to tell us things," he said.
"I know."
"No, I mean—" He exhaled. Rubbed the back of his neck. "You're allowed to not be fine sometimes, Y/n. You don't have to have it handled before you say anything. You don't have to wait until—" He stopped. His voice had gone rough at the edges. "You're allowed to just say when something's wrong."
You looked at him for a long moment. You thought about all the times you'd watched him do exactly the same thing — walk off an injury, wave off a question, say I'm fine in a voice made of gravel and stubbornness. You didn't say that out loud. It wasn't the moment for it, and more than that: he was right, and it wasn't a contest.
"Okay," you said softly.
"Okay?"
"Okay." You held his gaze. "Next time I pick up an eighty-year-old cursed artifact I'll mention it."
He made a sound that was almost — almost — a laugh. Not quite. Close enough.
"Yeah," he said. "Do that."
Sam found the answer at 11:47 in the morning.
You knew because you heard him say yes — quiet, certain, the sound of a man who had been holding his breath for eighteen hours and finally let it go. And then his voice pitched up: "Dean."
What followed was a lot of rapid information exchange that washed over you in waves — something about a ritual reversal, something about ash from the original space, something about spoken intent in the traditional form. Sam had the whole thing written out.
Dean was already getting his jacket.
"Stay with her," he said.
"I'm going with you," you said.
Both of them turned to look at you.
"No," said Dean.
"It's my curse."
"You can barely—"
"It's my curse," you repeated, and the steadiness in your own voice surprised you. "I'm not sitting in a motel room while you two go fix something that's mine to fix. I can walk. I can stand. I'm going."
Another silence. Sam looked at Dean. Dean looked at you.
"If you pass out," Dean said, "I'm carrying you back to the car."
"Fine."
"And you're not driving."
"Obviously."
He held out his hand and you took it, letting him pull you to your feet. The world tilted — he steadied you without comment, one hand at your elbow, waiting. When you nodded, he let you move.
Sam held the door.
The farmhouse was worse in daylight.
It sat back from an overgrown track, grey and weathered, windows like closed eyes. The root cellar door was around the back, half-hidden by dead grass. Sam went first with a flashlight; Dean stayed close enough behind you that you could feel him there without looking.
The ritual space was a small alcove cut into the stone — shelves built into the wall, the remnants of old workings still visible in the shapes of things, in the marks left behind. Sam had the counter-charm laid out on the flat stone shelf that had clearly served as a workbench. He talked you through it as he set up: the ash from the original hex, combined with specific herbs from her recorded practice, arranged in a deliberate pattern.
"The spoken component has to come from you," he said. "You're the one carrying it."
He showed you the words — handwritten on a notepad. You read through them twice, feeling the way they sat in your mouth.
"Ready?" Sam asked.
You looked at Dean. He was standing just back from the alcove, arms crossed, watching you with that careful, contained focus he used when he was trying not to show how much he was feeling.
"Yeah," you said. "Ready."
You said the words.
It wasn't dramatic. That was the thing no one told you about moments like this — you always expected dramatic. A crack of something, a visible shift, light or sound or sensation. This was just: one breath, another breath, and then the thing that had been coiled tight inside your sternum for thirty-some hours simply — loosened.
Like a hand had been holding you from the inside and let go.
You stood very still, taking stock.
"Y/n?" Sam.
"I think—" You pressed a hand to your chest, not sure what you were checking for. "Yeah. I think that's — I think it worked."
Sam's exhale was long and audible. He closed the notepad.
Dean moved before you had time to brace for it — crossed the alcove in two strides and pulled you into a hug that was more like a collision, one arm around your back, one hand at the back of your head, and it was firm enough that you felt it in your ribs and you didn't care even slightly. You grabbed onto his jacket and held on.
He didn't say anything. Neither did you. There wasn't anything that needed saying.
After a moment Sam put his long arms around both of you from behind and you heard Dean mutter Sam, come on, and Sam said shut up, and it was so perfectly, them that you laughed — actually laughed, the first time since the coffee you hadn't finished yesterday morning.
"Okay," Dean said, pulling back. He held you by the shoulders and looked at you, actually looked, like he was checking every part of you. Then something in him settled. "Okay."
"Okay," you confirmed.
"We're getting real food," he said. "Not diner food. Actual food."
"Dean, everything you eat is diner food."
"I know a place forty minutes out that does a burger that would fix any curse."
"The curse is already fixed."
"Then it'll be preventative." He steered you toward the stairs with one hand between your shoulder blades. "Move, Sam."
"I'm moving," Sam said, but he was smiling.
⛧
You got the burger.
It was, objectively, a very good burger.
You sat in a booth between the two of them — Sam's shoulder against yours on one side, Dean's knee knocking against yours under the table on the other — and ate without talking much, which after the last thirty-six hours felt like exactly the right thing.
Halfway through, Dean reached over and stole one of your fries.
"Hey," you said.
"Tax," he said.
"That's not a thing."
"Oldest sibling tax. It's in the rulebook."
"There is no rulebook."
"There's definitely a rulebook." He took another fry. "Chapter one: little sisters don't touch cursed hex bags."
You pointed at him. "That is a fair rule and I will not debate it."
Sam snorted into his water.
You stole one of Dean's fries in retaliation. He let you.
Outside, the afternoon light was coming through the window at a low angle, turning everything amber. Your bones didn't ache anymore. Your head was clear. You were tired in the ordinary, fixable way — the kind that a night's sleep would actually address.
You thought about what Dean had said at the motel, about being allowed to say when something was wrong.
You thought about the two of them — Sam with his books and his legal pad, working through the night; Dean who had gone back to that farmhouse alone in the dark because he couldn't stand still; the hand over your hand in the early hours of the morning.
You'd patch it up, you thought. All three of you always did. That was the thing about this — about them. The world kept putting its hands on all of you, and you kept finding each other on the other side of it.
You leaned your head against Sam's shoulder.
He didn't say anything. Just shifted slightly, making room.
Dean glanced over, something soft moving across his face for one unguarded second before he looked back at his food.
Okay okay the rambling got slightly out of hand (because TANGERINE IS🔥) and it’s a bit self-indulgent but here we go🫠🍊😅
Can I please request a Protective!Tangerine x fem!civilian reader where they had run into each other multiple times throughout their time on the train, they run into each other (literally) on the way to their seats (she’s super apologetic and he’s super flirty, making her super flustered), then maybe again because her seat is near Tan and Lemon’s, then again when they’re both at the snack cart, at the bathroom, etc… They just keep running into each other and each time a lot of flirty ensued and they have A LOT of chemistry. They end up having a more ehm ~intimate encounter~ on the train before all the danger started to really unfold. When everything goes down with all the assassins, Tan finds her hiding, scared out of her mind, not knowing what’s going on, and he picks her up and he & Lemon get her (and themselves) off that train to safety, and then kisses her goodbye. A few weeks later, Y/n realizes she’s pregnant, but has no way to contact Tangerine, all she knows about him is that he and Lemon are assassins that go by fruit names (shsh). After a few months of trying to find a way to contact them, she finds a way… She finds a place to send them a message, pretending to have a job for them, but when they show up, there’s no job, they just find a sheepish, and very pregnant, Y/n. And after finding out that she is indeed carrying his baby, Tangerine brings her with him and Lemon to their safe house, and they fall even deeper in love🥺🍊
Hey Babes!
This request kept me sane this past week. I may have written multiple parts.... I couldn't help myself. I hope you enjoy it!!!!!! <3
Part one: Train shenanigans, finding out she'd knocked up, and locating fruit assassins.
Part Two: the after-math, sweet concentrated fluff
Tangerine Master Post
Warnings: Non-descriptive violence and sex is implied. The reader has a rough home life, freaks out when realizes she's pregnant and gets a bit depressed.
So far Japan was a complicated but lovely trip. Everything here was so different, and yet the people and interactions you’d had were fantastic. After three weeks you were tired and excited to finish your trip in Tokyo.
This trip was originally planned for your friend, who just happened to back out last minute over some guy she’d met. You’d already spent a fortune on the non-refundable trip, no way you were letting it go to waste. It was strange being so alone. Normally you were surrounded or running after friends and family, but here it was just you.
It was uncomplicated and peaceful. Not something you’d gotten a lot of over the years. Standing on the bright platform with your headphones in you caught a couple of men out of the corner of your eye. Clearly, they were having some type of argument that was blocked out by the music you were listening to. They were helping hold up their seemingly very drunk friend up.
The tall man in the blue suit flicked his cigarette and you watched him look you over. He gave you a wink before the train blew in through the platform.
Moving to find your seat someone gently bumped into the back of you as you tried to place your bag on the shelf above the seats. “Oh - S-sorry!”
“Ah, you again. Here, let me, love.” The man with the blue suit and mustache grabbed your backpack and got it up on the ledge. His accent confirmed that he was indeed traveling. He caught you staring causing your face to flush, and an awkward silence fell between the two of you. His stance made you feel like he was enjoying every second of your flustered attention.
“Thank you!” You said finally gaining the ability to speak back.
“You need anythin’ else just come find me.” He gave you another wink before returning to his friends sitting close to you. You took your seat and watched him make his friend switch seats so he could stare right back at you. You put your headphones back in and looked out the window. You paused the music you had playing to see if you could hear what they were saying.
“You fucking serious? We’re bloody working.” His friend hissed.
“It’s like I got a compulsion or something. Look at her, can't help myself.” He let out a sigh.
“Need to talk to someone. Serious.” His friend said and your heart sank. Just another flirty guy, you put your music back on and hoped you could avoid him the rest of the journey.
Some type of commotion broke out at their booth when their friend woke up. You still avoided them despite feeling his eyes land on you every now and again. Between your phone blowing up with family drama, and being overwhelmed by traveling alone, the last thing you needed was a fuck boy adventure. A fuck boy named after a fruit? You shook your head.
As the trip progressed you watched as things got heated between Lemon and another guy you’d never seen before. You decided that this was a perfect time to go find a washroom and a snack. Walking through the train you began to get the idea you’d gone in the wrong direction but kept forward enjoying stretching your legs.
You reached the part of the train where the snack trolleys get refilled. You hoped it wouldn't be rude to pay here rather than wait for her to come to your car. The door opened and the very man you were avoiding appeared.
“And whatever she wants, thanks.” He handed the lady a wad of cash and she smiled at you.
“You don’t have to-” You flushed again feeling slightly aggravated.
“I insist” He guided you forward, all your attention brought to the warmth of his hands on your hips. He stepped behind you towards the door. “Do me a favor, Babes? Take your time going back to your seat, eh?”
“Um sure?” You said looking at him. There was something very offputting about the whole scene and yet all you wanted was to get to the bottom of the mystery. Why pay for your snacks? What type of business were they on the train for? Why was that other man arguing?
He disappeared and you took your snacks along with his change. You did as you were told, tucking your snacks into your purse, and spending some time freshening up in the bathroom. When you were back in your seat, both of them were gone.
You snacked and started to read a book. Eventually, you watched the train become emptier and emptier.
Tangerine finally passed your seat. You looked up from your book to see his ragged appearance. He was clearly in some kind of fight. He stared at you and you felt your skin get hot. This man was all the things you should avoid but still, you got up and handed him his change.
“Thanks,” You said in an unsure tone.
“Not a problem.” his hands lingered on yours for a moment longer than they should have. “Not a problem at all.”
You smiled not sure what else to say. With a nod, you went to turn back to your seat when he grabbed your hand pulling you back to him. “Fancy a trip to the loo?”
“Toilets? What could you possibly need me for?” You played stupid trying to buy yourself time to think of what the fuck was going on.
“How ‘bout I show you?” He pressed a kiss to the back of your hand, his eyes devouring you. Should be illegal for a man to be that confident. And yet he’d caught you in his web. He guided you down the train keeping you close. You loved every bloody second of the attention he paid you.
There weren't any real consequences? You’d both part ways once the train stopped in Tokyo. This was just a quick vacation fuck nothing more. While he had you, deep down inside you were starting to feel like you’d been ruined. He pulled a reaction from you that you’d never had before. Rather than thinking about it too much, you decided to enjoy him while he was here. A tender reckless moment in your life story.
___________________________________________
This was beyond fucking stupid. Things had surely settled though. Lemon said he’d got the briefcase. No point in wasting an opportunity. He talked himself in and out of the situation before working his hardest to impress you.
Why? Because you looked like you needed a nice time. Or was it because he wanted a nice time? He didn’t care. You were perfect meeting him for what he was with every thrust. Cleaning you up he realized it would almost be difficult to say goodbye. He was tired of this life.
He walked you back to your seat enjoying how dazed you looked. Wishing more than ever he could take you for dinner, spoil you rotten with the cash burning a hole in his pocket.
Unlucky for him things took a different direction. Pulling you from him permanently. The case was gone, shithead was still fucking dead, and Ladybug wasn't their diesel. He gave a disgruntled sigh as he realized there was someone unknown and very dangerous on this train. He needed to get Lemon and himself - and you - off this train as soon as possible. Before something crazy happened.
The train emptied out and the journey got more and more complicated. After Lemon died and killing the diesel. He slid to the floor pinching the bridge of his nose. He said a soft prayer that you’d had the sense to get off before Toyko.
Lemon was gone. He’d killed some teenager. Everything started to hit him. Didn't matter though. Everything in his life was over.
It was always him and Lemon. Everything they did, they did together. No point in carrying on -
“There you fucking are - fucking looking all over for ya. - Your birds a right mess -” Lemon nudged his shoulder with his knee when he didn't respond.
“You were dead.” He whispered, his throat tight. Eyes starting to get misty.
“Nah, just asleep” Lemon gave him a look, and they both silently decided to never speak on it again. “Your birds’ having a bit of a meltdown though. Reckon she could use a friendly face.”
“She’s still on the train?"
“You fucking concussed? Obviously why else would I bring it up-” He didn’t wait for Lemon to continue and he started in the direction his brother pointed. Seeing you made his heart twist. You’d wedged yourself in a cupboard, quite an impressive spot really.
“Come here.” He crouched down holding his hands out to you. You shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut. You were terrified and trying desperately to get your body under control.
“Really, all the bad guys are dead. Just me, Lemon, and our friends left.” He said softly. You looked at him with red eyes and he noticed the blood splattered across you. He remembered the first time he’d watched someone get shot. Slowly you grabbed his arms and you jumped when he picked you up. He liked the way you fit against his chest. How your body settled against his, eventually you fell asleep in his arms. He liked how Lemon was sitting across from him. Judgment was clear on his face, his very much alive face.
Lemon went for a walk as the station approached. He woke you up with enough time to ensure you’d be okay on your own.
“What the fuck was that all about?” You whispered, eyes wide.
“Got hired for a job that was actually a different job set up by a big crime lord. Look, don't worry about it.” He looked at your face at a loss for words. When he went through this type of stuff, he had Lemon beside him to help reason with everything. You’d be out there on your own. “It’s not going to make any sense. Just try to push it from your mind. Enjoy your vacation and go home. This was just a crazy side quest. Don’t let it hold you back.”
You nodded thinking about what he’d said. He knew full well you’d be running in circles over this for a while. He kissed the top of your head before realizing he was doing it. He got you off the train, taking a deep breath. He kept his arm around you holding you to his side while he sorted a cab out for you.
Watching the car pull up he grabbed your face kissing you one last time. Probably not the best thing to do to a traumatized woman, but you kissed him back. Your heart rate beating fast, skin flushed.
He opened the door for you and put your backpack in the boot. With a nod, he stood on the curb lighting a cigarette as you sped off into the early morning.
His heart gave a twinge and he looked over to the happy sight of his brother making amends with Lady Bug. with a few last curse words you all parted ways. Lemon already had another job lined up, somewhere in the UK.
____________________
You considered therapy. You considered trying to hunt him down. You decided on laying in bed for a few days. You missed out on the last of your scheduled tours. Not upset about the wasted money. You kept your phone off, without the energy to deal with the world. Various consequences of that trip on the train were becoming more and more obvious.
On the last day of your trip, you finally caved. You bought a pregnancy test and collapsed in defeat on the bathroom floor.
Such a mix of feelings. You extended your trip by another week and went to work trying to locate the other half of this mess. You wanted him - to know - to help - you just wanted him.
You tried everything, looked everywhere. His tracks were covered, and tickets were bought by a company that had no internet presence or phone number. With a name like Tangerine, the phone book wasn't an option.
You went back to your apartment. Dealing with your family was a painful experience that ended in you having a lot more alone time. They’d told you to clean your own mess up. You'd had the sense to leave before your father's temper resulted in physical harm.
Further devastation left you in a depression that stopped your hunt altogether.
Thankfully you worked from home saving you from any office drama. Being shut up wasn't ideal, but it gave you time to research everything. Your friends vanished overnight. No matter how alone you felt there was the glaring truth that you were indeed not alone, nor would you ever be again.
While drinking a cup of tea you wondered if you called the transit station if they would give you the credit card info the ticket was bought with. Somehow, they did.
You looked at the phone number scribbled on the piece of paper. Your parent's harsh words and the look on your friend's faces reappeared in your mind. Maybe you should let this go.
You still dialed the number determined to do what you felt was right.
“Hello, how can we assist you today?” A female voice answered. You realized this was the company he worked for and you thought about some of the things they said on the train.
“I have a grab-and-snatch job. With the added bonus of erm - unaliving someone?” You said awkwardly.
“Okay, do you have an account with us?”
“No, a friend of mine recommended you for your reputation.”
“Excellent, and did you have any recommendations for who you would like to work with?”
“Tangerine and Lemon, the two responsible for the Bullet Train job in Japan.”
“Interesting choice. The Twins have an opening next month.”
Twins?
“Erm - anything sooner?” Your hand rested on the obvious and quickly growing bump.
“How long should the job take?”
“Half hour tops?” Enough time to tell him that it’s his, for him to disappoint you by denying it’s his then fading out into the world. Half an hour tops.
You sorted out the last of the details and she scheduled you in for the weekend.
“Before I present the job to them, how much is the job worth?”
“Um - 50 million?” You panicked.
“Oh, that’s above their rate so it shouldn't be a problem. It was nice working with you.” The line went dead and you took a deep breath.
Fucking fuck - 50 million? You groaned, why did everything involving him have to be such a mess.
____________
Tangerine looked at his brother in disbelief. 50mil for a snatch-and-grab with a bonus if we kill a dude in a red hat with purple trousers? Other than his horrid taste in fashion what did he do to deserve death? An obvious and important question Lemon had overlooked in the debrief.
“This is why I handle these things you never fucking listen.”
“Look it's in and out - up to the hotel room - in the room grab the case - and out. See a man in a red hat and shoot him. Or we leave him be and take the 50mil. You just hate it when I’m in charge. That’s what all this is about - “
Tangerine decided to avoid the rest of the conversation. No named buyer, no deposit, no former account. This is a big fucking red flag. Giant fucking trap.
He rubbed the back of his neck, listening to Lemon prattle on he decided to just go along, without the energy to fight him.
Since the train he’d been less and less motivated, 50mil would be another stack of money on the pile. If anything it wouldn't be a bad way to go out.
“Lemon?’ He asked.
“Wot?” he said fittling with the remote.
“If we actually get 50mil for this -” Tangerine struggled to finish the sentence this had been their life for such a long time.
“Retire,” Lemon said immediately as if reading his mind. The two of them hadn’t been the same since the train. Both of them flew a little too close to the sun that night. Not to mention there were rumors, stories, names, and all sorts of business in the works. Shady business behind the scenes. Tangerine was sure this wasn't the end of the Bullet Train fiasco.
They got dressed picked up their requested goods from the concierge and moved up to the selected room. Going up in the elevator something started to prickle at the back of his neck. Hair raised on his arms. Something significant was going to happen.
He took the key from Lemon and moved into the room first just incase. It was a massive space. Sitting in the common area was a woman on a couch.
Hello! May I just say that your last fic Tangerine x Reader was great??? Like, seriously great??
One question, if you don't mind: are we going to read a piece about that time that Tangerine mentioned him getting angry/yelling at the reader?
I'm super curious, but mostly really intrigued about their relationship!
Hey Anon,
Means the world to me that you enjoyed it!!!!!
I'm currently waiting for work to start but I thought I could do a small blurb. I typed/edited this on my phone and I'm worried about it. This may or may not be loosely based on real events....
He was frustrated and tired. Lemon hadn't shut up all day, Tan knowing it was because he was nervous didn't have the heart to keep telling him to shut up.
He knew his patience had worn thin. Seeing you avoid him made the very last of it evaporate.
He paused and tried to understand what the problem was. He opened the door to the flat, you were sitting on the couch reading. After a brisk hello you were doing dishes and banging around the kitchen.
You clearly weren't going to make it easy on him by confronting him, so he took a deep breath.
"What's wrong?" His tone was a little firm.
You didn't look up from the sink.
"Nothing." You said dismissively before turning on the oven and moving towards the fridge.
Years of his mother looking miserable flashed before him and he grabbed your shoulders once you turned around.
"No." He breathed. "What. Is. Wrong." He had raised his voice more than he intended. What he wanted was to show you that he cared that you weren't alright. That he was taking a serious interest in the problem to fix it for you.
What he got was a whole glass baking pan of casserole dropped on his foot.
He took a shuddering breath unable to curse when your eyes looked so scared already.
"I'm sorry." You whispered before bursting into tears. " I was reading and I didn't notice the time- the dishes and you came home earlier than I thought and I just just - don't leave"
"That doesn't make any sense" he said pulling you towards him. He decided to hold you while you sobbed. He thought of all the times he had cried that hard. Only once and that was after his mother died.
No one was dead and yet you were clinging to him like your life depended on it. Had someone come to the flat? Tried to bother you? Or get information on he and lemon?
He made some soothing noises then remembered what you used to say about your parents. You were the eldest and had a lot of responsibility.
"Are you upset because the kitchen was a mess when I came home?" He asked hesitantly.
"Obviously" You said loudly still crying.
"Right." He said staring at the ceiling wondering what to do next. "So, um. It's not really an expectation to have the kitchen clean or dinner ready."
You stopped crying and looked up at him.
"It's not?" Your breath was ragged and you were shaking.
"Nope."
"Oh." You seemed to calm down a bit before you started again. "But you do so much for me and I have to - I like to -"
"No-No no" He interrupted "My only expectation of you is to not cheat. Spend my money, read as many books as you want, never cook again. Just don't cheat and don't put yourself in danger. Ever." He was happy that you settled down a bit.
"Also while we are being honest, I hate that casserole."
You laughed. "I also hate that casserole. It makes Lemon happy though." Your voice was so tired it made his heart hurt. "Sorry for being so crazy."
"Not crazy, traumatized- most likely. But never crazy." He kissed the top of your head.
"I'm not good with yelling. I either freeze up or I get mean"
"I will keep that in mind, let's do take away." He got your favorite and let you mellow out on the couch. He felt like the right thing to do was to keep you close. Later that night you sort of opened up about always having to look busy at home. How you have a hard time relaxing.
"We could go on vacation?" He said with a smile. "I'm sure I can think of a few ways to make you relax."
I deleted my Tangerine side blog because I post everything here anyway, but by doing this I think I may have destroyed the master post and some links! I'm really sorry I made a mess of things.
I know I wrote more stories for him and I'll try to update this more as I come across them.
Stop The World - Smut - You’d worked with Tangerine and Lemon on and off for years. Always fighting narrowly missing each other's bullets. This time you found yourself striking up an alliance to get off this doomed train.
In The Club - Smut - You meet a man at a club and make use of one of the rooms upstairs.
Values - Tangerine keeps running into a pretty girl on a train, a moment of lust ties them together for life.
summary: you stop providing camgirl services to your clients when you start your residency. except you can't let go of your favorite client, who, as you quickly find out, is your new attending physician for the next four years. he recognizes you immediately and is ready to stake his claim.
warnings: 18+! camgirl reader obvi, sex work, fear of sex work revealed to hospital coworkers, pushy patient (tries to set up reader w her son), mentions of clientele as a camgirl, possessive jack, jealous jack, inappropriate workplace relationship SUE ME!!!
notes: erg this has been in my drafts for so long and the "i'll pay for it" scene last week was the inspo i needed to finally finish! i don't get much into camgirl smut but trust its on the way. also jack's screen name "SgtMD" is pronounced "Sergeant, M.D."
masterlist 𓊔 request 𓊔 tag list
find smutty pt 2 here! part 3 here!
Two jobs would keep anyone busy. Juggling another job during your first year of residency?
Forget about it.
All throughout medical school, you balanced clinicals and classes with your camgirl gig. Study sessions were interrupted by scheduled video calls. You’d set up your laptop on your dresser, aim it toward your bed, and shrug your hoodie off before dialing whichever gentleman requested your services that night.
There were nearly two dozen clients who you met with regularly over the past three years.
Some showed their faces. Some just showed their lap. Some only spoke, urging you on verbally with no other input. Some wanted a show from you and nothing more. Some of them gave you too much information-- full names, jobs, routing numbers, and home addresses.
None of which you ever used. You were strictly providing online services: Video chats only. Other forms of communication, like your business email, were very explicitly limited to scheduling inquiries only. Any client who refused those boundaries was nixed and replaced with someone from your waiting list.
Since graduating with your doctorate in May, you’ve phased clients out. There wouldn’t be enough time to balance all of them with the demands of your intern year.
So, you let your clients know that you’re no longer in service due to a career change. You offer one more call for each of them as a last hoorah (final paycheck) and go your separate ways.
But there was one client that you can’t bring yourself to let go.
SgtMD
He was your third client ever. You’d seen him at least three times a week for the last three years, and looked forward to each meeting with a pounding heart and heated cheeks.
Each time SgtMD booked a call, he showed his torso. Always clad in a plain, black shirt with large biceps and broad shoulders, never anything else. There was a hint of silver stubble that trickled down his neck sometimes, usually on your first call of each week. A tuft of dark armpit hair you saw once when he stretched his arms above his head.
And SgtMD likes to talk.
He likes to tell you how beautiful you are. Likes to ask you to twirl around in the new lingerie he sent to you and then laugh darkly each time you obey. He likes telling you to “Take it slow, sweetheart. Just like that, yeah. Don’t worry about the extra time, I’ll pay for it.”
And you like him.
Most clients don’t make you finish. They want you to shake your ass or flash your tits or tell them they’re “such a good boy”. Nobody wants to see you come apart like SgtMD.
So, when you move to Pittsburgh to start your residency, you dropped them all... Except SgtMD. To him, you sent:
You: Hi, Sarge. I’m about to start a new job and my hours will be a little different. I want to see you as often as I can. I will email as soon as I have a fixed schedule so that we can plan to call. Remember you can always ask. Please don’t be shy. Your next few sessions are free since I’m changing things up on you. I hope I can see you soon.
His returning email came within two minutes.
SgtMD: Hey, Sweetheart. I’ll pay. Are you free at 5? I know it’s last minute, but it’s my birthday. I want to see you.
You: Happy birthday, Sarge. 5 o’clock is perfect. Am I invited to the birthday party?
SgtMD: It’s a date, then. No party, I’m working tonight.
So, the afternoon before your first shift as a resident, you find yourself baking a cake for him. It’s silly. It’s inappropriate. It’s crossing every boundary that you’ve ever established as a sex worker. And, really, there’s no point in making it, because you’ll end up eating it alone when you get off your shift at 8 a.m., anyway.
Yet still, here you are, logged onto the call at 5 p.m. on the dot with a lit candle. Your black scrubs are folded outside of the frame, ready for you to throw on once you’re off camera.
Now, you’re wearing a pretty white lace set that SgtMD bought you for your birthday last year. You’re not sure he remembers, but something tells you he just might. He’s thoughtful, in the unconventional ways that a man can be thoughtful with a sex worker.
He remembers your birthday every year. He sends you flowers each time he orders a new lingerie set for you. Every holiday there’s a bouquet waiting for you at the post office with a sweet, hand-written note.
You keep them all posted to a corkboard in your bedroom next to other keepsakes like photos with your friends and concert tickets.
The screen dings, and you see his image pop up. His broad, thick shoulders taking up the whole frame. Black shirt tugging between his large pecs, and the typical trail of grey stubble down his Adam’s apple.
“Happy birthday.” You grin into the camera.
“Thank you, sweetheart. Always so thoughtful, so good for me.” His voice is as rough and deep as always. It winds a knot in your stomach. “Blow that out for me.”
You purse your lips and blow a gentle puff of air onto the cake, the warm illumination leaving your face.
“What does the candle say?” He asks. You catch a glimpse of the ends of his hair as he tilts his head. Auburn and grey. Fucking hot.
“It’s just a 1.” The temperature is warmer under your embarrassment than it was with the open flame of the candle. “I thought it’d be a nice gift if I told you that you’re the only client I see now. The only one.”
He leans back slightly as if your words have physically stunned him. Running a big hand over his neck, he exhales slowly.
“Wait, sweetheart. Are you just saying that? Or is it really just me?” You wish you could see his face. Usually, his lack of personal identifiers isn’t something that bothers you. It’s easy to understand why someone wouldn’t want to stare at themselves while they were on a call of this nature.
But here, now, you wanted to see if there was a blush on his cheeks. You wanted to know if he looked excited or concerned.
“It’s just you, Sarge.”
𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔
Two hours and three orgasms later, you're walking through the doors of the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center for your first shift. It’s the most he’s ever gotten out of you, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t ready to fall asleep after so much stimulation.
But it’s only 7 p.m.. Night shifts have always been your preference. Even before getting a job in medicine, you preferred the overnight stocking gigs or the late night video chats.
You like the dark. The night is gentle and unpredictable.
“Hi,” you greet the charge nurse at the hub with a small smile, tucking your bag into one of the cubbies under the desk. “It’s my first day. Do you have any idea where I can find Dr. Gloria Underwood?”
The blonde woman nods once, and you look over your shoulder to find her already walking toward you. You’d met Gloria once previously over the summer when you had a virtual interview for the resident position. It was a panel of her, one of the day-shift attendings, and a few of the hospital board members.
“Welcome!” She greets cheerfully, but there’s a franticness in her wide eyes. “My gosh, it’s a bit hectic around here today. Usually I’d be the one showing you the ropes, but I’ve got a meeting with corporate and-”
“No worries,” you excuse, waving your palm. “Things get busy, I understand.”
“I like you already.” Her gaze trails to the other side of the nurses’ station. There’s two men, both in black, both looking at the screen of a tablet. “These are your attending physicians, Dr. Jack Abbot and Dr. John Shen. I’ll introduce you and they’ll walk you through everything you need to know.”
One of them is older, a stubble across his jaw and neck that glints under these harsh lights. He’s handsome, with light grey curls and dark eyes. Freckles smatter over his entire body as far as you can see. Face, neck, arms, hands, all covered in evidence of long summer days.
Next to him is the younger doctor, with a head of full, dark hair that matches his deep brown eyes. He’s also sporting stubble, though his is darker and shorter, closer to a shadow than anything else.
Before you can respond to Gloria, she’s already sweeping you over to the two men. As you get closer, you realize that Dr. Abbot isn’t wearing a black scrub top like Dr. Shen. Instead, he dons a plain black tee that reminds you all too much of SgtMD and the meeting you had before this.
It’s bad that you miss him. You know it’s wrong. It’s inappropriate. It’s probably unhealthy on some level.
But nobody has ever made you feel the way he does. Nobody has taken care of you so well. Nobody has ever shown you so much affection in their words and actions. And you’ve never wanted to return that care and affection before.
You shake your head as if it will manually remove the thought from your brain.
“Jack, John, this is your new resident,” Gloria introduces you.
“Only one this year?” Dr. Shen raises his thick eyebrows. “Are we broke?”
You snort, but quickly cover it up with a cough when Gloria’s sharp eyes dart to where you’re still standing at her side.
“Nobody wants to work nights,” she huffs. “Would the two of you please show her the ropes? I’m late for a budget meeting.”
Again, she’s halfway down the hallway before she gets a response.
“Hi, it’s nice to meet you both,” you say with a soft smile. Your eyes catch on Dr. Abbot’s slack-jawed face.
Your heart drops, realizing you’ve already made a bad first impression on one of the only people that matters here.
“I’m sorry about the inconvenience. I’m sure you’ve both already got enough to do without babysitting me through your shift.” A wince threatens to pinch your face in apology, but you try to remain confident.
“No need! Happy to help our residents.” Shen hands you the tablet they were both reading. “I’m going to do hand-off with Robby. Read over this chart and tell Abbot what your next steps would be.”
“Is everything ok?” You ask Abbot quietly once Shen is out of hearing range. “I’m sure the having-me-shadow-you thing is annoying. I promise you won’t even know I’m there.”
His head snaps to you, heated eyes meeting yours. His short curls have dashes of auburn throughout them that you can see now up close. His eyes are dark, pupils blown as he stares at your face.
“I’ll know you’re there.” There’s an edge to his voice that sends a shiver up your spine.
“What?” Your brows meet in the middle of your forehead at that. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Abbot, I don’t understa-”
You’re cut off by another doctor slinging an arm around Abbot’s shoulders and pulling him in for a hug.
“Happy birthday, brother.” He smacks his back hard.
Your heart sinks to your stomach as you piece it together. The black tee shirt, the auburn hair, the broad shoulders, your reaction to his voice. The birthday.
Holy fucking shit.
Dr. Jack Abbot is SgtMD.
Your new attending physician is the faceless man you’ve pined after for the last three years. He’s the man who sent you the earrings you’re currently wearing. Small, modest studs with a little emerald stone that he said was his favorite color.
Fuck, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck.
Quickly, you snatch the tablet close to your chest, as if the secret truth is announcing itself on the screen, and move a few feet away. You try to tune out the waves of anxiety wracking through your body at the realization that he’s here and he’s hot and he’s staring at you while having an entire conversation with the attending you recognize from your interview.
The chart.
The thing you just spent the last 8 years of your life working for is here in front of you. You cannot let your personal life get in the way of accomplishing this.
The air you inhale is sterile. You breathe it out and let your eyes scan the chart.
13 y/o female ℅ SOB at rest. Sats 90. No hx of asthma. Sudden onset after tackle injury in lacrosse game Friday. PCP prescribed inhaler, no improvement.
The possible diagnoses flit through your head, overriding the anxiety of your personal life catching fire between these walls.
This is what you’re here for. To practice medicine. To be a doctor.
“You look at the chart?” Shen comes next to you. He makes a slurping sound as he pulls coffee through his already-empty cup. The clock just struck 7:01 p.m.. One minute into the shift. How is his drink gone already?
“I did. My first thought was a fractured rib that punctured the lung, but I don’t see any symptoms other than shortness of breath. Surely she’d complain of pain if there were a rib injury. My next thought is a respiratory illness unrelated to the injury-- still, sats are really low for a young, active girl. Hard to find a bullseye here,” you relay your thought process to him. He takes the chart, nodding as he reads through it again.
“I agree. So what should we order?” His dark eyes are much softer and sweeter than Abbot’s. You blink the thought of him away quickly, refocusing on the question.
“CBC, BMP, ABG, ECG, and BNP.” Your answer comes quickly. “ And maybe a D-dimer depending on what medications she’s taking. I didn’t any listed in the chart.”
He smiles widely and nods, revealing the stereotypical adrenaline-junkie smile that all emergency doctors seem to possess.
“Right on. Let’s go get her from intake.” He claps your shoulder and leads the way.
𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔
Shen takes you under his wing for the first half of the shift. He walks you through how to read and work the board, introduces you to every staff member that walks by, and shares plenty of stories-- comedy and horror-- of his time spent at PTMC.
When 1 a.m. rolls around and you’ve shadowed him through most types of cases, he cuts you loose.
“I need a coffee, and you need a patient,” he sighs, looking up at the board. “What do you see?”
“I can do the debridement in Central 9,” you suggest, turning to face him.
“Perfect. Go get ‘em, tiger.” Another clap on the shoulder and he’s leaving you.
You review the patient chart on the tablet before you enter the room. No matter how many patients you treated as a student doctor, it’s still nervewracking to go into a room alone. After rereading the chart, taking a deep breath, and letting the yawn you’ve been holding in for six hours go, you’re finally ready.
“Hi, Mrs. Sanchez,” you greet your patient as you enter the room. You introduce yourself and wince at the sight of the wound on her leg. “Gosh, this looks like it hurts. What happened?”
“I was taking the stupid dog out to the bathroom. He needs to go out on a leash because we live on a big property.” Her face crumples into a cute frown. “He took off and pulled me through the gravel backyard. He hates me, I swear!”
You sigh, shaking your head.
“Doesn’t sound like he has your best interest at heart,” you agree, earning a small grin. You pull the stool to her bedside and snap on a pair of gloves. “What breed is your dog?”
“My dog!?” She scoffs, wiping the smile off her face instantly. “No! My son’s. Little rat bastard that I never wanted in the first place.”
“The son or the dog?” You tease, opening the instruments on the sterile tray next to you. She chokes out a stream of laughter that lasts the entire time you’re unwrapping, earning a few giggles from you as she tries and fails to regain her composure.
“Things are going well in here, I see.” A familiar voice says from the doorway. Abbot steps into the room, rubbing sanitizer into his hands before looking at the patient chart. “I’m Dr. Jack Abbot, I’m the attending physician here.”
“This is Mrs. Hilaria Sanchez,” you introduce your patient because she’s still laughing too hard to get a word out. You’re wearing a wide smile of your own as you glance back at her. “She was taking her son’s dog out when he took off and dragged her.”
“Yeah?” He says it almost unconsciously, and still, heat pools between your legs. He isn’t even looking at you, and you’re quick to turn back to your patient before he does. The last thing you need is for him to realize the effect he has on you. “Should I be concerned about a hospital-induced laughing spell, Mrs. Sanchez?”
She snorts, wiping tears from under her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt.
“She’s just a very funny doctor!” She giggles again, and you can’t help the amused chuckle that tumbles from your own lips as you grab her a tissue from the counter.
“I said one thing!” You retort through your own laughter. “Ok, ok. We have to stop laughing so I can get these pebbles out of your leg. Talk about something else, please, Dr. Abbot.”
You’re careful not to look at him when you address him out of fear that he won’t react to you the way you do to him.
That’s one thing that used to bother you about Jack SgtMD. Since he never showed his face online, you could never tell if he was enjoying what you were doing, really. He’d groan and tell you how good you looked. You’d catch his strong arms moving sometimes, stroking himself off camera at a slow, steady pace.
Once, last year, he’d finished and came so hard that cum shot up into frame, dirtying his pressed black shirt. It was dirty and impulsive and he was so out of breath, you remember. You came immediately after him that day.
“How old is your son?” He prompts as he hands you the tweezers and sets the discard tray on the bedside next to her wounded calf. Again, you’re jolted back into the moment.
“He’s 25. That’s about your age, no?” She looks at you as she blots under her eyes with the tissue.
“Just about,” you reply, dropping the first rock into the tray. “What does he do?”
“He’s a lawyer,” she responds proudly. “And he’s very handsome. And single.”
You and Abbot both snort at the same time.
“Are you trying to set me up on a date with the same son you just called a ‘rat bastard’?” You raise your brows playfully at her before turning your attention back to the leg.
“Oh, please! You know I meant the dog!” She chuckles, swatting at your arm and missing by a mile. “I’m telling you. You two would be good together. Two attractive, successful young people.”
“Unfortunately, she’s taken,” the man behind you answers before you can even open your mouth.
You turn your head to face him, eyes wide as saucers as you process his words.
Did he actually just stake his claim like that?
Heat floods your face, neck, and ears as you reorient toward your patient’s leg. The sight of him there, in that same tight black shirt he was wearing earlier today when he had you beg him to stop making you cum, is too much.
“That’s too bad. I’m sure my son is cuter!” She winks.
You give your best chuckle despite the rising temperature, continuing the tedious task of plucking each piece of dirt and gravel from her six-by-three wound.
For longer than he should, Abbot hovers over your shoulder, humming each time you do something well.
It’s almost odd seeing his face. You’d never considered what SgtMD might look like. Based on the build of his torso and the grit of his voice, you knew he would be hot, and that was really enough to satisfy the knots he managed to unwind.
You were used to knowing clients only by their screen names and what they chose to show. It wasn’t a big deal, it was the nature of the business.
But this morning, it did bother you, just for a fleeting moment.
First, it bothered you not knowing what name to write on his cake. You weren’t going to write Happy Birthday, SgtMD on top of your pretty white buttercream frosting. Something about that name had been… defiled.
SgtMD was the man who coaxes orgasms with only his instruction, never a finger laid on your body but still managing to light you up with desire.
Happy Birthday, Jack would have been much more fitting.
Jack is the man who pays you for every session, even the ones where you’re ten minutes late because you had to finish a timed quiz or hit every red light on your way home from the library. He’s the one who insists on buying you pretty lingerie. Sexy, of course, but beautiful. Handsewn pieces custom made to fit the measurements he asked you for.
A little ache splits your heart as you face the new reality of your situation.
He recognized you. He knew you. Not your name, maybe, but your face. From where he’s standing over you, he’s observing the hands that he’s seen knuckle-deep in your pussy. It’s not new for him, just for you.
And as much as it embarrasses you to admit it, it upsets you a little bit. Makes you feel guilty for not being able to know his name from your residency offer letter and reject it.
And seeing his reaction this morning, him having to process your presence alone while you apologized for something entirely unrelated-- it releases a strange guilt that climbs up your throat.
“Dr. Abbot,” you say without thinking first, because you desperately need reassurance that you haven’t managed to go and fuck up your professional and personal life by being here.
You want him to tell you that everything is alright, that he’s not disgusted by you, that this doesn’t ruin his fantasy of you, that he won’t march to HR as soon as the shift ends and tell them that he can’t work with you because you have an inappropriate relationship.
You swallow hard, not knowing what to say now.
“Do you think this area needs a stitch?” Is all that comes to mind.
His dark eyes feel all-consuming, and suddenly you’re grateful that he never showed them during your calls, because the pressure of having to make yourself finish while he gave you this stare would be far too intimidating.
It isn’t unkind, it’s just-- intense. Everything he’s done today, actually, has been rather intense.
He bends down, and the smell of mint swarms your senses. His chest presses against your shoulder as he squints, searching for the made-up bleeder.
“Where?” Fuck that voice is even better in person. The breath of it brushes your ear just barely, and you suck in a sharp breath.
Instead of answering verbally, you point to a random spot on the wound with your tweezers. He looks from you, to the not-bleeding area of skin, back to you.
“Stitches?” Mrs. Sanchez asks, looking up from where she’s been scrolling on her phone.
“No, ma’am,” He reassures her quickly with a shake of his head. She nods, and he turns his gaze back to you. “I see why you thought to ask. Come find me after you’re done here and I can explain why it doesn’t need a stitch. I’ll be charting if you need me. Feel better soon, Mrs. Sanchez.”
He stands quickly, sheds his gloves into the waste bin, and leaves the room.
“Do you think it’s ok to add non-famous people to a hall pass list?” Your patient asks as soon as the door shuts behind him. Slowly, you lift your gaze from her leg to her face, arching a brow in question. “That Dr. Abbot is… phew!”
She fans herself with her fingers, eliciting a hearty laugh from you as you continue working and thinking about your attending because… phew is right.
𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔
Mrs. Sanchez is discharged shortly after you finish the grueling task of removing each piece of gravel from her open wound and wrap it under Donnie’s supervision. There’s a sharp ache across the entire length of your shoulders.
“Shoulders?” Shen asks as you sit down to chart, noting your pained wince.
“I was hunched over that leg for two hours.” You blink hard. “I’m seeing little pieces of gravel everytime I close my eyes.”
He laughs, wiping condensation from his drink with a sterile towel.
“Is she ready to be discharged?” He looks at the board. “We could use her room.”
“Actually, she’s been discharged. Just waiting for her son to get here and pick her up,” you say through a bite of the granola bar you keep in your scrub top. “He’s a lawyer.”
“Is she trying to set you up with her son?” He snorts, shaking his head as he looks toward the patient room where she’s rifling through her purse. “You’ll get used to it. Happens at least once a day. Everyone wants their kids to date a doctor for some reason.”
He leaves, taking his coffee with him into a patient room.
Just as you’ve found a comfortable position and typed out the first sentence of your patient care summary, Lena raps her knuckles from the other side of the counter. When you look up, you make eye contact with the man next to her.
He’s about your age, with dark, curly brown hair and a tanned complexion. Both features that match Mrs. Sanchez, who you turn to find excitedly waving at you both through the glass door of her exam room.
Laughing, you stand up and extend your hand in greeting as you introduce yourself.
“You’re Mrs. Sanchez’s son, I assume?” You ask as you round the counter. He nods, scratching the back of his neck.
“I guess it’s safe to assume that all the matchmaking texts I was getting were being relayed to you, then?” He breathes out a nervous laugh.
You chuckle in response, pulling your lips between your teeth before releasing them with another quick laugh. Before you can respond, you hear your name called from down the hallway. Abbot is walking over, and you note the slight unevenness of his footsteps.
So many quirks, and you want to know them all. You want to know him. All of him.
“You discharging Mrs. Sanchez?” He asks, leaning in to glance at the tablet in your hand, not once looking at the man beside you. You nod, maintaining his heavy eye contact. “Great. Mind if I observe?”
You shake your head, then gesture between the two men.
“This is Mrs. Sanchez’s son. He’s here to take her home. This is my attending physician, Dr. Jack Abbot,” you introduce the two of them to each other, taking note of the way Jack nods without a smile. On the way to her room, you stop to grab a wheelchair from the side wall of the hallway, but Jack takes it quickly, pushing it on his own. “Thank you, Dr. Abbot.”
He pulls the door to the room open, waiting for you to walk through. Shyly, you cast a smile in his direction and step inside.
For such a gentleman, you’re surprised he isn’t being welcoming to Mr. Sanchez. Surely, he isn’t jealous. Right?
“Hey, mom.” Her son enters right after you, moving to her bedside to place a kiss to her hair. “I’m so sorry this happened.”
They spend a moment arguing over the son’s dog while you sort her discharge paperwork and Jack prepares the wheelchair.
When you turn to face the bed again, Mrs. Sanchez points to you.
“Mijo, this is the girl I was telling you about. See? Very pretty, very sweet, very very smart. She’s a doctor, you know?” She nudges his side.
“This is your discharge paperwork, Mrs. Sanchez,” you say in an attempt to change the subject. “There’s instructions for how to rebandage the wound on this page. You’ll want to do it twice a day, when you wake up and when you go to sleep, ok?”
She nods, taking the packet of paperwork.
“Your leg may be a little bit tender. A little pain is normal as the skin heals, but if it gets too uncomfortable to bear weight, or if you start noticing any foul smells or pus coming from the wound, it could be a sign of infection. Come back in as soon as possible if that happens, alright?”
She nods and hands the paperwork to her son as Jack helps to transfer her into the wheelchair. He does it easily, lifting her body off of the bed and into the cushioned seat.
As he does, every muscle ripples down his arm. Somehow, every inch of him is huge. Fingertip to his bicep, where the tee blocks the rest of his arm from view, you watch his skin dimple as it flexes with his movements.
“Does she need to be on any antibiotics or anything?” Her son asks, bringing your attention away from Jack’s arms and back to him.
“Um, no. She’s all set to go.” You smile politely.
“I’ll walk them out,” Jack says, nodding to you. “Can you notify Lena that this room is ready to be cleaned, please?”
You nod, holding the door as he pushes Mrs. Sanchez through the threshold. She hooks a finger into your scrub pocket as she’s pushed out, winking coyly. Although you don’t understand, you smile and wave, wishing her a good rest of her night.
“Central 9 is ready to be cleaned,” you tell Lena as you approach the nurse’s station again. She gives a thumbs up and picks up the phone, nodding to the board. Pediatric bone break in South 12, and she’s writing your name into the box next to it.
You head there, smiling softly when you enter the room and introduce yourself.
𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔
You pick up cases for the rest of your shift, bouncing from room to room and having no time between check-ins to chart.
“God, it’s nice having another resident,” Ellis tells you as she plops down across from you to chart.
You grin, fingers clacking away as you hurry to document everything as quickly as you can. It’s already 6:45 a.m., the day shift is trickling in, and you have eight charts to start and complete before you can leave.
“Do you have a minute?” You swivel on your stool to see Jack standing at your desk. “I wanted to discuss the bleeder you asked about earlier with Mrs. Sanchez.”
Swallowing hard, you nod, standing to follow him. His limp is more pronounced now after a shift on his feet, and you wonder what he’s dealing with.
The continued reminders that you don’t really know him at all are both aggravating and unnerving.
“How was your first shift?” He asks you, leading you to a window that overlooks the bridge. It’s far from the swing of things, nestled between a staircase and elevator.
Only the two of you are here for the moment, but anyone could walk down the stairs or exit the elevators.
He’s staring out, watching the occasional car drive by.
“Um, it was good, thank you,” you reply nervously. “How was your birthday?”
He faces you then, a smirk tugging one corner of his lip up.
“Best one so far,” he says simply. His eyes are so full of something, not emotion, but-- passion, maybe? You aren’t sure what to call it, but it’s incredibly difficult to maintain eye contact and even more difficult to look away. “I realize I made you uncomfortable this morning, and I’m sorry. I was just-- surprised to see you.”
“What?” You frown, stepping back in surprise. “Dr. Abbot, you didn-- no! Oh my gosh, no, not at all! I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable. I promise I had no idea that you work here. Really, I didn’t mean to ambush you or surprise you or ruin what we have.”
You snap your mouth shut so hard that you have to run your tongue along your teeth to make sure none of them chipped from the force.
The corner of his mouth raises higher, but he says nothing.
“Is this ok? Me working here, I mean.”
You hate how desperate you sound. The feeling sits low in your stomach, bubbling with anxiety as his silence continues.
“What kind of cake was it?” He stares back out the window.
“What?” You ask stupidly for the second time before realization dons on you. “Oh. It’s vanilla. With a whipped buttercream. I had some leftover batter, so there’s cupcakes, too. Actually, there’s two in my lunchbox if you want one.”
“You made me a cake from scratch?” He chuckles darkly. “You brought it to work?”
A bead of sweat runs from your hairline down the nape of your neck, and you wipe it anxiously. Shrugging, you wince a little at how pathetic he’s making you sound.
It’s not like you knew SgtMD would be here.
“You’re a sweet girl,” he comments, and you feel heat pool between your thighs.
Instinctively, you cross your legs and look down at your feet.
“I should probably get back to charting.” You wipe your sweaty palms off on the knees of your scrubs and push yourself to stand.
He follows, towering over you. Then, silently, he dips his hand into the front pocket of your scrub pants.
It’s only for a moment, but the heat from his palm makes your breath catch in your throat.
His hand emerges with a piece of paper between his pointer and middle fingers.
“You don’t need this. You’re seeing someone, remember?” His head tilts to the side, as if testing you. Your eyes flit to the paper he’s holding, something you don’t recognize.
“I-I-- what is that?” You pout your lips and return your gaze to his face, finding his eyes fixed on your mouth. Your pout gets more dramatic as he further confuses you. “Dr. Abbot?”
“Don’t call me that.” It’s stern. “Jack. I’m Jack.”
“Jack,” you repeat softly. It’s your first time saying it out loud. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He drags a hand down his face, laughing like you wear him out. The sight makes your heart skip a beat.
This look on his face. This is what you craved from him online, and here it is.
It was worth the three-year wait, no doubt.
Jack tucks the paper into his pocket and his eyes dart to something over your shoulder. You turn, following his gaze to find a man entering the double doors. Jack places a hand just above the curve of your ass, urging you back into the main ED.
“Robby!” He calls, dropping his hand, but motioning for you to follow with a tilt of his head. The man entering the ED turns, and you recognize him as the one who wished Jack a happy birthday this morning. The same man from your interview. “This is our new resident. I don’t think you two met this morning.”
He shakes his head, gaze moving between the two of you briefly before settling on your face.
“We did not. I’m Michael Robinavitch, everyone calls me Robby.” He extends his hand for you to shake, and you do, hoping you don’t look as fucked-out as you feel. When you tell him your name, he surprises you by saying, “I remember. I sat in on one of your interviews. Hard to forget someone with such an impressive resume.”
You laugh, waving your hand in front of you to dismiss his praise.
“Oh gosh, thanks Dr. Robby.” Nervously you glance at Jack, who is giving you an appraising look. “I’m really behind on charting, so I should probably get to that. It was great to meet you, I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
“Maybe we could grab dinner sometime,” he suggests, and Jack clears his throat.
You were almost sure that he was merely suggesting a space to talk more about your resume. Almost.
“I’d love for the three of us to get together!” You play stupid on purpose. “I just moved to Pittsburgh so I could definitely use the restaurant recommendations. I’ll be looking forward to it.”
You catch Jack’s sneaky grin from the corner of your eye as you turn on your heels to go back to your computer station.
𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔
An hour later, the sweet smell of buttercream enters your nostrils. You hear a crinckling and turn quickly to see Jack looming over you.
“Holy shit,” you gasp, clutching your chest. “How long have you been here?”
He’s just standing there, holding your lunchbox and unwrapping your cupcake.
You have no idea how he knew it was yours, but alas, here you are.
He sets the lunchbox onto the counter next to you and pulls a stool from another charting station. Sidling next to you, he leans too far into your space, disregarding all professional boundaries.
“This is really good,” he praises. “You spelt ‘oophorectomy’ wrong.”
“Where?” You move closer to the screen, scanning your patient history portion of your last chart. His finger points at the correctly spelled term. “That’s how you spell it.”
He hums, chewing another bite.
“So you’re good at everything, then? Baking and spelling and-”
“Don’t finish that sentence, Dr. Abbot,” you whisper harshly, eyes darting for any listening day-shift ears.
“Told you not to call me that.” He clears his throat, tugging at the fabric that’s now pulling a little tighter around his groin.
Ok, maybe this is the thing you desired most from SgtMD. This was a view you were not getting over video chat.
You busy yourself grabbing another cupcake out of your lunchbox.
“Our shift ended an hour ago. Shouldn’t you be going home?” You press.
He was usually home by now. You knew, because he’d schedule calls with you four times a week at exactly 8:00 a.m..
“Nothing exciting to rush home for anymore.” He says it so offhandedly that you almost don’t realize he means your appointments. Then, leaving no room to the imagination, he adds, “Ive got you right here. We’re both getting paid now, huh?”
You choke on a laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. Your tongue darts out to lick the peak of buttercream from the top of the cupcake. He blows out a long exhale, and his breath smells sweet as if fans over you.
“You almost done? We could grab breakfast,” he suggests, eyes tracking your tongue as you swipe it across the top of the cupcake again.
“Mm, I kind of spent my ‘fun money’ on ingredients for the cake stuff,” you say, setting the cupcake back down and saving the chart. “I think I get my first check next week. Can we raincheck?”
“I’ll pay.” He sounds offended. “How much longer do you need?”
“I’m done, actually.” You rub your eyes and face him again. “And breakfast would be very nice, thank you, Jack.”
“It’s a date.” His words ring familiar from his message prior to yesterday’s call. “Go grab your stuff.”
As you obey, you can’t help but think about how much better it is taking orders from Dr. Jack Abbot than SgtMD.
summary: you take care of lena, clean up around the house, and always leave dinner for him when he gets home late. and among constant and never-ending change, you are andrew's northern star.
pairing: andrew cody x babysitter!reader
word count: 13.3k
warnings: read carefully! age-gap dynamics, reader is said to have recently graduated college, i basically ignore anything from the show that wouldn't make sense in my perfect little world. smut—arm humping, oral sex, penetration, the tiniest bit of breeding if you squint real hard.
author's note: and here she is. also known as shea wants to write about doing things to pope's arms.
you used to complain if someone called you their nanny. you’re just a babysitter. this would not—could not—be your full time job. it’s just so demanding. you love the kids you take care of but the idea of saying that you’re a nanny makes it a little more real. like you wouldn’t be able to get out of this, despite how hard you’re trying.
you just don’t want to be a babysitter forever.
but the first time mister cody introduces you as lena’s nanny, you don’t think you mind it all that much.
babysitters are temporary—girls in high school looking for money to pay for coffee and nail appointments, covering date-nights and overtime at the office.
nannies are permanent—it’s a career. you’re responsible for the kid pretty much twenty-four hours a day. kids with nannies are rich, mom and dad too busy at work to be at home. from the little you deduced, nannies buy groceries and make three meals. they go to doctor’s appointments and organize play-dates with other nannies.
you do some of those things for lena. her uncle tries to take her and pick her up from school when he can, and when he calls to tell you that he won’t be able to make it every now and then, he sounds so sorry about it, you don’t know what you can do to reassure him that it’s okay. lena’s young, she doesn’t care about stuff like that so deeply. and she likes you, which helps matters a lot.
you had finished the last few classes you needed to graduate a couple months ago. before that, you’d have to tell mister cody no, i’m sorry occasionally, something that you really didn’t like doing. he seemed like he had enough going on without the babysitter cancelling.
and besides, after you had told him that your classes were done, you were supposed to tell him that you would be looking for a real job, something with your degree, that he should start looking for a real nanny for lena. you were supposed to politely, yet firmly allude to how you’d been scrambling with classes, finishing assignments in the car in between picking up his niece and after she’d fallen asleep at night. how you missed an important lecture because the pediatrician’s office was running behind an hour and lena’s grandmother wasn’t available to take her.
instead, the second you had met his eyes (which were terribly green and incredibly sad), you had folded, and told him you’d be available whenever he needed. and you thought maybe that would garner you a smile—and you’d been wrong. he had looked your way for about five seconds, muttered thank you, and walked away.
and maybe if you could resist those terribly green and incredibly sad eyes, you wouldn’t have wound up as a full-time nanny. life could always be worse—that’s the motto you’ve grown up with. there are so many worse things in oceanside than spending every day in a pretty house by the beach and taking care of a quiet little girl.
if not anything else, you could start making payments on your student loans, if you wanted. mister cody paid you in cash, and he paid you way too much, probably his way of apologizing for how much you had stepped up in the last couple months. but again, you didn’t really mind anymore. maybe if it was another family, you would care more about finding a real job.
but you like lena. you like her uncle, too, you think, as much as you can like a man who is virtually silent and stares at you like he’s boring into your soul when you’re making dinner. you like him because he’s good with her, you can always tell he’s trying his absolute best, his hardest with her. (it doesn’t help that he’s cute—cute in the way that strays are, like you wish you could fix everything wrong with him and reassure him that he’s doing enough, and tell him to stop staring and just come tell you what he’s thinking instead.)
the first couple months were the hardest. lena wasn’t eating, wasn’t sleeping. she hated school, hated all the things she had still cared for when her dad was alive. you’d tried bribing her with trips to the beach, the playground, ice cream with extra fudge and sprinkles. all the things that kids liked. but she wasn’t just a normal kid—and it seemed that you and her uncle were the only ones who understood this.
you didn’t realize you had such a maternal instinct inside of you. maybe it’s because the other kids you’d babysat in your life had been brats, sticky handed toddlers going through the terrible twos and making your life hell while you were trying to pass your classes. lena is the opposite.
she’s the saddest child you’ve ever met, and you know nothing that you or her uncle do is going to fix it overnight.
but progress comes in stages. the first step had been getting her to want to eat again. you’d sat on the couch next to her, watching a nature documentary that her uncle had probably left playing on the tv.
(he is a whole other can of worms—he doesn’t sleep or eat that much either, and one time you had come in really early to get some work done before getting her to school. he’d been awake, watching something just like this, at five-thirty in the morning. and when you’d asked him when he’d gotten up, he had shrugged, and murmured something that sounded suspiciously close to i don’t sleep. that’s your next mission, because you can only focus on one at a time.)
“you hungry, sweetie?” you didn’t want to be pushy. she wouldn’t like that, would only retreat further into herself. you wanted her to come to you when she was ready to eat. lena shook her head and focused back on the television. “okay. well, if you get hungry later, i’ll eat with you.”
lena says okay in her quiet voice, holding onto a stuffed animal and staring ahead. you wait a couple of hours—there’s always something to do in the house. you clean up, wiping counters and sweeping while she stays on the couch. you check in every now and then to make sure she didn’t fall asleep.
and then, thirty minutes before her new bedtime, she comes and sits on the chair by the dining table while you’re wiping it down.
“can we get pizza?” she asks, and you nod right away.
“of course we can. what kind do you want?”
another thirty minutes later, the pizza’s there, and you’re both eating slices of pepperoni and spinach. you’ve formulated your plan for the rest of the night—her uncle’s still not home, which means you can crash on the couch or stay awake. you decide to stay awake, since there’s no follow up text from him. if he wasn’t going to come home tonight, you’d expect the standard, concise message; won’t be back tonight. is lena okay?
and you’re stupid, because you think it’s sweet that he always asks if she’s okay. like you wouldn’t call him the second something went wrong, like he doesn’t believe that you’d trust him with that information before anyone else. but there’s no texts tonight from the contact you’d saved as andrew cody (lena’s uncle).
lena’s finishing her last slice and you’re cleaning up when you hear it—the rumble of his truck pulling up to the house. then a minute later, footsteps and the front door opening.
“what’s all this?” he asks, and you have to remember to find the words.
you don’t know why that happens when he comes around—you’re usually great with dads. maybe it’s because he looks tired, more tired than usual, at least. his copper curls are messed up, like he’s been running a hand through his hair all night. lena’s uncle is always stiff, but it seems worse today, somehow.
(another thought seeps in, an uninvited guest in your mind, about how you’d really like to take care of him. he just needs some sleep, a little peace of mind. that’s it. you’re still trying to figure out the best way to give it to him.)
“we got pizza, uncle pope,” lena fills in, setting down the last piece of crust you knew she wouldn’t finish.
“there should be enough for you,” you add, smiling at him. he doesn’t smile back, but you’re used to that at this point. and you can tell what’s about to come. “lena, can you go brush your teeth and get your pajamas on for me?”
she nods and climbs off the chair, running into her room.
“it’s past her bedtime,” he starts, taking a few steps closer to you. “and pizza for dinner-”
you interrupt him, even though you probably shouldn’t. you close up the box, setting it on the island and you go back to wipe the table.
“she’s not eating, mister cody,” you put the paper towel down, getting your bearings in order to face him, make the dreaded, never-ending eye-contact. “when kids don’t eat you have to meet them halfway. i thought this was better than her going to bed without eating at all.”
he keeps looking at you. you think you should be a little nervous, but you don’t get like that anymore. flustered, sure, but not nervous—lena’s uncle is just kind of a starer, and you’ve gotten used to it by now.
“i’m sorry. i’ll run it by you next time, i promise. i just wanted her to eat something.” he’s silent for a while, like he’s processing what you said.
“yeah. okay. thanks.”
you smile again, a small one. the kitchen’s clean now, or at least as clean as you can get it. you’re sure that when you’re back in the morning, it’ll be spotless, which you can only assume is one of mister cody’s nocturnal activities. you have a routine before leaving—you say goodnight to lena, make sure you didn’t leave anything behind, and tell her uncle you’ll see him in the morning.
he doesn’t normally say anything back, maybe a grunt of acknowledgement. so you’re surprised tonight, when you grab your bag and your keys and hear—
“have a good night.”
“you too, mister cody.”
+
it took time, but you’ve gotten her schedule better. she eats dinner with you now, whatever semi-healthy thing you can think of with the stuff in the pantry and the groceries you picked up while she’s at school. her uncle leaves money for that sort of thing—an envelope filled with hundred dollar bills. it’s labeled lena’s babysitter in stiff, neat handwriting and he told you to use it for copays and ice-cream and anything else that lena needs. but it feels wrong to use his money when he already overpays you, so you just use your own.
you thought he might not have noticed that the envelope isn’t getting any thinner, until one morning when you arrive and see him counting the notes in it with his head down. now you’re the one staring—watching his arm flex and the muscles move as he flips through the bills. he wears the same kind of shirts every day, short sleeve button-ups, and every day, you are subject to watch his forearms while he does whatever he does. it’s a cruel and unusual punishment.
the worst had been when you needed a box down from the cabinet, the one with the muffin tins and cookie cutters. he had appeared behind you and taken it down for you in seconds, carrying it to the kitchen for you. you had been staring then too, uncomfortable and slack-jawed and wondering why his arms had your mouth dry. (you know the answer, it’s just better to live in denial, you think.)
“good morning, mister cody.” you set your bag down on the sofa, heading inside to get started on breakfast. you open the fridge, taking out a carton of eggs and orange juice and avoiding looking right at him. you don’t need to be flustered before seven-thirty am.
“you haven’t been using this money,” he states. you wish you could figure out what his tone means—there’s no inflections, no emotion simmering behind the words. it’s just cut and dry, stating a fact.
“well, i-” you turn back and look up from the stove and your words die on your tongue. he’s standing up, looking right at you, a fist full of cash like he’s going to make you use it one way or another. a single vein running through his arms tenses. your gaze flickers from it to his eyes quickly, looking at you like he wants you to start listening to him.
“i, um, i had enough.”
“you should use it.”
“but you already gave me a lot, so i-”
“i want you to use it.” the way he says it, it’s not a request.
“right. i-i will. is lena awake?”
“she’s getting ready.”
“great. thank you.” you turn back to the eggs with a flushed face. and even though you’re not facing him anymore, you can tell he’s still staring at you.
“i might not be back tonight.” you turn around and meet his eyes again. terribly green, incredibly sad. you’re too far now to see the brown, but you know it’s there. “i…i’ve got some work. it’ll be late, if i do.”
“thank you for the heads up. i, uh, i’ll crash on the couch then.” you think he might say something else, but you’re not sure. it’s silent for a moment, while you get the eggs onto a plate and hurry into the hallway to get lena.
she comes out first, carrying her backpack. you follow with her hairbrush for once she’s done eating, getting her already packed lunch out from the fridge to sort into her bag. there’s a whole routine that you had learned when you first started babysitting her, and now it’s just a way of life. filling up her water bottle, checking the calendar on the fridge to make sure there’s nothing you’re missing, pulling her jacket from the closet if it’s cold outside.
you get the bottle out, glancing back at her uncle. he’s leaning in while lena takes a bite of the eggs, probably telling her that he won’t be home, and to have a good day, and all the other things you’re sure he says to her. then they hug, and you feel like you’re intruding.
he picks up his keys, which rest in the small blue bowl by the door where yours sit too. and without thinking, you call out after him.
“have a good day at work.” he doesn’t say anything back, but he looks at you before he leaves. you don’t even know what he does for work.
“ready for school?” lena shakes her head no like always.
+
the days are long, but the weeks are short. you bring lena to school, but they have a half-day, so there’s no point in going home for the day if you need to be back in a couple of hours. so you head back to mister cody’s place, focusing your attention on cleaning the remnants from breakfast. you check the fridge, making note of how much fruit and milk you have left, scribbling onto a piece of paper for later. and for once, you listen to him, taking a single bill out of the envelope and putting it into your wallet. there’s other hundred dollar bills in there too, ones you need to deposit.
it hasn’t been making sense lately. a lot of nannies live with their families because it avoids the wastefulness of paying rent for an apartment you hardly ever visit. you pay internet and electric for a one-bedroom that’s empty the entire day. and now that you’re done with classes, you don’t even need to work on anything late at night or even at lena’s house. you carry around a book with you, and you think you’ve even left a couple on the coffee table, just for the future.
you don’t know why you still have your apartment. well, you know why—mister cody has never mentioned you moving in. and he probably never will, because he doesn’t want you to. but it just doesn’t make sense the more you think about it. you show up between six and seven and sometimes you don’t go home until ten. sometimes you don’t go home at all.
after making your list, you rack your head of things you can do to occupy lena’s time today. the library has a weekly reading, and there’ll be other kids there. you like to pick things so she can get some company from kids her age, so she’s not only stuck with you and her uncle all the time.
closer to when school gets out, you get in the car, bringing in your emergency bag with a change of clothes and your toothbrush since you’ll be staying the night. it’s not an entirely uncommon occurrence, which is why the bag, and a couple others like it, is always ready to go. you go to the bank first, depositing everything except the single hundred-dollar bill you took today. then you drive by the park, see if they’re having any of those pet-therapy sessions today. and then finally school to pick up lena.
the rest of the day goes how you planned. you forget how exhausting it is keeping a little kid entertained for hours on end, unsure of exactly what her uncle pope and his brothers do with her sometimes, when you struggle to fill up a couple of extra hours. the grocery store—where you splurge and buy ingredients to make stove-top smores because lena asks and you’ll take your wins where you can get them—then the library, where you take out a couple of books for lena to read at home and smile when she’s talking with some of the other girls there, then the playground for an hour, before home for dinner.
you make spaghetti while she finishes her homework, and review her homework while she changes into pajamas. and then it’s time for the routine she loves so much, just like her uncle, a nature documentary about penguins while you toast the marshmallows on a fork.
an hour later, lena’s asleep in bed, and you’re scrubbing hardened chocolate off the counter next to the stove. you don’t want more work for her uncle when he’s back, and you’ve learned lena’s a heavy sleeper, so you get to cleaning. it’s not like, as pathetic as the thought is, you have anything better to do.
and then about two hours after that, it’s eleven-thirty. it’s right around the latest that mister cody has ever come home, so you’re pretty sure he won’t be back tonight.
the only thing you have to look forward to in your apartment is the shower you take after a long day. you’ll have to make do with the shower inside the room where mister cody sleeps, since lena’s is close to her room and filled with products for an eight year old, and at the very least, you need adult shampoo and soap.
the room is bare—you would have guessed it’s a guest room if you didn’t know better. you’re not nosy, but you look around, trying to see if there’s anything there that makes the room her uncle’s. you know there’s still another bedroom, the one her parents used to share, since lena sometimes goes in there when she can’t sleep. so this was a guest room, and now it’s mister cody’s, and now you’re lurking in it.
besides for a closet full of clean-pressed button up shirts and organized shoes, you can’t discern anything that makes this room his. there’s not a single thing out of place, from the garden-variety decor that someone else had picked to the artwork to the sheets. the bathroom is more of the same, the entire place having that lemon-cleaner smell to it.
you turn the water on and strip, trying to avoid thinking about how you’ll be sleeping on the couch after this. and even inside the shower, you stare at the two-in-one shampoo bottle and the old spice body wash—old spice. who would have thought?—like you can’t believe what you’re looking at. you inhale the scent for longer than you need to. wrap yourself in a clean towel that doesn’t belong to you. brush your teeth with his spearmint toothpaste. and then you open your overnight bag, and find nothing but sundresses and bathing suits.
it’s past midnight, and you’ve grabbed the wrong bag. you need to get up in about six and a half hours to get lena ready for school, and you’re not positive you have the correct bag in the back of your car.
hesitantly, you open one of the dresser drawers. there’s black and white t-shirts folded precisely, tucked in evenly. one drawer up there’s folded socks and boxers.
you chew on your cheek. he did say that he won’t be home tonight. there’s no way he would know you took anything if you ran a load of laundry as soon as you woke up and folded it after morning drop-off. he might not even be home until the afternoon or evening, for all you know.
your tiredness makes the decision for you. the couch isn’t that comfortable, and you refuse to sleep in the shirt and jean skirt you spent all day in. you take a white shirt and black boxers, and then sneak back in for a pair of black socks because the living room is cold at night. and then you set your alarm, turn on another documentary—this one about hummingbirds, wrap yourself in the throw blanket on the couch, and close your eyes.
andrew comes home at quarter to three. it would have been a lot sooner—he doesn’t like leaving you alone here at night with lena if he can avoid it—but he doesn’t always have control over it. a bullet had grazed deran and he’d spent two hours cleaning up that mess, and then they had to organize their splits before leaving. he had to make sure to stay for that—he needs the cash to pay you, rent for baz’s place, money to put into lena’s savings account.
but he hates leaving you alone in the apartment with lena. not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he knows now it’s not safe, not without him there. he likes to get you home early but it’s rarely the case, and then he feels like he should pay you extra since he’s making you drive home alone in the dark.
telling you to stay is a better option. you can sleep in his room—it’s not like he’s going to sleep in there anyways. but he doesn’t say that, doesn’t need the nanny thinking there’s something wrong with him too. so he settles for telling you to stay the night, and letting you decide where you’ll sleep.
you always pick the couch. and sometimes, he’s not back early enough, sometimes you’re already up making breakfast or gone out for the day with lena by the time he’s back.
but tonight, you’re asleep on the couch. he sets down the bag with the cash on the couch, hovering over you. the television is still on, stuck on a are you still watching? screen, covering up a photo of some birds. a breath leaves him when he realizes you’re watching what he always watches. you’re knocked out—he can tell since the front door opening didn’t wake you like it sometimes does. you’ve kicked away the blanket you usually use, and he thinks for a second he should just cover you up and let you sleep.
but he doesn’t. he stands over you, staring at your sleeping form. he doesn’t like it—how pretty you are when you sleep. it’s a distraction that he can’t escape, knows that the next time he closes his eyes, he’ll think of you. that the next time he sits on this couch, he’ll be able to smell your skin. you snore softly, chest rising and falling evenly.
and then he notices it—the plain shirt, black socks with a familiar logo. are those his boxers? and now he definitely can’t look away. he puts the pieces together—your hair is wet, meaning you must have showered and then put on his clothes before coming back out here. if you were going to do all of that, why didn’t you just sleep in his room?
yes, pope decides, he needs you to sleep in his bed. he needs the couch anyways, since he won’t be sleeping, so he might as well bring you inside.
he lifts you carefully, not wanting to stir you accidentally. his shirt is a little big on you, hanging off your shoulder. you stay sound asleep the entire short walk to his bedroom, not stirring even when he sets you down. you must have been really tired, but that makes sense, given the fact that you’ve been out all day with lena.
he thought about sticking a tracker on your car, but the first time he was taking care of lena, after baz, you had shared your phone’s location with him so he could keep track. you had offered it, voluntarily, saying something about how that’s common with babysitters now, and that you never go anywhere without your phone so he won’t have to worry about you leaving it at home.
you thought reassuring him that he would always have lena’s location in his phone would make him feel better. and maybe it had, but he’d never mentioned it again after that day, never brought up if he actually checked it or not.
(it’s not like you would know if he was using it, it doesn’t work like that. deran had explained it to him.) he did check it, pretty frequently, actually. he checked it after you’d leave when he got home, after lena was asleep. he’d watch your little circle drive home and pull into the parking lot of your apartment complex. it wasn’t as bad of an area as it could be, but it wasn’t that safe either. he liked to check it every now and then too, middle of the night, saturday evenings when he was home with lena and you got to leave early or had the day off.
he assumed, somehow, that you’d be in bars or parties at your college, maybe. but when he looks at your location late at night, you’re always at home. he checks other times too—but he’s just trying to keep you safe. (that’s what he tells himself—that finding another babysitter than lena liked and that he trusted would be a hassle. he needs to keep you safe.)
but it doesn’t seem like you like any of that stuff. he’s never seen you drink the beer in the fridge, though you offer one to him every now and then. you’ve met smurf and deran and craig before, like when you’d go to drop off lena before one of your classes, back before you had finished school.
you were smart—he knew that much. that was the kind of good example he needed around lena, someone who had gone through school and finished. he didn’t know what your degree was in, but it must’ve been something smart, something important. you were always typing on your computer and reading books. whatever it is that you studied, he wants someone in lena’s life that can help her with that stuff, stuff he doesn’t know much about, when it’s time.
you were smart enough to turn down every joint or bump that craig offered. you never accepted a drink from smurf that didn’t come from a can that you opened yourself. and baz used to tell him that you were just a local college kid, that you didn’t have any family nearby or anyone to occupy your time, really.
it didn’t make sense—pretty girl like you. he would have thought you had a boyfriend, but if you do, you’ve never brought him around. and if he didn’t live with you or live at that coffee shop you liked that was down the street from your apartment, then he didn’t know if you even had one. maybe he shouldn’t spend any time thinking about your hypothetical boyfriend, but that’s just what comes up sometimes when he thinks about you for too long. like right now.
you look peaceful lying in his bed. your eyes flutter quickly like you’re having a dream, and he sits on the bed next to you, watching you sleep. your hair falls across your face, and his finger twitches. he almost moves his hand to brush the hair away, but he decides not to, settling for just watching you for another minute or two.
the bed creaks slightly when he gets up. no one uses it much, so it’s a little weary. he doesn’t think the noise is anything, but your eyes blink open. the door’s open, light from the living room illuminating a sliver of the space.
he thinks he should get out before you can ask any questions, but he doesn’t, hovering over the bed while you look around.
“andrew?” and god if it doesn’t sound different coming from your lips. you’re too tired to remember that you usually stick with mister cody, which is so formal it hurts. it sounds real, sincere, not filled with fear or anger or anything else. you haven’t even said anything and he thinks he’s losing his mind.
it’s just the way you say it. there’s no question attached, no demand, no sacrifice. just you, making sure it’s him.
“that couch is bad for your back,” he says.
he knows it is, the couple times he tried to lay down and stare at the ceiling. he’s always sore, muscles screaming and joints aching but he knows how to ignore it. he doesn’t think you should start feeling like that. feels angry at the very idea that you would be sore after spending a night on the couch, taking care of his niece, looking after baz’s house. doing all the things that he’s too busy to do.
you take care of things. you do a good job too—figuring out how to get lena to eat and sleep again. making sure her routine doesn’t go awry just because he’s gone on a job all day. you remember things that he doesn’t even know about—activities with kids after school and how the school has soccer practice starting soon. you think a couple steps ahead when it comes to lena, and sometimes, he doesn’t think you see it as a job.
like when you make enough breakfast for the three of you. leave dinner on a plate inside the microwave with a note on the counter. when you clean like it’s your house, make sure things stay in the place they’re supposed to, which is so much harder when there’s a kid around. he’s not stupid—it’s why he gives you so much money each week, shoves an envelope into your hand despite your protests. why the first thing he does after he gets his cut is make sure you get yours.
and as hard as the thought is to swallow, he doesn’t think he could do all of this without you.
“mmh-” you agree, making a soft noise. he wishes he could engrain it into his brain and replay it whenever he wants. “i thought you don’t sleep?” you ask, and he sees your lips turn up into a smile. he wishes the lights were on.
“i try,” he replies, realizing that he’s still hovering over you. he wonders why you weren’t scared the moment you woke up. “sometimes. i try.”
“do you wanna try now?” you ask, whispering. and he goes silent—because what is he supposed to say that?
you reach out in the dark for his hand, and he flinches, taking it back. but you don’t retreat, reaching out again until you’re grasping his fingers.
“try for a couple hours. i set an alarm,” you say, and the way you say it, it doesn’t sound like a bad idea. you have a way of convincing him, or maybe it’s just late and you’re tired, and your sleepy voice isn’t helping matters. nor does the fact that you don’t seem even remotely concerned that you’re inviting him to come sleep on the bed next to you.
you sit up a little, and he regrets even staying as long as he did. you need your sleep, unlike him. you’re still holding onto his hand, and your skin is warm on his. it couldn’t really be, but it feels like it’s burning his, where your palm rests against his, where your fingers twist with his.
“hey,” you start, slow and soft. “don’t think about it. just sleep for a little.”
“yeah,” he says. “okay. a little.”
you move over, and when he lays down—back straight against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling—it’s warm where your body was resting. you’re still holding onto his hand, not letting go. your grip is loose enough that he could free his hand easily, and even if it wasn’t, he could overpower you if he wanted.
but he doesn’t want to. and somewhere between your slow breaths and how you rub his knuckles, running your soft skin against dozens of old scars—because that’s his punching hand—andrew falls asleep.
you can hear it, his breaths getting steady, evening out. your hands stay together in the middle of the bed, between you, and you wonder for a split second how you’re going to deal with this in the morning, how you’ll make sense of this in daylight. the semblance of a professional relationship you had maintained this entire time might turn into dust in a couple hours. and then you breathe in andrew’s comforting scent, clean linen and saltwater, and fall back asleep.
the best thing about this house is the light and the waves. golden rays pour in through the half-way open blinds and you can hear the ocean crashing against the rocks in the distance. it’s the perfect way to wake up, even if it is six-thirty and your alarm is going off in the living room, where your phone must be.
you need to get up. you don’t want lena to wake up from the noise, even though you know she won’t—that girl can sleep through anything. it’s a problem for when she’s older, when she goes to college and there’s no one besides a roommate to make sure she doesn’t miss class. even half-asleep, you smile thinking about it.
and somehow, when you look on the other side of the bed, it hits you that it wasn’t a dream. andrew is asleep next to you, still in whatever clothes he was wearing throughout the day. a short sleeved button up and pants. you’re surprised that he didn’t fall asleep with his shoes on.
he looks very calm when he sleeps. the lines of tension on his forehead and around his eyes are soft when he’s like this, his hair a mess and cheek smushed against the pillow, against your hand.
he’s still holding your hand. it makes a certain kind of warmth rain all over you, flooding you from inside out. he’s on top of the covers and you’re under the throw blanket, and you don’t remember doing that, which means that he did.
an exhausted, half-asleep andrew cody covered you up before he fell asleep on top of the covers. he fell asleep holding your hand and your chest hurts because he won’t wake up holding it still, since you need to go turn that stupid alarm off.
he never sleeps, you know this. he’s never been asleep when you show up early, never heading to bed when you leave for the day. this bed is pretty much always made, sheets never rustled and not a pillow out of place because no one sleeps here. you hope you can start changing that.
you don’t want to pull your hand away from him. it’s so simple, so sweet that you can’t bring yourself to do it. that this whole time, andrew just needed someone to sleep beside him. you rest your head back on the pillow, continue staring, creepy as it is. you’ve never been able to study him like this before, have never been close enough.
the hand holding onto yours is softer than you’d imagined. the veins running through his forearm are thick and tense, even when he’s like this. you think it might be from how tightly he’s holding onto your hand, like even in his sleep he’s worried he might lose you somehow.
andrew cody has freckles—all across his arms and on his hands too. there’s a splatter of them across his nose and cheeks, places where he must have gotten burnt as a kid, maybe when he was lena’s age. the tips of his ears flush pink while he sleeps, and he snores. all things that make you smile, things that are so personal you feel your face getting warm, like you shouldn’t have access to that information.
you need to turn that god-damn alarm off, before it wakes him up. you think you’d rather die than disrupt the few hours of peaceful sleep he’s getting right now. so you wriggle your hand, trying to find the best way to get it out of his grip and make sure you don’t wake him in the process. nothing’s working, even in his sleep he’s thrice as strong as you. the generic alarm tone keeps going in the background.
you lean in, pressing a chaste kiss to andrew’s cheek, whispering that you promise to be right back. and for a split second he moves around, and you regain control of your tingling hand.
the bed creaks a little when you get up, but you do it slowly so it’s not too loud. walk to the couch as fast as your bare feet will take you, looking down and realizing you’re still in andrew’s socks.
(his shirt and boxers too, but you’re choosing to ignore that for now. if someone walked in through the front door in this moment, it would look like you and him were something other than a guardian and babysitter. you think you’d actually enjoy trying to see him explain to his brothers why you’re in his clothes head to toe. you might like this more than you think you did.)
you can hear the ocean again once the alarm is turned off. it’s a beautiful thing to wake up too, you think, pulling open the curtains and looking outside on the street. people are on runs, doing yoga on the beach, watching the sunrise with their dogs.
and inside, andrew cody is sound asleep.
the first part of your day is waking up lena. she grumbles and takes five, sometimes ten, minutes to get up after you go in there. in that time, you set out clothes for her and then head back to the kitchen. you have a habit of making sure her backpack has everything—the colorful pens she’s always telling you about and yesterday’s homework. if she forgot something at home, the school would call andrew, and then andrew would call you, and you hate adding more work to his life. so, you make sure it’s all there before she leaves.
then breakfast—eggs and toast if you’re running late, pancakes if you got there early. it’s seeming like a pancake sort of day.
you make the batter and then pull out the bag of chocolate chips and head back to lena’s room. you use the semi-sweet morsels as an incentive to get her up, which works like a charm. while she’s changing and brushing her teeth, you make three pancakes. two for lena, and the first one you peeled that’s never quite as good is for you.
lena comes to the table to eat her pancakes, and you tell her to stay just a little quieter than usual because her uncle pope is still sleeping.
“really?” she asks, and you feel something inside of you twist in discomfort. as if you had imagined before you met him, maybe he was sleeping, that maybe this was something recent. you smile at lena.
“yeah, sweetie, really.”
you bring lena to school, come back home, and check on andrew—who is still sleeping. you cover him up with the blanket you’d slept under and then make three more pancakes and some scrambled eggs. there’s no bacon in the house or you would have made that too.
you scribble it on the grocery list and then head back inside the bedroom, carefully perching yourself on the edge of the bed and maybe a little too comfortable, too quick, run your fingers through his messy hair. he sighs against the pillow and it makes you smile immediately. you keep going, fingers not stopping until you see his eyes fluttering open. you don’t want to make him uncomfortable, though you don’t want to stop either.
“i made breakfast,” you say quietly. andrew looks up at you, and then to your slept-in side of the bed. he moves, sitting up in the bed and you take back your hand tentatively. his hair is soft like you’d imagined.
he wipes his face with his hands, rubbing at his eyes. and when he looks at you, you feel any prudence that once was inside you melt away. well-rested, sleepy andrew cody, waking up in the bed you shared last night, while you tell him about the pancakes you made for him. you couldn’t have imagined this, for some reason, which makes it feel all the more real.
“what time is it?” he asks, in a gruff, sleepy voice.
“almost nine, i think.” he looks up at you quickly.
“lena?”
“i brought her to school already. you-you were sleeping. i didn’t want to wake you.”
“when did you get up?”
“six-thirty. my alarm. remember?” you do remember telling him about it before you fell asleep, one of the last things you had said in a conversation that feels like it was light-years ago.
“yeah.” you know better than to expect anything right now. he’s always been quiet, sentences curt and expressions relatively blank. you’ve had a few hours to simmer in it—think about what’ll happen tomorrow and next week and what it means to sleep in the bed next to the man whose niece you babysit. he just woke up a few minutes ago.
“well, there’s pancakes. and eggs. there’s no bacon but i’ll go get some later-”
“did you eat?” you catch his eye. perched on the bed next to him, you can see more than just green. brown too, around his pupils. not nearly as sad as they had seemed yesterday.
“yeah. i had one.”
“just one?” you don’t have an answer for that, but unusually confident, you stand up.
“i’ll have a bite of yours if you come eat with me.”
and though you couldn’t have imagined it last night, you end up leaning against the counter with andrew, splitting bites of chocolate-chip pancakes (yours drenched in syrup, his comparably dry as a bone), and luke-warm scrambled eggs.
he washes the dishes, and you put them away. it’s incredibly domestic.
“i’m sorry about your clothes,” you say, sliding a plate back into the cupboard. “um, i’ll wash everything today.” you had to bring it up at some point.
and then andrew turns to look at you. head to toe, he stares, gaze flicking up and down for what seems like eons. you don’t have a guess for why, maybe he’s trying to decide if he’ll accept your apology.
(he’s trying to memorize it, capture it like a picture in his brain, seal it up and hold onto it forever. how you look right now—his white shirt, with nothing underneath, which must be why he can see the outline of your breasts when you turn to put another dish away. his boxers, that you bunched up around your waist, his socks, one rolled up around your ankle and the other halfway up your calf. did you go to the school drop-off in his clothes, too?)
“and i can wash your jacket too, i’m sorry. it was kind of cold and i don’t know where my hoodie is. i-i’m sorry.”
he turns to look at you again. you seem worried, chewing on your cheek, waiting for his answer.
“don’t wash the jacket,” he says, and turns back to the sink. he doesn’t want it to stop smelling like you, but you don’t need to know that.
“yeah. sure. i won’t. sorry again, andrew.”
his heart thuds in this chest at the realization that you might never go back to calling him mister cody.
the two of you finish the dishes. he wipes up the counter while you put away lena’s things, and then he grabs his keys and puts on his shoes. you stand there watching, feeling awfully close to something like a wife watching her husband about to leave her for the day. and when you open your mouth, you can’t stop it from coming out.
“do you know when you’ll be back?”
“i’ll be here for dinner. can you pick up lena?” he doesn’t want to leave you, but there’s about ten texts and three missed calls on his phone that he needs to deal with. when he shrugs his jacket on, it does, in fact, smell like you. it might be enough to keep him calm the rest of the day.
“yeah, of course. well.. i’ll go start the laundry.” a vision of you peeling off your—his—clothes plagues his mind momentarily. “i’ll see you later?” you say, smiling hesitantly.
and without thinking too much about it, andrew comes up close to you, leans in a little awkwardly, and kisses your forehead.
“i’ll see you later.” he leaves you there in his shirt and socks, blinking stupidly at the door.
+
andrew does come back for dinner. you make an attempt at chicken parm at lena’s request, which really just turns out to be a sort of chicken parm-casserole situation, but lena likes it and the garlic bread tastes good, so you will call it a win for now.
while you’re simmering sauce and frying the cutlets, your mind flicks through everything you know about lena’s uncle. he’d never once been anything but nice to you—nice is one way to put it. polite is another. courteous, appropriate, reserved.
one night you had been waiting for him so you could leave, and he’d come home with lena’s other uncles. you had introduced yourself and smiled nicely, and when you left and gotten into your car, it hadn’t turned on. you remember debating if you should go back inside or just call triple a and wait, but somehow, andrew had known something was wrong. he had come out a few minutes later, told you that he would drive you home while his brother stayed at home and that he’d be back in a minute.
he’d dropped you off at home and told you he’d come get you in the morning. and you had slept anxiously that night, wondering what was wrong with your car and how much of a disturbance it would be to andrew to come get you.
but after the two of you had dropped lena off at school—again, disturbingly domestic—he brought you back to the house. and without any words at all, he worked on your car while you sat and watched. you held a flashlight when he needed it, and he said it shouldn’t happen again when he was done.
and you guess that’s the kind of man andrew cody is.
true to his word, andrew comes home in time to eat dinner with you and lena. after dinner, since it’s friday, you let her have a brownie and a half, the ones you’d made earlier that day. you have one too and you offer one to andrew, but he shakes his head, and you’re only mildly disappointed.
you haven’t been home, so you’re wearing one of the dresses from the wrong overnight bag you’d brought here. (your disappointment goes away when you notice that he hasn’t stopped staring at your exposed thighs since the minute he walked through the door.)
lena watches a cartoon before bed and you try to clean up the rest of the kitchen, but it’s hard, since andrew’s done most of the leg-work already. he tucks lena in and you gather your belongings—and true to your word, you did laundry and put his clothes back in the exact place you found them.
(you did steal another pair of socks, but you hardly think he minds now. he kissed you goodbye this morning like he was actually your husband, or something, and every minute you spend in this house washing dishes and scrubbing counters next to him is not helping. he stares at the straps of your dress like he could slip them off your shoulder with his mind, like it’s the only thing he’s thinking about. you don’t mind.)
“she’s out,” he says, coming back into the living room. you’re sitting on the couch, knees tucked to your chest while you change the channel to one of those documentaries you’ve been so fond of recently. you turn to smile at andrew and he comes and takes a seat next to you.
“that’s good. i can go soon.” but you make no effort to move, staring at the screen in front of you. this one is about sea-life, shades of blue flooding ahead of you both.
“you can stay,” andrew says, quiet like always. “if you want.” his voice is deep and gravelly, and the words he says scratch an itch somewhere deep inside of you, and the relief is visible on your body. you sink a little further into the sofa, knees falling next to andrew’s, thighs touching.
“if that’s okay with you.” you whisper it, as if saying it too loudly might make the entire idea crack open and fall apart.
you two stay like that for a while. you don’t know when, but andrew swings an arm around your shoulder, and you rest your head against his chest, collapsing into his comfortable grip. you can hear his heart beating, can feel every breath he takes. his hand brushes the top of your shoulder every time you breath, and his other hand is clasped with yours. you watch schools of fish and pods of dolphins, and you think that any other night, you could fall asleep like this.
“andrew?” you ask, still staring straight ahead. you brush your fingers over his knuckles like you had done last night, and you can feel his hand tense under your touch, until it finally relaxes. “do you want to go to bed?”
“yeah, kid,” he says. “let’s go to bed.”
and you’ll be damned if the domesticity doesn’t kick you in the stomach, sucker punch you in the chest and knock all the wind out of you. andrew turns the tv off, puts the remote back in the right place. and then he picks you up, and you make a quiet noise of surprise, underestimating him momentarily. you should know better.
one hand wraps around your legs and the other around your back, bridal-style (fitting, you think), and he sets you down on the creaky bed. you worry, how loud it’ll be and how you’ll have to be quiet but then andrew hovers over you, nothing but a tiny lamp brightening up the room, and you lose your train of thought.
“you sure you wanna do this?” he asks, that rough voice again. like you’ve thought about anything else for the last twenty-four hours. you nod quickly, bringing your hands to his chest, and then his arms, fingers tracing the sinewy veins and thrumming muscles up and down on both sides. his eyes shut while you do it, breaths getting heavy and deep. but you keep going—it’s only fair. you’ve only thought about it a million times.
“does that feel good?” you whisper, and he lets out a quiet, almost painful groan.
“y-yes,” and you smile, fingers moving on their own while you lean in for the kiss you’ve been waiting for.
andrew’s mouth is hot, and his kisses are like fire. as soon as your lips touch, he pins you all the way down, his body weight on top of yours. he kisses you the same way he had held your hand last night, the same way he held you on the couch, like you’ll slip away if he stops for even a second. your lips start to ache, but you moan quietly into his mouth, letting him swallow them while you still stroke his arms. one day, you’ll crawl into his lap and play with his hands until he’s sick of you, but today, you need to feel him.
you can’t do much from your position, but you can wrap your legs around his waist, one hand going towards his chest to pull at his shirt. he takes it off in one motion, yanking the fabric at the back until it comes off, messing up his hair while he pulls it. your free hand goes there, running through his hair again. you use it to steady yourself, gaining leverage while he keeps kissing you like there’s nothing else for him to do. like his life depends on it. he thinks it just might.
“an-andrew,” you get out in gasps, moving your mouth away for a second. “i need to breathe,” you pant, but he doesn’t stop, kisses your cheek and your jaw and buries his face in your neck. you feel the skin there between his lips, then his teeth, and you grip hard on his arm while he keeps going. you want him to keep going, you want to see the marks he leaves tomorrow and every other day. you want everyone to look at you and know that he’s the one who left them. and you think your wish is about to come true.
your fingers let go of his arms and he groans against your skin—there’s no words but you know he didn’t want you to stop. instead you guide them to both sides of his face, staring up at him and then bringing him back in for another kiss. you think you’d be perfectly content to do this forever, that you could spend hours, days, weeks in bed kissing andrew cody. that you’d be stupid to ever leave this bed, leave this house, when there’s a man here who kisses you like each touch of your lips is a prayer, like he’s here to worship.
he’s not hesitant anymore, not wondering if you’re going to pull away and walk out and ask to pretend this never happened. you keep your hands on his face, and then work down to his jaw and neck, clasping your arms around to keep him in place.
and his mind is empty. he thinks he should know what to do with you, with your labile body flush against his, all the things he’s been thinking about for the last months, if not at least what he was thinking since this morning. you’re still in your little dress, one of the thin straps fallen over your shoulder and dangling on the skin of your upper arm. he pulls away and you whine, another noise he wishes he could capture somehow. it’s a melody, one he wants to keep hearing.
you wish he hadn’t stopped the kiss, and you expect him to lean right back in after you both catch your breath, but he doesn’t. andrew’s hovering over you, eyes fixated on your shoulder, staring intently at the strap of your dress.
“andrew?” you whisper, the hand on his neck rubbing the tense skin there, wondering if you could get your kiss back. “is something wrong?”
his lovely eyes flicker up to you, staring while you swallow and wait patiently. maybe you’d been too eager, maybe he was having regrets—after all, you’re the nanny and he’s the dad and maybe you’d been too presumptuous in assuming that he wanted you as badly as you wanted him—
“no. nothing’s wrong.” you sigh a tiny breath of relief, it comes out before you even notice. but andrew is nothing if not perceptive, and he wraps his hand around your back and lays you back on his bed.
“why did you stop?” you question, flustered and embarrassed as the words come out, sounding like a spoiled child. but you suppose you had been spoiled these last few hours, getting everything you wanted—his hot touch, breathless kisses, the ability to finally see what the veins on his arms feel like under your palm.
he doesn’t answer your question, just flicks his eyes back to your shoulder. and then he leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the end of your collarbone, tracing more kisses down through the length of your shoulder, stopping when he reaches the skimpy cotton of your dress. you take deep breaths, watching it happen in front of you. he repeats the same with the other side, pulls the strap down like he’s unfolding a gift, kisses your skin like you’re his present. and you think you are.
there’s nothing between you two except your thin dress, and you pull on it eagerly, trying to get it off, when his hands come and stop on top of yours.
“you’ll rip it,” andrew says, fingers going towards the zipper in the back, undoing it slowly.
“i don’t care,” breathless, eager, unable to wait even another minute to get what you want. he pulls the zipper all the down, your dress falling off as your shrug out of it.
and you want another kiss, you want his touch, you want something, anything—but all you get is andrew staring at your naked body. and you think somehow this is worse than anything else, anticipation burning in your belly painfully. your thighs feel sticky and sore and your underwear is soaked through. and all he’s done is kiss you.
“you’re perfect,” he says quietly, and you feel your entire face burn hot. you don’t think you’ve ever felt like this before—and you know how andrew is. he doesn’t lie, he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.
you tilt your head up, pressing your lips to his for a moment, a soft kiss in contrast to the ones from earlier.
“so are you,” and you kiss him again, smiling against his mouth. he feels it, though he doesn’t smile back. and when he pulls away, he looks down at you, naked and willing in his bed, smiling up at him and telling him he’s perfect, when you don’t even know half the monster he is. “you are,” you repeat, watching andrew’s eyes as he thinks a million thoughts in his head, carries a million burdens on his shoulders. “even if you don’t believe me. i think you’re perfect.”
you feel cheesy saying it, though you know there isn’t another man in the world who needs to hear it more. you can hear him make a noise of protest, like he doesn’t think you mean it, and incredibly desperate for him to believe you, you sit up.
your hands go to sturdy shoulders while you try to get him to move, until he’s sitting back against the headboard and you can crawl onto his lap. he’s silent, watching you as you do it, exposed body flush against his skin, and yet, you don’t feel scared. you don’t feel embarrassed, or worried. you just want to make him feel good.
you start with a kiss to his jaw. andrew’s body tenses under yours, the slightest bit of contact making him groan and buck up, his hands tight on the soft skin of your waist to keep you both steady. you work your way down to his neck, pressing kisses everywhere in your path.
“do you want to know what i’ve thought about you?” you ask, though you don’t wait for an answer. you kiss down his chest, stopping at the strong muscles of his chest and the old bruises and scars that cover some of them. “i thought that you’re so good at taking care of your family.” you move down to his abs, more kisses, hearing more noises from andrew that you never would have thought he would make for you. he takes shuddering breaths, not replying to you but grunting from pleasure while you keep going. “i thought that you’re so good to me. that i don’t have to worry since i know i can always come to you.” you think of your car and the money he gives you and how you woke up in bed despite falling asleep on the couch.
finally you make your way to the waistband of his jeans, undoing the belt with surprisingly steady hands. he reaches down, his hands covering yours for a moment, but you stare up at him with your glassy eyes, not even pulling the entire belt off, just enough to get you what you need—what you want. and then you undo his zipper, tug down his boxers, and take his girthy length into your hand, stroking up and down while still staring up at him.
“can i take care of you, andrew?” and you don’t realize how it must sound to him, his head thudding back onto the pillow. you press a gentle kiss to his leaking tip, both hands wrapped around his dick and stroking while you wait for your answer.
“y-yes, yes-” and you don’t wait any longer, taking as much of andrew into your mouth as you can fit. you drive your mouth up and down, your hands twisting around the base, everything wet and warm and sticky from your spit. and you think you would do this forever, that you would do this everyday if you could hear the noises he makes and how his body takes the pleasure you give him. you gag around him, feeling his hand snake into your hair, pulling you off gently. you smile up at him, though you’re sure you look like a mess, hot tears running down your cheeks and lips shiny and wet.
but you don’t stop—licking up and down until you bring him back into your mouth. you can feel how embarrassingly wet you are right now, can feel yourself leaking onto your thighs and the sheets, wanting friction as badly as you wanted to make andrew feel good right now. and then you hear it—andrew’s moan, louder than any of the other noises and full and from the chest. he bucks up into your mouth and you take it, ready to hear what he sounds like when he finishes, when he pulls you off of him.
“andrew—” you whine, as though you were the one about to come. he pulls you up, naked bodies pushed against each other, and kisses you until you feel light-headed.
“not until you do,” he murmurs, and you feel dizzy all over again.
“but i’m not done,” still eager to kiss the rest of his body and tell him how good he is, until he starts to believe you. you wrangle out of his loose grip, knowing full well if he wanted to stop, he could have. he could pin you down and do whatever he wanted to you and you wouldn’t be able to fight him, a thought that makes you feel like you’re going to faint. but you resume quickly, starting at his shoulders—stopping to admire all the sunspots spattered there—and starting your journey again, working down his bicep and to his freckled forearm, the ones you stared at whenever the opportunity presented itself, the one you thought about all the time.
andrew doesn’t know about that, and you’re not sure you can bear to tell him. it feels too revealing, despite how you’re naked on top of him, your breasts pressed against him and wet pussy on top of his hard, leaking dick. but sure—that’s what you get nervous about.
you stop and trace all the veins with your fingers, feeling him pulse underneath you, repeating on both sides. he’s got his head tilted back, soft groans filling the empty space between you as you keep going. if they’re this sensitive for him, you can only imagine what it would feel like for you, especially the one leading down to the middle of his wrist—and then the words slip out before you can realize you had said them out loud.
your face goes hot again. he looks up at you a little confused, and you have to stop yourself from collapsing and burying your face into the pillow next to you.
“andrew?” you ask, shy and embarrassed and yet not stopping yourself at all.
“you… you like my arms?” he says, and you feel your face heat up.
but so many things have happened already that you couldn’t have even dreamt about twenty-four hours ago, so you think it’s worth a shot. (that’s a lie. you have dreamt about this, so many times that you’ve woken up in your bed covered in a cold sweat, that you’ve burned through a vibrator and ruined pillows imagining what it would be like to rub yourself against his veiny arms. you guess you’re about to find out).
your fingers trace the length of them again.
“i like everything about you,” you say quietly, understanding just how silly you sound. “but we don’t have to do anything.” you try to cover your tracts, worried you’ve just messed up the incredible time you’ve been having so far littering his body with kisses and feeling butterflies in your cunt from the fact that andrew will be inside of you soon.
“how would you-” andrew starts, and you watch him carefully as he gets out the next few words. “do it? how?” and it’s just cut and dry way he speaks, though it’s really going to your head (and other places) right now.
“well, i-”
“show me.” oh.
you feel yourself pulse and throb in response to his words. even below you, you can still feel how hard andrew is. you try to start positioning yourself, but you must be moving too slowly for him, and you feel his hand on your ass, grabbing you and pushing you up to his chest, face to face. he lays his arm next to you, watching your naked body as you try to balance yourself between it, his free arm on your hip, keeping you steady.
when you lower yourself, just an inch or two, just until you feel the ridge of his forearm and you can decide what to do after realizing that you are, in fact, doing this, andrew curses under his breath.
“fuck, you’re so wet.” he can feel it. feel you, on his arm, leaking, for him. you take a deep breath, pressing your hands against his chest to keep your balance, moving your hips up and down slowly. and your eyes flutter shut because fuck, if it isn’t better than every fantasy you’ve ever had.
you hadn’t known that your pathetic attempts to recreate this at home would have never lived up to the real thing, and now you realize you’ll never be able to go back to anything else but andrew, that no one else could make you feel this way. months of pent-up desire leave your body as you rock yourself against him, finally getting the stimulation you’ve been craving.
when you open your eyes, just for a second, you see andrew, his eyes glued to where your pussy meets his arm, his breaths heavy and deep, like he wouldn’t look away from the sight before him for anything.
and then you feel the veins rub against your clit, and your eyes roll back into your head. you keep going, trying to muffle your moans and sighs, but you can’t get the image out of your head—andrew staring at you, like he wanted this as much as you’ve wanted it, like he needs to see you cum like this. you start going faster, the friction and the slide from your juices making it easier and the veins rubbing at you just the right way—
he leans in, putting one of your peaked nipples into his mouth, flicking his tongue against it, before letting go and repeating the same with the other one. but it’s really when andrew starts talking that you’re pulled over the edge, his hand hot on your back.
“please,” he says, and you feel yourself falling into it, hanging onto every raspy word, so much better than you could have ever dreamed, “-i-i need you to cum for me. i need to feel you, i need to see it, please-”
and you do. you always listen to andrew, all the white-hot tension wound up in your belly releasing, flooding your entire body with the relief you’ve been wanting all night. your body tightens up, stopping, but he moves you with the huge hand on your hip, makes you rub on him all through it, pulling your body like you’re a toy for him.
your mind is empty while your toes curl and uncurl, thighs aching and sore in this position. andrew ushers you towards him, and you collapse on his chest, heaving and sweaty and tired—and the realization hits you that he hasn’t even been inside of you yet.
he kisses you while he has you trapped in his arms, your eyes shut as you breathe him in, moan into his mouth and let him swallow it.
“y-your arm,” you get out, realizing you’re not speaking in coherent sentences. “i’m sorry-”
“why?” he asks, and you shut up instantly. “didn’t know you liked them that much.”
he laughs quietly, a sound you have only heard a few times. you laugh against his chest for a moment, before pulling him in for another kiss. this time, it deepens, and he gets you on your back in front of him before he pulls away. you stare up at him, mind empty and chest heaving, seeing how his eyes stay on your tits, and you reach up, putting your hands on his chest while he hovers over you.
“it might hurt,” he says, and you feel your entire body tighten, your walls clench at his words. there’s nothing but truth behind his statement—it’s not meant to be arrogant or boastful, he’s warning you. it’s going to hurt, you know it is—you could barely fit half of him in your mouth and it took you both hands to be able to comfortably stroke him.
but the way he says it elicits a fire in you, and suddenly you need him now, no matter how much it hurts.
“i don’t care, andrew, please,” you beg, staring up at him. he still hovers, licking his lips and staring at your how tits bounce while you beg him to fuck you—a thought that he cannot process, even with you splayed out in front of him. he brings his arms out, fingers teasing your sensitive nipples until you’re covering your own mouth to avoid being too loud and you think you’re going to black out. (even in the dim light you can see the shine on his forearm from you, and the memory of it takes over your mind like a twister.)
“i have to stretch you out first.” the words possess your body like a demon. andrew takes your knees and spreads them apart, and no matter how hard you try to close them, you can’t compete against him. when he slides in one huge finger, your eyes roll back. he slips in so easily, the noise is obscene. the second finger goes in just as quickly, but there’s more resistance. two of his fingers are at least three of yours (if not more, you think, and then you want to faint again). the stretch is delicious, your pulsing walls realizing that this has been what you’ve been craving all along. that no toys or pillows or fingers of your own could ever compare.
when he slips a third finger in, he doesn’t change the pace. just keeps pushing them in and out of you like you’re a toy he’s testing the limits with, seeing how much you can take before you break. there’s no instructions for you besides to sit back and take it—and your toes curl and your head spins at how good he feels. the stretch hurts, but you want it so badly, you hear yourself crying out and saying incoherent things. you think you see andrew smile from where he is, watching your cunt suck his fingers in, his entire hand coated in your juices.
and when he hovers over you, bringing his tip to your entrance and prodding against you for a moment, you think you’re in heaven. he’s so flushed, tips of ears and his cheeks pink, sweat coating his body, just like yours. you can only imagine how hard he is, how you’ll get to feel how hard he is soon enough. his eyes stay at your pussy, pushing in, just barely, but you need more. you bring your hands to his arms, holding onto him while he slides in, and when you feel him push all the way in—so much bigger than you could have imagined, three of his fingers is nothing compared to this, nothing, nothing, nothing—he’s on top of you and kissing you.
whatever noises you make are tuned out—your ears are ringing and you can’t hear anything besides andrew’s grunts and moans as they come into your mouth. you keep kissing him, pulling on his lower lip and feeling his tongue on yours, but your entire body goes slack when he starts on a brutal pace, pulling all the way out and slamming into you. the bed is creaky, and the only noise besides it is the obscene one—the squelch of your soaking wet cunt taking andrew all the way, the repetitive slap of his skin meeting yours. you feel everything—the pressure of his hands while he holds you incredibly tightly, the fullness in your cunt that makes it feel like you can’t breathe.
and then andrew kisses your lips and makes a noise that makes you leak even more, and you know you’ll be just fine.
“i-i want-” he starts, and you feel him slow down the pace slightly.
“please, andrew,” you beg, and he resumes, fucking into you with an intensity that reminds you how badly he wants you, how long he’s wanted this. it reminds you of every time you caught him staring, every time you smiled at him wondering what he was thinking. and now you think you know—maybe he was thinking about something like this.
“i want another one,” he says into the skin of your neck, feeling him lick the sweat there and kiss the skin. “i want to feel it while i’m inside-” and god if you can’t comply. you want to do every single thing he tells you for the rest of your life, you don’t want to make another decision without andrew cody.
he changes the position, pulling out of you for a second and making you whine again. (spoiled, you think, he’s spoiled me for anyone else forever.) he holds both of your knees up and spreads them wide and wraps your arms around them, keeping them in place. and then he slides back inside of you in one swift movement, making your eyelids flutter shut. he doesn’t get right on top of you, leaving space between you that makes it impossible to lean in for a kiss, and you keep whining, impossibly and irrationally angry that you can’t kiss him, wondering why he wants you like this, when you feel his fingers circle your clit slowly—then quickly.
your head falls back onto the pillow. andrew can feel you pulsing around him, walls clenching every time he rubs your sensitive clit, and that’s what he wants, that’s what he needs, wants to feel you cum around his dick and squeeze him even tighter than you are right now. wants to see how you look completely fucked out, wants to see if you can give him a third. (he’ll get it, he decides, later. he’ll give you a chance to breathe, get you water after this. all the things he would do to take care of you, just like how you deserve, how a husband would take care of his wife.)
because at the end of the day, isn’t that what you two basically already are? you couldn’t be a girlfriend, because you have to get comfortable around a girlfriend.
no, he thinks, watching your fucked-out, flushed body take him like you were made for it. you already know him, know what he likes and doesn’t like, know how to make him feel good like you had been inside of his head already. you have been inside. you’re all he thinks about. that’s a wife, that is something that is forever, what the two of you have.
he doesn’t realize how hard he’s going, how fast, or how you’ve been squealing with your entire body tensing while he was stuck in his thoughts about you. this time when you finish, it explodes through you, the electric current staring from your core and spreading to every finger and toe. you jolt, legs shaking and head heavy, the after effect rolling through you while andrew keeps fucking you, keeps going even though he should probably stop. you’re incoherent, writhing and crying and feeling completely numb and like your entire body is burning all at once.
and when you blink open your watery eyes at andrew, smile sweetly and reach out for a kiss, one that he happily gives you, you say it quietly.
“i love you, andrew.” and you feel his thrusts stutter, his body weight almost collapsing on you. you feel andrew cum, feel it filling you up while you listen to his quiet moans and run your hands over his tense muscles, saying sweet things that he can barely understand in this state.
he rolls over minutes later, not pulling out until you were done kissing him. the room is filled with nothing but your heavy breaths. you need a shower, and you need to sleep.
you curl up on andrew’s chest like you had been on the couch what felt like a lifetime ago. you play with his fingers and he runs his other hand up and down the expanse of your arm. you can hear birds outside—and you know you need to get up soon, but you can’t find any words.
“you think that was enough?” andrew asks, and you look up at him with a confused expression. he looks at you with so much sincerity you feel like crying. your andrew.
“what do you mean?” you ask quietly, still not sure what he’s even talking about. your head is spinning and your eyes are tired—every part of you is tired.
“we can go again after you get some sleep. it might take more than once.”
“andrew?”
“you don’t have to worry about it. i’ll figure it out. i won’t stop until i put a baby in you.”
Description: New city, new hospital, new job. You give yourself one last day to be free before your first shift, and happy hour ends with a stranger on your bed. The real problem starts the next morning, when he shows up in the same ER answering to “Dr. Abbot.”
Or, Meredith Grey sleeps with Derek Shepherd the night before her first day, but make it The Pitt ✨
Tags/warnings: second year resident fem!reader, smut, sleeping with the boss (?), porn with plot, Jack talk ‘em through it Abbot, clit stim, oral m receiving, p in v, hotel sex. ER cameos, mentions of a minor head injury, and banter.
Note: New man who disss 🤭 This one’s dedicated to my dear @nexxen24, who got me into The Pitt, and also gave me the idea for this lol. Enjoy! 🤍
Masterlist
And I could see you being my addiction
You can see me as a secret mission
Jack Abbot needed something sweet.
That was the excuse he gave himself today, anyway. The truth was, he found himself at the hotel bar a few blocks from the hospital more often than not, because it was quite dark, even in daytime. Dark enough that he could sit at the corner of the long counter and just exist for a couple of hours.
Sometimes he came for a beer. Sometimes a sandwich. Sometimes just to swap stories with the bartender until it was time to go back to real life and drown himself in someone else’s blood.
Today, he came for a very specific thing: Chocolate cake. A slice of expensive, moist, and obscenely sweet cake. He was sure his imminent descent to madness was the root cause of these…cravings. Girl whatever.
He slid onto his usual stool at the far end of the bar, in a black shirt, and some joggers, badge and scrubs stuffed away in his backpack.
He looked up at the bartender, but it wasn’t his usual guy. Instead, a girl with the darkest hair in a ponytail, walked up to him with a tired expression. There was a small white pin that said ‘Lisa– TRAINEE’ clipped to her uniform.
“Evening, sir,” she greeted.
“Afternoon, and just Jack, please,” he corrected with a small smile, glancing at the fancy clock on the wall. 4:43 pm. He still had a few hours off duty.
“Oh yeah–sorry! I get a little lost in here sometimes. Ugh, the only thing getting me through this shift is knowing I’m off tomorrow for the PittFest,” she said, making him chuckle.
“Trust me, I get it. I’m also looking for something to help me get through mine,” he shrugged. “Festivals are not my thing, though. I’ll leave that to the ones with healthy knees.”
“Mm, that’s fair,” she said, chuckling back. “So what can I get for you, ‘just Jack’? Gin? Old fashioned?”
“No drinks, but can I get a slice of that infamous chocolate cake?”
The girl looked at him like she wasn’t necessarily expecting that, but you know what? Hell yes, old guy.
“Sure.”
She walked round the bar, to a discreet door that led toward the kitchen, and asked for the cake to be served before stepping back to the bar again.
“Thank you, Lisa,” Jack smiled, finally letting his shoulders loosen.
You needed a stress reliever.
You weren’t stressed now, but you knew that in less than 24 hours it would become your new normal…again. You are meant to start your first shift at PTMC as a second year resident tomorrow.
New city, new program, and still…no apartment. But at least your hotel room was nice and ready for you to make it an early night, slightly tipsy and relaxed for your last blissful hours of freedom. Which is why at four something, you decide you’re going to treat yourself to be first in line for the hotel’s happy hour like the responsible adult you are.
The hotel lounge is large and dimly lit. A couple takes one of the single couches, curled into each other with matching martinis. The rest of the space is almost empty, aside from–
Wait. That man is cute. Wait again. You have to do a double take.
An attractive–no, very attractive man is sitting at the far corner of the long bar, waiting for his order. Simple outfit, camo backpack resting by his feet. He looks a little worn to be honest, but then again, don’t we all?
Huh. Guess someone beat you to happy hour.
You take the opposite corner, leaving about six empty stools between you, when the bartender approaches you.
“Afternoon, Miss.”
“Hi, Lisa,” you smile. “I don’t really know what cocktail to get. Can I just get whatever your favorite is?”
“Oh–yeah I can do that,” she shrugs with a smile, turning back to her inner counter to mix the drink.
Your phone vibrates in your pocket so you pull it out, checking the payment notification from the guy who’s buying the festival tickets you’re selling. You text him to confirm he has to pick them up at the hospital tomorrow, hoping you get a spare minute to walk out the ER, when someone walks out a hidden kitchen door and slides a plate in front of you.
“Chocolate cake,” the guy announces politely, but before you could even say that’s not yours, he turned around and disappeared into the kitchen again. You shrug, turning to the bartender who’s handing a drink to the man you saw when you came in.
“I didn’t order this,” you both say at the same time.
His head snaps toward your voice, and your eyes meet across the row of empty stools. He sees the generous slice in front of you, and with a not so subtle up and down look at you, a smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. Something flutters in your chest, so you break eye contact first, dropping your gaze to your phone and pretending to read another message.
Come on, play it cool.
“No drinks for me, Lisa. Remember?” you hear him say playfully, turning back to the counter.
“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” she rushes out, reaching for the drink in front of him. “I’ll switch them right now, I–”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, stopping her by wrapping his hand around the glass. “I got it.”
Your thumbs froze over your phone. He got it?
From the corner of your eye, you see him stand up, and duck down to scoop up his backpack. Your heartbeat does something very stupid as you try very hard not to stare while he walks in your direction. Okay. Okay. This is fine. Silver fox is walking toward you. You are not freaking out. You are a doctor, you have seen actual organs on tables. You can handle an older guy with pretty eyes.
He slides easily onto the stool right next to you, setting the glass down with a soft clink. Fuck. Of course he smells good. You have no choice but to look at him properly this time, and up close, he’s even more handsome. Fluffy, wavy grey hair, with matching stubble (makes you wonder if the carpet matches too) and a glint of humor in his eyes that you know is trouble.
“I believe this is yours,” he says, nudging the cocktail close to where you’re still holding your phone for dear life.
“Then I believe this is yours,” you say, setting your phone with a smile and sliding the plate toward him.
He narrows his eyes playfully, looking between you and the cake. “Tell you what.” He leans in, and nudges it closer so it sits between the both of you. “I don’t mind sharing…do you?”
Oh. Okay. So that’s where this is going.
“I don’t mind a lot of things,” you tilt your head, leaning one elbow on the bar, deciding to match that dangerous glint in his eyes with your own. His smirk grows before turning to the bartender again.
“Can we get another spoon, please?”
“Oh, sure. Here,” she says, handing it over.
He takes it with a quiet ‘thank you’, then holds it up in front of you like an offering.
“I’m Jack, by the way. Don’t think I heard your name.”
You let out a small chuckle as you take the spoon, the tension in your shoulders loosening a little under his charming gaze. You tell him your name, his smile softening when he repeats it back to you.
“Nice to meet you, thanks for sharing my cake,” he says, finally digging his spoon into it.
“Thanks for bringing me my drink,” you reply, reaching for the glass. You definitely need some buzz if you intend to survive this interaction. “I guess we’re even now, Jack.”
“Not yet,” he says, getting the first bite of cake. He hums in delight, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “But we’re getting there.”
You divert your gaze to your phone once again, heat blooming your cheeks. He smiles triumphantly at your reaction, deciding to push you a little more.
“Well, aren’t you going to try it?”
You bite back a smile, nodding as you dig your spoon into the cake. He watches your every move like a hawk as you lift it towards your mouth. You mirror his hum when you taste it, instinctively running your tongue over your lips to get the sugary remains off.
Jack shifts in his seat.
“Great, isn’t it?” He says, “tried it once and never was the same.”
“Would’ve never thought to try it, to be honest,” you chuckle.
“Me neither, guess I just needed something sweet today,” he shrugs, still too calm and too smug, still making your heart rate go crazy without even trying. “Looks like I came to the right place, though,” he winks, digging his spoon again for another bite.
Yeah, no. He’s definitely trying.
“So, what brings you here to the land of cake instead of…I don’t know, a whiskey?” You ask, playing with the straw of your drink.
“No drinks for me,” he shrugs.
“Designated driver?”
“Designated something, I have to leave at seven,” he glances at the clock again. You follow his gaze, and see it’s just after five.
“What, you gotta catch a flight or something?”
“Yeah, something like that,” he grins.
His answers are vague, intentionally so. You recognize it instantly because you use that tone too about your own job, when you don’t feel like opening that door with a stranger.
“What about you? Are you celebrating something?” He asks, and you swear with every question he shifts a little closer to you.
“I’m making it an early night, tomorrow’s a big day,” you nod with a smile.
“Oh yeah? Festival?” he asks, you can feel the genuine curiosity under the smug tone.
“I wish,” you shrug. “I got tickets but something important came up, so…here I am, first in line for happy hour instead. Making the most of that hotel lifestyle,” you lift your glass, he lifts his spoon with a chuckle.
“You’re staying here?”
“Mmhm. It’s actually pretty great. Nice room, silk bed sheets, the works.”
“Decent cake, too,” he adds mocking seriousness. “Too bad someone stole it.”
“Excuse me,” you protest playfully, “If it wasn’t for me you’d still be looking sad and lonely at the end of the bar.”
He laughs, catching the attention of Lisa who’s clearly not trying to eavesdrop. “Yeah. I’m glad I’m not, then,” he says quietly. “Company’s good.”
From there, the conversation just flows.
At some point, you realize you’ve barely touched your cocktail, or the cake between you. You can feel the tension building with every shared look. The way his gaze dips to your mouth when you bring the spoon to your lips. The way your knee kept drifting closer to his, the faintest brush when either of you shifts on your stool.
And that warm, electric buzz in your veins has very little to do with sugar or alcohol.
Your eyes flick instinctively toward the clock on the wall when you laugh about something he said, and see it’s a few minutes past six already.
This is the moment where you could let him go, say goodnight and head upstairs alone. But you feel like you haven’t gotten your fix yet. That good moment of pure bliss before you go back into charts and monitors and reminding yourself you love the career you chose.
Some people do drugs or caffeine, or apparently, sugar as a stress reliever. The poison you chose today was supposed to be alcohol, but maybe you have something better sitting right next to you.
Huh. Sometimes dick does the trick too.
You turn your gaze back to him, lashes half lowered and innocent, catching him watching you already.
“It’s getting late,” you say casually, “but I think you still have time to walk me to my room.”
For a split second, the words just hang in the air. Clear and irreversible. His expression doesn’t change much, because he’s already been giving you bedroom eyes this whole time, but you notice the way his jaw tightens slightly, before that unmistakable smirk reappears.
“Yeah, I think I do,” he rasps.
Cake be damned. He’s got a sweeter dessert right in front of him.
He straightens on his stool and lifts a hand, catching Lisa's attention with a small wave, then reaches for his wallet. You press the button to pay with your phone, but he puts his hand over yours to stop you.
“Don’t worry, I got it,” he says, sliding his card over the counter before you can protest.
You’re not sure what exactly made your heart almost jump out of your chest again, the gesture or his electric touch on your skin. Maybe both.
You distract yourself by looking at your glass, still more than half full.
“Thank you. I didn’t even finish it…”
“I don’t think we’re going to miss it,” he looks at it, then back at you amused.
Your face warms–again–at the implication.
The girl gives him the receipt, and the way his arm flexes on the counter when he signs it with a quiet ‘thank you’, makes your thighs rub in anticipation. He slips a final twenty over the receipt as a tip, before turning fully toward you. He stands up first, grabbing his backpack with one hand, and helping you out of your stool with the other. His hand finds its way to your lower back, settling there as you walk.
“Lead the way, sweetheart.”
By 6:10 pm the door of your room clicks shut.
Jack drops his backpack somewhere to the side, one hand finds your waist, the other cups the back of your head before he pins you against the wall, and his mouth finds yours in an instant.
You gasp into the kiss, immediately grabbing him by his white shirt, dragging him impossibly closer. His gray stubble scrapes your skin in the best possible way, burning along your jaw as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss. You slide one hand up to his hair, it’s softer than it looks, and he makes a low sound when you tug it just enough to angle his mouth where you want it.
His hands slip under the hem of your shirt, rough palms spreading over your back. You can’t keep your hands to yourself either when you get past his shirt, running them through firm muscle and chest hair. Your hands can’t help but wander around his strong back, nails scraping against his skin when he starts kissing down the line of your jaw, scraping his beard along your throat in a delicious burn.
“Jack…” you breathe, tightening your grip in his hair.
He smiles against your skin, dragging his lips and stubble slowly across your neck, sending sparks all the way down to between your legs. When he sucks a particularly sensitive spot, the sound that slips out of you is embarrassingly close to a whimper.
“I got you,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to tug the hem of your shirt. “Is this okay?”
You nod quickly, and soon enough both of your shirts end up somewhere on the floor. You’re left in your bra, chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath, but it’s hard when his gaze drops to your chest and lingers there.
So you ogle him too.
He’s built like a brick wall. Solid, toned chest dusted with hair, and framed by broad shoulders. And those arms? Oof. God, you can’t wait to feel all that strength he hides under those tired eyes and easy smiles.
He nudges you away from the wall steering you backwards, mouth never leaving yours, until the back of your legs bumps into the base of the bed. He gently guides you to sit on the edge of the mattress. You look up at him, already dazed. His hair is a mess from your fingers, chest rising and falling quickly, that cheeky smile of his still on his face. He reaches for your jeans next, and you lift your hips to help him slide them off. The cool air of the room kisses your skin as he throws them somewhere in the room.
“You’re still too dressed,” you chuckle, left only in your underwear.
“You’re still too desperate,” he jokes, laughing when you gasp and slap his chest weakly. “Hmm. Harder next time, sweetheart.”
You probably shouldn’t have liked that as much as you did, but he seems satisfied with your silence. His hands go to the waistband of his joggers, barely grabbing the elastic when his hands suddenly stop. If you weren’t watching his face, you would've probably missed the way his confident smile faltered for a second.
“Are you okay?,” you ask, straightening up on the bed.
“Yes,” he says quickly, but his hands are still frozen on his hips. “Yeah, I am. I just–”
You notice the way he shifts as if to step away from you, but your body reacts before you can think. “Hey, wait–”
You hook your feet around his calves to stop him from pulling away, but your left foot feels something different than you expected. It’s not the familiar firmness of muscle, but the unmistakable sensation of metal where skin should be. You don’t really need to see it to know what it is.
His camo backpack and the vagueness of his answers suddenly click to you, but Jack is frozen in place, trying to read the expression on your face.
“I’m sorry,” he starts, you figure it’s the script he probably hates having to say but feels obligated to in situations like this. “I should’ve told you before we came up, it’s okay if you don’t want to–”
“Jack,” you cut him off, quickly standing up so you’re pressed against him, before he decides to step back again. You tilt your head back a little, pressing a hand to his chest. “You don’t owe me anything, okay? If I didn’t want this, you’d already be standing shirtless in the hallway,” you chuckle, trying to lighten the mood.
“You don’t…mind?” His hazel eyes scan your face, still trying to find the desertion you’re not giving him.
You can feel his heart racing under your palm, and it almost makes you laugh how the doctor in you wants to inject him with something to fix his tachycardia. Opting for a less aggressive approach, you slide your arms over his shoulders to play with the hair on the back of his neck.
“I don’t mind,” you say, as reassuring as you can. You liked him the second he shared his stupid cake. This? This just adds more to it. “But if you do, we can stop,” you add, slowly pulling away from him but he slides his arm behind your back.
“I don’t want to stop,” he rasps, pressing you tighter to him. The bulge digging against your skin agrees with him.
“Hmm. Then you better hurry, we’re running out of time…” you sing-song, grinding yourself against him.
He breathes out a laugh. Oh, how I love this girl. He halts the movement of your hips, his hands become sure and steady once again as they settle on your waist. He forgets about his pants for a moment, innstead, he decides to focus on you.
“Turn around,” he says, but you don’t move an inch, just blink at the sudden change in his voice. He chuckles, loosening his grip just a little. “Turn around, sweetheart.”
Now you’re the one who needs help stabilizing their heartbeat.
You nod, then do as he says, shifting so your back is to him. He closes the gap immediately, one arm around your shoulder to hold you while the other settles just above the hem of your panties, but he doesn’t slip inside. His hand drifts lower and lower, stopping right over the slick leaking through the fabric, making you gasp.
“There she is,” his pleased voice while he drags teasing circles around your clit–but not really there–makes a chill run down your body. “Thought I lost you for a second there.”
You let your head tip back onto his shoulder, prompting him to apply more pressure, or find the right spot, but he keeps you pinned right where he wants you. He keeps rubbing slowly, still over the fabric, still teasing, coaxing the smallest sounds from you.
“I know you said to hurry, but I gotta take care of you first,” he whispers right in your ear. “Think I can do it this way? Without really touching you?” He barely grazes the base of your clit, dragging his finger back down immediately just to hear you whine again.
“Jack I–fuck.”
He chuckles when the faintest additional pressure makes you squirm, but that's no issue to him, he easily shifts you into the angle he wants. His fingers finally skim higher, now properly rubbing your clit. A moan escapes your lips, the friction of the cotton against your most sensitive spot has you feeling embarrassingly needy, moving your hips to chase more.
“That’s it, right there,” he coos, encouraging you. “How does that feel?”
You make another sound that’s not even close to a word. He chuckles onto your hair, shaking his head but still moving his fingers quicker.
“Talk to me, sweetheart. Feeling good?”
“Yes,” you manage to say between ragged breaths. “Really good.”
“Yeah?” He helps you move just a bit more, pressing his whole palm over your clit, before letting you take over. You start grinding his hand, clinging to his arm for support. “That’s it, just like that. You’re doing great.”
The praise lands harder than it should. You’re used to being talked at, ordered around on chaotic shifts, and occasionally complimented for a good job…but this is different.
You feel the pressure building in your stomach quickly with every buck of your hips, but what makes you see stars is feeling the outline of his hard cock rubbing against your ass with every grind.
“Shitshitshit I’m gonna–” you cry out mid sentence.
“It’s okay, sweetheart let go,” he coaxes, moving his hand faster.
When you finally break in a strangled moan, he stays wrapped around you, his firm body braced behind you so you can learn all your weight back, holding you together while you fall apart. He places a kiss on your shoulder when you shake under his grip, whispering praises you can’t make out as you ride your orgasm out. Jack finally takes his hand away when your clit twitches violently under him, squeezing your ass playfully.
“Breathe,” he reminds you, immediately inhaling and exhaling louder to show you just how. You instinctively match him, effectively grounding yourself. “Good girl.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuck–
“Easy,” he says when he feels you tense again. “It’s okay, you were doing so well. Just breathe.”
Still panting, you tap his arm so he lets you turn around to face him. You meet those devilish eyes again, hazel overtaken by dark pupils, a smirk on his lips as he takes in your flustered appearance.
“You’re really…really bossy, you know that?” You chuckle despite yourself.
“I’ve been told,” he smiles, bringing you in for a peck on your lips. “And I’m about to get more bossy so why don’t you turn around for me again?”
There it is. That fucking tone again. Your mouth falls open, but you can’t bring yourself to say no. If anything, you turn around before he even tells you twice, slapping his arm behind you when you hear him mutter “eager.”
He stirs you toward the bed again, until your knees bump the mattress. You hear the shuffle of his joggers, but it doesn’t sound like he’s taking the leg off, instead letting the fabric fall and pool at his feet. You don’t turn to look, giving him the moment.
The whole thing only makes him feel more devastatingly real.
He leans closer to you, his palm traveling up your spine to gently bend you forward. You follow his guidance, hands sinking into the mattress, ass on full display. You feel his foot nudge your left leg, parting you open for him.
“There,” he says, giving you another playful slap.
Heat rushes to your face again, feeling completely exposed to him even if you’re still covered in your underwear. So, Jack takes this as his chance to finally drag your soaked panties down, slowly, and lets them sit at your feet just like his pants, leaving you just in your bra. He groans at the sight, your soft, glistening pussy dripping and ready just for him.
“God, look at you,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you.
The next thing to land over his pants are his boxers, freeing his heavy, swollen cock into his hand. He lines himself up, dragging just the tip across your wet folds, his pre cum mixing with your slick as he drags it up and down. After more whimpers from you, he pushes only the tip in, and you let out another moan that makes him groan.
“Deep breath for me,” he says, and at this point, you’d do anything he wants.
He makes sure to move with you, timing himself to your inhale. The first roll of his hips makes his cock slowly stretch you open, inch by inch. You gasp, fingers clutching the silk bed sheets. He groans as he watches himself disappear inside you, gripping your ass to help you find the angle he knows will have you seeing stars.
“Fuck me,” he hisses, skin meeting skin when he bottoms out.
“Please…” is all you whisper, he’s thick, hard, buried deep, and the stretch burns in the best way.
And you can’t wait for him to fuck all the stress out of you.
“Shhh, pretty girl. You’re okay,” he coos, slowly dragging out.
You clench around him before he leaves you completely empty, and he curses again, his hips jerking forward as yours slam back to meet him. He huffs a strangled laugh, stopping you by digging his fingers on your waist to take back control.
“There you go. Let me do the work, sweet girl,” he rasps.
The rhythm finds itself, fast and deep, skin slapping against skin, your moans echoing off your hotel room walls. You’re still too sensitive from your previous orgasm, and you can’t stop moaning every time his hips snap against your ass. The bed creaks under you, and the sound of his cock dragging in and out is loud and filthy.
“Relax–fuck, sweetheart. You’re doing so well.”
You try to “relax.” You really do. But the angle, the rough rhythm he coaxes you into, the praises, are a lot. Your legs start to tremble, the effort of holding yourself up becomes a harder task with the pleasure building inside you.
He notices, of course he does. He tightens his grip to hold you better, barely slowing his pace. “Hey, hey, talk to me.”
“My legs…” you choke out in a breathless laugh.
“Yeah, I can see that,” he huffs out a chuckle. “Hold onto the bed, for me,” he instructs. You obey brainlessly, fingers fisting in the covers.
His hand wraps around your right leg first, just behind your knee to lift it, throwing away your panties in the process to make it easier. He places that leg up on the bed, then does the same with the other. The new position pulls another weak sound from you, both knees now on the bed, opening you up to him in a way that makes you miss him inside you. He presses you back into the mattress, not wasting time in pushing himself back in with a harsh thrust.
“There you go, that’s better,” he says, setting his rhythm again. The new angle is more comfortable for him as well, leaning his legs on the bed for support while he pounds into you.
You let the sounds spill out of you, choked off gasps and desperate little sighs. Every one of them seems to go straight to his cock. You can hear it in the quiet curses he mumbles, the way his hands find all the familiar places, your hips, your waist, slipping under your stomach to push down the fabric of your bra so he can watch your boobs bounce with every thrust.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he groans when you start pushing back, chasing more and more. “There you go. Take what you need, sweetheart.”
When your legs start to shake again, this time it’s not from strain, it’s from how fucking close you are.
“Jack–” You squeeze your eyes shut, fingers clawing the sheets, little sounds spilling out of you that you can’t control. It’s too much and not enough at the same time, and your body is about to snap.
“I know,” he says, quickly sensing your overwhelm. “Come here.”
You barely have time to think before his arm loops around your waist, pulling you up from your forearms. You gasp as he lifts you, slamming you back against his chest so you’re half kneeling, half suspended in his hold.
And then…his free hand comes up to cover your eyes. You gasp when your world goes pitch black, narrowing only to the sound of his voice and the feeling of his body behind yours.
“Shh,” he coos near your ear, placing delicate kisses all over your jaw. “Just feel, sweetheart. That’s all you have to do.”
Without sight, everything else slams into focus, the heat of his chest behind you, the roughness of his stubble on your neck, the tight grip of his arm keeping you upright. He starts thrusting again, chasing that sweet spot that makes your head go dizzy.
It’s more than enough now. It’s too much. You feel undone and held together all at once.
And to top it off, he decides now is the time to reach for the clasp of your bra, unhooking it with his free hand to hold you up by cupping your bare breasts. Your fingers reach back blindly, to his hair, his thigh, wherever you can reach. Jack just keeps his sweaty palm over your eyes, shielding you from everything but him.
“Fuck, you’re clenching,” he groans, knowing you’re almost there. “Let go for me, don’t think…just feel.”
You come with a shaky cry, your entire body shuddering in his hold. He keeps fucking you through every helpless little sound, feeling his own release building up.
After a few moments, when he considers your breathing has sort of stabilized, his hand finally slips away from your eyes, caressing the hair sticking to your face as he keeps pounding you from behind, still fast, still deep, but sloppier. You can tell he’s close by the way his cock twitches inside you.
“There you go,” he praises you, even if his breathing is ragged now. “That’s it. You did so good for me–shit–”
As your eyes adjust again, the post nut clarity hits you.
Your fucked out doctor brain freaks out. No protection, you’re very irresponsible, don’t let him. He seems to make the same calculation–pretty strange for a man–because he starts to pull back.
Fuck it.
Before he can deal with it himself, you wriggle out of his grasp to free yourself, and get off the bed. Your jelly legs barely hold you up before you sink to your knees in front of him. From there you get a clear view of all of him, the fact that the carpet does match the drapes, and even the leg he’d been hiding. He instinctively steps back, almost stumbling over the pants pooled over his feet.
“Hey, careful,” you coo, placing one hand on his thigh to nudge him forward, the other wraps around his glistening cock, making him curse. “Let me? Please?”
“Jesus,” he breathes. His hand holds the back of your head, managing a weak smile. “Atta girl, be good to me.”
Jack doesn’t have to tell you twice.
You don’t even have to do much, just a quick pump at the base of his length as you lean forward to place a teasing kiss on his leaking tip, almost sending him right over the edge. The sight alone makes him twitch, he was going to have to cover his own eyes if you kept looking at him like that with his cock on your mouth.
You wrap your lips fully around him with no warning, letting his cock stretch your mouth as you swallow every inch. Every strangled sound he makes encourages you to be as devoted to him as he was with you. Your head bobs up and down, guided by his firm grip on your hair.
“Fuck–you’re gonna kill me–” he chokes out, you take that as your cue to nod at him, mouth too full to tell him to let go. “Okay, that’s…I’m–”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because he’s already finishing inside you. He groans as he spills strings of hot cum on your tongue, fingers tangling in your hair a bit rougher, pushing his hips forward to fuck the last of his orgasm out. You choke just a little, holding onto his thighs, trying to swallow every drop he sends down your throat.
Jack pulls out with a groan when the adrenaline of it passes, dragging his thumb over your lips to wipe the remnants off.
“Pretty girl…” He praises, as you look up at him with swollen lips and glassy eyes.
“Atta boy, you did good for me,” you rasp, making him laugh.
“Come here.” He helps you get on your feet, then back to the bed.
“Thank you,” you mutter, tugging the duvet off to cover your body when you sit down.
He stays quiet as he hauls his joggers back up and finds his shirt somewhere by the door, until he can’t avoid looking at his watch anymore.
“Shit.”
“So…no cuddling?” You chuckle.
“Sorry,” he mutters, even though you both knew this is how your little hotel affair was going to end. He slings his backpack over one shoulder, and walks over to you.
He takes a moment to cup your cheeks, memorizing every feature, and you try to do the same. Your eyes trace every line of his face, the glint that never left his hazel eyes, the gray dust adorning his jaw.
God, he’s so handsome. How are you supposed to forget him?
Jack starts leaning forward, but you meet him halfway, closing the space between you. The goodbye kiss is not rushed like you expected, no, he still takes his time even if he’s gonna be late to wherever he’s headed. He pulls back with a smile, and a small, disbelieving huff of laughter as he licks his lips.
“What?” you ask.
“You taste like cake,” he says, clearly amused, then adds with a little tilt of his head, “and…something else I probably shouldn’t think about on my way out.”
“Oh, just go!” you laugh, shoving him away. “Before you’re late and whoever’s waiting for you files a missing persons report.”
“Yes, ma’am. They will,” he says, lifting his arms up innocently as he walks toward the door. “Good luck tomorrow with your…big day.”
“You too, with your…something,” you smile. God, you’re definitely going to need a good night's sleep after all of this.
He nods, and with a devilish wink, he’s finally gone.
You wake up feeling like you can take on the world.
With a pep on your step, you walk out of the hotel with clear scrubs and an even clearer conscience. Good sex? Check. Good sleep? Check. Daydreaming about the silver fox stranger you’ll never see again? Check check check.
You’re ready to kick ass and save lives.
Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center is just a short walk away, but it gives you enough time to self regulate your emotions before you walk through those doors. You get there early, greet everyone politely and exchange a few words with some nurses before your shift actually starts. For a moment, you almost forget you’re the new kid, and you feel like you’re right where you belong.
You make your way through triage, mentally rehearsing how you’re going to introduce yourself to your attending, when your sneaker slips on something. You don’t know if it’s saline, or water, or spit, all you know is that one second you were walking and the other you’re losing your balance. Your hands desperately find the wall with a smack, saving yourself from landing flat on your ass, but your forehead still hits the edge of a door frame with a sharp little crack.
You see stars for a second there, the same kind you saw yesterday.
“Whoa, hey! Are you okay?” Someone calls.
You groan, but straighten immediately, because what else are you going to do? Sit down and let the tears from your eyes spill? Absolutely not. Not on your first day. You swipe your fingers over your forehead, hissing at the sting, and when you look at your hand there’s the smallest smear of blood.
Perfect.
“I’m fine,” you say quickly. “I’m–”
“Absolutely not, come here.” A woman in black scrubs and a ponytail approaches you, holding your jaw to assess the wound. “I’m Dr. McKay, and you are?”
“I’m okay,” you say, trying to shrug her off. “Really, it was just a slip, it didn’t even hurt. I really need to go meet Dr. Robinavitch–”
“You slammed your head into a door frame, Robby can wait,” McKay says flatly.
You try to protest but she steers you toward one of the small triage rooms right off the ER entrance. You groan as she nudges you to sit on the bed. “I just need a band-aid, it’s just a scra–”
“A scratch, yeah, I heard you. You’ll get your band-aid after I make sure you’re not walking around with a concussion,” she says, then holds a finger up as if to say ‘wait’ and walks to the door, “Perfect learning opportunity, actually.”
Oh no.
“Hey! Santos, Whitaker, Javadi, come here,” she urges more people with scrubs. Great. “Consider this your first patient.”
You consider faking your own death.
All three of them clock your black scrubs and badge, and your bruised ego dies a little more when they realize you’re one of them. McKay just stands next to you like this is science class and you’re the classroom’s skeleton.
“We get all types of patients here. And today…” She pats your shoulder with the back of her hand. “It’s a colleague who discovered the floor is slippery on her very first day.”
Redacted.
“I’m fine,” you repeat. “Really. I just need a band-aid.”
“After we use you for educational purposes, now look up please,” she says, shining a light in your eyes to check your pupils. You resist the urge to slap her hand or lean away. “Headache?”
“No.”
“Any loss of consciousness?”
“You literally saw me since I hit my head,” you say, a little too aggressive, but McKay ignores your tone. “Sorry–no.”
“Nausea? Blurred vision?”
“No. I swear, I’m okay.”
“Alright. Whitaker, you’re up. What are your concerns when someone hits their head?”
“Um…we should ask what caused the fall?” He says, and McKay nods approvingly. He turns to you, “Did you feel dizzy before you slipped? Lightheaded?”
“No. There was just…something on the floor. I didn’t see it and unfortunately I slipped.”
“Good,” McKay says, more to them than to you. “No dizziness, no neuro complaints, no loss of consciousness, minor external injury that doesn’t need stitches.”
“And no reason for a CT,” one of the girls adds.
“Correct, Santos. So we’ll clean it, come on, you’re up.”
Your shoulders drop in the smallest relief. Now you have to survive the rest of the day after this humiliation, but adding unnecessary imaging on your first day would’ve ended you right there and then.
Mckay just smiles at you as Santos gloves on and prepares the stuff she’s gonna use. You look outside the door for a moment, trying to remember the confidence you’d walked in this morning, when a figure walking by catches your eye.
All you see is a flash of broad shoulders in a dark shirt, and a camo backpack slung over one arm. You make eye contact for a brief second as he glances inside casually, before doing a literal double take when he realizes who’s in there. He stops in his tracks, just as your heart stops inside your chest.
For a brief second you think you do need that CT, because there’s no way you’re not hallucinating talk-you-through-it Jack in front of you.
Here. In your ER. Wearing matching uniforms.
Jack, the man you let manhandle you last night–or afternoon?–whatever. The man who covered your eyes and told you to just feel. The man you sent you into orgasm oblivion and then kissed you goodbye tasting cake and himself on his tongue.
No. No way. Absolutely not.
You hiss when Santos presses something wet in your wound, and Jack decides that’s the best moment to step in and cause you a stroke on top of everything.
“Everything okay in here?” he asks casually, looking at you with the same glint in his eyes as yesterday.
You want to die.
“Abbot! Thought you were on your way out,” Mckay beams.
“I was, then I saw you tormenting the new blood. Didn’t want to miss the show,” he gives her a tired grin, shrugging, then looking around the room. “Morning, everyone.”
Javadi just smiles awkwardly, while Whitaker shifts on his feet and nods at him. At least Santos is having a blast enjoying the hell out of your tragic situation.
“Our colleague here decided to introduce her face to the wall,” she chuckles, shutting up when she realizes she only gets an unimpressed look from McKay.
“Hmm. Minor head trauma on the first day…that’s one way to make an entrance,” Jack jokes trying to lighten the mood, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves with a snap. “Mind if I take a look?” he asks you.
You hesitantly shake your head, and Santos barely steps back before he gets between your knees and you have to look up at him, and wow, that’s familiar. His fingers are gentle as he tilts your chin higher, focused on the small scrape by your hairline.
“It’s just a scratch,” you mumble under your breath.
He ignores it, and brings a penlight to your eyes, doing the same little routine Mckay did. Is this what your first day is supposed to be? A tortuous loop?
I might just fake a seizure right now.
“Any reason you might’ve tripped? Blurry vision? Sudden vertigo? Or…any specific memory that made you lose focus?”
It’s the way he drops his voice lower that makes you almost choke on your own spit. That exact same tone. That damn voice in your ear.
“We already asked those, Dr. Abbot. She said she slipped on a wet patch. No dizziness, no other symptoms,” Whitaker, bless his oblivious soul, chimes in.
Jack slowly turns his head to look at him, with an unimpressed stare that clearly says no one asked you to speak, white boy without using a single word.
Before anyone can torture you any further, a blue eyed doctor bursts in.
“McKay! We’re doing rounds.”
“Alright, meet us there once Dr. Abbot is done with you,” she says to you, ushering the others out. “Don’t forget to give her that band-aid she’s so desperate for.”
“I’ll take good care of her,” Jack replies, with an innocent smile.
The audience of your public execution finally leaves. And it’s great! Perfect. Exactly what you wanted: alone time. You don’t realize you’ve been holding onto the gurney for dear life until Jack–or should you call him Dr. Abbot now?–chuckles.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks, amused.
“I don’t know, you’re the doctor here, apparently. So you tell me, how’s my head?” you snap, in a mix of nerves and residual embarrassment.
He grins. Oh he grins like fucking devil. “I don’t have any complaints.”
Heat rushes to your face instantly, and suddenly it’s like you’re back flirting in that bar again, sharing a chocolate cake. You shake those thoughts away, clearing your throat.
“So um…your flight was actually a night shift…in this hospital,” you say.
“Yeah. And your ‘big day’ was starting your first morning in this same ER. Nice upgrade from anonymous hotel guest, I guess.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” he chuckles, but you’re still looking at him skeptically. “Hey–it’s not that bad. People have done worse.”
“Worse than sleeping with an attending?” You say. “Like what–stealing medicine or secretly killing patients?”
“What? No–I hope no one’s doing that” he frowns.
This is the moment you start panicking for real.
“God, Dr. Robinavitch’s gonna kill me or worse,” you gasp. “He’s gonna fire me. Fuck–he’s gonna fire me and this is gonna be over before I even start my shift–“
“Whoa okay, no one’s getting killed or fired today. You just need to get out there, and focus on your work. Alright? Can you do that for me?”
That. Fucking. Tone.
“Stop talking like that!” You whisper shout, knowing nurses could be nearby. “This is my first day, and I already have to convince everyone I’m not a complete disaster. So yes, I can do that for you. Happy? I’d like my band-aid now, please.”
“Okay, okay. You’ll get your band-aid,” he says calmly. “You just have to be more patient.”
You shoot him a glare, but he just smiles, still unbothered. He walks to a cabinet, pulling out a bright pink box of band-aids with a huge “My little pony” printed on it.
“What is that?”
“Best we have in triage,” he shrugs, amused. He looks back inside into the cabinet, before smirking at you. “We got Spongebob too.”
“…My little pony is fine,” you mutter.
“Alright,” he nods, invading your space again. “Look up for me.”
You’re grateful you’re not hooked to a heart monitor. You close your eyes, take a deep breath, and tilt your head up.
“Almost done, you’re doing great,” he drawls, smoothing the stupid band-aid over your life threatening injury with ridiculous care. “There,” Jack says, finally stepping back. “All done. You did so good for m–”
You snap upright from the bed so fast you almost cause yourself another injury by bumping into his big ass head.
“I have to go,” you blurt, already making your way to the door. “Thank you, Dr. Abbot. I hope we never see each other again.”
He peels off his gloves with a laugh, tossing them into the bin. This is the most entertaining thing that’s happened to him all week.
“No promises, doc,” he winks, “PTMC is not that big.”
You don’t give him the satisfaction of a response or even to see the panic on your face. You practically launch yourself into the hallway, and start speed walking toward the ED with a My little pony bandaid on your forehead.
Best sex of your life.
Worst coincidence of your career.
And yet…you can’t wait till you see him again.
Thank you so much for reading 🤍 feedback is always appreciated ✨
Description: When Clark gets poisoned with sex pollen, he tries everything in his power to stay away from you. Until he ends up crashing into your living room, and you have a god on his knees, with your name in his mouth and your body at his will.
Tags/warnings: smut, established relationship, clark is sorry, he gets freaky with his powers, consent kink, breaks you and worships you at the same time, begging, praising, hovering (yes hovering👀), so much dirty talk (he’s feral but sweet), overstimulation.
Note: Guess who watched superman today and got a new man to obsess about🙂↕️ honestly I don’t even know what took over me when I wrote this but all I can say is go ahead, live your best life and enjoy the sweet filth 🫶🏼
archive / masterlist
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You wake up with a loud crash coming from your living room. You jolt upright from your bed as you hear glass shatter, sprinting toward the noise. You curse as your body, only covered by Clark’s giant shirt, gets hit with the crisp midnight air as wind gushed through your apartment like a hurricane just passed by.
A figure stood where your glass door used to be, leaning weakly on what was left of the frame. You turned on the lamp next to you, illuminating your boyfriend’s stumbling body.
“Clark!?” you exclaim, confused by his abrupt arrival.
He doesn’t look up, just stands there against the frame, chest heaving, fists clenched. Like he is barely holding himself together.
Worry washes your features, something must be really wrong. You start making way over to him, but as soon as you take a step forward he puts a warning hand in front of him.
“Stop! Don’t move,” his deep voice comes out strangled, like he’s been screaming for hours. “Don’t come closer… please. Just–just stay there.”
He keeps his hand up to stop you, panting heavily as he swallowed to try to soothe his dry throat. He slowly looks up, and groans when he meets your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, dry lips parted, his breath ragged like he’s been flying across the globe. His usually perfect wavy hair is now flat, messy, sticking to his sweaty forehead.
“I didn’t want to come here,” he whines. “I–I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
“What happened to you?” You ask from your spot, fighting the urge to run to his aid.
“I’ve been infected,” he chokes out, and your brows furrow more. “Some kind of … alien pollen. It hit me out there. I flew straight into it and fuck ... It’s messing with my head, my body, I…”
He suddenly turns away, pacing in small frantic circles on your balcony like he’s trying to shake something off. His hands tremble as he fights to not make eye contact, like just looking at you hurts.
“What do you need? D-do you have the antidote?” You ask, scared as hell. He never acts like this.
He just shakes his head first with a bitter laugh, only to nod frantically afterwards.
God, if only you knew.
“I tried to wait it out,” he groans, fists now in his hair. “I swear I did, my love, I locked myself away for hours …tried to fly as far as I could but I kept turning back because I could smell you.”
“I can smell you, sweetheart. Even from across the city …I can hear you breathing…your heartbeat. I didn’t want to hurt you but right now I have you in front of me and I can see–dammit…I’m sorry–“
He stumbles backwards like he’s ashamed of himself, like he can’t even look at you.
“You know I can’t turn it off,” he whispers. “I never mean to look, I swear, but I can see you now. Everything.”
Of course you know what he means. You know he can see right past his giant shirt covering your body. And the guilt on his face is gutting. He looks like he’s trying to claw his own powers out of his skin.
“Clark… it’s okay. You don’t have to explain.” You step forward slowly. “It’s not like we haven’t–“
“No–you don’t get it!” He snaps, his voice booming through your walls so loud you were sure everyone on the building heard him. He instantly feels worse with the way you flinched to his volume. “S-sorry darling… you just don’t get it…you have no idea what it’s like to smell you and know how soft you are, how warm. My instincts are going crazy. I just need to be inside you…I need to touch you, mark you, fill you up until I can’t think straight,” he just rambles, eyes raking through your body.
You take a deep breath, his words making you clench your thighs together and he noticed. Of course you’ve had sex before. You know what he sounds like when he’s needy. But this? This is feral. You’ve never seen him like this.
But you’re willing to do anything to help him.
Always.
“Clark…you don’t even have to ask,” you speak softly, your own eyes darkening with desire.
He shakes his head. You don’t even understand the amount of restraint he’s having right now.
“I do…I always do. Especially now. Because I’m not going to touch you like I should. I’m not going to make it about you. I’m going to use you. Because you’re the only one who can fix me…you are the antidote and I hate it. I hate that I can’t even think straight unless I’m inside you…I need you so bad, darling, I’m shaking–” He cries, actual tears come out of his desperate eyes.
You’re watching a god fall apart in front of you.
Because of you.
You finally cross the space left, and he doesn’t stop you this time. You grab his face between your hands, and kiss him without hesitation. His arms immediately cling to your frame, cold hands slipping under your shirt to roam every inch of your warm skin.
You moan into his lips, when you taste the salty tears on his face. His hands land on your ass, and he squeezes hard, bruising, making you squeal. He immediately pulls back, apologizing. Like he still can’t let himself go.
“I’m sorry–” He blurts out immediately, hands soothing the skin he pinched as he fought the urge to do it again, harder. “God I love you…and I would never hurt you. Never. I swore I’d never touch you like this–unless you asked me to. Unless you wanted me to. So please … tell me you want this too. Say yes, or I’ll leave. I swear I will.”
He nods frantically, like he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince you.
“I’ll leave if you tell me to.” He swears. “I’ll fly through a mountain. I’ll bury myself in the ocean. Just don’t say yes unless you want this. I’m barely holding on– if you say it, I won’t be able to stop.”
You want him. God you always want him.
The way he keeps asking makes you want him even more. Even if he’s not your Clark now. Even if he won’t take care of you like he always does. Even if you can’t breathe or move after. Because you love him too.
“I want it,” you whisper against his lips, nodding. “I want you. You need me? Use me. Take all you want…I can take it.”
It’s over.
The moment you say yes there’s no going back. He lunges forward, tightening his grip on you as he lifts you off the ground to fly you towards the wall, knocking the lamp when your back hit the wall, leaving you both in complete darkness. Only the moonlight left to shine over his hungry eyes.
His massive hand cradles the back of your head to protect it from the hit, while the other tears off your shirt like he needs to see your skin on his or he’ll die. Your panties don’t even last two seconds before they he rips them away too.
His lips crash yours. Tongues are desperate, hands everywhere, so large, so shaky, everywhere at once. He groans into your mouth like a man dying of thirst finally tasting water.
“Thank you,” he gasps between kisses. “Thank you sweetheart…I’m so sorry I can’t help you first…but I need you…I need to feel you inside, please just let me…”
He knows it hurts you when he doesn’t prepare you properly, when he doesn’t make you cum at least twice on his fingers before he fucks you…but he can’t right now. Not when he can smell how soaked you are already, not when he swears it’s dripping on the carpet.
“Do it,” you pant, hungry for him. “Clark just do it… please.”
He doubts only for a second, and then without thinking he rips the suit. Literally tears it at the waist, tugging it to get rid of it completely. He’ll give a damn about that later.
Right now he is just muscle in front of you.
His painful cock springs up, and he presses himself to you with a wet slap, your back hitting the wall again. Your pussy throbs at how impossibly huge he is over your stomach.
You’ve had him before. You’ve barely made it.
You still want him to rearrange your guts.
“Feel that?” he groans. “That’s what you do to me, that’s what’s been driving me insane all day, darling.”
He’s not even pretending anymore, his cock is throbbing, massive, already leaking. He aligns himself between your soaked folds, rutting the tip against your pussy a few times like he’s lost control of his body entirely. You moan at the friction. Every nerve ending screaming. You know he’s gonna wreck you. You weren’t ready. But at the same time you’ve never been more ready.
He grabs your thigh and lifts it against the wall, before whispering against your lips. “I’m sorry…”
He pushes his hips forward, and when he finally slides home with a snap…raw, hard, you let out a strangled moan.
One long, broken sound, high pitched and helpless, because he stretches you brutally, all at once, bottoming out with a growl. An actual growl. Like he finally felt some type of relief since he got hit with the pollen.
You fight back a cry, lunging forward to bite his shoulder. He starts fucking you into the wall as he whispers ‘I love you’ ‘Thank you’ ‘Sorry’ like some sort of chant. A prayer. Like it’s the only thing keeping him rooted to the version of him that is still careful with you when you make love.
Right now it’s just sex. Dirty, rough, unfiltered sex.
Your breath leaves you in gasps, your bare back against the cold plaster, one leg around his waist, the other held away by him, arms clinging to his biceps for dear life. All you can do is moan as you get adjusted to his unfairly thick cock slamming in and out of you.
“Just like that…you’re taking me so well,” he pants. “You can do it, sweetheart…you’re doing so good… fuck, you were made for this…made for me.”
His hands grip your thighs. He fucks you like he’s possessed, no rhythm, no thought into it, just deep, hard thrusts that hit something devastating every time, shaking the wall with every slam of his hips.
And the whole time, he keeps whimpering into your neck.
“I love you…I’m sorry…I love you…I’m gonna ruin you …I need it…”
You think you’re about to white out when the room starts moving, but you quickly realize what’s happening. He’s lifting your bodies off the ground.
Still fucking you.
Going up as much as your ceiling allowed him too. He pins you high on the wall when his head touches the roof, like gravity doesn’t apply anymore. It never does anyway, not to you, not to him.
So now you’re fucking hovering. Literally. Unable to do anything but take it.
And you feel him like never before. A complete moaning mess. Nails dragging down his back, mouth open in shock as you look down to the floor. Your whole body is a live wire, and he’s fucking you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
It literally is.
His cock twitches inside you. He’s already close. Has been since he walked through that window. But he’s holding it, fighting it, because he needs to stay inside. Needs to keep taking. You can’t keep giving all night.
“Fuck Clark…I’m gonna–“
“Yes? Do it. Darling please, you’re doing so well. I’ve got you…cum all over my cock, I got you.”
Your body breaks before you can even breathe. Your first climax of the night hits hard, walls clenching around him, as you pant into his chest. Your whole body goes limp and he feels it.
He fucks you through it. Rough thrusts with his hand stroking your back and the other wrapped under your thighs. He keeps thanking you as his cock splits you open over and over.
“I wanna give you everything,” he groans, voice cracking. “Fill you up, stuff you full of me…Can I? Please? Let me finish inside you….let me have you–“
“Yes, yes, fill me up,” you blurt out, still seeing stars.
He slams in once more and chokes, hips locked, whole body shuddering as he comes with a moan so broken it feels like it came from his soul. He shakes as he fills you, mouth pressed to your neck.
He doesn’t pull out yet. He holds you there, trembling, pressed against the wall like he knows you’ll fall if he loosens his grip.
Even after the first wave passes, after the groans, the shaking, the desperate I love you’s, he holds you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this planet.
“…Are you okay?”
You just nod, breathless, a blissed out smile in your face. He smiles too. And then, slowly, he lowers you back down to the floor.
But he’s not soft for long. He doesn’t even give you a minute to recover. He can’t. The second round starts before the first one even finishes sinking in.
You’re still trembling in his arms, leaking down your thighs, whimpering his name into the crook of his neck. And he’s still inside you. Still painfully hard.
Still needing you.
“One more, please. Just–just one more,” he begs. “Let me have you again. Please, darling I need it.”
“Take it Clark, take all you need,” you nod, absolutely wrecked.
But what’s a few more rounds with your unearthly strong boyfriend?
He melts.
You usually go multiple rounds, but he’s softer, he gives you downtime, even brings you water in between orgasms. But right now he can’t believe the way he fucked you and you still let him have more. But he needs more. The pollen is fogging his brain.
He finally pulls out, just to set you down on the floor. The second your back hits the rug, he’s on top of you again. And god he’s heavy. Solid. He doesn’t even hold his weight like he usually does because all he’s thinking about is fucking you senseless.
He buries himself deep again, groaning, cursing under his breath. You close your eyes, nails digging the carpet, back arching when you feel him deeper from this angle. You pant small whines from the feeling.
“Shhh…don’t–“ he coos, he wants to be slow, but he can’t. His hips snap hard without even thinking. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart…so good for me… just need one more.”
You know it’s not just one more. And he fucking knows that too.
None of you cares.
“You’re so wet…so perfect” he groans, the filthy sound gushing loudly every time he thrusted. “I didn’t even give you time to come down…didn’t even let you breathe and you still take me so well”
He praises. Worships. He looks down to where your bodies meet, and he sees right through your skin. He can see his huge cock filling you with every thrust. He can see your walls clenching around him. And he loses it.
You’re suddenly running out of air when he presses his chest to yours, pining you tighter to the floor with his body as he pushes harder. And you feel all of him. The broadness of his chest against your ribs. The strain of his thighs bracketing yours. His cock still buried deep, rock hard.
You hit his bicep with your hand first, but he’s not paying attention, he’s too caught up on the way your pussy takes him to notice.
It’s not smooth. Not rhythmic. Just sharp, ragged thrusts that hit you so hard your body jerks on impact, tits bouncing, nails clawing at his back as he crushes you into the floor with every rut of his hips.
Your head starts spinning.
“Clark,” you choke out, hitting his bicep again. “I can’t–can’t breathe…”
His head finally snaps at you, eyes going wide. He lifts up a bit, but he doesn’t pull out, he just … can’t.
You finally gasp for air as he shushes you softly, tucking away the hair sticking to your sweaty forehead.
“I’m sorry…I can’t…can’t stop. I tried, I swear I tried,” his forehead presses to yours, without crushing you alive this time.
His hips don’t stop moving. You pant between moans. You’re close again, you can feel it.
“It’s okay, you’re just…you’re so big…so heavy.”
“I know,” he breathes. “I’m sorry, I know. I just…I don’t want to let you go–”
“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t let me go.”
His expression breaks. Because he knows. And you know. He’s not really letting you go. Not all the way. He’s still pressing his weight into you, even as he tries not to. Because he needs to. Because letting go means losing you, even just for a second.
He doesn’t know what takes over him, he grabs your hands and pins them above your head. Watching you sob, moan, eyes rolling back, skin already bruising in multiple places by his grip. He’s not like this. He should be apologizing. Begging. But you just feel so damn good.
And you like it, god you love it.
“I–I love it when you fuck me like this,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper, dumb smile on your face as he hits that spot repeatedly. “I just–I can’t…”
“I know darling, I know…just a little more,” he groans. “One more please. You can take it…you’re doing so good.” He coos, but he can’t slow down, not when you’re clenching him like that.
He picks up the pace.
“C-Clark…please, I’m gonna-“
“I’ve got you, darling…I’ve got you, let yourself go for me.”
You see white this time. You’re not even moaning anymore. Just gasping. Twitching. Letting him take what he needs because you want to. Because this is Clark, your Clark, and you’d give him your whole body a thousand times if he needed it.
And he does.
He fucks you like you’re his last breath.
Even after you’re wrecked, limp, twitching…he keeps going.
You don’t even remember the next time he finishes. Or the time after that. Or where it happened. Your body is a mess, trembling and raw and wet and full. Marked. Praised.
All while he keeps saying, “Just one more…just let me stay inside you a little longer…please sweetheart, I’m still hard I know you can take it…this is the last time I promise…”
Again and again. You’ve never heard him lie so much before.
Yet still, with your hair splayed, legs shaking, literal tears leaking from the corners of your eyes from the pleasure, the pain, the strain, the goddamn pollen he pumps into your body every time he comes…
You are having the time of your life being drunk on his cock.
“Fuck me harder.”
You beg, even when you can’t feel it that much anymore. Maybe that’s why you need it harder…deeper. And because you knew that once he came back to normal he wouldn’t fuck you like this again. And he makes sure to let you know.
“I’m sorry. I just need you so fucking much…I love you I love you I love you—”
You just nod, because it hurts embarrassingly good.
You lose count of how many times he comes in total. How many times you come. You only know time’s passed when the sky starts to lighten outside your broken window, and Clark is rocking into you so slowly it’s more like he’s just holding you in place, his mouth pressed to your shoulder, whispering thank you with every lazy thrust.
By the time he finally slows down, finally wears the substance out of his body after dumping it all inside you…you can’t move. You’re limp in his arms, boneless and dripping and his.
Your bed feels incredibly soft in contrast to all the spots he fucked you on last night.
You’re draped across his chest, tracing the muscles under his bare skin. His fingers are in your hair. Barely moving, just tracing small patterns. Soothing you like he didn’t cause all the pain in your body.
You’re still trembling a little. Just from…after. Your body’s still echoing with everything he gave you. Everything he took.
Worth it.
Clark kisses your temple. He hasn’t stopped kissing you every few minutes. It’s like he’s trying to apologize without saying it. Like he’s trying to prove that he’s still the man you love, the man who flinches when he bumps your head by accident, who picks you flowers and gets flustered when you kiss him in public. The one who always put you first in bed.
Not the one who just broke the sound barrier flying to your apartment because his cock told him to.
“…I broke your window,” he finally breaks the silence, a chuckle makes his chest vibrate against your ear.
“Clark…you broke a lot more than my window.”
You both start giggling…somehow glowing. Your throat hurts, you’re sore, probably can’t even walk today or the whole week, and somehow, it feels like the safest place on Earth.
“I love you,” he whispers. “So much.”
“I know,” you whisper back. “You said it like 87 times while destroying me.”
⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆
I created a blog dedicated to Superman, where I’ll be posting my writing for him from now on 🫶🏼 so if you wanna check it out, go to -> @404superman
Feedback and sharing is always appreciated, thank you so much for reading <3
Summary: Javi and his boys break into Smurf's house when she doesn't show up with their money. The only three people in the house being J, Nicky, and Y/N.
TW: Break in, mentions of broken bones/bruises/stitches/blood, protective Pope.
Y/N stood in the kitchen, squeezing a wedge of lime into her drink when she heard the sound of shattering glass. She abandoned her drink, dropping into a squat as she heard the sound of crunching glass. Y/N shifted towards the kitchen counter, slowly opening one of the drawers and reaching inside.
Her fingers wrapped around the icy handle of a metal meat mallet. Y/N lifted the mallet out of the drawer, pushing it closed slowly before she shifted back over to the kitchen island.
Her heart began to pound in her chest as she listened, trying to discern how many people were in the house. Y/N couldn't be certain, but it was at least four people that split off in different directions.
The house filled with the sounds of crashing and banging as the men searched the house. Glass shattered and furniture scraped across the floor. Y/N knew that she could make a run for it, slip out the sliding glass door and run off down the driveway before they even knew she was there.
It was what Pope would want her to do.
But Nicky and J were in his bedroom on the other side of the house. She wouldn't leave them behind, they were just kids. Y/N straightened up when she heard the footsteps begin to move in her direction. Y/N adjusted her grip on the handle of the meat tenderizer, feeling her heart begin to race in her chest.
Y/N watched as one of the men walked by, she stood up slowly, looking around herself before she began to follow him. Y/N raised the mallet, bringing it down on the back of the man's head with as much force as she could muster.
He dropped to his knees, blood spurting from the back of his head as he let out a groan. Y/N raised the mallet again, hitting him hard and sending his body to the floor. She spun around as she heard footsteps moving quickly towards her.
"You bitch!" The man growled, catching her wrist as she attempted to swing the mallet at him.
The man smashed her wrist onto the kitchen island roughly, he grabbed her middle finger and bent it back until the bone snapped. Y/N cried out in pain, releasing her grip on the tenderizer. The man grabbed her by her hair, throwing her body back onto the tiled floor.
The breath was knocked from her lungs from the impact, the back of her skull colliding roughly with the floor. Her ears were ringing, vision swimming momentarily before everything came back into focus.
The man grabbed onto her hair, dragging her body down the hallway and down the stairs into the living room. He forced her up onto her knees, punching her in the face and knocking her to the floor.
Blood filled her mouth as she gasped, "Javi! I got Pope's girl here!" The man yelled.
Y/N turned onto her stomach, pulling her knees up underneath her body with a grimace. The man kicked her in the ribs, pain bloomed across her side as her body fell back onto the floor. Y/N blinked slowly, she could hear J crying out in pain before she watched him being pushed under the water in the pool. Nicky screamed, desperately calling out for him between sobs before a piece of duct tape was placed over her mouth.
A man in a brown jacket made his way into the house, "Get her up," He ordered.
Y/N was pulled up onto her knees by her hair, "Where's my money?" Javi asked.
"Fuck you," She spat.
The man punched her, her eye beginning to swell immediately after the impact. He grabbed her jaw roughly, fingers digging into her cheeks.
"Where is my money?" He repeated.
"I. Don't. Know," She said.
"Get her up," Javi ordered.
Y/N felt a wire being tied tightly around her wrists before she was hauled to her feet. The man shifted behind her, holding her in place as Javi stepped closer to her.
"Where are they hiding the cash?" He asked.
Y/N spit in his face, blood splattering across his skin. He slapped her, his ring slicing deeply into the flesh of her cheek.
"Bring the girl in here," Javi yelled, wiping the blood from his face.
Nicky screamed into the duct tape, thrashing around as she was dragged into the kitchen. Her body was slammed down against the counter and a knife was pressed against her neck.
"Wait, wait! I-I know where the money is! I'll tell you, just leave them alone!" Y/N yelled.
"Start talking," Javi ordered.
...
Pope pulled up into the driveway with Smurf, he slowed to a stop when he noticed the panel for the gate had been ripped off, wires hanging out loosely. He looked up at the dimly lit driveway ahead, quickly shutting off the engine and pulling out his gun.
"Stay here," He said, opening the door and getting out of the car.
Pope closed the door gently behind himself before making his way up the driveway. Pope turned around when he heard the car door open behind him. Smurf stepped out, moving up the driveway towards him with her own gun.
"I told you to wait in the car," He spat, shaking his head when she ignored him.
Pope walked up the house, looking around at the damage as he made his way through the rooms. Smurf searched the other half of the house, looking into rooms for any lingering intruders.
Pope felt his heart begin to race, Y/N had been at the house. He had left her there with nobody but J to protect her. J was smart, but he couldn't protect her like Pope would have been able to.
Pope slowed to a stop when he approached the kitchen, spotting the blood stain on the floor and the bloodied meat tenderizer on the counter. Pope continued to search the house until he heard a soft clatter from inside the closet.
He grabbed onto the doorknob, keeping his gun held up as he pulled the door open quickly. Pope tucked his gun away when he realized that Y/N was tied up and bloodied on the floor of the closet.
She wheezed softly, struggling to breathe around the duct tape over her mouth. Pope dropped to his knees, hating the way that her body flinched when he touched her arm.
"It's me, you're okay," Pope assured softly.
He carefully peeled the tape from her mouth, pulling out his knife and slicing through the cord that had been tied around her wrists and ankles.
"Andrew," She mumbled.
"I got you, you're gonna be okay," Pope murmured, sliding his arms underneath her body carefully.
Y/N cried out in pain as he lifted her, "I'm sorry, I know it hurts," He said softly, pressing a kiss to her temple as he stood up.
"Pope! Get out here!" Smurf called.
"Little busy!" He yelled back.
Pope carried Y/N to the living room, carefully laying her body down on the couch. Her face was bruised, her eye was swollen shut, a deep gash running along the skin of her cheek. The fingers of her left hand were all bent at odd angles. Her shirt was covered in slash marks, the material saturated with her blood.
"I'll be right back, okay?" He said, standing up from his place on the floor by the couch.
Her hand shot out, gripping onto his wrist tightly, "I'll be right back. I just need to get the first aid kit," He assured.
Y/N let out a whimper as he pulled away from her, rushing into the kitchen and opening the cabinet. He grabbed the medical bag and rushed back into the living room, kneeling down beside Y/N and opening the kit.
"Pope, J is-," Smurf started, words dying on her tongue when she saw Y/N, "How bad?" She asked.
"Definitely not good. How's J?" Pope asked.
"He'll live. He says they took Nicky," Smurf stated.
"Stay with him. I'll start on her," Pope said. Smurf nodded, making her way back out to the pool as her phone began to ring in her pocket.
...
Pope sat in the chair by Y/N's bed as she slept with a shotgun laid across his lap. His posture was tense and rigid as he watched her breathe. It had taken him almost two hours to fix her up after he found her.
He suspected that Y/N had multiple broken ribs, four broken fingers, a black eye and most likely a fractured orbit along with a concussion. Pope gave her thirty-five stitches on her torso, scalp and face, ensuring that all of her wounds were properly cleaned and bandaged before he got her into bed.
It took three of Craig's oxys to get her to sleep, she was terrified and only seemed to settle when Pope was beside her. He stayed awake all night, keeping a tight grip on the rifle in his lap as he waited for them to come back. He knew it was unlikely, but he would shoot until he ran out of ammo if they did.
Pope glanced over as Craig made his way down the hall, leaning in the doorway, "She's still sleeping, huh?" Craig asked.
"Yeah," Pope said, turning his attention back to Y/N.
"Did she tell you anything about what happened?" Craig asked, "Because it looks like she beat the shit out of someone with Smurf's meat tenderizer," He said.
"I didn't ask," Pope stated.
"I brought her some more oxys. Should help get her through the worst of it," Craig said, holding out a pill bottle to Pope.
He glanced up at him, holding his hand out and taking the pill bottle, "Thanks," He muttered.
"Let me know if you need anything. I can sit with her for a bit if you wanna get some rest," Craig offered.
"I'm fine," Pope snapped.
"Well, I'll be around if you change your mind," Craig said, walking off into the house.
Y/N shifted with a grimace and Pope stood up, leaning his rifle against the side of the bed. His hand cupped Y/N's cheek, thumb brushing across her skin gently as he sat down on the edge of the bed beside her.
Her eyes fluttered open, "Hey, how are you feeling?" Pope asked softly.
"Is J okay?" She mumbled.
"Yeah, he's fine, just a little banged up," Pope assured, thumb brushing gently across her skin.
"Is he here?" She asked.
"Yeah," Pope stated.
"W-what about Nicky? Is she okay?" Y/N questioned, fingers wrapping around his wrist loosely.
"They're both fine," He said.
"I need to see them, Andrew," Y/N said shakily, releasing his wrist and pushing the covers off of her body.
"Sweetheart, you're not going anywhere," Pope said sternly, removing his hand from her cheek and resting his palm on her hip.
"I need to see them," She mumbled, attempting to push herself up.
Y/N cried out in pain as her ribs shifted, "Just lay down, I'll go get them for you, okay?" Pope pressed, gently easing her back down onto the mattress and lifting the blankets back over her body.
"Just take it easy. You're pretty beat up," Pope said, rubbing a hand over her bicep.
"Please get them, Andrew," Y/N said shakily.
"I'll get them," He assured, standing up from the edge of the bed.
He picked up the rifle, making his way out of the bedroom and down the hall. J sat on his bed with Nicky sitting next to him as they talked quietly.
J looked up, "Hey, Pope," He said.
"My girl wants to see you," Pope stated.
"Oh, okay," J said, standing up from the edge of the bed with a grimace.
"Both of you," Pope added.
Pope returned to the bedroom with J limping after him and Nicky following closely behind, "I brought the kids," Pope said.
"Can you help me up, Andrew?" Y/N asked, pushing the blankets off of herself.
"I thought you were staying put if I brought the kids here," Pope said.
"Please," Y/N murmured.
He clenched his jaw, setting his rifle down as he moved over to the bed, "This is gonna hurt," He said gently.
"I know," Y/N said.
Pope lifted her arms up to wrap around his neck as he slid his arm underneath her knees, his other hand settling lightly on her back. He pulled her up into a sitting position before slowly turning her body sideways.
She let out a cry, gripping onto the material of Pope's shirt with her unsplinted fingers. His hands rested delicately on her sides, careful not to put any pressure on her ribs.
"You okay?" He asked softly, she nodded.
Pope pulled away from her slowly, hovering nearby as J made his way over, "Hey," He said.
"Hi," Nicky mumbled.
"Are you okay, Nicky?" Y/N asked.
"Yeah, I'm a little shaken up, but they didn't do anything to me," Nicky said, fidgeting with her fingers.
"What about you, J?" Y/N asked.
"I'll live," He said.
"I'm so sorry. I-I wanted to help you but there were too many of them," Y/N said, eyes glossing over with tears.
"There was nothing that any of us could've done, Y/N," J assured.
"I could've fought harder. I-I should've had m-my gun on me," She said shakily, body visibly trembling as she ran over the events of the night.
"A fire fight would've gotten you all killed. What you should have done is ran like I told you to," Pope said.
"I couldn't leave them, Andrew," Y/N snapped, voice breaking as tears rolled down her cheeks. Pope clenched his jaw, shaking his head as he tried to keep himself calm.
"Hey, we're okay," Nicky assured, taking a step towards her. She gave her a gentle hug, resting her chin on the top of Y/N's head.
"Thank you for looking out for us. I'm sorry you got hurt," J said.
Nicky pulled away from the embrace, "I'm sorry that I wasn't able to stop them from hurting you," Y/N mumbled.
"You did what you could. I'm sure it would've been a lot worse if you hadn't told them that you knew where the money was," Nicky said.
"You did what?" Pope asked, voice going ice cold.
"They were going to drown J and slit Nicky's throat, Andrew," Y/N said.
"That was reckless, Y/N," Pope stated.
"I did what I thought I had to do," She snapped, resting a hand on her side with a grimace. Y/N struggled to catch her breath, body shaking as she began to hyperventilate.
"Alright, that's enough. You need to get back into bed, Y/N," Pope said.
She kept her hand pressed against her side as her chest stuttered with broken sobs. J took Nicky by the arm and led her out of the bedroom, closing the door to give them some privacy.
"Hey, you need to calm down," Pope said gently, cupping Y/N's cheeks in his hands.
"I'm sorry, Andrew. I-I didn't know what to do," She sobbed.
"Sweetheart, I'm not mad at you, I just- I'd be lost without you. I don't ever want to see you hurt or in pain, okay? I love you," Pope said.
"I love you too," She mumbled softly.
Pope brushed the tears from her cheeks, leaning in and pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, "Let's get you back into bed, alright?" He asked, she nodded.
Pope shifted, carefully sliding his arms around her and shifting her back into the bed. He pulled the blankets over her, rubbing his hand over her back gently.
"Want another oxy? Craig gave me a bottle in case you needed more," Pope said.
"No, just stay with me," She said, taking his other hand in hers.
"There's nowhere else I'd rather be," Pope said.
...
The house was dark as Pope made his way into the bedroom, sitting down on the edge of the bed as his hand rested on Y/N's hip. He rubbed his palm along the length of her thigh, watching her closely as she began to stir.
"Andrew," She mumbled.
"Yeah, I'm here," Pope said softly, "Javi is dead," He stated.
"What? How?" Y/N asked, looking up at him.
"Smurf paid someone off to kill him... Baz watched it happen," Pope said.
"He's really dead?" Y/N questioned
Pope nodded, "You don't have to worry about him ever again," He said.
Pope could see her body relax visibly under his touch, muscles releasing their pent up tension as his hand rubbed soothingly over her thigh. Her hand rested over his, intertwining their fingers and holding onto his hand. Pope watched her as she stared down at their hands, the swelling in her eye was beginning to come down and her bruises were starting to turn purple.
He hated seeing the bruises on her.
It was something that he never wanted to see again.
"Can you lay with me?" She asked.
"Yeah, of course," Pope said.
Y/N watched him as he stood up from the edge of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt and folding it up carefully on the chair. Pope took off his shoes, setting them to the side before removing his jeans and socks.
Y/N watched him as he made his way around the bed, lifting the blankets and sliding in beside her. Y/N turned onto her side with a grimace, shifting closer to him until her body was pressed against his side.
His body radiated heat, the subtle scent of his cologne making her entire body feel warm. Pope wrapped his arms around her carefully, fingertips dragging gently over the notches of her spine.
"I'm not hurting you am I?" Pope asked.
"No, I'm okay," She mumbled softly.
Pope pressed a kiss to the top of her head, staring up at the ceiling while he listened to her breathe. Pope wished that he had been the one to kill Javi, he would've made him suffer for ever laying a hand on Y/N.
She was his girl.
His.
When he thought about how she may have felt when those men broke in, his body filled with a white-hot rage. They broke in and they beat her mercilessly to get their hands on some money. Money that Smurf had lost when she trusted someone who Pope could have told her was unreliable in a second.
Pope knew that their lifestyle was dangerous and risky, but he did everything he could to keep it from blowing back on Y/N. They dealt with some unsavory characters and things became incredibly complicated when a large sum of money was involved.
Pope looked down at Y/N, seeing the bruising on her face and the stitches in her skin. He needed to get her away from this life because she deserved better. Pope decided in that moment that he would save his money and buy her a house with a white pickett fence.
Pope would give her the life that she deserved.
A big house, a ring on her finger and as many kids as they could possibly handle.
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